gutsanduppercuts

gutsanduppercuts:

I know audiences are divided on whether “The Grandmaster” was actually good or not, but I stand by my opinion that this is one of the most stylish and well staged fights in the last few years.
The mixture of beauty and brutality, the cinematography, the capturing of the body’s key movements, the fact it’s somewhat obscured and yet still depicts the effectiveness of Bajiquan, the lack of relying on too much flamboyancy and yet staying true to the style…it’s all perfect.

I wish more people would stop comparing this film to “Ip Man.” It’s like comparing “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” to “Die Hard.”

This is pretty good, but I’d argue that the fight towards the end (Spoiler?) between Gong Er (Zhang Ziyi) and Ma San (Zhang Jin) is several orders better, even. And yeah, this film and Only God Forgives fall into this unfortunate category where they received so much bad criticism from people who just wanted something else while refusing to accept the film on its own outside those prejudices.

healthuntodeath
luftschloesserverlag:

“I went to the beach to get away from that dark and dismal atmosphere in Carbo­nia that was always full of smoke the trees and everything were a dull gray and like wilted and there was that mountain where there was the slagheap where you sort the coal and you separate out what’s unusable and you throw it there and it had become a black mountain and there were many of these black mountains around Carbonia dot­ted about all around and they would always spontaneously combust catching fire so when the wind came in from the sea it blew this bloody smoke all over the place and there was always this foul smell and so I preferred to go to the beach whenever I could bemuse the sea has always been my life”
[ zine || read || zip ]

luftschloesserverlag:

I went to the beach to get away from that dark and dismal atmosphere in Carbo­nia that was always full of smoke the trees and everything were a dull gray and like wilted and there was that mountain where there was the slagheap where you sort the coal and you separate out what’s unusable and you throw it there and it had become a black mountain and there were many of these black mountains around Carbonia dot­ted about all around and they would always spontaneously combust catching fire so when the wind came in from the sea it blew this bloody smoke all over the place and there was always this foul smell and so I preferred to go to the beach whenever I could bemuse the sea has always been my life”


[ zine || read || zip ]

illllllllllllli

Conversation with Comrade Lenin, by Mayakovsky, Translated by Illi

illllllllllllli:

Piles of work, the uproar of events, the day drifts, then dusk.
Two people are left in the room. Me, and Lenin, a photograph
on the wall. His mouth is shouted open stiff, mustache and
whiskers jutted upward, the lines across his forehead grip 
humanity, his head protrudes with the thought. Beneath him
are the thousands, a forest of flags and a grass of hands. I
stand up from my chair, lit with joy, I just want to go, salute,
report—

« Comrade Lenin! I am reporting to you not on orders
but from my soul. Comrade Lenin, the hard work will be
done, is already being done. Electrification, clothing for
poor people, we are increasing the extraction of coal and
ore. Of course, at the same time, there is so much shit
and bullshit. We are tired of the struggling and the back-
stabbing. Without you, many people have gotten out of
hand, the country is crawling with scum, outside the
country too, they are neither numbered nor named; it is
a ribbon, all shades of fuckers, unspooling; the Kulaks,
the bureaucrats, the sycophants, the sectarians and the
drunks, all puffed out chests, covered in medals and
pins. We stopped them, of course we stopped them, we
made them toe the line, but it was hell. 

Comrade Lenin, from the smoking factories to the stubbled
wheat stalks still upright in the snow, Comrade, yours is the
heart and the name of our thinking, our breathing, our
struggle, and our lives! » 

Piles of work, the uproar of events, the day drifts, then dusk. 
Two people are left in the room. Me, and Lenin, a photograph 
on the wall.