Ну как же это ПРЕКРАСНО!!!




Не теряет актуальности, увы.

Подношение Интересному Времени. Песня 25. Странный Вопрос.

И еще один невероятно трогательный, хотя и мрачный фрагмент — о пользе мнолетнего психоанализа (и ее отсутствии):

I was still knocking out one-liners with David O. Alber to furnish gags for the tabloids. If I could be a writer for Bob Hope, that would do it. But living in the future I would be a playwright and oddly not like George S. Kaufman, my idol from days past, but like Eugene O’Neill or Tennessee Williams. Of course right now I was failing out of summer school and I was called before a panel of deans. A panel of deans is not like an exaltation of larks. It’s more like a bevy of ghouls. It’s a humorless quartet who are there to tell you you’re out. I listened politely as they indicted me on several counts from being a no-show to failing everything. They asked me my goal in life. I said, to forge in the smithy of my soul the unmated conscience of my race and see if it could be mass-produced in plastic. They looked at one another and suggested I see a psychiatrist. I said I worked professionally and got along well with everyone and why would I need a psychiatrist? They explained that I was in the world of show business where everybody’s crazy. I didn’t think a shrink was the worst idea, since despite all my creative interests and promising start as a comedy writer along with all of the love I was shown growing up, I still experienced some moderate feelings of anxiety—like when you’re buried alive. I was not happy; I was gloomy, fearful, angry, and don’t ask me why. Maybe it was in my bloodstream or maybe it was a mental state that set in where I realized the Fred Astaire movies were not documentaries.

I started seeing a highly recommended psychiatrist named Peter Blos once a week shortly after my expulsion, and although he was a terrific guy, it didn’t do me much good. He eventually suggested I see a psychoanalyst four times a week, where I lay on a couch and was encouraged to say everything that came to mind, including describing my dreams. I did that for eight years and cleverly managed to avoid any progress. I finally outlasted him and he came in one day waving a white flag. I saw three more shrinks in my life. First was a very fine man named Lou Linn, whom I saw twice a week in a face-to-face situation. He was quite brilliant, but I easily outfoxed him and remained safely uncured. Then I saw a very bright lady for maybe fifteen years. That was more therapeutic and helped me over some of life’s tribulations, but no real changes for the better in my personality occurred. Finally a highly recommended doctor who has tried face-to-face therapy with me, couch psychoanalysis for a period, and back to face-to-face therapy, and I’m still able to fend off any meaningful progress.

So I’ve had many years of treatment and my conclusion is, yes, it has helped me, but not as much as I’d hoped and not in the way I’d imagined. I made zero progress on the deep issues; fears and conflicts and weaknesses I had at seventeen and twenty, I still have. The few areas where the problems are not so embedded, where one needs a little help, a push, maybe I got some relief. (I can go to a Turkish bath without having to buy out the room.) For me the value was having a person to be around to share my suffering with; hitting with the pro in tennis. Also for me a big plus was the delusion I was helping myself. In the blackest times it’s nice to feel you’re not just lying dormant, a passive slug being pelted by the irrational lunacy of the universe, or even by tsuris of your own making. It’s important to believe you’re doing something about it. The world and the people in it may have their boots on your throat, stomping the very life out of you, but you’re going to change all of that, you’re taking heroic action. You’re free-associating. You’re remembering those dreams. Maybe writing them down. At least once a week you’re going to discuss this with a trained expert, and together you will understand the awful emotions causing you to be sad, frightened, raging, despairing, and suicidal. The fact that solving these problems is illusory and you will always remain the same tormented wretch, unable to ask the baker for sehnecken because the word embarrasses you, doesn’t matter. The illusion you’re doing something to help yourself helps you. You somehow feel a little better, a little less despondent. You pin your hopes on a Godot who never comes, but the thought he might show up with answers helps you get through the enveloping nightmare. Like religion, where the illusion gets one through. And being in the arts, I envy those people who derive solace from the belief that the work they created will live on and be much discussed and somehow, like the Catholic with his afterlife, so the artist’s «legacy» will make him immortal. The catch here is that all the people discussing the legacy and how great the artist’s work is are alive and are ordering pastrami, and the artist is somewhere in an urn or underground in Queens. All the people standing over Shakespeare’s grave and singing his praises means a big goose egg to the Bard, and a day will come—a far-off day, but be sure it definitely is coming—when all Shakespeare’s plays, for all their brilliant plots and hoity-toity iambic pentameter, and every dot of Seurat’s will be gone along with each atom in the universe. In fact, the universe will be gone and there will be no place to have your hat blocked. After all, we are an accident of physics. And an awkward accident at that. Not the product of intelligent design but, if anything, the work of a crass bungler.



Чудесный образец )


В детстве меня невероятно привлекали разнообразные закадровые секреты телевизионных программ (да и сейчас отчасти тоже — наверное, с точки зрения современного психоанализа это что-то означает). И буквально на днях довольно случайно увидел в инстаграме «Что? Где? Когда?» почти часовой ролик с невероятным количеством интересного бэкстейджа и не мог оторваться 🙂

После просмотра этого ролика для меня, наконец, сложились в единое целое все компоненты программы с точки зрения того, кто и как это делает.

Что здесь интересного: ПТС (передвижная телевизионная станция) и работа режиссера во время эфира изнутри; комната звукорежиссеров и их нечеловеческий труд во время минуты обсуждения и странный бонус — команда Виктора Сиднева, которая перед игрой «разогревается» песней о том, как на поле танки грохотали — зрелище во всех отношениях сюрреалистическое 🙂



А Борис Борисович написал новую песню — о текущем моменте 🙂 Помимо тепла и солнца — здесь еще парочка ненавязчивых самоцитат 🙂

Подношение Интересному Времени. Песня 21. Современная Песня ( Не Выходи За Дверь )



Сегодня неудачный день для нефти WTI — она упала на 2536% — с 17 долларов до -0,7 доллара :)))))

Цена на нефть стала отрицательной впервые в истории!

Кажется, что-то будет с российской экономикой (и прогнозы Юрия Шевчука сбываются!).

В прошлом году на youtube появилось четырехчасовое видео, которое начиналось с того, что его автор обещал, что в ближайшие несколько часов раскроет все загадки сериала «Твин Пикс», над которыми прогрессивная общественность ломала голову последние тридцать лет. И что узнав ответы на все вопросы, никто из нас уже не сможет воспринимать все это как прежде.

Twin Peaks ACTUALLY EXPLAINED (No, Really)

Тогда я посмотрел первые несколько минут, состоящие целиком из дисклеймеров, и подумал, что, пожалуй, не стоит знать ответы на все вопросы 🙂

Но так случилось, что на днях на одном сайте увидел текст. А текст — это не видео, там как ни старайся, все равно что-то да прочтешь 🙂

Так я узнал ответ на главный вопрос жизни, вселенной и всего такого 🙂

Осторожно — дальше бесконечные спойлеры!

Агент Дейл Купер — это зритель «Твин Пикса» (кстати, агенты Честер Дезмонд и Сэм Стэнли в «Огонь, иди со мной» — тоже олицетворяют зрителей). У него феноменальная интуиция и поэтому ему легко дается расследование — но если проследить за развитием сериала, оказывается, что все, что Купер «чувствует», зрители уже видели в предыдущих сценах — он просто это повторяет. Его расследование — это свет, который противостоит жестокости и тьме.

Боб — это зло ради развлечения телезрителей. В третьем сезоне показано, что в момент рождения Боба после ядерного взрыва из головы Пожарного рождается Лора Палмер как добро в противовес Бобу.

Кофе и машинное масло — олицетворяют одно и то же. Это топливо сюжета. Купер пьет кофе — и расследование движется, проливая свет на убийство Лоры; Масло — топливо для «плохого» огня, из-за него горит лесопилка, в нем отражается красная комната.

Ну, а если в целом, то «Твин Пикс» — это шоу о развлекательном телевидении вообще, а точнее — о телевидении, в котором на тот момент все большую роль начинает играть жестокость (автор ролика использует термин «consumable violence»), которая привлекает зрителя, но оставляет у него внутри только пустоту.

Линч захотел создать сериал, в котором добро и зло были бы сбалансированы, в котором зло (Боб) существует только затем, чтобы показать, как важно добро (Купер/Лора), в котором не нужно раскрывать убийцу Лоры Палмер, потому что после этого зритель потеряет всякий интерес к ее личности, но, напротив, нужно рассказать о том, какой она была.

Все получалось до того момента, когда телеканал ABC настоял на том, чтобы во втором сезоне убийца Лоры Палмер все же был раскрыт. Как и подозревал Линч, после раскрытия убийцы зрители потеряли к шоу всякий интерес, и именно поэтому в самом конце второго сезона в Купера (который олицетворяет зрителей) вселяется Боб, олицетворяющий зло ради удовольствие зрителей.

Помимо прочего, «Твин Пикс» — это все тогдашние сериалы и мыльные оперы в одном. Все персонажи «Твин Пикс» за исключением Дэйла Купера, который олицетворяет зрителей, дамы с поленом и агента Филиппа Джеффриса (его играет Дэвид Боуи) — на самом деле персонажи сериала! Они одномерны и невыразительны, на их лицах иногда можно увидеть мерцание экрана телевизора или даже луч прожектора, и они не знают, что находятся в телешоу! Красная комната — это пространство между кулисами кинотеатра! Купер олицетворяет наш зрительский интерес к происходящему, именно поэтому он просто повторяет все то, что мы уже видели в предыдущих сценах! Ну, и много-много-много-много деталей! Например, кофе — это двигатель расследования и топливо для Купера и зрительского интереса 🙂

Это невероятно интересный взгляд на сюжет, до которого я бы никогда не додумался 🙂 И это потрясающее новое прочтение, которое невероятно обогащает восприятие давно знакомого!

Что касается видео, то я его посмотрел, и должен сказать, что это невероятное, масштабное, не имеющее аналогов исследование вселенной «Твин Пикс». И оно действительно дает ответы на 99% всех вопросов (по степени прозрачности превращая «Твин Пикс» в «Малхолланд Драйв» :)))! И сам Линч где-то отмечал, что хотя при просмотре его работ создается ощущение, что это исключительно эмоции, сны и грезы — на самом деле, очень часто за этим стоит полностью цельный и связный сюжет, просто мы его не понимаем. Так и с «Твин Пикс» — при кажущейся хаотичности (особенно в третьем сезоне) все это, как оказывается, очень четкая и тщательно выстроенная вселенная.

Особенно интересна трактовка третьего сезона, который мне показался безгранично радостным и бесшабашным, но на самом деле знаменует собой смерть вселенной «Твин Пикс», например, в последние минуты последней серии мы оказываемся в самом что ни на есть реальном мире, в котором у Купера и Лоры Палмер уже другие имена. И это приводит нас к печальному заключению: несмотря на недавние слухи, четвертого сезона, судя по всему, точно не будет.

Ну, и отдельное удовольствие — это детали. Я все же очень рад, что узнал ответы на следующие вопросы:

  1. Совы — не то, чем кажутся. А что?
  2. Почему значительная часть действия в первых двух сезонах происходит на лесопилке?
  3. That gum you like is going to come back in style. Какая такая жевательная резинка?

Ну, и еще на сотню-другую вопросов я тоже узнал ответы 🙂 Сказать, что я впечатлен (и жизнь теперь точно прошла не зря), это не сказать ничего! Хотя и немного грустно, что здесь не так много романтики, как казалось, что Купер — это во многом «технический» персонаж и что четвертого сезона не будет…




Подношение Интересному Времени. Песня 17. Та, Которую Я Люблю

И еще один потрясающе интересный фрагмент!

Some of the teachers would keep kids after school as punishment but it always the Jewith kids. Why? Because we’re shifty little usurers and in keeping us after school, we’d be late or couldn’t attend Hebrew school. Now unbeknownst to them, this punishment to me, if I may use a Yiddish word, was a mitzvah. I hated Hebrew school as much as public school and now I’m going to tell you why. First of all, I never bought into the whole religious thing. I thought it was all a big hustle. Didn’t ever think there was a God; didn’t think he’d conveniently favor the Jews if there was one. Loved pork. Hated beards. The Hebrew language was too guttural for my taste. Plus it was written backwards. Who needed that? I had enough trouble in school where things were written left to right. And why should I fast for my sins? What were my sins? Kissing Barbara Westlake when I should’ve been hanging up my coat? Fobbing a plug nickel off on my grandpa? I say live with it, God, there’s much worse. The Nazis are putting us in ovens. First attend to that. But as I said, I didn’t believe in God. And why did the women have to sit upstairs m the synagogue? They were prettier and smarter than the men. Those hirsute zealots who wrapped themselves in prayer shawls on the premier level, nodding up and down like bobbleheads and kissing a string up to some imaginary power who, if he did exist, despite all their begging and flattery, rewarded them with diabetes and acid reflux.

Not worth my time, and my time was the great rub here. I couldn’t wait till the three o’clock bell rang and I was freed from public school so I could hit the streets and the schoolyard and play ball but oh no, to have to pack that in and go sit in a Hebrew class reading words, the meaning of which were never taught to us, and learning how the Jews had made a special covenant with God, but unfortunately failed to get anything in writing. But I went. Parental pressure, my allowance, the threat of no radio, not to mention I’d get hit. My mother hit me every day at least once. Hitting was very de rigueur in those days, though my father only did once, when I told him to tuck off and he made his displeasure known with a genfle tap across my face that gave me an unimpeded view of the Aurora Borealis. But mom whacked me every day and it was the old Sam Levenson joke—»Maybe I don’t know what you did to deserve it, but you do.» And so it came to pass that I was eventually bar mitzvahed and so had to take special bar mitzvah lessons and sing in Hebrew—and let me tell you, as they say in the Old Testament, there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth.

My mother was the observant one. Because of her, we kept a kosher home. She was pretty strict about dietary laws that forbid pork, bacon, ham, lobster, and many delectable treats available to lucky infidels. To keep my mother placated, Dad faked being observant, but he couldn’t hide his addiction to tasty contraband and gobbled pig meat and shellfish like the Assyrians fell upon the fold. Hence, once in a while at a restaurant, I got to knock off a meal Yahweh, as his friends call him, hadn’t signed off on. I remember what a treat it was when at eight, my father first took me to Lundy’s, the legendary seafood restaurant in Brooklyn where I could pig out on clams, oysters, and shellfish, confident God was nowhere near Sheepshead Bay that day. Lundy’s was the first time I was ever given a finger bowl. I’d never heard of anything so astonishing as finger bowls, and it was a thoroughly exhilarating experience using one. Like having your own swimming pool. So impressed was I that two years later, when my aunt took me there for a shore dinner, all I could think of was, this joint has finger bowls. Consequently, when we ordered steamers and the clam broth was served with them, I was convinced this most be the finger bowl. Intensely excited, my certainty overrode Aunt Ann’s muddled skepticism, and the two of us sat there washing our hands in the clam broth. It was not until the actual finger bowls arrived at the end of the meal did my aunt realize she’d been right and struck me affectionately a number of times, perhaps twelve or fourteen, on the head with her purse.

Еще один очень образный и дающий четкое представление о мироощущении Вуди фрагмент:

Just imagine a scorching summer day in Flatbush. The mercury hits ninety-five and the humidity is suffocating. There was no air-conditioning, that is, unless you went inside a movie house. You eat your morning soft-boiled eggs in a coffee cup in a tiny kitchen on a linoleum-covered floor and a table draped with oilcloth. The radio is playing “Milkman Keep Those Bottles Quiet” or “Tess’s Torch Song.” Your parents are in yet another stupid “discussion,” as my mother called them, which stopped just short of exchanging gunfire. Either she spilled sour cream on his new shirt or he embarrassed her by parking his taxicab in front of the house. God forbid the neighbors should discover she married a cabdriver instead of a Supreme Court justice. My father never tired of telling me that he once picked up Babe Ruth. “Gave me a lousy tip,” was all he could remember about the Sultan of Swat. I thought of it years later when I was a comic working at the Blue Angel and Sonny, the doorman, gave me his character rundown of Billy Rose, the wealthy Broadway sport who loved playing big shot. “A quarter man,” Sonny sneered, having learned to categorize all humans by the square footage of their gratuities. I tease my parents in this account of my life, but each imparted knowledge to me that has served me wrell over the decades. From my father: When buying a newspaper from a newsstand, never take the top one. From Mom: The label always goes in the back.

So it’s a hot summer day and you kill the morning returning deposit bottles to the market to earn two cents per bottle so you can ante up at the Midwood or the Vogue or the Elm, our nearest local three movie houses. Three thousand miles away in Europe, Jews are being shot and gassed for no good reason by ordinary Germans who do it with great relish and have no trouble finding coat holders all over the continent. You sweat your way down Coney Island Avenue, an ugly avenue replete with used car lots, funeral homes, hardware stores, till the exciting marquee comes into view. The sun is now high and brutal. The trolley makes noise, cars are honking, two men are locked in the moronic choreography of road rage and are screaming and starting to swing at each other. The shorter, weaker one is running to secure his tire iron. You buy your ticket, walk in, and suddenly the harsh heat and sunlight vanished and you are in a cool, dark, alternate reality. OK, so they’re only images—but what images! The matron, an elderly lady in white, guides you to your seat with her flashlight. You’ve spent your last nickel on some blissful confection fancifully christened Jujubes or Chuckles. And now you look up at the screen and to the music of Cole Porter or Irving Berlin’s unspeakably beautiful melodies, there appears the Manhattan skyline. I’m in good hands. I’m not going to see a story about guys in overalls on a farm who rise early to milk cows and whose goal in life is to win a ribbon at the state fair or train their horse to transcend a series of equine tribulations and place first in the local harness race. And mercifully, no dog will save anyone and no character with a twang will hook his finger into a jug’s ear to suck out the contents, and no string will be attached to any boy’s toe as he dozes at the old fishing hole.

To this day, if the opening shot of a movie is a close-up of a flag being thrown and the flag is on the meter of a yellow cab, I stay. If it’s on a mailbox, I’m out of there. No, my characters will awaken and the curtains to their bedroom will part, revealing New York City with its tall buildings and every bit of its thrilling possibilities out there, and my cast will either dine in bed with a bed tray complete with a holder for the morning paper—or at a table with linen and silver and this guy’s egg will come to the table in an egg cup so he just has to tap the shell to get to the yolk and there will be no news of extermination camps, only maybe a front page showing some beautiful babe with another guy that sets Fred Astaire off since he loves her. Or, if it’s breakfast for a married couple, they actually care about each other after years of being together and she doesn’t dwell on his failures, and he doesn’t call her a douchebag. And when the movie ends, the second feature is a detective thriller where some hard-boiled private eye solves all life’s problems with a sock in the jaw and goes off with a stacked tomato the likes of which did not exist in any of my classes or any of the weddings, funerals, or bar mitzvahs I attended. And by the way, I never attended a funeral: I was ahvays spared reality. The first and only dead body I ever saw was that of Thelonious Monk, when I stopped off en route for dinner at Elaine’s to view him out of respect as he lay in state in a funeral home on Third Avenue. I took Mia Farrow with me; it was very early in our dating, and she was polite but dismayed and should have known then she was beginning a relationship with the wrong dreamer, but that whole mishigas comes later.

So now the double feature is over and I leave the comfortable, dark magic of the movie house and reenter Coney Island Avenue, the sun, the traffic, back to the wretched apartment on Avenue K. Back into the clutches of my archenemy, reality. In my movie «Sleeper», as part of one comic sequence, by some kind of mind- bending process I imagine I’m Blanche Du Bois from Streetcar Named Desire. I speak in a feminine, southern accent trying to make the sequence funny while Diane Keaton does a perfect Brando. Keaton’s the type who complains, “Oh I can’t do this, I can’t imitate Marlon Brando.” Like the girls in class who tell you how lousy they did on the test and the results come back and they’re straight A’s. Naturally, her Brando is better than my Blanche, but my point is, in real life I am Blanche. Blanche says, “I don’t want reality, I want magic.” And I have always despised reality and lusted after magic. I tried to be a magician, but found I could only manipulate cards and coins and not the universe.

And so, because of cousin Rita, I was introduced to movies, movie stars, Hollywood with its patriotic morality and miraculous endings; and while I brushed off everything everyone tried to teach me, from my parents to my Spanish teachers when I’d already had the two years of Spanish, Hollywood took. Modern Screen. Photoplay. Bogart, Cagney, Edward G. Robinson, Rita Hayworth—their celluloid world was what I learned. The larger-than-life, the superficial, the falsely glamorous, but I do not regret a frame of it. When asked which character in my films is most like me on the screen, you only have to look at Cecilia in «Purple Rose of Cairo».



Смотрю онлайн-концерт Дэвида Брауна и вдруг понимаю, что был на концерте «Brazzaville» уже десять лет назад… (Почти день в день и в такие же смутные, но не из-за коронавируса времена.)

И не то чтобы за это время мне ни разу не хотелось еще раз побывать на их концерте, но… даже не знаю, в чем дело, хотя географическая отдаленность от мест, где проходят концерты, определенно играет роль. И Дэвид все такой же душка, и кажется, что и не было этих десяти лет, но все же чувствуешь, что…

… вот так и проходит жизнь 🙂

Quarantine Concert #2

И еще один потрясающий и очень важный для понимания характера Вуди фрагмент:

I was the cynosure of my mother’s five sisters, the only male child, the darling of these sweet yentas who fussed over me. I never missed a meal, nor wanted for clothing or shelter, never fell prey to any serious illness like polio, which was rampant. I didn’t have Down syndrome like one kid in my class, nor was I hunchback like little Jenny or afflicted with alopecia like the Schwartz kid. I was healthy, popular, very athletic, always chosen first for teams, a ball player, a runner, and yet somehow I managed to turn out nervous, fearful, an emotional wreck, hanging on by a thread to my composure, misanthropic, claustrophobic, isolated, embittered, impeccably pessimistic. Some people see the glass half empty, some see it half full. I always saw the coffin half full. Of the thousand natural shocks the flesh was heir to, I managed to avoid most except number six eighty-two—no denial mechanism. My mother said she couldn’t figure it out. She always claimed I was a nice, sweet, cheerful boy till around five, and then I changed into a sour, nasty, disgruntled, rotten kid.

And yet there was no trauma in my life, no awful thing that occurred and turned me from a smiling, freckle-faced lad with a fishing pole and pantaloons into a chronically dissatisfied lout. My own speculation centers around the fact that at five or so, I became aware of mortality and figured, uh-oh, this is not what I signed on for. I had never agreed to be finite. If you don’t mind, I’d like my money back. As I got older, not just extinction but the meaninglessness of existence became clearer to me. I ran into the same question that bugged the former prince of Denmark: Why suffer the slings and arrows when I can just wet my nose, insert it into the light socket, and never have to deal with anxiety, heartache, or my mother’s boiled chicken ever again? Hamlet chose not to because he feared what might happen in an afterlife, but I didn’t believe in an afterlife, so given my utterly dismal appraisal of the human condition and its painful absurdity, why go on with it? In the end, I couldn’t come up with a logical reason why and finally came to the conclusion that as humans, we are simply hardwired to resist death. The blood trumps the brain. No logical reason to cling to life, but who cares what the head says— the heart says: Have you seen Lola in a miniskirt? As much as we whine and moan and insist, often quite persuasively, that life is a pointless nightmare of suffering and tears, if a man suddenly entered the room with a knife to kill us, we instantly react. We grab him and fight with every ounce of our energy to disarm him and survive. (Personally, I run.) This, I submit, is a property strictly of our molecules. By now you’ve probably figured out not only I’m no intellectual but also no fun at parties.

Incidentally, it is amazing how often I am described as “an intellectual.” This is a notion as phony as the Loch Ness Monster as I don’t have an intellectual neuron in my head. Illiterate and uninterested in things scholarly, I grew up the prototype of the slug who sits in front of the TV, beer in hand, football game going full blast, Playboy centerfold Scotch-taped to the wall, a barbarian sporting the tweeds and elbow patches of the Oxford don. I have no insights, no lofty thoughts, no understanding of most poems that do not begin, “Roses are red, violets are blue.” What I do have, however, is a pair of black-rimmed glasses, and I propose that it is these specs, combined with a flair for appropriating snippets from erudite sources too deep for me to grasp but which can be utilized in my work to give the deceptive impression of knowing more than I do that keeps this fairy tale afloat.



А Борис Борисович в модной жилетке отправился в лес )) Ролик, в котором прекрасно все!

Подношение Интересному Времени. Песня 12. Черный Брахман.

Антон добрался до Ивана! 🙂 Или наоборот.

В поисках Лапенко. Пролог. Вечерний Ургант. 10.04.2020

Конечно, за двадцать минут мало что можно спросить (хотя Юрий Дудь за это же время, кажется, успевает больше), но все равно довольно милое интервью. А самое невероятное — как Антон меняет голоса! 🙂 Это просто нереально, ю ноу! 🙂

Антон Лапенко.Вечерний Ургант. 10.04.2020