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Category: Art

Categories
Art Aryan beauty Music

Tchaikovsky

A brief word about Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky.

In the comments section, the day before yesterday I spoke of the need to ban all kinds of dances in vogue in the Gomorrah world, even if they are heterosexual Gomorrahites: dances that involve such degenerate music that they make one want to flee the West as much as Lot fled from Gomorrah.

To understand a contemporary Lot it is necessary to be musically educated from early childhood. Since I was a very small child my father, a composer, put on the record player so I could listen to works by Mussorgsky and Stravinsky. So Russian orchestral music was my first love. Already at the age of six, I went with my mother to see Sleeping Beauty on the big screen, whose musical score, in which Walt Disney used Tchaikovsky, is magnificent. Thus I would like to say a few words about this composer.

What is most striking is that in 1854 his mother died during a cholera epidemic: a brutal blow when Tchaikovsky was fourteen years old. Almost forty years later, it is rumoured, Tchaikovsky drank water during another cholera epidemic without boiling it, knowing it was forbidden. How he was treated as a child we will not know, although I would like to know if any biographies speak of what his early years at home were like. All I know is that, according to a booklet by Javier Alfaya, Tchaikovsky ‘always kept open the wounds of his childhood and adolescence’. The fact that his brother Modest also became a homosexual makes me suspect some toxic atmosphere in the family dynamics of his childhood and adolescence.

But the current era that inverts values to the extent of glorifying Gomorrah, when speaking of Tchaikovsky omits extremely important data, such as the fact that in 1867 he fell in love with a woman, the singer Désirée Artôt, whom he wanted to marry. This fact belies the fashion of calling Tchaikovsky ‘homosexual’ in this era of glorification of inverts. Considering this simple fact he was bisexual.

True, Tchaikovsky didn’t understand the music of Wagner, who was my favourite composer even when I was an anti-Nazi normie. But he loved Italy and especially Florence, which I have visited. I like that Tchaikovsky rejected Brahms’ music: ‘His music doesn´t burn with the fire of genuine feeling, it lacks poetry’ and is ‘just empty space’. And I am also pleased that he despaired of Beethoven’s quartets (well into the 1970s I made an enormous effort to understand them but even now I find them very depressing). Of Bach, Tchaikovsky simply said that he was interested in him but didn’t consider him a great genius; once again, just what I feel.

I don’t want to say much in a very brief note except to add that my favourites of Tchaikovsky’s are the Nutcracker Suite, the Fourth Symphony and the first movement of his Piano Concerto No. 1.

Categories
Art Neanderthalism Welfare of animals

‘Emergency’

I was going to post another Might is Right instalment today but I got to thinking about my recent exchanges with Benjamin in various threads, and I feel I should say a few things.

I sometimes check the number of comments on old threads, back when WDH was hosted for free by WordPress, and I’m surprised that there were threads with dozens of comments. Since I started criticising American white nationalism, calling it deficient compared to German National Socialism, and shifting my paradigm from regarding the Christian problem as infinitely more serious than the Jewish problem, the visitor traffic has collapsed.

This is compounded by the fact that, as an immense admirer of Hitler myself, the German Chancellor’s sensitivity to art and animal welfare is something that simply doesn’t exist on the American racial right.

The immense dilemma I find myself in is that this sort of thing cannot be explained by pure reason, say, by solid race realist articles like the ones Jared Taylor has been publishing for decades. It has more to do with what we might call emergent psychogenics, which I have already discussed in Day of Wrath (a book that is nothing more than a translation of some chapters of my trilogy).

Psychogenic emergency is either felt or not. Or rather: either one belongs to a higher psychoclass, or one doesn’t belong to it. As I said, it is not something that can be demonstrated by pure reason. On seeing a work of art, such as the Lorraine canvas I saw on my last trip to London, the museum visitor either feels the emergent aesthetics compared to the architectural Neanderthalism of the largest city in Europe, or he feels nothing at all. Those 18th-century Englishmen like Henry Hoare who were aesthetically emergent even designed their gardens in imitation of the Italian painter’s architecture. Either you feel art or you don’t.

Incidentally, the bridge in Stourhead’s garden whose image I posted in June in this article was also used by Kubrick in one of the scenes in Barry Lyndon: a film whose images were inspired by canvases of the period like very few films I have seen. (Perhaps the sole exception is 1956’s Lust for Life in which the director used the actual sites in Holland, Belgium and the French countryside where Vincent van Gogh lived.)

The fourteen words have to do with aesthetics, in that the white race is the only truly beautiful race from the point of view of the Gods of Olympus. The other issue is ethics, the four words, Eliminad todo sufrimiento innecesario. Like great art, you either feel the four words or you don’t. Either you are a Neanderthal (Benjamin sent me an email today describing experiments on rabbits that I don’t even want to describe) or you are an overman like Hitler, and Göring who forbade tormenting those animals.

The sad truth is that most American racialists have not reached the psychogenic level of the Führer in terms of ethics and aesthetics, and that those emergent qualities cannot be induced by arguments, criticisms or diatribes like the ones I have used in this blog. Either you start psychogenically emerging as a child or an adolescent (cf. Kubizek’s memoirs of Hitler when they were both teenagers) or you won’t.

Categories
Ancient Greece Art Friedrich Nietzsche

Crusade

against the Cross, 8

The publication of Die Geburt der Tragödie aus dem Geiste der Musik (The Birth of Tragedy Out of the Spirit of Music) caused so much trouble in the stagnant German-speaking academy that even when Rhode wanted to defend his friend Nietzsche against the attack of their colleagues, he was unable to obtain a professorship in Freiburg.

We are used to the culture of cancellation in the darkest hour of the West. This month, on the Führer’s birthday for example, Kevin MacDonald expressed his mixed feelings that his ideological enemy at Cambridge University, Nathan Cofnas, had been expelled for daring to talk about race and IQ. But already in 19th-century Europe things were far from an open marketplace of ideas. The aforementioned textual critic of the New Testament, David Friedrich Strauss, whom Nietzsche had read, was also unable to obtain a professorship after the publication of his book (even today academic exegetes don’t even bother to read Richard Carrier’s book about the dubious historicity of Jesus).

Once one understands that the academy is not the proverbial forum for an open marketplace of ideas, but for the ironclad and orthodox transmission of the paradigm of the day, one will understand that only the freelance philosopher will be able to write something worth reading. Always keep in mind that guys like Kant and Hegel didn’t openly contradict the interests of the State or the Church, so their obscurantist philosophies weren’t only tolerated, but promoted.

In The Birth of Tragedy Nietzsche not only expounds the content of his study of the Greeks, but begins to shape his philosophy. The book is a hybrid of philosophy and philology, which is why Nietzsche himself called it a ‘centaur’. It deals with the birth of Attic tragedy, the motives that inspired it, and the causes of its demise. He aimed to interpret tragedy in ancient Greece, which differed from the concept that the learned had of it. The work develops the thesis that two great opposing forces govern art: the Dionysian force and the Apollonian force. These two forces, once united in Greek tragedy, were separated by the triumph of rationality with Socrates. Nietzsche hoped to rediscover this ancient union in the music of Richard Wagner, to whom he dedicated the book.

The Greece of the white sculptures came to us, but originally they were painted. (Something of this can be seen for at least a few seconds in Oliver Stone’s film in a scene of Alexander the Great’s father, though that film is generally Hollywood Greece rather than historical Greece.) And the same can be said of its architectural ruins: they were originally painted in bright colours, as can be seen in some contemporary reconstructions. To understand Nietzsche one would have to colour not only the sculptures and temple reconstructions, but the original pathos of Greek tragedy, insofar as the Germanic psyche of his time was burdened with what we might call an ogre of superego: something like baptising the pagans through the late saintly Socrates, a figure who doesn’t represent the violent origins of Greece and the ensuing tragedy.

For the man of our century, one way to grasp the controversy that Nietzsche’s first book sparked would be to watch a film like the tragedy of Iphigenia and compare it with thousands of Hollywood turkeys where we see no tragedy at all: the drama is simply resolved with a rational and even happy ending. Apollo is present but Dionysus is absent: prolefeed for the proles! If we take into account what we said yesterday about how the degenerate Aryan, emasculated by comfort to the point of losing the tragic sense of life—and Hollywood has played a central role in making us forget about tragedy and believe that life is merely a drama—we will have, perhaps, a distant analogy to what happened after the publication of Nietzsche’s first book.

Without going into the details, which can be read in scholarly biographies, Nietzsche had violated the rules of the philologists’ guild by saying that a German Renaissance could be catapulted by Wagner’s music. In The Birth of Tragedy a holy man, Socrates, was dethroned. I would add that, being physically ugly, Socrates was never a true Greek because in the real Hellas physical ugliness was almost a refutation (being the son of a midwife, the baby Socrates avoided premature infanticide by the eugenicists of the time). According to Nietzsche, the original tragedy was lyrical-musical, like Wagner’s musical tragedies. With Socrates and his calculating reason a dangerous optimism had penetrated the Greek psyche, and the original, deeply pessimistic tragedy died (I really suggest that any fan of Judaizing Hollywood watch the Greek film Iphigenia, linked above, to get a taste of what we are talking about).

Wagner went to great lengths to calm Cosima down from the shock of such iconoclasm, and she herself wrote to Nietzsche: ‘The master must have told you what excitement I have been in, and also that all night long he had to talk to me about it, with all the details’.

Wagner certainly applauded Nietzsche’s daring, but he feared greatly for his academic future. For in turning against the white Greece to which 19th-century Europeans were accustomed, introducing the violent colour of the original culture, as well as advocating a revival of Germanism thanks to Wagner’s musical dramas, the book was no longer a dull text: it was a political essay. By presenting himself not as an obscure Basilian professor whose texts are suitable only for colleagues but as a Dionysian dancer, Nietzsche, besides being too strong for the palate of his classicist contemporaries, was marked in relation to the notorious composer.

These were times when Wagner’s The Ring of the Nibelung—the most pagan and ambitious of his operas—was much talked about in Germany. He was still working on the last of the four operas in that series (see our summary from Wagner’s libretto here). Tannhäuser had been left behind in public conversation and the neo-Christian Parsifal hadn’t yet been composed. Nietzsche couldn’t have imagined that he alone would lead the way in transvaluation while the Wagnerians would take a step backwards. Only the next century Himmler and his kind would take steps forward on the psychological Rubicon instead of the fear that the Rubicon causes by stepping back (say, like the regressive step William Pierce took after the exterminationist The Turner Diaries with his next novel, Hunter, where Pierce introduces a Christian character as the good guy in his drama).

Before Parsifal the medicine that Nietzsche prescribed for the general malaise of the Germanic peoples was still sold in the Wagnerian pharmacy. Richard, in fact, invited Nietzsche, now his herald, and in Cosima’s diary we see that her husband even wept with happiness after the publication of The Birth of Tragedy. Unfortunately, Nietzsche didn’t attend because that winter he suffered from the typical Christmas depression that invaded him on the darkest days of the year.

The King of Bavaria himself, a great friend of Wagner, let it be known via third parties that he had received Nietzsche’s book but didn’t comment on its contents. Ritschl, the representative of academic philology who had been so supportive of the young man, wrote in his notes not intended for publication that the book was ‘a witty drunkenness’. For what was already apparent in this essay was a desire to reorganise German culture and to declare conventional philology, so devoid of bright colours and the tragic meaning of life, dead. For the depressed Nietzsche all that suited him: to fight. He wanted to pick a fight to get out of his depressions!

And the fight actually came. One of the normies of the time, the philologist Ulrich von Wilamowitz-Moellendorf, who like Nietzsche had studied at the boys’ cloister, asked the professor to leave the chair and wrote a pamphlet denouncing The Birth of Tragedy, where he writes: ‘What a shame you inflict, Mr Nietzsche, on Mother Pforta’ and later added that Nietzsche had degraded all that he had been taught as untouchable and sacred. Biographer Ross comments: ‘The serene Hellenism… was like a piece of religion for bourgeois and intellectuals that would not be extirpated’. For Wilamowitz had grasped Nietzsche’s intention to create a new philology based on the original spirit of Ancient Hellas, on that deep blue of the Mediterranean and so distant from the grey skies of northern Europe.

Rhode replied to Wilamowitz and even Wagner himself intervened in the exchange with a published text of his own (ignored by the philologists of course). Wilamowitz in turn replied to Rohde and other professionals intervened. Never before had such a furious controversy raged in philology, and Nietzsche took refuge in a further elaboration of his pregnant philosophy.

Categories
Art Film Pedagogy

Eleven films

Note from June 27, 2024: I think I overdid it with the Sleeping Beauty thing (due to the sins of Disney Studios). It’s certainly great for kids to watch it, even in an ethnostate. Thus, my 11th recommendation would be Sleeping Beauty (1959).

I have added bold to the three films I recommend most: all based on Jane Austen’s novels. Three months ago I wrote:

 

I left the previous posts for a few days without adding new ones because it is of some importance that at least some visitors to The West’s Darkest Hour find out that in the racialist forums a troll is impersonating me supported by… the moderators! But I made magnificent use of the time to finish the last few pages of the third book of my trilogy. So—

Thanks, Brad!

Thanks Jewish troll!

 

______ 卐 ______

 

“L’art pour l’art values must be transvalued to Art practiced in conformity with the cultural task” —Francis Parker Yockey (rephrased).

In 2013 I posted a list of what were, at the time, my ten favourite films and last year I confessed that, having taken my vows as a priest of the sacred words, I could no longer watch many of the 50 films I once loved. So I would like to compile a new list of ten films that, if I were to adopt an Aryan son,[1] I would allow him to watch. Sorted by the year they were released, this new list would be:

 
1. Beauty and the Beast (1946)

2. Hamlet (1948)

3. Lust for Life (1956)

4. 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)

5. Death in Venice (1971)

6. Sense & Sensibility (1995)

7. Indictment: The McMartin Trial (1995)

8. Pride & Prejudice (1995 TV series)

9. Pride & Prejudice (2005 movie)

10. Spotlight (2015)
 

In the case of the first on the list, it is only because of our interpretation of it that I recommend it. Why I put the second one on my new list, which also appears on my 2013 list, is explained by clicking the link above on Hamlet.

But the third one doesn’t appear on my old list. As I own several Vincent van Gogh books, including a huge illustrated one with his complete works, I recommend Lust for Life because, like Hitler, it seems to me essential that the Aryan who wants to save his race from extinction should make deep contact with the art of painting; and the film, based on an entertaining novel that I read, transports us to the places where brother Vincent lived.

Of articles by intellectuals, John Gardner was the first white nationalist I ever read, in 2009, when I returned to this continent from Spain. In one of his TOQ Online articles Gardner said that 2001: A Space Odyssey managed to put the white man’s aesthetics in its place, which I agree with.

Why I include Death in Venice is guessed at in ‘Transvaluation Explained’ and ‘Puritanical Gomorrah’ in my book Daybreak, but most of my list (#6, #8 and #9) concerns films about Jane Austen’s novels. As for the remaining ones, Indictment and Spotlight, just click on the links in the above list to see why I include them.

Note that, unlike my 2013 list, my criteria is no longer to include films based on their artistic quality but on what Yockey says above. The film about the medieval monk Andrei Rublev for example is highly artistic to the true connoisseur of cinematic art. But I wouldn’t show it to my son, at least not until he had developed a sufficiently anti-Christian criterion to realise that the pagan Russians should never have embraced a religion of Semitic origin.

I can say something similar about Sleeping Beauty, which appears on my previous top ten list, although this is a fairly tale. It makes me a little nervous that at the climax Maleficent invokes all the powers of Lucifer, and that Prince Philip’s coat of arms bears a Christian cross. A child, of course, wouldn’t notice that. But what Walt Disney had done, collaborating with the American government in times of anti-Nazi propaganda through another of his cartoons caricaturing the Third Reich, I cannot forgive.

Likewise, in my new list I didn’t include 1968’s Planet of the Apes which was on the old list because a child shouldn’t see a black astronaut next to a good-looking Aryan actor like Charlton Heston. The same I must say about another of my favourites that I removed from the old list: Artificial Intelligence, where in the first scene the Jew Spielberg puts a compassionate Negress in front of a huge team of scientists who want to design a robot child with real feelings.

The 1977 film Iphigenia was also taken off my list. Although Iphigenia is a masterful adaptation of Euripides’ tragedy many of the actors, unlike the hyper-Nordic Homeric Greeks, are already mudbloods (of course: the film’s actors were contemporary Greeks!). A boy brought up in National Socialism ought not to be fooled by such images.

If someone asks me now, after taking my vows, which of the above list of ten are now my favourite films, they will be surprised to learn that they are all three based on Austen’s novels. That’s exactly the right message of sexual courtship that Aryans, young and old, should see on the big and small screens if we have the fourteen words in mind.

_________

[1] Although the lad I was doesn’t look too bad in the Metapedia picture, as a priest I can’t sire because my bloodline is as compromised as the Greek actors mentioned above.

Categories
Art Aryan beauty Classical sculpture

Aryan beauty

Photograph by Heinrich Hoffmann. Adolf Hitler introducing Myron’s Discobolus (Discus Thrower) during the opening of the Great German Art Exhibition of 1938 in Munich:

May none of you who visit this house fail to go to the Glyptothek, and may you then realise how wonderful man once was in his physical beauty and how we can only talk about progress when we not only achieve this beauty but, if possible, surpass it. But let the artists also judge how wonderful the eye and skill of that Greek Myron reveal themselves to us today, the Greek who created the work almost two and a half millennia ago, in front of whose Roman image we stand in deep admiration today. And may they all find from this a benchmark for the tasks and achievements of our own time. May they all strive for the beautiful and the sublime so that their people and art can also withstand the critical assessment of the millennia.(*)

Speech by Hitler on July 10, 1938 at the opening of the Great German Art Exhibition in Munich, House of German Art, published in Völkischer Observer on 11 July 1938.

Few things bother me more in today’s racial right than the lack of these panegyrics to the physique of Aryans (‘…and how we can only talk about progress when we not only achieve this beauty but, if possible, surpass it’ —my emphasis, remember my crush on Mayfield Parrish’s painting!).

The Greco-Romans knew the metaphysics of the Aryan body perfectly well. Most Christians and neo-Christians today have forgotten it. Let us never forget that the first thing the Judeo-Christians did when conquering the Roman Empire was to destroy the statuary. How many better sculptures than the discus thrower were lost for eternity because of Christian takeover of the Empire?

To ignore these facts is to be a historical fool.

____________

(*) Mögen Sie alle, die Sie dieses Haus besuchen, nicht versäumen, in die Glyptothek zu gehen, und mögen Sie dann erkennen, wie herrlich schon einst der Mensch in seiner körperlichen Schönheit war und wie wir von Fortschritten nur dann reden dürfen, wenn wir diese Schönheit nicht nur erreichen, sondern wenn möglich noch übertreffen. Mögen aber auch die Künstler daran ermessen, wie wunderbar sich das Auge und das Können jenes Griechen Myron uns heute offenbaren, jenes Griechen, der vor fast 2 1/2 Jahrtausenden das Werk schuf, vor dessen römischen Abbild wir heute in tiefer Bewunderung stehen.

Categories
Art

On John Milton

This entry should be understood based on what, in Daybreak, I said about Johann Sebastian Bach: that, while I am capable of appreciating the art of the father of classical music in recent centuries, a priest of the sacred words repudiates religious works such as his St Matthew Passion.

Octavio Paz used to say that Dante was the poet of the West par excellence. That’s true only if we refer to Western Christian Civilisation, but not to European Civilisation in general. The matrix created by Christianity so permeated the soul of the common Westerner that even a non-Christian like Paz was able to say what he said about Dante.

I repudiate Dante for the same reason I repudiate Bach: his art is Christian propaganda. And the same can be said of cathedrals, despite their beauty. And the same can be said of the Dante for the English, John Milton. Once one breaks with the paradigm of the day everything seems retarded, and even iniquitous to the mental health of the Aryan man.

Milton’s parents intended him for the church and the young poet grew up in a very puritanical environment. Milton was twenty-one when he created his first masterpiece, an ode to the nativity of Christ. He later rebelled against ideas of free will and predestination, which is why some consider Milton, the contemporary of Hobbes and Kepler, a Renaissance man. I find that claim grotesque (see what I say about Erasmus and the real Renaissance in Daybreak).

Milton travelled to Italy and visited Galileo when the latter was an old man and a prisoner of the Inquisition. Looking through the telescope, young Milton saw for the first time the new conception of space (in the medieval worldview the Moon was believed to be immaculate, incapable of scarring). That did him no good, since years later, in his masterpiece, although he paid homage to his experience with Galileo, Milton was always a slave to his parental introjects by making Satan perform a terrible and daring flight through the cosmos, from the lavas of hell to the new world created by the God of the Jews for Man. In other words, it is the structure of the inner self—how it had been programmed from childhood—that counts, not the facts of the empirical world, pace Galileo. Milton never left the matrix of his time.

In 1649 Charles I of England was beheaded and Milton became the point man for the new regime of Cromwell, who brought the Jews back to the island. But Milton found himself in trouble after the fall of Cromwell, when his body was exhumed and hanged for public shame. To make matters worse, in 1665 he fled London because of the plague, and the great fire of 1666 destroyed the house where his parents had instilled Christian Puritanism in him: his only important property. But Milton had already amalgamated the religious parental introject with his mind.

Twice widowed, after half a century of existence in this world Milton was lucky enough to marry a woman of twenty-four. Returning to London, he published his great poem in 1667 (Paradise Lost is a complete cosmological system!). Two years later, that first edition of thirteen hundred copies was out of print.

Milton, now blind, forced his daughters, Mary and Deborah, to read books to him and dictated his verses to them. The two girls were condemned to a test of patience as they read to their father in foreign languages they didn’t understand. In recent posts, I linked to videos that explain the narcissistic personality. Milton was one of them, and he considered his daughters, to whom he had given biblical names, tools of the trade.

Milton’s masterpiece, his epic poem, Paradise Lost written in blank verse, influenced the generation of English Romantics. William Blake, poet and painter, is considered the most inspired and congenial of Milton’s illustrators. He has a famous drawing in which God the Father embraces God the Son, who has offered himself for Redemption.

If any of my readers did a close reading of my Day of Wrath, he would recall that in the Mesoamerican pantheon, the parent Gods reward the Children Gods who sacrificed themselves by throwing themselves on the stake to become the Sun and the Moon. In that book, my analysis was that the opposite was Zeus, who, instead of submitting to the will of primitive gods (like the Christian god and the Mesoamerican gods), rebelled against the tyrant father, Cronus. If there is one thing that the intellectual sympathisers of American racialism still don’t understand, it is that psychohistorically the Jewish deity represented a regression from the level to which the Aryan had already reached in the Greco-Roman world.

Some notable apostates from Christianity realised this to some extent. In his Candide for example, Voltaire alludes to Milton as a ‘barbarian’, and Ezra Pound branded Paradise Lost as ‘asinine’ sanctimony and beastly Hebraism. I would go further.

In The Fair Race we can read that, if the Aryan is saved from extinction, in the new ecclesias where values are transvalued, young Aryans will be taught Indo-European culture. This obviously excludes the classics of Western Christian Civilisation. The poems of Dante and Milton ultimately reinforce the churches: the opposite of the Indo-European ecclesia that Julian the Apostate, and Hitler, wanted to restore. In the future Aryan state Christian propaganda should be suspended regardless of its aesthetic value.

Categories
Art Film

The remaining 42

I have just modified the hatnote of the 50 films I recommended not to be bored at home when the COVID-19 epidemic started because I will no longer review those films individually.

While it is true that those films made a big impression on me as a child and young man, once I woke up to the real world, in the sense of stepping out of the System’s matrix that controls us, most of those films lost their original meaning. I prefer to continue reviewing Brendan Simms’ book about Uncle Adolf insofar as, now free from the matrix that controls the white man, I feel a moral responsibility to convey who he was under a completely different narrative from that of the ubiquitous System (a narrative that includes Simms’ POV). Nevertheless, I would like, in a single entry, to say what I think roughly about the remaining 42 films that I won’t review individually, as I did with the first eight on the list.

First of all, I have already said something about Shane, #9 on the list. (Incidentally, when the month before my dad died, I showed him the DVDs of the films we had at home to see which one my ailing father wanted to see, he chose Shane.)

About other films on my list from the 1950s, ten years ago I already said something about Ben-Hur and I don’t have much to add. The two movies that the Swede Ingmar Bergman filmed in his country the year before I was born are watchable, especially The Seventh Seal. Although Wild Strawberries is the only one, along with A.I., that made me cry, I would have to explain why I projected myself into it, and that would be getting deep into my biography, which I won’t do in this entry. (By the way, when I saw Wild Strawberries on the big screen I met, on the way out, my first cousin Octavio Augusto whom I said a few years ago he had just killed his daughter and then hanged himself.)

I already said something about Forbidden Planet in 2012 in the context of some paragraphs by the Canadian Sebastian Ronin that are worth re-reading. Of Journey to the Center of the Earth, I had already said something in 2011 (incidentally, it’s worth watching the clip of the film that I uploaded on YouTube, embedded in that post).

The other film from the 1950s, Lust for Life, I haven’t written anything about: the life of Vincent Van Gogh. Given that I have several books—huge books, by the way: those deluxe ones that seem to take up an entire table—on Vincent’s paintings, and that as a small child I tried, modestly, to copy his paintings with my watercolours, his life has a special significance.

This film was shot when the Aryans weren’t yet betraying themselves as nefariously as they do today. For those who still appreciate 19th-century Europe, it is worth seeing this novel-based interpretation of Vincent’s life. And the same can be said of Sleeping Beauty and The Time Machine: once upon a time there was an optimistic ethos about the Aryan race, with very blonde and extremely beautiful women indeed: films that one could even play to children being educated in NS.

So much for the films of the 1950s. As far as the films on my list from the 1960s are concerned, I have to say that 2001: A Space Odyssey is my favourite film, and I can conceivably write a review in the future about the film that has influenced my life the most. As for the others from that decade, I’ve already commented here and there but unlike the previous ones, I won’t link to my posts. And I can say the same about the films on my list from the seventies, except Death in Venice of which I’ll say something.

As for the only film on my list from the 1980s, Fanny & Alexander, I already said what I had to say in my entry on the 50 films; and as for my recommendations of films from the 1990s, Sense and Sensibility, and Pride & Prejudice—an English TV series, although here we could also include the 2005 film—, I already said what I had to say in Daybreak (page 42) and On Beth’s Cute Tits (pages 134-135). It’s precisely in this context that Death in Venice could be understood, albeit in the sense of purely platonic admiration that is in line with what I wrote in Daybreak (pages 163-164).

As far as the films of our century from my list of 50, why A.I. caught my attention so much can be guessed from what I say in Day of Wrath (pages 32ff) in the context of the bonding or imprint we all have with our abusive parents; and about LOTR I already said something here.

If a visitor is curious about the details of how any film on my list affected me (or another film that doesn’t appear on my list, as long as I have seen it) I’m willing to answer any questions.

Categories
Art Film

Frankenstein

As far as the Seventh Art is concerned, my life is divided into two great crises.

The first occurred in the early 1970s. As I recounted in ‘Beneath Ridley Scott’s Planet’, as a child I realised that the film industry didn’t always coincide with art, but could betray it badly.

The second crisis occurred more recently when I realised that even artistic films that are not solely driven by economic interests, but where the creator may be a genuine artist, often contain bad messages for the 14 words (as I showed this Monday with my brief review of The Godfather).

So today’s mature César not only demands of cinema that it be genuine Seventh Art. Even more important is that the film industry doesn’t betray the sacred words (and nowadays almost all of the industry betrays it).

This day I will start my series of fifty movie reviews with Frankenstein (1931 film): the second one to appear in my entry ‘50 films during the quarantine’.

It is important to bear in mind when reading my movie reviews that my confessed crisis in ‘Beneath Ridley Scott’s Planet’ represented an early awakening to the colossal crap that Hollywood makes just for profit, without the slightest concern for true art. From this point of view, when I saw on YouTube the black-and-white film of the 1931 horror movie produced by Universal Pictures and directed by James Whale—the adaptation of Mary Shelley’s novel, starring Boris Karloff and Colin Clive—I was very impressed by its artistic value.

The first thing that came to my mind was that it was unbelievable that, in the consumer society where I live, I had to watch this classic on YouTube because I had never seen it advertised for theatres, not even in art cinemas! I was also struck by the fact that the colour films about Frankenstein that can now be seen on TV lack artistic value when compared to this old black-and-white film.

Of course, both Shelley’s novel and the 1931 adaptation don’t promote our sacred words, so I won’t include it in a new list of my National Socialist must-see films. But at least, from an artistic point of view, it passes the test of my tastes: something that cannot be said of the sequels, remakes or parodies that have been made since that year to date.

Categories
Art Souvenirs et réflexions d'une aryenne (book)

Art

‘Above all, he [Hitler] lived for all the satisfactions that art in all its forms could give him; art that he placed so high that he didn’t admit that a man who was insensitive to it should ever take over the leadership of a National Socialist state.’ —Savitri Devi

Categories
2001: A Space Odyssey (movie) Art Film

60K words article!

‘Jews control Hollywood and make movies for themselves that the dumb white gentiles believe to be about them.’

You may read this article, nay a mini-book, on The Unz Review here.

In the comments section we learn that the mini-book is full of typos, and there’s another comment I agree about ‘the late great Stanley Kubrick.’ He wrote: ‘2001 a Space Odyssey ASO is the greatest work of art ever made by a human being.’ But what does ‘ASO’ stand for? (remember, I am not a native English speaker).