Chris Morris (born 1965) started his career on radio, the clip above is from his television work, which – so it is said – is a little less powerful than his radiophonic work, but works better on the blog format.
The clip is very disturbing and funny, it appropriates the tropes of reality TV shows.
I’ve long stopped watching television on a regular basis, but I have known periods of serious telephilia. The BBC has always been a haven to the telephile.
Recent British television I did enjoy (on Youtube) have included:
Suddenly Baucis and Philemoneach saw the other putting forth leaves. Their skin started to turn into tree bark. They embraced each other and cried, “Farewell!” Baucis was turned into a linden tree and Philemon into an oak, two different but beautiful trees intertwined with one another.
[…] Between sadomasochism and fascism there is a natural link. “Fascism is theater,” as Genet said. As is sadomasochistic sexuality: to be involved in sadomasochism is to take part in a sexual theater, a staging of sexuality. Regulars of sadomasochistic sex are expert costumers and choreographers as well as performers, in a drama that is all the more exciting because it is forbidden to ordinary people. Sadomasochism is to sex what war is to civil life: the magnificent experience. (Riefenstahl put it: “What is purely realistic, slice of life, what is average, quotidian, doesn’t interest me.” As the social contract seems tame in comparison with war, so fucking and sucking come to seem merely nice, and therefore unexciting. The end to which all sexual experience tends, as Bataille insisted in a lifetime of writing, is defilement, blasphemy. To be “nice,” as to be civilized, means being alienated from this savage experience—which is entirely staged.
I started reading the essay last evening, and haven’t finished yet, but time and time again, Susan Sontag strikes me as one of the most insightful cultural critics of the 20th century, way up there with Walter Benjamin.
The essay is of an era that also saw Salò by Pasolini and The Night Porter by Cavani, both aesthetic meditations on fascism and sadomasochism.
In the beginning, there was Jack. And Jack had a groove. And from this groove came the groove of all grooves. And while one day viciously throwing down on his box, Jack boldly declared, “Let there be House!” –first lines from the lyrics
I remember listenin to this song on Grand Theft Auto! I was speeding down the highway then ended up in the ocean and the song stopped and I went crazy and jumped off my house (in the game). -Youtube comment
The Bristlecone Pine realizes that it arrived late in an aging civilization. This may well be the most disquieting trait of this disquieting plant, and the one most disturbingly seductive to a contemporary soul.
I would have to concur with Alain Robbe-Grillet who stated in a televised interview that he is not a cinephile. He is interested in “certain films,” that’s it.
“What are commonly called true cinephiles are mental retards (débile mentale) who love “the movies”, people who run to any theatre to submit to viewing any film. They consume with the same pleasure whatever genre of film. That is what is known as cinephilia. It’s an illness, though a less common one than it used to be [during the heydays of the Nouvelle Vague],” he concedes.
In the same interview Grillet adds that he is neither a devourer of books. The way I like to interpret this soundbite is that Grillet does not follow any medium, but rather is in search of certain sensibilities. Mine include:
Ever since buying Die Grosse Jux-Box late last year, I’ve been crazy about the La la la la la singing/laughing chant on that record. Today I hear it on Radio Centraal in a version by French singer Henri Salvador (1917 – 2008) who died last Wednesday. The track is called “Juanita Banana”. The eponymous heroine Juanita Banana is a banana grower’s daughter singing “Caro Nome” from Verdi‘s Rigoletto.
One of the more obscure works of Grillet, Le temple aux miroirs, photography by Irina Ionesco of her daughter, augmented with philosophical texts by Grillet published by Seghers, very rare and expensive.