I watched Ossessione again last night -- oh hey, check out the header. Pretty cool!
So I was saying... I watched that ancient film again. Everyonei has seen it to death, "oh, of course! many times..." and yet...
Have you noticed the absolute perfection and consummate glory of the prostitute scene ? It's not long, yet it's absolute excellence barely communicable!
Let us nevertheless tryii, barely communicable as it may well be : so the prostitute in this film is a fetching young woman who earns her living by being a dancer. She works at the opera-cinema, 2nd from the left in the chorus line ; yet she does not think herself a dancer, "with a great future". She doesn't think herselfiii anything. She is, as a factual matter, a whore who also dances. That's her locus, subjectively, transparently and quite avowedly. She eminently isn't a dancer who also whores, but expends herself in "keeping that a secret", isolating it from "others" (meaning herself), all that complicated danceiv of infected minds. A contemporary barrista (as contemporaries are much too fucked in the head to ever manage anything like whoredom on their own power) who works as a paralegal for four hours one single week "is" now "going to be" a "bright legal mind" and so she's out there, renting a whole raft of "courtroom docudramas" offa Netflix. She's got a career now, god fucking help anyone who dares call her a barrista or anythingv.
But wait, there's more! The whore meets her john in the following manner : she's sitting on a bench, in the park, and knitting. That's what she's doing! And when some kids, playing like kittens with her woolvi, knock it at the feet of the gent, she kneels (at the feet of the gent) to fetch. That's it!
He offers her icecream, which she very much looks like she'd want, but doesn't ask for ; she eagerly accepts -- and Dhia Cristiani's outright exquisite eagerness should be studied in fucking school, as it is the superlative achievement to date of the fundamental (to not say the principal) female function. She tells him where she works, and asks him to come along. He refuses, being a merdaccia vera e propria ; a man of unclear relationship to the girlvii tells him they all live at so and so address, there's even better to be had there.
So the merdaccia, after disengaging from his ball-and-chain, proceeds there. Do you know how this cathouse works in practice ? There's a closed door, he rings a doorbell and the door opens. Immediately. Nobody's there, no pretense whatsoeverviii is foisted upon the man come in from the street. There's no "tickets". There's no "waiting room". There's no matron, there's no fucking nothing. He asks some woman about the girl, is directed to her room, which is open for his convenience, he can wait there if he feels like it. He does, she shows up, she's delighted to see him, thanks him for having chosen her services, and proceeds to undressing in such a natural manner it should, again and very much so, be studied in school. Because besides the eagerness, such natural excellence is the whole enchilada, I don't know what the fuck more can be asked.
But wait! Wait, seriously, there is more! He doesn't want her right then and there, and she, naturally and eagerly, openly and quite plainly, confesses : "I don't know what's with you, but you're making such an effect upon me...". The candour meanwhile snuffed out of fifteen year olds (I'd know), there, all there, in an adolescent whore (who also dances -- not necessarily because she "wants to", I suspect ; but plainly because she must). What more could you ask for ?
I don't know what more you'd know to ask for, but there's more there : she's quite ready to die for him. Not, importantly, eminently not in the false, deceitful manner of the stupid cunts. She's actually willing (if not all that eager, definitely quite decisively decided) to sacrifice herself : she'll use as a pretext for distracting the cop the transparently false yet objectively unescapable story that "c'e l'ho con te perche non my hai pagato".
Rarely does cinema render a perfect, flawless gem of utter truth ; but for this inclusion in Ossessione, it definitely has a leg in the running for "best film ever made". Because, again, the minor character of Anita is perfection incarnate, definitive and absolute. May you live just long enough to see it with your own eyes, like I have.
Originally the point of the ComIntern was the recreation of the national world around professional lines. That was the "advanced conception" of Yegg central : the observation that national loyalty is problematic at best, seeing how everyone spends all the time immersed in the same nation, and loyalty requires difference, constantly and reliably observed to maintain itselfix ; coupled with the proposition that "professional lines" would in practice work out a lot better. If truckers were to be loyal to other truckersx, rather than to "other people in general", went the proposal, then on one hand at the micro level most taxpaying schmucks are ever concerned with this'd produce much stronger loyalties than any kind of national conception (especially as the importance of filiation and the clan diminishes under the dissolutive factors of "urban" life in the prole ghettos), and on the other hand at the macro level the merdaccias "in charge" would... you know, the usual. Matterxi, and be important, and all that broken kid escapist fantasism.
Meanwhile the fifth international (aka pantsuit central) has vaguely progressed on this theory : the 4th international schmucks discussed above would've perhaps... what exactly ? Maybe a strike ? Maybe street aggitation ? Well, no more of that : the 5th international has whole professional groups simply lie (as directed by Yegg central). Since they're more loyal to each other than to anything else and since they're also too fucking stupid (intellectually limited, if you prefer) to figure much out on their own, this works beautifully in theory and not that shabbily in practice, either! It started softly enough with obscure nonsense, at first "earth scientists" (whathever the fuck those are) agreeing-by-consensus "there's a global warming". Then "epidemiologists", whatever that is, also agreeing-by-consensus (same exact mechanism, mind) "there's a pandemic" and so in this vein. Meanwhile of course everyone's long agreed nothing can ever work nor meaningful action at all possible, and well...
I've got popcorn. Lots and lots of popcorn.———
- Maybe not you or yours ; but absolutely me and mine, let me assure you. Or rather... let me re-assure you : much like any notion of divinity you may under any heading entertain substantially consists of me, any sort or manner of a general notion of "the public" strictly consists of mine. Yours don't matter, and you... you aren't anybody. [↩]
- I'm using shorter paragraphs, how is it working out for you ? [↩]
- Now Ima gonna have to fish that thing out of the archive, what can I do. In the interim there's also this fragment. [↩]
- I'm too lazy to dig out where exactly on Trilema one finds plainly discussed this lulzy matter, but... well, you've got time. Right ? [↩]
- There's a story somewhere about how Caragiale-father, exasperated by the early pantsuitist airs of his bastard son with a whore who thought herself a telephone opperator, pointed out to a flat portion of his cranium, with the legend (leyenda) that his forefathers having been dough workers, the flat spot is from the tray they carried for their masters. Not noble, but servile extraction, being the important point of pantsuit-pulling-off.
- A few months ago we picked up some local girly. She was out walking her infant while another old enough to walk (just barely) was walking along. As it became obvious to the child that we're actually talking to his mother (language barriers don't enter into this, either -- the kid couldn't speak English and so, aged maybe five, "came up", "all on his own", with the "idea" he shouldn't have to, because this isn't America!!!) the kid proceeded to... expose her breasts and lift her skirt. Systematically, relentlessly, as his principal focus and only activity.
Because, as I later explained to my own, human sexuality is a complex and far reaching machinery, and the child old enough to notice there's no father around will, systematically and unyieldingly, expose his mother to passing men. This is not coincidence but function, and if yours starts doing it to you, there you have it, everyone, even five year olds can tell.
I don't remember if, or where, I discussed this on Trilema before. Have I ? Maybe I didn't, speaking of which, is anywhere written down the story of social sexual behaviour in humans, whereby the female oh yes, here we go. [↩]
- You could say he was hired by the brothel she worked at to do this, I suppose. It'd be about as credible as the proposition that the kids playing were similarily employed. Here's the sad fact of the matter : the whole song and dance of employment is merely a substitute. It tries to recreate a society that functions out of a jumbled pile that doesn't. What we see here is an actually functioning society -- the gent is no more employed by the girl's putative employer than the john is. He's just doing a service, per piacere, per cortesia, so the world doesn't suck -- as period Italy very much didn't suck, at least in some people's recollection. [↩]
- Do you understand how all this crap is naught but female anxiety made manifest ? [↩]
- Yes, hence the "jew" fantasy of the earlier socialism, of course. [↩]
- The Italian socialists even out and out say it, "solidarieta di categoria", right ? [↩]
- I can't now find where in the early days we laughed at the "authorities" deciding to "authorize" Burning Man (the festival) and demanding "in exchange" the organizers provide them with accommodations (the whole thing was a camping affair). It yelled out so patently "I'm a pencildick who figures he's gonna ride this here she-herd because look, badge!!!" I couldn't believe, but of course meanwhile it got snowed in and buried under the putative "free men" being unable to as much as get a beer truck going. [↩]