Werner Herzog’s resplendent requiem and much moreΝβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ Νβ€Œ 
James Pillion
 

MY FAVOURITE THINGS | God Turn Me Into A Flower

β€œThe path to paradise begins in hell."

β€” DANTE ALIGHIERI
 

As fate would have it, I pulled out my lower back two days out from my 35th birthday. In an instant, I went from hero to zero while wheeling a weight bench at the gym. One of the instant side-effects of doing yourself in, besides extreme doses of self-pity, is the sudden recognition of your bill of health. Seconds earlier, I was hightailing it around, taking it all for granted and now I’m moaning and groaning like an old codger. Tragically, such blissful ignorance comes to pass just like that storied Joni Mitchell line. You don’t know what you got β€˜til it’s gone. Parking lots over paved paradise.

To start your month off right, why not get lost in my November playlist 🎢

 

The Fire Within πŸ“Ή

Werner Herzog’s requiem to Katia and Maurice Krafft struck a nerve. The German-born filmmaker has a certain affinity for strange birds. Individuals who thumb their nose at the collective consciousness, pursuing their peculiar passions with flagrant disregard for their personal wellbeing. It’s not hard to see what Herzog saw in the volcanologists. The visions captured, and shared within the ninety-minute doco are profound and prophetic, recalling Hieronymous Bosch and his Garden of Earthly Delights. Carried by their mutual passion, the pair stumbled into their vocation and forged a lasting legacy. In the hands of the veteran filmmaker their images become a celebration of cinema itself. Herzog’s OST is a must listen too.

β€œI cannot live without volcanoes.” β€” Katia Krafft
 

Armageddon 🎀 

After howling down the Altice Arena for an hour and a half, I can attest that Ricky Gervais and his upcoming Netflix special Armageddon are reason enough to re-subscribe (or nab the login details from your kid sister) to the streamer. Sticks and stones will break your bones but words will never hurt you. Such sound logic, Gervais bemoans, has gone out with the baby and the bathwater in recent years. As Gervais winds his way to the true meaning of woke, I came to see this modern day incarnation of the Salem witch trials for what they are. Yet another figment of the collective imagination. There’s nothing like having a good giggle amongst total strangers on the road to catharsis.
 

24 Hour Party People πŸŽ₯

Michael Winterbottom’s biographical dramedy on the musical renaissance of late 20th Century Manchester remains a guiding light. Steve Coogan is the perfect foil for Tony Wilson and his merry band of pranksters that immortalized Factory Records. I remember renting the film at the tender age of fifteen and being gobsmacked at the on-screen antics. It felt like I’d been let in on a dirty joke. Twenty years on, such sentiments are now set in stone. Winterbottom’s cheeky nod to postmodernity through Coogan’s fourth wall shattering is as refreshing as ever. Anton Corbijn’s visual ode to Joy Division’s Atmosphere reminds what can be accomplished from love and loss. 
 

The Dark Side of the Moon πŸ“š 

John Harris compiles a short but sweet accounting of one of the most beloved, and revisited, albums of the twentieth century. What comes across in the fine print is a story of why Pink Floyd’s The Dark Side of the Moon was the apotheosis of years of experimentation. By slowly unwinding from the gravitational pull of Syd Barrett’s psychedelic roots, the London four-piece found themselves lurching towards something universal. While creative differences would eventually sow the seeds of their downfall, this 1973 LP stands as testament to fruitful collaboration and compromise. What keeps this record young at heart is its core conceit. How our modern obsessions run the risk of disconnecting us from our shared humanity.  

β€œThey expressed a preoccupation that I’d had, and was going to continue to have, with the potential that human beings have for recognizing each other’s humanity and responding to it, with empathy rather than antipathy.” β€” Roger Waters
 

Killers of the Flower Moon  πŸŽ₯

If this type of elegiac story feels like a departure for Martin Scorsese, it’s only because the New York native is looking for a new challenge. Organized crime lies at the heart of the picture, a pre-meditated act of violence and extortion that plays out over the course of this three-hour epic. Yet the true conflict, and heart of the film, lies in the torrid love story between Ernest (Leonardo DiCaprio) and Mollie (Lily Gladstone) Burkhart. In many ways Robert De Niro’s Bill Hale feels like a distant relative of Jimmy Burke from Goodfellas. They both β€˜clean house’ with a ruthless fastidiousness. The period epic left my anxiety levels, an unexpected gift from a Halloween hangover, spiking through the roof.
 

Listen to Me Marlon πŸ“Ή

After Anna Kashfi’s unsparing memoir Brando for Breakfast (and this phenomenal Truman Capote profile!), I’ve been a moth to the flame for Marlon Brando. Stevan Riley’s meditative documentary, made up of voice recordings from the late actor, achieves something miraculous. Brando’s feelings, imparted to tape, reveal the contradictions of a man at war with his celebrity. Whose talents were wasted on so many punch drunk pictures. I was most taken with Brando’s arrival in French Polynesia during the cursed production Mutiny on the Bounty. I loved how the island and Tahitian natives held him spellbound, much the way Portugal has done for me.

β€œActing is surviving.” β€” Marlon Brando
 

Foxes πŸŽ₯

Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women is transported to the San Fernando Valley of 1970s Los Angeles in Adrian Lyne’s debut film. Such was the pitch that got Gerald Ayres the green light from UA to pen this tender-hearted romp. Jodie Foster ties it all together, wise beyond her 18 years as she works overtime to keep her precocious friends out of trouble. Last year’s Deep Water was deep cringe (his first film in 20 years) but his 1980 debut is memorable for so many reasons. The exacting way he captures the colours, and colourful characters, of Tinseltown. With the gift of hindsight, it’s easy to see why he had the right stuff to turn Flashdance (Jennifer Beals is pitch perfect) into a global sensation. 
 

The Oast House πŸ“»

Steve Coogan has been the flavour of my month and remains a personal favourite for his ability to rub against the grain. Unsurprisingly, Alan Partridge, Coogan’s beloved alter-ego, has calcified with time and age, a tragic figure who just can’t help putting his nose in other people’s stockings. The Audible series (three seasons deep) takes us into the tragically domestic life of an aging divorcee, a Norwich disc-jockey living alone in the Norfolk countryside. Partridge is the equivalent of a circus tent alight, his misogynistic tone-deaf ramblings inducing howls of uncomfortable glee. Coogan’s decision to play Jimmy Savile in The Reckoning has left me curious to check out the new BBC series.

β€œI was once asked by a magazine if I could be any crisp flavour what would I be and I said, quick as a flash, Ready salted. Because I’m straight forward, effective, British, and I go great with a pint.” β€” Alan Partridge
 

The Friedkin Connection πŸ“š

A Monday night screening of Sorcerer, William Friedkin’s ambitious jungle thriller left me all hot and bothered. Just how did he get away with it? Willful persistence it turns out. Listening to the American filmmaker narrate the story of his life has been music to my ears for two reasons. His devout dedication to story and his belief in telling it like it is. Friedkin was famous for putting his neck on the line, both figuratively and literally, in service to his projects. A fact that makes his 1960s work, forgettable flops like The Birthday Party and The Boys in The Band, that much harder to swallow. Yet with every setback, Friedkin grew ever more resourceful, resilient and attentive to the details. A re-watch of The French Connection or The Exorcist says it all.
 

Arnold πŸ“Ή

When I first laid eyes on this new docuseries on the Netflix homepage I had to roll my eyes. What more, I reasoned, could I learn after tucking into Total Recall (his 2012 memoir) and his motivational newsletters. A revived lust for life it turns out. Within the opening minutes of Athlete, the first of three episodes, my cynicism was replaced with a divine appreciation. Arnold Schwarzenegger is far more than a β€˜Made in America’ story. He’s a truly unique individual, a man whose insistent drive and passion continues to leave the gatekeepers gaping in disbelief. The Austrian Oak is a shot of adrenaline, an insistent example of Seneca’s well-worn adage; β€˜luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity’.
 

Henrietta Moraes πŸ‘€

Marianne Faithfull’s Memories, Dreams & Reflections has been scratching an itch, ripe with gossip and tidbits from the counter-culture, yet it was a section on Henrietta Moraes that leapt from the page. Moraes, born Audrey Wendy Abbott, was a muse and model to the Soho art scene of 1950s London. She was a mercurial figure, ebullient and unabashed about her beauty and body. It was this devil-may-care attitude that drew Francis Bacon and Lucien Freud to paint her on several occasions. Moraes, whose hedonistic ways led to a steep descent into addiction, would document her adventures in a self-titled memoir Henrietta before passing in 1999.

 

Again 🎢

Freeka Tet’s visually arresting compendium to A Barely Lit Path was the perfect introduction to Oneohtrix Point Never’s latest release. This New Yorker profile, which jump-started my curiousity during a trip to SΓ£o Miguel, offers a window into the enigmatic producer’s process. It also went a long way to explaining Daniel Lopatin’s compulsive need to bottle the memories of yesteryear. His latest ode to hyper-modernity induces a state of consciousness that β€˜gets the mind soft enough to see God’. Cool Protrusions, a three-part NTS promotional playlist, is littered with some most excellent inspirations and laced with an acerbic wit that had me howling in my little Fiat 500.

β€œMy impulse to create often comes from some kind of confusion I have around memories of music. I always go to the endless wellspring of my false memories.” β€” Daniel Lopatin
 

Thanks for reading. To show your support, forward it to someone who’d like it or treat yourself to one of my books.

If you’re seeing this newsletter for the first time, you can read previous issues and subscribe here.
 

WRITING | @jamespillion
FILM | @jamespillionfilm

Tv. dos Pescadores 6
Lisboa
Portugal

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