Upcoming, plus DDT: The Third Man

Hey-nonny ho-honny
dilute some insulin;
then stage your death so
you never do time.
Stay out of doorways or
tragic-ironically
find yourself sewer-bound
like Harry Lime.

The Third Man is playing on the big screen tonight at the AFI and I can't go. Boo hoo. Also, all I do is make promises, so here are some more: Within the week, expect a review of Sweeney Todd, the latest installment of The Triple Crowners series and a "still life" rumination on one of the funniest, sweetest performances in one of the funniest, sweetest holiday movies.

Double Dactyl Tuesdays: Thank God It's Friday

Night fever night fever
Goldblum and Winger both
started careers without
tongues in their cheeks.
Disco queen Donna S.
diva-maniacally
ruins a decade with
each word she speaks.

Double Dactyl Tuesdays: House of Games

Higgledy piggledy
"Glengarry" play-writer
first wrote and directed
with con on his mind.
Drama queen Lindsay Crouse
Mametologically
proves with her pantsuit that
love is not blind.

On my third and most recent viewing of House of Games, David Mamet's directorial debut, it was plain to see why we could easily dislike and mock it. The dialogue? Stilted. The performances? Affected. The plot points? Contrived and improbable. Yet, for some reason, I love the wooden way Mamet wrote and directed the leads: Crouse as a repressed psychiatrist and best-selling author, Joe Mantegna as a classy con artist. I love the way Mamet puts all the focus on the words, the characters' cadence, to create a chord-like progression over the steady bassline of visuals. What results is a strange rhythmic precision. The movie sounds like Bach, looks like Edward Hopper and feels like nothing I've seen before or since.