Adam Curtis

Mr. Tea

Let's Talk About Ceps
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I love how this post now just makes you look like you've gone totally nuts.
 

version

Well-known member
I honestly couldn't tell you whether he's ever actually said " ... but this was just a fantasy... " yet people will swear down he says it all the time. Likewise a couple of the Burial tunes he "always" seems to use. I get the feeling Bitter Lake and Hypernormalisation have completely dominated mine and many others' mental image of his work and obscured everything else he's done to the point that they're taken for the whole and not just two of his films.
I recently watched The Trap and the first episode of The Century of the Self and I was right about this. There isn't really any pop music at all, he uses the theme from Assault on Precinct 13 a bit in The Trap, but that's about it.
 

luka

Well-known member
There's a lot I love about Jones but the language itself is often bizarre and grotesque. Blake can be like that too. The effort of explaining the vision turning the language into this antediluvian machinery overgrown with roots and vegetation
 

woops

is not like other people
my welsh mate swears by a record he's got of anthony hopkins reading dylan thomas, he says it's the quintessence of welshness
 

version

Well-known member
This just popped up in the schedule for the Telluride Film Festival,

RUSSIA [1985-1999] TRAUMAZONE (d. Adam Curtis, U.K., 2022)
 

IdleRich

IdleRich
Those last few posts remind me that I have that record of my former flatmate Alex's gran interviewing Brendan Behan - a labour of love, which required her to put her life on hold and then simply leave it behind while she travelled to New York and tracked down the sickly Behan. Once she had located him she did literally nothing for months on end but speak to him for twelve hours a day, drawing out the great man's thoughts in lieu of a final book that everyone knew he would be too ill to write. After she brought them back to the UK the tapes of these interviews somehow languished unheard and forgotten in an attic for half a century until Alex discovered them, dusted them down and found a record label willing to release it. Then he himself painstakingly edited it into it into something approaching coherency and rendered the result of that down into a pure and concentrated hour of the very best stuff. Once this was done it was finally made into a record and Alex very kindly gave a copy to me. I treated it with the utmost care, wrapping it to protect it and then placing it at the centre of my suitcase so it survived the journey back to Portugal and then ultimately to Santa Iria de Azoia. Once it was here I reverently opened the suitcase and was not surprised to see that as I did so I was greeted by a magical light which spread out in all directions bathing the room in a golden glow while an invisible chorus of angels sang something that sounded a bit like the chorus of Les Fleur (but not as cheesy). Then I stuck the record on one of the shelves somewhere and promptly forgot all about it... until now.
 
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