There are 2 problems with traveling into the past.
1) You would know, with absolute certainty, that you would be correct about certain things, and no one would believe you. Worse, they would laugh at you for your foolish beliefs. Germs? Please, we all know that it’s miasma that causes sickness! Your knowledge of science, of social justice, of basic principles of government and management, would be laughed at, and you would not be able to prove that you’re right about any of it.
2) You would immediately get sick and die from all sorts of viruses and bacteria that the people at the time were used to, but have since died off, and we have lost any natural immunity to.
Sometimes I think about the first point and get honestly angry, just absolutely pissed off, at the people from the past that I am imagining, in this dumb daydream, are ridiculing me for my correct facts.
Addendum: It is unfortunate that the genre that I think of as “the blues” is about as far from the plastic, formulaic stuff that most people think of as “the blues” as possible.
It’s as if when you said you like rock and roll, and people said “Oh, like The Eagles?” And you would have to explain that no, there is other rock and roll, and that sure, The Eagles are good at what they do, and they have certain things in common with the rock and roll bands that you like, but it’s missing what makes rock and roll so goddamned compelling, it’s missing that raw emotion, that direct “this is how I fucking feel, and it’s not worth me hiding it” feeling of rock and roll.
I am trying to finish There Will Be Blood, but holy crap it’s a slog. The story is one-note, just the constant repetition of avarice, of petty men slapping each other around for no reason other than to make themselves feel important. The photography is often mediocre, and rarely adds much.
Near the end, Daniel Plainview is rich, so to show the emptiness of his life Paul Thomas Anderson has Plainview sleep in the gutter…of his personal bowling alley.
Ugh. Fuck Paul Thomas Anderson.
Remember in Magnolia, when it rains frogs, and then a title card appears that says something like “But it did happen”? That is my problem with Paul Thomas Anderson in a nutshell. Bullshit like that. It’s a sort of petulant constant whining of “hey I’m important and this is ART,” done through the voices of flat, uninteresting characters.
I have to restrain myself from auto-reblogging every single one of these.
Request Week #9
Groundhog Day, 1993
Cinematography: John Bailey
Pinks and blues.
~ How to be a Lady: a Book for Girls, Containing Useful Hints on the Formation of Character; Harvey Newcomb, 1850
via Making of America
This was in a book called “How to Be a Lady.”