Give me an elaboration. Are we talking about Antonioni’s general style, or this specific, pseudo-intellectual cult classic? In my humble opinion, Red Desert was nothing more than a complete waste of several precious hours of my life and my sanity.
To performance by The Yardbirds felt pretty tragic to me. I had no clue who the band even was, and they struck me as being about as convincing or "cool" as that girl group playing psychedelics in 'Beyond The Valley of The Dolls'. Honestly, seeing Page get flustered was kind of amusing, though it felt more like a staged attempt to take the spotlight from Townsend. And who is that pimply singer? My apologies for my elementary ignorance regarding the macho rock pantheon, assuming I've scrambled the chronology or the key players.
In my humble opinion, the scene featuring Jane Birkin is just a hair too long and far too wooden. Everyone loves to quote Birkin from this film, but Veruschka was actually the true embodiment of the swinging sixties. That said, I have to admit Birkin played her role as the naive yet enthusiastic nymph quite charmingly.
I'm not sure how much irony is intended in the depiction of swinging London; it feels more like we're seeing the scene through the lens of Antonioni acting as an outsider and observer. The acting—even Hemings's—is rather stiff, and several lines of dialogue feel incredibly forced, eliciting a different kind of laughter in the theater than what was likely intended.
As for the philosophical implications... I suspect Antonioni is primarily a stylist. In this film, he supposedly moves away from existential themes to begin questioning the very nature of reality itself. Supposedly. Perhaps. It seems to me that his painter friend's words regarding the interpretation and meaning of his canvases—which are all essentially pastiches of various historical movements—are far more telling. Meaning is imposed based on a specific detail only in retrospect. Much like what happens later with that one remaining photograph: once the detail is oversized and stripped of its context, it loses all meaning. A very successful *a priori* defense on Antonioni's part, if you ask me. Just as it was when he hid behind the camera lens this time to indulge in his shameless voyeurism and exploitation of the female form.
stormyviper11 said:What truly captivates me about early Antonioni films—specifically in Adventure—isn't that mesmerizing visual beauty everyone constantly obsesses over, but rather an even more fascinating soundscape. These movies are saturated with concrete, overwhelming sounds: ship horns echoing through the fog, the low thrum of industrial plants, the constant drone of traffic...
I have to agree here. Adventure is an incredibly sonic film, feeling almost organic in its delivery. In Red Desert, the sound is used much more artificially and suggestively than the cinematography, and the score itself feels quite dominant. (Not sure about this part yet; I'm still working my way through the cycle. 😁 ) In Blow-Up, I find the scene where Hemings films Redgrave in the park perhaps even more poignant. The rustling of leaves acts as this strange contrast to the excessive visuality and the sheer flatness of Hemings's life, leaving that moment as the only truly sensory beat in the entire movie.
After accounting for every single variable—everything from different instruments to my own psychological instability—I’ve taken this test three times and ended up with Squire twice and Buckley once. Honestly? I’ve concluded that the whole thing is complete garbage. It’s clearly just the brainchild of some bottom-tier indie enthusiast living in a bubble.
Kevin Chavez3 said:There’s really no point in arguing—the first legitimate punk band was the Ramones. They formed back in '74 in New York City, so Americans definitely beat everyone else to the punch.
Tufir said everything worth saying on this topic, so I’m not going to waste any more of my breath. 🙂
There will always be someone out there insisting The Sonics were the first punk band. Personally, I think the title belongs to Chuck Berry.
But then again, that’s all just looking backward. American punk never actually existed as a self-aware movement; it was more like an elitist little circle of friends and relatives, and even that only lasted for a brief window when the scene was still geographically concentrated. Besides, if you look at the aesthetic concepts, half the bands people usually cite don't even fit the mold. Television? That isn't punk. Virginia Plain was punk, and they were doing it three years earlier.
Roger Jones5 said:Oh, please,🙂 , that condescending tone—it’s giving me major "Introduction to Baudrillard professor at the University of Chicago" vibes.😁 It isn't going to help you one bit.
Give me a break! I was reading some essay today about psychoanalysis and film, and every single time (which, let's be honest, was constantly) the word 'erotic' popped up, all I could think about was—Billie. The internet has completely ruined me; honestly, even more than rock and roll did.
I’ve always had a massive soft spot for New Kid in Town. One day, I’m sitting in a local bar, ready to knock out a seven-song set for a decent little paycheck—nothing but absolute classics, really. We're talking Beast of Burden; Sealed, Signed, Delivered; Fat Bottomed Girls; the Eagles mentioned above; just a straight run of hits. I’m just waiting for my turn to take the stage (I saw exactly how the previous act was playing their cards), but instead, those lowlifes shut down the jukebox because it hit eleven o'clock. I couldn't even grab another drink to deal with the disappointment, thanks to all those damn local liquor laws.
Hardly. I’m just a teeny-bopper at heart. Honestly, they’re one of those bands you feel obligated to listen to just to maintain some sense of cultural relevance or street cred. But then you actually sit down to listen, and you find yourself wondering—is this really how I want to spend my time? And just like that, it's over. Go check out James Chance first before you start casting votes (if we’re even going to treat these museum pieces as serious contenders).
I haven't gone watching Dirtbombs in maybe a year, if not a bit longer. The fallout from that experience was pretty simple: I decided I'm done attending shows like that altogether.
Hop up on the bed, honey. Just a little soapy water. Would you like a cup of tea, dear? 😁
I’m not exactly a huge fan of Mika Leigh; I feel like her work leans a bit too heavily into caricature. While Naked and Working Girls are absolutely stellar, I found Secrets and Lies to be rather mediocre (it feels like Brenda Blethyn is practically parodying herself there). Abigail's party is hilarious despite the stereotypical characters, whereas Life is sweet is just a painful, difficult watch. As for Vera Drake, I’ve only ever watched bits and pieces of it, and I suspect I’ll keep it that way.
I felt compelled to write this in all caps just to ensure I give due attention to a band that I believe has been unfairly overlooked. I’ve had this album sitting around for years on an archaic cassette tape, something I picked up at a local thrift store for next to nothing. After my first listen back then, I dismissed it immediately as "mainstream"—a rather shallow take, if I'm being honest, which reflected my general opinion of the group at the time. Ah, what a massive misconception. If it is mainstream, then it is top-tier, though even now I’m not entirely certain it fits the label. Perhaps the slick production gives off that impression, or maybe it’s those infectious melodies and clever hooks. Who can say? Regardless, it’s hard to find a better specimen of pop-rock if we are going to define the genre at all. Ultimately, this is an album for adults. It’s the work of people over thirty with a fair share of personal tragedies under their belts. So, I meet the criteria—at least on that one front. One should keep in mind that this is the work of a reformed lineup, following a period where two members ended up in much larger hunting grounds—the key guitarist and the drummer, who was originally ousted from the band due to a cause of death that would later haunt them. Toss in Ray Davies and Jim Kerra (sadly) as extra layers to this soap opera, and you have a situation that was frankly quite unsettling. Yet, despite the underlying nostalgia, the longing, the indignation, and the guilt—despite the lyrical presence of resignation—the album is positive. We might even go so far as to call it optimistic. Energican. It grows better with every single listen. Now, go ahead: pick your favorite track.
Here are two more hits from two stellar rock albums, if we are categorizing by genre:
Here Comes My Girl - Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers (Damn the Torpedoes) Because the Night - Patti Smith (Easter)
A hit for those blue-eyed soul moments: Deep Dark Truthful Mirror - Elvis Costello (Spike)
A danceable hit that never gets old: Train in Vain - The Clash
Will Kane said:I find it hard to believe that nobody brought up Roegov's "The Man Who Fell to Earth." Is it the greatest sci-fi masterpiece ever made? Perhaps not, but it certainly belongs in the conversation.
Thanks for the reminder.
My top picks:
Solaris The Man Who Fell to Earth Stalker Blade Runner Videodrome The Man Who Fell to Earth Stalker Blade Runner Videodrome
I haven't actually sat down to watch Alphaville or Fahrenheit 451. As for Metropolis, it was far too long ago for me to include it in my current list.
Jose Miller17 said:Are you actually being serious right now?
True. I recently revisited both versions, and while the original is certainly a classic, the remake actually edges it out for me. To be honest, they feel like two entirely different movies, even if that final sequence is almost identical. The first version is a lightweight thriller—total textbook Hitch. It’s stylized, breezy, and just plain fun. You get all the essentials: international espionage, high-stakes chases spanning the entire country, genuine suspense, plenty of red herrings, a wisecracking protagonist, and a charismatic villain. Honestly? It's top-tier entertainment. Is it any wonder that *Remake* functions much like many of those later Hitchcockian thrillers? It’s all high-octakes chases and mounting suspense, layered over a deep dive into the complexities of male-female dynamics. In the original version, the characters felt like little more than mechanical cogs driving the plot forward—honestly, only the Peter Lorre character possessed any real human depth. But the second version shifts the focus entirely toward the sanctity of family and marriage. The friction between Doris Day and Jimmy Stewart is palpable; there is this constant, underlying struggle for dominance simmering just beneath the vibrant Technicolor surface. In a way, you could view it as a spiritual successor to *Rear Window*, though relocated to a wholesome Midwestern setting. The catch? That "wholesome" family unit is fundamentally displaced and begins to fracture almost immediately. This time around, however, the ultimate test isn't about observation—it's about his commitment. An absolute masterpiece of a film and a completely justified remake.