Pictures. Put simply, good pictures. They're mesmerizing, sometimes horrifying, but usually interesting. Photo immersion is often soothing. Aside from my father's police crime scene prepration bible -- the one my brother used to lay open on my bed while I was sleeping as a child -- gun shot wound to head -- not soothing, maybe intriguing (just not to wake up to), I can look and look and look.
I love searching for pictures. I love taking pictures. And of course, I love looking at pictures. I can do this for hours, to my detriment.
So as an additional blog to Sunset Gun, I've embraced my own tumblr site, called Sunset GunShots.
Pictures and words, history and beauty, ugliness and profundity -- in one photograph. And so many of my favorites, especially from abbreviated poets.
i am so glad and very merely my fourth will cure the laziest self of weary the hugest sea of shore
That is, of course E.E. Cummings.
And then, one of the other greatest troubadors of all time:
Well I woke up this mornin' it was drizzlin' rain Around the curve come a passanger train Heard somebody yodel and a hobo moan Jimmy he's dead he's been a long time gone Been a long time gone a long time gone If you wanna get to heaven gotta D-I-E you gotta put on your coat and T-I-E Wanna get the rabbit out of the L-O-G You gotta make a commotion like D-O-G like D-O-G like D-O-G yeah
That's my own personal Jesus, Waylon Jennings.
And this is, of course, me (not Cummings or Jennings for sure). I will continue to write longer essays on this blog -- the original Sunset Gun, but I'm having too much fun with this self-imposed curatorial position -- for now. It's a wonderful way to research, particularly if you're looking for every clip of Eddie Cochran you can find or any picture of Leo Gorcey with Groucho Marx. They were friends. ...
And remember: Tuesday deserves all of those orgasmic angora sweaters. And I'm certain E.E. Cummings could have written a poem about them. Papaya Surprise, Periwinkle Pussycat, Turquoise Trouble ... whistles far and wee ...
There's too much to say, there's so much to hear, there's too little we know, there's so much we've read and there's always continual, enigmatic wonder. Maintain the mystery.
Is the Rapture nigh? The agnostic in me of course says, certainly not. But if the man is indeed coming around, if Jesus is indeed waiting, there's only one person I'd like ringing in my ears, right alongside the trumpets, pipers and one hundred million angels singing -- Al Green.
Since Otis Redding, Marvin Gaye, Jackie Wilson, Curtis Mayfield, Ike Turner, Wilson Pickett, Willie Mitchell, Solomon Burke and so many more have left us, I have to ask how any self respecting (or self flagellating) Christian thinks I that should believe in God is beyond me. Not that I need God necessarily, or that I don't believe (in something), and yet, when I hear that true soul survivor, Al Green, I start to think ... Jesus Christ ... maybe I do need the Lord. Green, one of the greatest soul singers ever placed on this God-forsaken planet, is still living, still putting out records and still performing live. One of the last real soul singers blessing our landscape -- especially a musical landscape populated by lip-syncing video vixens, pop punk whiners and faux transgressive bores, Al Green will make you believe.
The Arkansas–born, Michigan–raised, Memphis-living Green crafted brilliant albums during his Hi Records heyday (Al Green Gets Next to You, Let’s Stay Together, I’m Still in Love With You, Call Me), his live performances (which I’ve fanatically collected over the years) are something to behold -- sexy, inspirational, transcendent experiences that weren’t simply swoon-worthy (though the ladies love Al Green), but genius examples of tightness and improvisation. Al Green can riff off the margins, break from his sensuous mid-range to talk to the audience, and then lift to falsetto only to bust into a goose-bump–inducing raw growl that comes from a place so deep it’s nearly impossible to describe its power.
To use simpler terms, Green performs with raw, soulful intensity in its purest form. And where do you see that anymore? Heaven? Green is heaven on earth. And in trying times, listening to Green say "Help me, I'll help you, Jesus, save my soul, I'll live for you, I'll do my best to just, do what I can to, stand up and be a man." Well, chriiiist. Never mind I'm a woman, goddammit, I want to stand up and be a man.
A man indeed. Green’s realness can be achieved anywhere, from the soundstages of Soul Train to his awe-inspiring Midnight Special appearances, to still-packed concert halls to his Full Gospel Tabernacle where the soul icon remains the residing reverend. If you’re ever in Memphis, don’t miss the chance to possibly catch Mr. Green presiding over worship -- an experience that, years back, one of my atheist-leaning friends caught and was so significantly inspired by, the guy was moved to tears. If you’ve ever watched Green perform the baptism-by-orgasm “Take Me to the River,” you’ll completely understand his reaction.
So, judgement day. Green makes me want to pop a doll, worship God and face the white horse all at once. Especially when he sings the sexy, slinky, scary, haunting “Jesus Is Waiting.” You can interpret this Soul Train performance as pure holy high or, pure holy high-high (check out Green's eyes) or whatever kind of godliness you apply to your Green, but one thing’s for sure, it’s on a holy high mountain of silky hot brilliance. This is religion. This is rapture.
Hedy. Just looking at the woman, it's easy to repeat her name after exhaling a delicious deep breath -- Hhheeeddeeey. Her name respires like the title of one of her most famous, and infamous films, Ecstasy. Though some consider the picture a novelty, a ye olden cinematic curio of Hollywood losing its nut over a Czech import, or simply a great place to watch Hedy Lamarr cavort around completely naked, Ecstasy (made in 1932) is a much richer, liberating, dreamily beautiful experience than all that.
An intense, enchanting (and, at the time, extremely taboo) study of a young woman's sexuality, the picture actually gets things right, either via magnificent, naturalistic, erotic imagery, or moments of blunt explanation. Without demonizing its subject, without overly squishy emotionality, without outright exploitation and yet, without embarrassing, soft-core erotica sensibilities (that kind of movie didn't really exist yet) and without words (mostly), Gustav Machaty's silent-to-talkies transition Ecstasy gets to the heart of some simultaneously simple and convoluted facts of life: Women desire sex. They enjoy sex. And if they find that attraction, they'll have sex, even if they're a little scared, and even if they're afraid of the resulting guilt. Given that we currently live in an often morally confused society -- one of Virgin/Whore/Hester Prynne/Fuck me/Stone Me complications, Ecstasy, though willing to explore the sadness, jealousy and tragedy sex can create, is a lot more honest about its confusion. But no stones for Hedy -- Ecstasy is actually fond of its sexed up lass.
Lamarr (then Hedy Kiesler -- her real name was Hedwig Eva Maria Kiesler) stars as Eva, a young bride who marries an older man (Emil Jerman) only to discover on her wedding night that he's uninterested in love-making. With extreme D.H. Lawrence ennui (the movie later ventures into Thomas Hardy territory), Eva can't endure this sexless union. Watching and sighing over the presence of blissful, satiated couples, she's filled with depression over her unexplored needs. Fittingly (some may think, perversely), she leaves the old man and runs home to her horse-breeder father, who embraces his sad little girl while huffing that he'll never understand women. Well, some understand. Or at least, attempt to try. And so comes the famous sequence.
Eva enjoys a nude swim while her horse stands in wait. Intrigued by the advances of another horse in the distance, the steed dashes off, taking Eva's clothes with him. Eva pursues this enormous figuration of coitus, until a young, handsome worker also helps and then, (happily) happens upon the naked nymph.
What beauty unfolds. The mesmeric scene is filmed like foreplay, as the water, sky, sweaty laborers, and fondling horses are continually referenced while Eva runs through the woods -- a once happy swimmer, now a frustrated, frightened, and soon-to-be thrilled woman. Looking at this obviously -- as a representation of her desires -- she, of course, collides into the most fetching man she's ever seen, aptly named Adam (the fantastic Aribert Mog, who sadly died before ever reaching the age of 40). But even after the smiling, flirtatious Adam shows he can place a bee in a flower (how could one resist?), the film wisely holds out -- at first.
Come nighttime, Eva's bedroom pacing is too much -- she must make her way to Adam's shed. And again, what beauty. The consummated act is shot lovingly and boldly, holding onto Lamarr's fervent face (she claims the director pricked her with a pin to induce her rapturous reactions).
Explained as such it may sound coarse, but Ecstasy paces its sexual awakening so perfectly and with such palpable chemistry between its two leads that its spell is almost overwhelmingly bewitching. Mingling mammals, insects, nature, weather and bodies with the mysterious ions charging a swooning man and woman, the nudity, voyeurism and sensuality feel natural, beneficial and so combustible that the sad ending makes perfect sense.
Naturally the movie was banned. No one was going to convince Joseph Breen that a movie containing nudity and an on-screen orgasm wasn't porn (he called the film "highly, even dangerously indecent.") No matter the picture is not classic exploitation, nor does it appear to have been made for mere shock value, but tell that to the judge. It was also one of the earliest films to be banned in the United States by the National Legion of Decency. Though hailed a masterpiece when it opened in Prague, the film was long censored and much sought after in the states, particularly when its lead became Miss Hedy Lamarr, MGM movie star. Though the gorgeous Lamarr never proved to be a magnificent actress (I don't think she was given enough challenging parts), she was endlessly fascinating and intelligent (in real life too -- her early exploits before fleeing Austria, her invention of the "Secret Communication System," her later shoplifting). She was quite a creature -- especially opposite Charles Boyer in 1938's Algiers, and as the exotic Tondelayo in 1942's White Cargo, and of course, as a young, non-starlet, natural in Ecstasy.
I love watching Hedy Lamarr -- even in her lesser pictures (and she made some dull ones), which taps into another reason why Ecstasy remains so intriguing. Like the movie itself (and Machaty) you want to look at her, but not just, as stated earlier, because she'll eventually find herself in the raw -- but because you'll find yourself in her. Raw. Her curiosity and desire is primal and innate -- a simultaneous capitulation and freedom -- and yet, wistful, as if Eva is conjuring these events from a special memory. Ecstasy is for female desire, but it's also for male desire, and it well understands impotence, jealousy and guilt, not through words, but through cinema, making it all the more mythical. Here, the aftermath of the act is human -- strong, but also delicate, perilous and hurtful. And it always hurts someone. No wonder Machaty was prodding his butterfly with pins.
