While much of this site has primarily concerned itself with the nexus of film and screenwriting, I expect that this will change more and more in the near future. I’ve had a religious conversion of sorts back to the written word. A repentance brought on by night visions and fever dreams. For anyone interested in the story leading up to this, feel free take a look at my sports blog article here. I battled with frequent bouts of illness in the earlier part of the year which for some reason led me to a fascination with the foundational texts of English poetry, which grew into an obsession with various expressions of old literature.
Christopher Nolan’s Dunkirk begins an existential nightmare and ends as nihilistic commentary on time and fate. But really, what war film doesn’t? And what could Nolan’s Dunkirk stand to teach us that Patton didn’t? That Saving Private Ryan didn’t? Or The Longest Day? The Thin Red Line? Atonement?
“I thought it was dystopian!”
“I thought it was modern?”
“I thought it was the past…”
The Millennials are confused, and understandably so. The Barbican Centre’s production of William Shakespeare’s Hamlet, directed by Lyndsey Turner and filmed before a live audience, presents a unique and refreshing perspective on the 400-year-old play. It is not the medieval Danish world of Shakespeare’s setting, and nor does it sit well within any of the centuries that have occurred since then. The buildings are Victorian, the uniforms modern, the clothing contemporary, but the weapons historic. Hamlet has traded in his doublet for a David Bowie shirt, but keeps a dagger by his side and listens to Nat King Cole albums on an old record player. And just wait until you see Horatio.
Full disclosure: I’m a bit of a chess nerd. That might come as a shock considering how terrible of a chess player I am, but I can confidently say that the magnitude of my theoretical knowledge of the sport in comparison to my deficit of skill is quite large. (Although much of that is owed to a very, very wide deficit).
Black Mass is not the typical glorified gangster film of mob bosses living lives of splendor and decadence while wielding exceptional power. Rather, it is a cold and distant examination of violence and manipulative cruelty.
NOTE: I’d like to warn everyone that this memoir is super long and fairly detailed. I’ve broken it up into chapters to aid with navigation. Feel free to read as much or as little as you please. Or, if you prefer, just skim through and look at the pictures. I wrote this more for myself so that years from now when the memories start to fade and I start to wonder if it really all happened, I’ll have this record to force it back into reality.
THURSDAY 5/28 AND FRIDAY 5/29
I’m ashamed to say that I didn’t know Houston had been flooding. I woke up around 6:00am that morning in both a state of blissful delirium but also uncertain foreboding. I couldn’t sleep; a phenomenon that would reoccur mercilessly over the next several days as the needling pangs of excitement for what had happened and what could be would return to me. I checked my phone and saw an update from my sister, Nia. She told me that her flight which had been scheduled for an 8:00am departure had now been delayed two hours.