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Category: Film

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Degenerate art Film Voltaire

It’s a Wonderful Life

Like Beauty and the Beast, this is another film that was shot while the Hellstorm Holocaust was being perpetrated. What if it were possible for the Anglo-Saxons and Anglo-Germans who fought against Germany in the 1940s to see our Woke century thanks, as in the film, to a guardian angel? Just as George Bailey, the central character in It’s a Wonderful Life, after the vision of the nasty alternative world shown to him by the angel decided not to kill himself, would these soldiers of the 1940s decide to fight Hitler?

Clockwise from top: James Stewart, Donna Reed, Carol Coombs, Jimmy Hawkins, Larry Simms and Karolyn Grimes.

My father loved a couple of Frank Capra films, including It’s a Wonderful Life. When I saw this film as a teenager, it was easy to grasp this idealised vision of American culture in those days. George Bailey’s Aryan children couldn’t help but make a good impression on the teenage César who, decades ago, was unaware of what the Allies had done to the Germans. Had I known, I wouldn’t have been left with the inspiring impression I was left with when I saw It’s a Wonderful Life.

With the above I have said all that can be said about this 1946 film, but I would like to use this evening to talk about the last film I saw tonight: the last film I will ever see on the big screen, inasmuch as, after tonight’s experience, I will never enter a cinema theatre again.

At this stage of my life it is extremely rare for me to go to cinemas. Before tonight, the last one I saw was The Northman, a film I debunk here despite the fact that many racialists loved it.

Given that Ridley Scott had made films like Gladiator and Kingdom of Heaven, I figured I might be entertained this Sunday with Napoleon (2023 film), that I thought it would be one more of those silly, though highly entertaining, Hollywood movies. What a surprise as soon as the film started!

Il y a une autre canaille à laquelle on sacrifie tout, et cette canaille est le peuple. —Voltaire [1]

The only memorable scene is the first one. A number of times on The West’s Darkest Hour I have repeated what I read in Pierce and Kemp’s histories of the white race: that the French revolutionaries guillotined a large number of blondes. This is clear in the first scene of Napoleon when the rabid mob, a mob in which I saw no blondes by the way, cut off the head of Empress Marie Antoinette. If Hitler had won the war there would already be several films in which we would see Marie Antoinette and other French blondes as the victims and the mob as canaille!

After Prometheus I hadn’t seen another grotesque disaster filmed by Scott. Unlike Gladiator and Kingdom of Heaven, Napoleon is filmed in dull colours: a sign of the decadence of recent years when even the vivid technicolour of yesteryear has mutated into the ochre tones of this decadent age. But that’s not the worst of it.

Scott uses Napo’s life to promote typical Woke propaganda, painting Empress Josephine as a character on par with that of her husband Napo. And even worse, Scott throws in a few Negro actors in Republican France here and there—even black children!

As I was saying, I will never enter a cinema again for the rest of my life. The only way for me to do so would be if there was a racial revolution in some Western country, the new government asked me to emigrate there to lend my services to the new state, and a cinematic art emerged that is perfectly antithetical to the merde we see in today’s cinema. As it is highly doubtful that this will happen, I will never see the big screen again.

By the way, although I watched Scott’s Napoleon this evening, and also tonight Sunday 26 November I wrote this review, I will post this entry after midnight.

_________

[1] There is another rabble to whom we sacrifice everything, and this rabble is the people. —Voltaire

Categories
Feminism Film Metaphysics of race / sex Patriarchy

La Belle et la Bête


This film, Beauty and the Beast was released when the Allies were perpetrating the Hellstorm Holocaust on the defenceless German people.

It’s been so many years since I saw it on the big screen, that I only used to remember when Belle’s father enters the Beast’s castle and we see how the torches with human arms light his way; as well as the ending, the couple’s ascent, as the audience applauded (something very rare in cinema theatres). Yesterday when I saw it again, in French and with subtitles in my native language, I remembered some things, but many others I had forgotten.

Although I hadn’t seen it for decades, the reason I included it in my list of 50 films that influenced me is because what I do remember perfectly well is my interpretation. I thought, for many years, that this fairy tale symbolises women’s sexuality. At first glance, our urges seem bestial to little women. But under the sacred institution of marriage, the beautiful one begins to realise that behind the animal lies a prince, and then they can live happily for the rest of their lives. In other words, only from the moment Belle can assimilate sexual relations with a Beast like us, can she ingratiate herself with Nature.

Without mentioning that movie, The Double Flame, a book that has been translated from Spanish into English, the Nobel laureate in literature Octavio Paz, who was my neighbour before he died, talks about how the ‘red flame’ of the horny male becomes a ‘blue flame’ over time in a couple’s relationship. But let’s do some history.

There are multiple variants of La Belle et la Bête. Its origin could be a story by Apuleius entitled Cupid and Psyche. The first published version of La Belle et la Bête was by the French writer Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Villeneuve in 1740, although other sources credit Gianfrancesco Straparola with recreating the original story as early as 1550. The best-known written version was a much-abridged revision of Villeneuve’s original work, published in 1756 by Jeanne-Marie Leprince de Beaumont. The first translation was made into English in 1757. Although there are many variants of the story throughout Europe, Beaumont’s version is the most famous and is the basis for almost all subsequent versions or adaptations.

It is a story that has circulated throughout Europe for centuries, both in oral and written form and, more recently, in film adaptations. In addition to the interpretation I was left with in my soliloquies (how women’s sexuality works), the fairy tale can also be interpreted as the love of a father, who adored Belle above her sisters, with pure paternal-filial love. But besides the fact that the girl perceives sexuality as something perverse, any man who feels a sexual desire for such an innocent creature can only be a beast.

The above-mentioned 1946 French film, directed by Jean Cocteau, is the first film version of the 1757 tale of the same name and is recognised as a classic of French cinema.

This adaptation adds a secondary plot, with the appearance of a villain: a suitor of Belle’s named Avenant. He intends to take advantage of Belle’s visit to her father to kill the Beast and steal his riches, while Belle’s sisters, the villain’s accomplices, delay Belle’s return to the castle. When Avenant enters the magical pavilion, which is the source of the Beast’s power, he is struck by a fiery arrow from the statue of the Roman goddess Diana, which transforms him into a beast and reverses the curse of the original creature.
 

1:50 pm update

I just reread some passages from a disciple of Jung that are worth including in this entry. On pages 137-138 of Man and his Symbols by various authors (first published in 1964), under the heading ‘Beauty and the Beast’, Joseph Henderson said:

Girls in our society share the masculine hero myths because, like boys, they must also develop a reliable ego-identity and acquire an education…

I saw an example of this in a young married woman who did not yet have any children but who intended to have one or two eventually, because it would be expected of her…

She had a dream at this time that seemed so important she sought professional advice to understand it. She dreamed she was in a line of young women like herself, and as she looked ahead to where they were going, she saw that as each came to the head of the line she was decapitated by a guillotine. Without any fear the dreamer remained in the line, presumably quite willing to submit to the same treatment when her turn came.

I explained to her that this meant she was ready to give up the habit of “living in her head”; she must learn to free her body to discover its natural sexual response and the fulfilment of its biological role in motherhood. The dream expressed this as the need to make a drastic change; she had to sacrifice the “masculine” hero role.

As one might expect, this educated woman had no difficulty in accepting this interpretation at an intellectual level, and she set about trying to change herself into a more submissive kind of woman… A universal myth expressing this kind of awakening is found in the fairy tale of Beauty and the Beast…

The story can be said to symbolize a young girl’s initiation—i.e. her release from her bond with the father, in order to come to terms with the erotic animal side of her nature. Until this is done, she cannot achieve a true relationship with a man.

Compare this wise psychoanalyst with the anti-motherhood shit that the System tells young women these days.

Categories
Film

Fantasia

Walt Disney’s Fantasia (1940) is the fourth film on my list of fifty. When I saw it as a child on the big screen it made a big impression on me, and when I saw it again as a teenager, once more on the big screen, it continued to impress me. Today, I am still impressed only by the first segment: the orchestration of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue. At the other extreme, the segment about the hippos dancing with crocodiles is too grotesque and should have been replaced by Debussy’s Clair de Lune segment. This was developed as part of the original Fantasia programme. After being fully animated (watch it here) it was removed from the final film to shorten its length!

In my recent post on the first chapter of Simms’ book on Hitler, I said that young Adolf would go far because he was initiated into art; and that without art it is impossible for contemporary racialists to reach his level. From that point of view, one might think that Fantasia could serve as an initiation to classical music for the Aryan child. But things are a little more complex.

If one looks closely at the festivities of the National Socialists, say in Munich, they were permeated with a paganism that is absent in Fantasia. The segment of the film in which the Disney Studios used Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony with Greco-Roman mythology would have come across as too cloying and childish to the Teutonic palate, more imbued with the Roman severitas of the Republic than the dissipation of imperial Rome. And while the animation of the amalgamation of Mussorgsky’s Night on Bald Mountain with Schubert’s Ave Maria is artistically very well done, it makes too many concessions to Christianity, including those seconds when the devil Chernabog throws souls into hellfire.

At midnight Chernabog awakes and summons evil spirits
and restless souls from their graves to Bald Mountain.

In other words: both the pseudo-Greco-Roman paganism of Disney Studios’ Pastoral and the Christian motifs of the Mussorgsky-Schubert animation aren’t exactly healthy for the child who is to be introduced to genuine Aryan art.

It is very difficult to pronounce myself on this matter, while in the West there is much splendid art which has the misfortune that has been used as propaganda for unwholesome messages (see for example what I say about Bach and Wagner on pages 149-156 of Daybreak). Bach himself, whom I said above is the only segment of Fantasia that still impresses me and which I openly recommend, I sometimes view with great reserve.

For example, the Philadelphia Orchestra’s orchestration of the Toccata in Fantasia, originally written for organ, is not only truly magnificent but detracts from the ominous charge we hear in churches: something like paganising Christian music. This also happened to me with a piece of Bach’s music we don’t hear in Fantasia, the Partita No. 2 for solo violin, which I find extremely disturbing and ominous on violin but which, when performed on classical guitar, miraculously takes away all that burden of Christian obscurantism, typical of the Reformation ethos in which the Protestants of Bach’s time were still living.

In a nutshell, it is difficult to recommend Disney films without reservation for the education of the Aryan child, including Fantasia. On the internet I have just read the following:

Disney WWII Propaganda Emerges As Part of the War Effort

Walt Disney and his staff were no exception, and with [his] Studios commandeered by the military on December 8, 1941, they soon found themselves entrenched in the ongoing war effort. Of the dozens of training, propaganda, and educational films Walt and his staff made over the next four years of the war, none reached the popularity of the Donald Duck short Der Fuehrer’s Face (1943), in which the irascible duck takes on the role of a munitions factory worker in “Nutzi Land”…

Walt himself would later recall the popularity of the film: “[It] was the most popular propaganda film we had. It was put in all languages. They had it in the Underground. The Underground were running it and were getting a good laugh out of it while they were under the heel of Hitler, you know?”

If Hitler and not these morons had won the war, we can already imagine the kind of animation art that would have captured the imagination of the Aryan childhood.

Categories
American civil war Film Patriarchy

Gone with the Wind

I have already written on several occasions about this 1939 film, the third on my list of 50, and here I would just like to copy and paste what I have said in past years.

Above, we can see the image of the carpetbagger scene in Gone with the Wind, a war that freed the Negroes and occurred at a time when there were no Jewish-owned mass media and even before mass Jewish immigration began. (Oh, Judeo-reductionist racialists who don’t want to see that, in addition to the JQ, we have a Christian problem…!)

In a couple of those opera-type theatres, I saw Gone with the Wind as a kid and then as a teenager. Many scenes of Rhett Butler (Clark Gable) with Scarlett O’Hara (Vivien Leigh) made a deep impression on my youthful mind:

– Throughout the film, from the opening scenes in Georgia, women’s outfits duly concealed the sexual appeal of their bodies, especially the dresses of the Southern beauties; and I don’t just mean Scarlett and the feminine elements of her family, but Ashley’s fiancée and the other society women. Melanie Hamilton, who eventually married Ashley, is the perfect model of how women should behave again in the future ethnostate! (the actress who played Melanie died three years ago at the age of 104!).

– At the Twelve Oaks party, before the barbecue is interrupted by the declaration of war, all the women are taking the obligatory nap (except Scarlett, who escapes to the upstairs bedroom) while the men discuss serious matters. It was unthinkable that a woman would have a say in such matters.

– Even after she is widowed, Scarlett is called ‘Mrs Charles Hamilton’, in the sense that her reputation remains in the shadow of a man who died in uniform.

– Similarly, following the Entr’acte Frank (Scarlett’s second husband), Ashley, Rhett and several other accomplices carry out a night-time raid on a shanty town after Scarlett, driving alone, is attacked by Negroes resulting in Frank’s death. Needless to say, on this night the wives of these brave men stayed at home sewing and reading decent literature.

– Once married to Rhett Butler, ‘Captain Butler’ was always greeted first by pedestrians in the street as he strolled with Scarlett. She, faithfully at her husband’s side on these street strolls, was only mentioned after pedestrians greeted Rhett.

– Let us never forget Scarlett’s marital rape when Rhett lifted her in his arms and said, ‘This is the one night you’re not going to throw me out’.

In those luxurious cinemas of yesteryear, when I was young, the film depicted wholesome Western mores, before values were corrupted and completely reversed in our darkest hour. I even remember that my mother, who wasn’t racist at all, felt compassion for the Southerners in the scene where the carpetbagger we see in the image above appears, and we both resented the presence of the black singer who took advantage of the situation. That must have happened about forty-five years ago in one of those theatres.

Categories
Christendom Christian art Film

The Hunchback of Notre Dame

Notre-Dame de Paris is a novel by Victor Hugo, published in 1831, that focuses on the unhappy story of Quasimodo, the gipsy Esmeralda and the archdeacon Claude Frollo in 15th-century Paris. Its elements—medieval setting, impossible loves, and marginalised characters—make the novel a model for the literary themes of Romanticism.

Hugo’s book opens with a popular celebration of the Epiphany of 1482 at the Palais de Justice. The play introduces us to Esmeralda, a gipsy dancer, Quasimodo, a deformed young hunchback who is in charge of the bells of Notre Dame Cathedral, and the archdeacon Claude Frollo, the bell-ringer’s foster father.

Esmeralda, thanks to her great physical beauty, attracts the poet-student Pierre Gringoire and Captain Febo de Châteaupers, but also Claude Frollo, who decides to kidnap her. Frollo then orders his protégé Quasimodo to kidnap her.

The intervention of Captain Phoebus de Chateaupers prevents the kidnapping from taking place and leads Quasimodo to be condemned to public torture. The hunchback is flogged in the square and receives all the hatred and insults of the people, who cruelly despise him for his ugliness. Quasimodo asks for water and Esmeralda climbs the scaffold to quench his thirst.

I don’t want to tell the whole story but I do want to point out that at midnight I modified the post about my 50 recommended films, reversing the order of the first two, for reasons I am about to explain.

Since the films on my list are arranged in order of their release, before the midnight change, I had The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1939) as #2, and Frankenstein (1931) as #1. But yesterday, when I started watching the 1939 film after half a century of not seeing it, I detected some terrible messages from its opening.

It didn’t take me long to discover that the director was born into a German family of Ashkenazi Jews and that he even returned to Germany after the Allied dogs won the war!

Fifty years ago I had seen this 1939 film in black and white with my family on television, and both my sisters and I loved it (some of Hugo’s high culture is reflected in this adulterated version of the novel).

Since then I had not seen it again: I only remember that as a child I was impressed by the story. But yesterday when I started watching it again, after so long, I realised, as I just said, that the movie starts with bad messages.

In Paris, there is a new order preventing the passage of gipsies. True, the director cast mudblood actors to play them, but typically in Hollywood (and we’re talking about 1939!) he artfully chose an Aryan actress to play the gipsy Esmeralda, and has the King of France say ‘Who cares about her race, she’s pretty’.

This 1939 film has scenes too burlesque for my taste today (how I have changed since I saw it fifty years ago!) and the Christian piety in Notre Dame couldn’t be missing: ‘Please, help my people’ says the Nordic actress playing Esmeralda when referring to the mudblood gipsies while the French ask Providence for riches in their prayers. Surrealism reaches the viewer when the movie’s bad guy, Claude Frollo, says ‘You come from an evil race’ to the Aryan actress posing as a gipsy.

I stopped watching the film at that point and started watching the original film of The Hunchback of Notre Dame. I mean the one from 1923: a film that, this year, has just turned 100 years old!

Now this is the one that is at #1 on my list not because it is very good, but because it has historical value for connoisseurs of cinematic art. This 1923 film is silent, although they added some music to it and it can now be seen, complete, in a colourised version on YouTube.

Although Esmeralda, in this century-old film, isn’t as Aryan as the other, in this version it is explained at the outset that her whiteness is due to the fact that she was born in a high cradle and, as a child, had been abducted by gipsies.

Naturally, being a hundred years old, the film is closer to theatre or operatic scenes than to the cinema that followed, once the human voice was technically synchronised with the soundtrack. That would revolutionise the Seventh Art.

I don’t want to get too much into the film from the point of view of the sacred words. That would mean messing directly with Victor Hugo—and that would mean another entry: an entry of literary criticism rather than cinematic criticism. Suffice it to say that baby Quasimodo wouldn’t have been allowed to live in Sparta, and that Hugo is right that Notre Dame reflects the soul of France which, unlike the teen I was half a century ago, is no longer the soul that interests me. (My surname, ‘Tort’, comes from France and Catalonia and my ancestors were devoted to Notre Dame of Lourdes.)

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
Film

The Godfather

Marlon Brando (right) and Al Pacino as Don Vito and Michael Corleone.

It could be said that in recent times I have taken my vows as a priest of the sacred words, in the sense that being an NS ideologue after 1945 implies constant activity for the cause, and never allowing myself to burn out, and I plan to live like that until death parts me from this world.

But more than an act of will, when one begins the lifestyle of a true NS (which to distinguish it from the pre-1945 Germans I call the priesthood of the sacred words, after the priestess Savitri Devi) the mind begins to metamorphose.

I have often said that when I was younger I wanted to be a film director. And indeed, I have seen a lot of cinema over the decades. But when I heard about the West’s darkest hour, in the sense that it occurred to the Aryan to commit ethnic suicide because of what I said about the new Sacrificial Lamb at midnight, my taste for the Seventh Art began to change. Films I had loved I began to see as containers of very bad messages: part of the brainwashing process to convince the Aryan to immolate himself.

When I took my vows, so to speak, I began to realise not only that I was beginning to detect those bad messages, but that I could no longer enjoy almost any film in my DVD collection, to the extent that I recently gave my nephew my big TV, where I used to watch films. I did this because a lot of times it occurred to me to go through the titles of my DVD collection and, to my surprise, I didn’t feel like watching almost any film again.

At the time of the COVID-19 epidemic, a European asked me what my favourite films were at the time, and I made a list of fifty of them. A few years later I can no longer watch most of them! It’s amazing how taking vows gradually, but forcefully, changes a priest’s tastes.

But given my past fondness for cinema, and that I spent so much time watching films and thinking about them, it occurs to me that I could start writing short reviews of each film on my list of fifty. But I’d like to start with one that doesn’t appear on the list, The Godfather.

______ 卐 ______

 
Once upon a time in the US the Western was the favourite film genre for family consumption, but with time it was replaced by the mob story as the central epic of America. The Godfather is considered the best film of this genre. Some fans of American cinema even consider it the best film made in that country, even ahead of Citizen Kane. Well, below we see a brief review from the point of view of National Socialism, or rather, the POV of the priest of the sacred words.

Taking into account what we say in this post about transvaluation (‘L’art pour l’art’ values must be transvalued to Art practised in conformity with the cultural task), the message of The Godfather couldn’t be more wrong. Michael Corleone is the antithesis of what the hero of an Aryan lad who goes to the movies to have fun should be. In fact, the fictional Michael Corleone is an enemy of the sacred words. There is a scene in which the capo Clemenza teaches Michael how to shoot and casually tells him that Hitler should have been stopped before the time when the Allies finally stopped him. Remember that the film opens in 1945, when Michael is dressed in a soldier’s uniform at his sister’s wedding because, decorated, he had just returned from fighting the Germans!

That alone would be enough to ban The Godfather in an ethnostate emerging in North America. But it doesn’t end there. Francis Ford Coppola, the director, is Italian-American and his film represents the interests of his ethnic group, not those of the Anglo-Germans who originally conquered and populated the US (see e.g., what I wrote ten years ago about The Godfather Part II). In an ethnostate that imitated the Third Reich only the Nordics, or fans of the Nordics (say, like me), would be allowed to practice art in conformity with the NS task. It is absurd that someone who represents the interests of another ethnic group should have cinematic power over the youth of Nordic stock, and this is even more so in the case of the Jewry that dominates Hollywood.

As you can see, from this angle the reviews that I could write about American cult films are the antithesis of what Trevor Lynch (Greg Johnson) does in Counter-Currents. But as we have said many times, from the NS POV white nationalism (WN) is intellectual quackery for people stuck in the middle of what we call the psychological Rubicon (cf. my featured post, ‘The River Nymph’).

There are many other things I could say about the Godfather trilogy. For example, Moe Greene, who is shot in the eye by Michael’s triggerman at the end of the first film while being massaged, in Mario Puzo’s novel is a Jewish gangster. So in the sequel Michael’s rival, the Jew Hyman Roth, wants to avenge him. In other words, for political correctness in the Godfather trilogy the tension between the Italian-American mafia and the Jewish-American mafia is more or less disguised.

I was also annoyed, but this is natural since the director is Italian-American, that the viewpoint of the family of Kay Adams Corleone, Michael’s second wife, a pure Aryan, was one hundred per cent absent. If one compares her with the Sicilian Apollonia Vitelli Corleone, Michael’s first wife, one can see the difference between a Mediterranean and a Nordic.

Keep in mind that when the SS invaded the USSR, the commanders were careful that the young soldiers didn’t marry mudblood women (remember: when we were young we thought with our cocks, not with our heads!). That distinction between Meds and Norsemen has been lost on many contemporary racialists because, I reiterate, WN is virtually intellectual quackery.

These brief words give an idea of what, in forthcoming posts, I will do with most of the 50 films I used to recommend a few years ago. When the priest fulfills the revaluation of art (‘L’art pour l’art’ values must be transvalued to Art practised in conformity with the cultural task) there is very little art to rescue—and much art to repudiate!

Categories
Film Philosophy

Taylor’s soliloquy

People of the new generations cannot have an accurate idea of the incredible level of degeneration that the last generations have experienced. True, the boomers behaved like traitors, but for non-traitor boomers like us, the culture shock we experience when talking to those of later generations is brutal.

As I tell in Whispering Leaves, one of the most beautiful experiences I had as a child was going to the best cinema with my dad. One of the films that made the biggest impression on me at the age of ten was the first Planet of the Apes (the sequels are endless crap that should be destroyed in their entirety in the ethnostate).

But even in the pure mind of a child, it struck me when I saw it on the big screen in 1968 that it was odd that one of the astronauts was black. It is amazing how a child untainted by the surrounding culture sees things exactly as they are!

The coloured astronaut aside, several lines in that film reflect the depth of the science-fiction novel on which the film was based. Nothing stupid or childish like the next decade would see with the Star Wars trilogy. On the contrary: Taylor’s soliloquies, played by Charlton Heston, and I am referring to the opening lines, could very well come in the literary genre of philosophical autobiography that I want to inaugurate:

George Taylor: And that completes my final report until we reach touchdown. We’re now on full automatic, in the hands of the computers. I have tucked my crew in for the long sleep and I’ll be joining them soon. In less than an hour, we’ll finish our sixth month out of Cape Kennedy. Six months in deep space—by our time, that is. According to Dr. Haslein’s theory of time, in a vehicle travelling nearly the speed of light, the Earth has aged nearly 700 years since we left it, while we’ve aged hardly at all. Maybe so. This much is probably true—the men who sent us on this journey are long since dead and gone. You who are reading me now are a different breed—I hope a better one. I leave the 20th century with no regrets. But one more thing—if anybody’s listening, that is. Nothing scientific. It’s purely personal. Seen from out here, everything seems different. Time bends. Space is boundless. It squashes a man’s ego. I feel lonely…

Emphasis added and YouTube clip here. Of course, later there are some fascinating dialogues from a philosophical point of view, such as Taylor having fled from human civilisation because he could no longer stand it, as we see when he argues with Landon in the desert crossing. Not to mention the wise words of Zaius at the end of the film.

What I would give to be in that world and see the Statue of Liberty in ruins and half buried between the sea and the rocks… If we remember Savitri’s quotable quote, that is the world to which we should aspire.

Categories
Film

Holmes updated

I’ve finished watching the TV series I referred to in my previous post, and also the various feature films where the same actor, Jeremy Brett, played Sherlock Holmes.

The last films, filmed in the 1990s not long before Brett died, are a real disgrace. Although the screenwriters used the titles of some of Arthur Conan Doyle’s short stories, they significantly distanced themselves from the prose of the famous detective’s creator: which contrasts with the television programmes, especially those filmed in the 1980s. It seems that, in the darkest hour of the West, the leaders of the cultural media cannot resist the urge to desecrate the work of their artists.

And in this century the situation is much worse.

Categories
Film Kali Yuga

Sherlock Holmes

In my previous post I mentioned My Fair Lady, in which the actor Jeremy Brett sings ‘On the Street Where You Live’ which made waves among female boomers. But I was unaware that, in later years, Brett had starred in an English television series that takes up the Sherlock Holmes stories from the pen of Arthur Conan Doyle. In these times, when the ethno-treason and ethno-suicidal psychosis of white people has reached its final metastasis, it is refreshing to have a little escapism with a series of programmes that transport us back to 19th-century England, before the treachery that the West is currently suffering.

I must say that the movies that have recently come out about Sherlock Holmes have nothing to do with Doyle’s stories. They are films whose screenplays were made already in the darkest hour of the West. Even a 1979 film like Murder by Decree with stars like Christopher Plummer and James Mason already contains subtle messages of cultural self-loathing.

When I was twelve I bought Doyle’s complete works on the most famous detective of all time but never read them; just an illustrated Sherlock Holmes story for children my age. But nowadays children no longer have access to such illustrated stories; only to the most recent ‘Sherlock Holmes’ movies, which are not even loosely based on Doyle’s prose: they are inventions of our dark age. I don’t even want to mention the titles of those recent movies that betray Doyle’s stories.

I am attracted to the figure of Holmes because I have become a sort of detective looking for psycho-historical clues to understand the dark hour. Or rather: I have taken advice from the best historical detectives to understand the present, and I am referring to the literature I recommend in the featured post. From this angle, I would rather be a Dr Watson who took the trouble to narrate the adventures of his mentor. Although Dr Watson’s work is not original (Holmes is the original investigator) in the featured post it is more than clear why whites, contemporary Englishmen included, are hating themselves in our century to the point of wanting to commit ethnic suicide.

I have been to England several times in my life, in the 1980s and 1990s, but it was only in 2014 that I spoke to a group of racialists, at the London Forum. At a round table at The Victory Service Club, located at 79 Seymour Street, near Edgware Road, one of the members of that forum remarked to me that he had liked my excerpts from Pierce’s Who We Are and that he had sent the links to another of the London Forum members. What a strange thing that, having been born in an underdeveloped country whose majority is so inferior to the stock of the native English, I have more detective insight than these educated London racialists…

A perfectly legal way to start rebelling against the ethnocidal System is to repudiate the degenerate clothing that has become fashionable in recent decades and start dressing as the English dressed before they began to hate themselves. For the time being, I’ll finish watching the rest of the episodes of the series featuring Jeremy Brett. Now that my mother has died I’ve cancelled my Cable subscription, which was in my name but only she watched it. From the point of view of the fourteen words, everything that can now be seen on TV is ethno-treason, and only by watching old films from the previous century that recreate the 19th-century West is it possible to detect something of the pre-Kali Yuga zeitgeist.