The Projection Booth has a podcast about it, with “special guest KISS superfan (and Paul Stanley tribute artist), John Stockwell.”
No sooner did I write about The Power (1968), John Derbyshire looks back at ESP in science fiction:
Telepathy was one of the staple themes in sci-fi of the Golden Age. This isn’t much remembered now because telepathy is hard to dramatize on movie or TV screens, which is where the last couple of generations have gotten most of their sci-fi from. Moviecus list “65 movies about telepathy,” but scanning through them, it seems that telepathy is a secondary plot device, not the main theme.
The printed page does better. There have been some fine telepath novels. In many, like John Wyndham’s The Chrysalids or A.E. van Vogt’s Slan, telepaths are a feared and hated minority. Occasionally, as in Alfred Bester’s The Demolished Man, they are a majority, persecuting non-telepaths. Most often they are just rare freaks who understand how very unpopular they’d be if their ability was discovered, and so they keep it secret.
As overwhelming as the “gay” blitzkrieg was, it would not have been successful without the terrible incompetence of the lawyers on our side. This included pro-family lawyers, state attorneys general, and even private lawyers hired to assist.
It’s painful for us to discuss this. We are reluctant to sound unkind to the pro-family legal people who worked hard on these cases. But this is such a horrible outcome that something must be said.
And ties it back to Obama’s mom and dad, and the president’s EXTREMELY weird background.
Steve Sailer writes:
There exists an elaborate conspiracy theory that the SoCal rock scene of the 1960s was a front for the CIA to exercise cultural control over the new generation: the denizens of Laurel Canyon often came from old money (fellow Byrd David Crosby was both a Van Cortlandt and a Van Rensselaer) or military-industrial complex families.
For instance, Jim Morrison’s father was the admiral who commanded the fleet during the Gulf of Tonkin Incident, which you must admit couldn’t possibly be a coincidence (assuming you are as high as the Lizard King).
But all that’s unnecessary: California in the 1960s was full of people who wanted to be hippies without being Communists. Tom Wolfe’s Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test argued that California hippies were drawn in two polar directions: toward Ken Kesey’s superhero-inspired “flag-flying neon Day-Glo America” or toward Timothy Leary’s Eastern-leaning Oriental quietism.
(By the way, it’s not implausible that the Yale American Studies program where Wolfe earned his Ph.D. in 1957 was something of a CIA front.)
For whatever dumb 20th century reason, TCM didn’t have the Canadian rights to the pioneering portmanteau horror anthology, Ealing’s Dead of Night (1945), which is a total gyp.
Oh, and by the way:
So there’s that.
So TCM substituted something called The Power, which I’d never heard of before.
This is one of those movies where you’re reading the opening credits out loud with a mix of incredulity and dread:
“Miss Beverly Hills?” (For that is indeed how she is billed, either at her own insistence or that of her agent. I imagine those conversations were more entertaining that much of what made it onto the screen.)
We’re then very quickly informed, as if hit with a blunt instrument, that the music in this movie is a ripoff of The Very Famous Zither Music in The Third Man, don’t you know? And lest you forget, here’s a picture of a zither. And later, another. Did we mention…?
The whole production is VERY 1968!!!!! and also really ugly looking in that “Japanese monster movie” way.
The Power is [George Pal's] attempt to create a darker, more adult thriller with a pervasive sense of paranoia and amorality.
Best of all, Pal achieves some wonderfully bizarre visual effects in The Power such as a hallucinatory freak out in which Hamilton observes his own disembodied head floating in space prior to its mutation into a grinning skull.
As for the final sequence, a battle of wills between Hamilton and his nemesis, it obviously prefigures the dueling telepaths of David Cronenberg’s Scanners.
And it’s true:
If you’re familiar with the 1970s political thriller genre, The Power will seem oddly familiar yet unsatisfying and unintentionally comical.
Whereas it is impossible to imagine anyone chuckling through The Parallax View, which — with its relentlessly pursued, dark haired hero — The Power resembles, the way a blue print resembles a finished house.
(If by “blue print” you mean “stuff scribbled on old Bazooka chewing gum wrappers.”)
In response to my PJMedia colleague Allston’s “Who Are Your Favorite Rock Drummers?”, I mounted one of my hobbyhorses, to wit:
How long can anybody be lazily described as “underrated” by hundreds of people, before we all realize how stupid we sound?
And feel free to take part in Allston’s conversation.
Like most music geek stuffery, I imagine things will get pretty heated.
“What was Mick and Joe’s relationship like?”
I’ve heard of “white knighting,” but someone named Owen Pallet just galloped into Facebook on an albino Clydesdale.
I used to joke that first the Catholic Church made sex “bad,” but after Vatican II, with NFP and all that, they succeeded in making it boring instead.
On an amazingly similar note, Owen Pallet’s contribution to #Ghomeshiquiddick includes a description of BDSM that I’ve noticed has become the default, er, position of the last ten years at least:
“They were engaged in BDSM role-play.” This: this is something I need to talk about.
The beauty of BDSM relationships is that the power is always in the hands of the sub. BDSM and choke play is a subversion of male violence.
To hear that anybody has been abusing the BDSM power relationship for the purpose of engaging in non-consensual violence-against-women is horrifying.
That is not the point of BDSM. BDSM is in fact about the exact opposite thing. It is about repurposing acts of violence into creating a power dynamic of fucking EQUALITY.
There no way that millions of women panted their way through 50 Shades of Grey — and The Story of O, and any number of interchangeable historical romance novels — because they were turned on by “equality” and a “subversion of male violence.”
Is it really necessary for the busybody feminists and their beta male worker bees to turn everything inside out, to fit some theory they learned in school, to make everything “the exact opposite thing” of what it was before they were, unfortunately, born?
Of course, it didn’t really start with them.
I’m pretty cerebral, but I’m still astonished many people are compelled to mediate their existence via other people’s once-removed theories (and now, gadgets) rather than engaging The Thing Itself.
Back to Catholicism:
For whatever perverse reason, while reading Pallet’s earnest effort to wring the sex out of sex, I thought of Flannery O’Connor’s famous letter penned in 1955:
I was once, five or six years ago, taken by some friends to have dinner with Mary McCarthy and her husband, Mr. Broadwater. (She just wrote that book, A Charmed Life). She departed the Church at the age of 15 and is a Big Intellectual. We went at eight and at one, I hadn’t opened my mouth once, there being nothing for me in such company to say. The people who took me were Robert Lowell and his now wife, Elizabeth Hardwick. Having me there was like having a dog present who had been trained to say a few words but overcome with inadequacy had forgotten them.
Well, toward morning the conversation turned on the Eucharist, which I, being the Catholic, was obviously supposed to defend. Mrs. Broadwater said when she was a child and received the Host, she thought of it as the Holy Ghost, He being the ‘most portable’ person of the Trinity; now she thought of it as a symbol and implied that it was a pretty good one. I then said, in a very shaky voice, ‘Well, if it’s a symbol, to hell with it.’
Just to review, so one newsreader on MSNBC tried to force Rush off the air, and another stoked the riots in Ferguson. And the entire channel screams racism at the drop of words such as “golf” and “Chicago.” (And don’t even get ‘em started on breakfast cereal.)
The channel deceptively edited George Zimmerman’s 9/11 audio in 2012 to stir racial hatred on behalf of Obamas’ reelection bid.
As Ken Shepherd notes today at NewsBusters, “CNBC’s Harwood Wildly Spins for Hillary via Twitter” in response to her recent “corporations don’t create jobs” facepalm-worthy gaffe.
Meanwhile, NBC’s Bob Costas serves as a pint-sized would-be social justice warrior routinely promoting whatever the current DNC talking points are during the halftime shows of NBC’s Sunday Night Football broadcasts.
Yes, I’m a musical nitwit. I freely admit that.
Yes, it’s amazing that the guy could play the guitar even after his hand got screwed up.
But that happened to Tony Iommi, and Iommi is better.
Django Reinhardt could have at least played music that didn’t sound like he was projectile vomiting a toy piano.
If you haven’t heard this story before, it is amazing, especially if you’re feeling sorry for yourself.
After the accident, Iommi had to teach himself to play with his other hand, but that’s not even the half of it:
“[A] predictable backlash has emerged,” you see. “On Friday, for example, a mosque in Cold Lake, Alta., was vandalized, its windows smashed, its front defaced by graffiti calling for members to ‘go home.’”
And, well, that was about it, actually. For a “backlash,” it was less Kristallnacht than Kristal-Not. The Post’s “for example” was nakedly superfluous. Almost, weirdly, hope filled. (…)
It’s a sign of how utterly witless the authorities are that the phrase “lone gunman,” like “lone wolf,” is actually supposed to be a reassuring one.
Leaving aside its metaphorical unsoundness from a sheer zoological perspective, the elite’s “lone wolf” trope reduces the rest of us to unwilling supporting players in a mashup of Groundhog Day and Gaslight:
Precisely how many “lone wolves” does it, will it, take to change a country, or a mind? A few of us serfs dare to ask our betters.
James Fulford and I have had occasion to brainstorm before, at length, the last time a young Muslim man shot up a major Canadian city…