Sunday, September 1, 2019

Saturday, August 31, 2019

woodstock or bust


Charming and innocuous, Woodstock or Bust follows two songbird friends (played appealingly by Willow Shields and Meg DeLacy) who attempt to trek to the 1969 music fest with dreams of performing on-stage. Directed with delicacy by Leslie Bloom, the film is one of those coming-of-age tales of young friendship that may have hit me harder emotionally as a freshman college student--it seems aimed at this demographic who may be just beginning to dip their toes with interest in a time gone by, rather than an older group accustomed to either real-life experiences or more enveloping, complex portrayals.




As mentioned in previous reviews this year, there's been a bevy of late 60s / early 70s-set movies in recent months (Annabelle Comes Home, Rocketman, Once Upon A Time in Hollywood, and Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark) of varying degree of quality. All share a similar ache. Woodstock or Bust, with its plucked guitar throwback score by Blair Borland (slight incarnations of "Born to Be Wild, "Touch Me," and "Eight Days a Week" abound) and angelic original songs by Michelle Curtis Purvance ("Northern Lights" is a highlight), is a road-trip movie of an emboldened female friendship that lands with a starry-skied hush. ***


-Jeffery Berg


Wednesday, July 31, 2019

asparagus



Recently I posted my poem, "Darling Mary," which was first featured on the lovely podcast Other People's Flowers 

Here is another of mine from Other People's Flowers inspired by the 1979 Suzann Pitt short film.



Asparagus

-after Suzann Pitt


Candy red apple heels,
blonde hair pulled back,
I pull on the asparagus
and wrap my lips around
its purple bloom. I leave him
to sleep in his maroon
leather Laz-E-Boy, the bunny–
eared TV lit with grinning
Republicans. I clip-clock out
the dollhouse into the night
of polymer snow and I sneak
into a theater, where,
in the dim light, I make out
that the spectators are made
of clay. I shake plastic
flurries off my black fur
and watch the screen:
a clown smears his makeup
with tears. His voice creams
with agony. He stabs a man
and then his woman.
The clay people rise
out of their seats
with scowling faces. I leave
to find in an alley, a discarded box,
the size of a coffin, with a picture
of a RobotMaid on it. I take my heels
and I slide inside to wrap myself
in my fur and the bubbled plastic.



-Jeffery Berg