sharplittleteeth

Literally.

We saw La Dolce Vita at the Moonlight Cinema on Saturday. I have always been wary of Fellini, because the few snippets I had seen implied his magic and surrealism was cut with thick slices of cheese. He struck me as the sort of director who would find something sad and sentimental about clowns.

And I was right. There was a sentimental scene with a clown in it.

The film was long. The film was tedious. And it was fucking freezing in the Botanical Gardens. Which was not Fellini's fault. But it's hard to tolerate two hours of rambling, plot-less social commentary when your leg muscles are so cold they ache.

It's 35 degrees outside today. And I'm sitting here with a head cold.

Oh well. I have seen a Fellini. I will not do so ever again, but I've at least done it once.

In slightly more enthusiastic film news... We saw a double at the Astor last week: American Splendour and Live Forever.

American Splendour is the biography of Harvey Pekar, a grouchy file clerk who achieved a modicum of fame by writing the comic book American Splendour about his life as a grouchy file clerk. Films about artists usually fall into on of two plot lines: tragedy or triumph. American Splendour is different. It's a portrait of the artist as everyday nobody. Pekar's comics bring him critical acclaim, a wife, even appearances on the Letterman show. But he still works in his dead-end file clerk job. It is, in an odd way, rather inspiring.

The closest the film gets to the traditional mould is the sequence dealing with Pekar's cancer and treatment. And I'll confess that sequence laid a small, cold finger against my heart, my father having gone through something similar last year.

Live Forever is far more conventional. It's straight up rock and roll nostalgia. BritPop, it says, was the best music in the world, in the best time in the world, and nothing will ever be as good or important again.

I am weary of this genre. I know how easy it is manipulate people into feeling this way. I mean, I felt like that after watching Velvet Goldmine, and I fucking hate glam. Live Forever uses the same tricks, and has much the same problems. Any film that tries to tell you that Oasis were the best band in the world is seriously flawed.

Fortunately, the directors realise this. There are interviews with the Gallagher brothers. Noel comes across as a little conceited and happy to edit history to serve his own ends, but basically intelligent, witty, and even self-deprecating. Liam comes across as a right twat.

The shining star of all the interviews, however, is Jarvis Cocker from Pulp. He has the most to say, and far too little screen time to say it. Likewise, the 5 second snippet of Massive Attack's Inertia Creeps just shows how unimaginative and hollow Oasis really were. Unfortunately, screen time is divided up by popularity of the bands, rather than talent.

Which is an accurate representation of the time, I guess.

Anyway, tonight is another double feature at the Astor: Volcano High and Princess Blade. I'm hoping righteous kung-fu action will inspire my immune system to kick the ass of this Italian-induced virus.

Peace, and season's bleatings.