Marty Supreme?

A high voltage manic picaresque, wonderfully kinetic, but utterly disjointed and very self-indulgent. Safdie thinks more is more. It is not. It’s like David Copperfield on crack. At 150 minutes a good 20 or 30 minutes far too long.

The first and third acts cohere – they pulse with a dynamic, compelling rhythm. But the film goes wildly off course in its effort to perpetuate that rhythm, to no evident larger scheme or purpose. Tthe interminably digressive shaggy dog second act is a shambling mess. The emotional core of the film is vacant. That is to say, there is no ironic perspective on Marty or his fate. This is no sentimental education: it’s just one damned thing after another. And no way for the viewer to empathize with the plight of the protagonist. The “happy” ending feels like a cheat. An offkey valentine begging for the viewer’s embrace, Um – yeah, no.

Safdie’s approach is derivative in all the wrong ways. He’s taken the flash and dazzle from the other Marty – the real Marty Supreme – aping the style of “Mean Streets” and “Goodfellas” but with none of the spirit of those films. There is no moral reckoning, in other words. The protagonist merely flails about until, voila! He’s a new father. The miracle of birth cliché is a “uh, wot?” moment: a limp pseudo-resolution. How could anyone imagine this self-involved twerp being transformed by fatherhood?

Still, Chalamet, in his most rat boy mode yet, delivers a whirling dervish of a performance. Oscar bound for sure I would think. Paltrow gives her ususal measured performance: it's smart, sexy, and subdued even if her romance with Marty is absurd and contrived. The show stealer is Odessa A’zion (what a fabulous name). She is real and powerful; almost she redeems the third act.

There are reversals and counter-reversals and counter-counter reversals and in the end none of it means a damned thing because Safdie is too busy showing off. In that sense, I guess it is like a ping-pong game.

A House of Dynamite

I went to a matinee screening at Amherst Cinema, where the screens are small but the vibe is good. Maybe 5 other people attending. I left the theater wrung out, emotionally exhausted, in a state of cognitive dissonance.

It seems clear to me that this was Bigelow’s intent (hereafter KB, an affectionate shorthand some of us who worked for her like to use). The tripartite story structure, which is not to be confused with the classic Hollywood 3-act nor, despite its shifts in POVs, with Rashomon, though it gestures toward the latter, is working toward something else altogether. The point is not to show how ambiguity besets differing perspectives or subjectivities, calling into doubt “the truth,” but how the most harrowing event imaginable plays out across a spectrum of experience and within the tight confines of a rigorous professionalism which is tested to the breaking point. It is also an ingenious method for ratcheting up suspense. A more vulgar person than myself might call it tease and denial.

The repetitions build up tension to an unbearable level, then – fade to black. Each break occurs just as the missile is about to hit Chicago. Their effect is, as a friend put it, “devastating.” They give you no solace, no room to hide, absolutely no comfort or closure. It put me in mind of Artaud’s Theater of Cruelty, which was meant to confound the audience’s expectations, to break them out of their complacency. The whole film seems like an extended exercise in that old rhetorical trope aposiopesis — when a narrative is suddenly broken off/disrupted, given no end.

Because it’s Bigelow it is of course expertly crafted. The pacing is superb. The close up work unnerving. The way she holds on the silences in various command centers as the realization sinks in that the missile cannot be stopped.

“This is insanity.” The President says (he’s not wrong) “No, Mr. President, this is reality.” A general replies (neither is he).

Always lauded for her dazzling action sequences, KB does not get enough attention or acclaim for the performances she draws from her cast. The first section places Rebecca Ferguson front and center. It’s a beautiful, restrained performance. There’s an anguished moment where she can barely hold back her tears as she thinks about her young son (whom we saw early on in a typical box-checking domestic scene).

And the little human moments — ballgame chat, lovers in a hurry, a mom on an outing with her son and yes, the hapless SecDef who can't accept the crushing weight of the catastrophe (including, it's suggested, his own personal failures) — all these splinters of humanity were powerfully affecting. Managing such a large number of actors in a coherent and compelling way, in such brief snippets, without slipping into disaster movie cliche, is an incredible accomplishment.

The always excellent Tracy Lett’s general lays out a concise range of scenarios as to the identity of the missile launcher, including one that involves a foreign power blinding one of our spy satellites before launching a missile – a more than plausible and frightening scenario.

Gabriel Basso dominates the second section, where he plays the Deputy NSA Jake Bearington. He’s an earnest Boy Scout type, pretty much the same character he played in “The Night Agent.” He’s a handsome hunk of beefcake but he is also quite good. His is the voice of moderation and de-escalation amid the chorus of brass hats who clamor for more bellicose responses to the maddeningly unidentified enemy. He plays noble frustration beautifully. Indeed, the film excels in its depiction of professionals performing difficult tasks under the most extreme pressure. The film is nothing if not Hawksian in that sense.

The final section brings us at last to Idris Elba’s POTUS—thus far only a voice. He is exhausted, a bit disheveled. Overwhelmed by the awfulness of the moment and the momentousness of the crucial decision he must make, he seems to crumble from within. It’s a wrenching, deeply human performance – he’s caught in an impossible moral crux. This section closes like the others. We don’t see the missile’s impact. POTUS is shuttled off to a bunker. We’re left to imagine the disaster, which is a brilliant move after so much build up. It puts the moral responsibility for imagining such an unthinkable event on the viewer. To have shown the missile strike would have robbed the film of its power, reducing it to just another inane spectacle of mass destruction, no better than an MCU film.

Above all, the film shows just how helpless we are in the face of our own awesome technologies. It’s not just the missiles that evoke horror, but the uselessness of the counter-measures.

One leaves the theater shaken, haunted. The Doomsday Clock is currently set at 89 seconds to midnight. And my students seem never to have heard of the Cuban Missile Crisis.

in memoriam ALICE NOTLEY, 1946-2025

We've lost one of our greatest poets and I, like many others, am devastated. I can't say I knew Alice well. Met her at Naropa late 90s/Boulder. Mt first public talk, at Boulder Bookstore, was on her masterpiece "Descent of Alette." I was in over my head. But Alice told me she liked it, which meant alot to me. Years later I was asked by Christina Davis to introduce her at Harvard along with Eleni Sieklianos. In the event Christina read my remaks since I had a job interview at Cleveland State.

Alice Notley—Notes for Harvard Introduction, 4/17/2013 Patrick Pritchett

“I invented the arts to stay alive.” So says Marie, the derelict ur-matriarch of Alice Notley’s rhapsodic and defiant Culture of One. Her motto might be Notley’s own.

Because for years now, Alice Notley’s poetry has operated in a strange no-woman’s land, neglected or ignored by both the pious adherents of canonical correctness and the bully boys of the avant-garde. Part of this is due to her own unwillingness to embrace any camp but her own, and her sharply stated aversion to poetry that is about, “writing, literary criticism, linguistics, or French philosophy.” The whole point of her rejection of such parochialism is that each poet always already forms a school of One, herself.

She lays out the necessity for this position in her essay, “The Poetics of Disobedience,” where she writes that poetry obliges one “to disobey the past and the practices of literary males,” that disobedience in its larger sense means “staying alert to all the ways one is coerced into denying experience.” It means, “No Doctrines” about poetry, but allowing the poem to name its own shape in the making of it. Disobedience to the tyranny of literary conventions suggests an interior obedience – to the poet’s own unexplainable urges and instincts. It means treating her whims as though they were laws and not asking why. It means just following the poem where it leads you. Disobedience also signifies a deeper permission: the inalienable right of the poet to break boundaries, to transgress, to militate against theory, against Poetry with a capital P, against anything that is not the poem itself.

Notley’s poems are infused with an extraordinary tenderness and care for the fragility of our predicament and they undertake this with all the resources of Dr. Williams’ plain American speech, its breaks, stutters, sudden stops and restarts, flush with repetition, always a little ahead or behind: everyday talk, with all its gaps and fissures and aphasic goofs.

At the same time, since 1992’s “White Phosphorous,” Notley has been inventing a radical new measure, a kind of gnostic, hypnagogic speech that is startling in its immediacy. It’s not so much a form of ghostly dictation, not even Jack Spicer’s Martians speaking through the imperfect medium of Alice, but the poet herself listening intently, acutely, to the dream voices of the poem, murmuring in all their disturbing tongues. Yet, as she writes in “Epic & Women Poets,” “dreams are not language … they are fleshly & vivid, they are ‘real’ … the bed of new beginnings, the place to turn to.”

This effort to produce a new measure, which marks such major works as The Descent of Alette, Close to me & Closer … (The Language of Heaven), Alma, or The Dead Women, and most recently Culture of One, amounts to a description of a tremendous struggle – of the poet to speak the poem, of a woman to claim a voice outside the proscriptions of men – and it’s a jarring, gorgeous, intoxicating, and horrific struggle, written in a rhythm of breathless urgency, the swell and pulse of dismemberment and re-unification, of fracture and writing out of the fracture, of brokeness and wholeness whirling, colliding, recombining: a primal religious drama of the violence of the body and the world against the violence of language. “Who will gather up my pieces?” she asks. “How many pieces am I? How many can I be?” To be a culture of one – an impossible, yet utterly necessary, task. And it’s undertaken with such ferocity it leaves the reader gasping for oxygen, looking for a place to duck.

In “Vertical Axis,” (from Mysteries of Small Houses), Notley writes (Alette speaks it): >P> “I am proceeding deeper into the cave ... don’t discount this spirit because it sounds like/what you’ve named it before … I won't be buried in the earth you abuse and slight as/a discarded symbol ... nor is I a discarded symbol/I am Alette who, from deeper than the story, can change it.”

I don’t think there’s anyone anywhere right now writing at a more charged and visceral pitch, with greater bravery and candor, with more fantastic elasticity and risk, charting the unmapped regions between the sublime and the even more sublime ridiculous. How lucky we are to have Alice Notley.

Brief Mercy of This Life

My seventh book of poems will be published later this summer by Eliot Cardinaux's The Bodily Press. i could not be happier with its design.

Babygirl review

BABYGIRL (2024)
Written and directed by Halina Reijn

The much-hyped “Babygirl” is a pig in a poke; an extended act of bad faith. Is it a sexist exploitation film? A parable about feminist power? A cautionary tale about manipulative men? It wants to be all these and in the end is none. The tone of the filmvis subdued, minimalist, yet for all that histrionic. Beautifully shot and sharply paced, it comes in at a brisk 114 minutes – which still feels too long, thanks to a rambling and static Act II. The director, Halina Reijn, has come up with a provocative premise but has failed to flesh it out in any but the most superficial terms.

“Babygirl” draws a distinct line between a woman being able to get what she wants in bed and her ability to be a leader in business but the connection is not only tenuous in dramatic terms, it’s contrived. The film seems intended as a feminist parable about power exchanges and sex and is presented in what seems at first a naturalistic style but it’s true genre is fantasy as made clear by the exacting color schemes, meticulous production design, and shot choices, which often verge on portentous art cinema trying to produce an out of place and unearned suspense.

As Romy, the gladiatorial Nicole Kidman looks like a carven wax imago of herself, an AI double. Except for her neck and the backs of her hands, her face and naked body are eerily devoid of signs of aging. Her eyes have a permanently startled look, wide open indeed, from Botox or some other treatment. The film contains a striking scene where she undergoes an elaborate beauty regimen that looks like a fountain of youth treatment undergone as self-mortification. There’s a ghoulish aspect to this scene with its short, sharp cuts. Verging on horror, it conveys with visual wit the depressing rituals a woman in power must go through to present a perfectly manicured presence in the corporate boardroom.

Because movie stars are in an unforgiving business predicated on artificiality it’s churlish to harp on an aging female actor’s appearance, however plastic it may strike one. The face is an actor’s chief means of expression and the more beautiful the actor is the higher the stakes in preserving that face. In a way, Kidman’s very appearance, its highly artificial gloss, lends itself perfectly to the film’s theme of female insecurity and empowerment. Her face, framed in close up after close up registering pleasure, anxiety, puzzlement, etc., is the running subtext of “Babygirl.”

All the same, Kidman just looks weird.

Her orgasms, both faked and real, are the crux of the film, its key f/x, as it were, as well as the whole reason for the film’s being (you can imagine the pitch meeting). They are real tour de forces, shot in ferocious unwavering close up – a hymn to the male gaze? Or a celebration of women’s liberatory sexual expression? Somehow they fail to add up to more than the sum of their parts. I found myself drifting off, even texting a friend that she needed to see it even though it was garbage. There’s a carelessness to the film’s dramatic logic, which is a mash up of thrillers, mawkish family drama, and bogus journey of self-discovery. It has nothing of substance to say about any of these themes beyond cliché and platitude, serving them up like adverts for posh lifestyles.

But what to say of Kidman herself? Since “To Die For” and “Moulin Rouge” she has turned in some truly powerful risk-taking performances. In her later years she’s turned into an impressive, if restless, acting mill, as if afraid to pause. Many of the choices she’s made have struck me as mediocre though they’ve proven very popular. But she’s always been for me an actor more to be admired than loved, unlike say her compatriot Cate Blanchett. Her commitment to the material, her intensity, and her tremendous grace and sheer presence has stature and substance. Nonetheless, there’s always something slightly too calculated about a Kidman performance, including this one. Naomi Fry, in The New Yorker, nails it: in a movie about a hot mess Kidman is just not messy enough.

Antonio Banderas is marooned in a thankless role, an emasculated, impotent figure completely immersed in his work as a theater director, while the young hunk, Samuel (Harris Dickinson), who fulfills Kidman’s fantasies of submission, is a complete blank. He reminds me of swaggering dumb fucks I knew in LA, all hair gel and wary preening, totally clueless. More a projection of Romy’s fantasies than a real person, he has no apparent interior life, but comes off as improbably wise and confident beyond his years, running his lines with an air of someone who can hardly be bothered. It’s a labored performance. A mere intern, he’s lent an air of dangerous and disruptive charisma. His habit of challenging Kidman’s perfectly sensible objections and rebuttals with a dull-witted question is meant to both underscore his privilege and unsettle hers. Romy seems baffled by this resistance. Are we meant to think she finds this behavior attractive? Or does the director imagine she’s critiquing male arrogance? This kind of ambiguity is supposed to play ironically but it only reveals an impoverished failure to imagine three-dimensional characters. Except this is not a naturalistic drama. More a warped passion play where characters play Large Emotions or Ideas.

Kidman’s longing for humiliation is depicted as both shameful and vaguely spiritual, and finally, as a way for her to own her own power (which never seemed in doubt from the first act). There’s a tedious subplot about her self-aggrandizing aide Esme’s scheme to undermine Kidman by blackmailing her into putting her money where he mouth is by acting as a real leader and supporter of women. This is all red herring dumb show, played for an irony so mild it’s totally ineffectual.

The scene with Esme is shot in tight CU, facing the camera (and reading a speech to a camera); a repetition of a similar scene of Romy’s in Act 1. Not once does the film show us the real dynamics of office politics, the boardroom struggles, meetings and decisions, etc. We never see Kidman doing something that looks like actual work other than tapping her phone and making bland statements for streaming to the company or its clients about her “vision.”

“Babygirl” closes with two scenes: Romy triumphantly telling a fellow (male) exec to fuck off. Romy, prone on her bed, her husband diligently fingering her to orgasm, just the way she likes it. So maybe this is a film afterall about how a career woman can really have it all?

MAKE IT BROKEN

My book of essays, Make It Broken: Toward a Poetics of Late Modernism, is shipping from the printers today. It can be ordered directly from the publisher, Black Square Editions.

This book was a long time in the making. I'm deeply grateful to John Yau, Peter Gizzi, Kit Schluter, Margaret Galey, and Shanna Compton for their brilliant and dedicated labor as well as to the many folks along the way whose conversations, input, and notes enriched these essays. Special thanks go to Ingrid Nelson whose faith in my work has been unflagging.

After the disaster of World War II, Ezra Pound’s exhortation to poets to “make it new” lay in shambles. The essays in MAKE IT BROKEN assert that a certain group of poets, taking their cue from both Pound and George Oppen, employed modernist strategies of interruption, negation, and seriality to recharge poetry with moral acuity and formal audacity. By writing from inside the ruins, poets like Michael Palmer, Lorine Niedecker, Gustaf Sobin, and Fanny Howe use the very brokenness of language to redeem the poem in the wake of catastrophe.

"Patrick Pritchett’s Make It Broken: Toward a Poetics of Late Modernism is a treasure book of lively reading, research, and erudition, bringing salutary attention to the work of eight recent American poets deserving wider and deeper engagement. It is a book of elegant collation and crucial reckoning, lifted high out of the ordinary by brilliant, resonant insights and Pritchett’s fluid, cadence-rich writing—ever exact, ever adroitly qualified, ever with a rightness of touch—a juggling of weight and attunement he even makes look easy. The book offers an essential, exemplary study of important areas of concern in experimental poetry and poetics that are not often enough examined. Pitch perfect and scary smart, it had me smiling, tearing up, and crawling under my bed to hide."

Nathaniel Mackey

"I have long known Patrick Pritchett to be one of our most able critics of modern poetry, but the cumulative intelligence and imaginative understanding of these essays is something else again. Taken together, they present an argument for poetry—gnostic, messianic, and against the grain of language and history—that is as highly refined and as beautiful as any I have encountered. Pritchett’s erudition is profound but always handled with grace; it enables him to bring in other voices to support his reading at all the right moments. His clarity is a gift. Pound, Oppen, Niedecker, Olson, Ronald Johnson, Palmer, DuPlessis, Taggart, Sobin, Fanny Howe: Pritchett illuminates them all with skill, attention, and abiding love."

Norman Finkelstein

"In this brilliant and astonishingly clear study of late modernist poets—Oppen, Niedecker, Palmer, Sobin, Fanny Howe, and others—Patrick Pritchett demonstrates what truly engaged critical scholarship can become: not a form of light, but a mode of transformation, for as the practice of midrash teaches, the living text begins with commentary. With Pritchett we learn that war, in its endless horrors and outrages, whether in the 20th-century or now, can never adequately be written “about,” it can only be written through and with. As it breaks us again, we must respond in kind, with a broken and sorrowful poetics. The poem, in other words, is a burnt offering. The apophatic poets Pritchett reads with such loving attention and outstanding care un-say what cannot be said. Out of the ruins and the ash, an un-whole holiness emerges."

Julie Carr

"Poetry survives, even flourishes, not simply because it is read, but because of what poets themselves have had to say about it in all its variety and particularity. The poet Patrick Pritchett’s Make It Broken is an illuminating group of essays on modern and contemporary poetry whose chief distinction is the breakdown of form—fragmentation, parataxis, montage, or what Pritchett calls "radical formal disjunction." His lucid readings of sometimes difficult poems will make the reading of these poems a new adventure."

Gerald Bruns

Coppola's "Dracula"

ROMEO VOID — BRAM STOKER’S DRACULA
URB Magazine, Los Angeles, 1992

"Bram Stoker’s Dracula" is a fever dream; a rapturous, incantatory phantasmagoria; a ravishing Liebestraum in which the im¬ages, not the narrative, form the story’s emotional core. Like Wagner in his operas, and Von Sternberg in his films, Francis Ford Coppola has held back nothing in his attempt to inundate us with a riotous profusion of sensual and decaying splendors. In the process, he has succeeded in making his Dracula a figure who is paradoxically transformed by his grotesqueness into something very nearly noble. This is the film for all those who are fed up with the cloying cuteness of Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. It is not a great film, in the conventional sense, being flawed by weak narrative links, poor, or off-key performances, and a recurrent sense of detachment and remoteness. But it is also more than merely great: a film that literally mesmerizes us with its gothic symbolism, tapping directly into the dark arteries of the unconscious until we swoon in its narcotic flood, a river of opiate delirium.

As Dracula, the remarkably protean Gary Oldman is Romeo in the void, a quester for a profane Grail, Tristan not just mad, but crucified by a 400-year old love. Stoker’s original novel can be read, in one way, as a Celtic reaction to the Victorian whitewashing of eros Tennyson drowned the medieval romance of King Arthur with (and “Dracula” is nothing, if not a medieval romance), coating over its primal bloodshed and sexuality. The terror of feminine sexuality, specifically, is at the heart of Dracula. As the awakener of women’s dormant libidos, initiating them into a power that men, because they do not understand it, fear and must repress, Dracula is paganism’s revenge on the sterility of Christianity — his blood ritual but a mirror, as Coppola and his writer, Jim Hart, make clear, for the symbolic cannibalism of the Holy Mass. But Dracula worships in the Church of Love, elevating carnal, mortal love to the level of a sacrament. As such, he is the ultimate paramour, the final exemplar of Romanticism’s revolt from a tyrannical, deiocentric universe.

By endowing Dracula with a too sympa¬thetic mystique, though, the filmmakers have set the film’s dramatic center spin¬ning. Anthony Hopkins, wretchedly ham¬ming it up as the redoubtable Van Helsing, carries no moral authority whatsoever. When he proclaims to Jonathan Harker (the wooden Keanu Reeves), as they seek out Dracula’s destruction, that “now we are God’s madmen,” you feel the joke is on him. The true and only divine madman here is Dracula himself. Unable to balance the story’s opposing tensions any other way, the role of redeemer is given over to Winona Ryder’s fey, but strainingly ardent Mina, who, as the reincarnation of the Count’s bride, seals their lover’s pact in the end with an improbably, sentimental flourish. (The film also skirts Stoker’s hysteria about immigration that is the novel’s subtext).

The production design and costumes, by Thomas Sanders and Eiko Ishioka, embody the dreamworld of the Victorian imagination with a Byzantine refulgence, a Pre-Raphaelite sensuousness that is glorious. Drenched with images from the Gothic painter Caspar David Friedrich, Dracula is a crepuscular ode, a vision of the twilight of Empire, aswirl with smoke and hot¬house flowers, the morbidity and fire of a dying civilization. But as deeply as we may be enthralled by the lushness of his world, Coppola never succeeds in drawing us fully into it. We remain at a distance, like the director himself, outside looking in, emotionally unengaged.

This is also a movie about a disease transmitted through the blood. Dracula’s decision, at the culmination of his quest for Mina, to spare her from the purgatory of the un-dead, seems to reflect the filmmaker’s conscious, if subtle, awareness of AIDS. This unexpected reversal causes the storyline to wobble (again), but what the film loses in logic, Dracula himself gains in pathos and hu¬manity. In the end, Dracula, embracing only extremes, simultaneously seduces and repels. Full of erotic images that are exces¬sive, disturbing, grandiose and beguiling, it is dream and nightmare, opera and parody, sublimity and absurdity, love and madness.