“It is possible and often customary in Nootka to imply in speech some physical characteristic of the person addressed or spoken of, partly by means of suffixed elements, partly by means of “consonantal play.” Consonantal play consists either in altering certain consonants of a word, in this case sibilants, to other consonants that are phonetically related to them, or in inserting meaningless consonants or consonant clusters in the body of the word. The physical classes indicated by these methods are children, unusually fat or heavy people, unusually short adults, those suffering from some defect of the eye, hunchbacks, those that are lame, left-handed persons, and circumcised males.”—Edward Sapir, Abnormal Types of Speech in Nootka
(There’s a vague spoiler ahead … if you care. Which, honestly, you probably shouldn’t.)
This letter from (one of) the Watchmen scribe(s) basically begs people to go out and see Watchmen again this weekend to support “smart, dark entertainment on a grand, operatic scale.”
There are plenty of amateur Watchmen reviews floating around out there, and I don’t really care to throw my hat in that particular ring, but I will say this: in my mind, this adaptation was with a very few exceptions (Jackie Earle Haley) one of the dumbest fucking movies I have ever had the misfortune of seeing, a true achievement given the source material.
But I was willing to attribute the bulk of that stupidity to what I imagine was an epic clusterfuck of directorial hubris and studio retardation. Until I saw the letter’s penultimate line:
"Trust me. You’ll come back, eventually. Just like Sally."
Which, for those of you who haven’t read the book or seen the movie, means that we’ll “come back” in the manner of a victim of an attempted rape who has so completely lost her way and her identity and her sense of self-worth that she eventually returns to her would-be rapist for one night of consensual but still somewhat psychologically damaging sex.
I’m shocked they didn’t have this guy write the taglines for the poster.
(Via Videogum, not that I’m particularly pleased with them for alerting me to this.)
This is nothing less than outlandishly batshit, and yet I can’t help but respect the totality of her commitment.
"I make the following suggested directions … That the ‘meat’ of my body, or a portion thereof, be used for a human barbecue, to remind the world that the meat of a corpse is all flesh, regardless of whether it comes from a human being or another animal, and that flesh foods are not needed."
(Via my friend Alison, who claims this was linked somewhere on John Green’s blog. But I looked and couldn’t find it and don’t care enough to follow up. And let’s face it, I don’t think anyone’s going to get all up in my business because I didn’t give proper weird-shit-finding credit. Unless I manage to involve Justine Bateman.)
I don’t usually read the New Yorker because it makes me feel bad about myself, but lo! I have found a Shouts & Murmurs writer entertaining enough to overcome my psychological reservations. (And whose work I can propagate without feeling like a bourgeois asshole.)
(More of a bourgeois asshole, anyway.)
My favorite piece of his is linked above; my second-favorite can be found here.
I’m not the world’s biggest Slumdog Millionaire fan, but even the vague possibility of a Danny Boyle-helmed Bond film is heartening. Particularly after the entry from Marc “Why Show the Car Chase When I Can Photograph the Pretty Pretty Hubcabs” Forster.