Archive for Deborah Lipp

Monday Movie Review: Frankenstein Unbound

Frankenstein Unbound (1990) 6/10
In the 24th Century, a scientist (John Hurt) invents a weapon with the unfortunate side-effect of creating rips in the space-time continuum. Falling through one such rip, he lands in the 19th Century, where he meets Victor von Frankenstein (Raul Julia), his monster, and Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin (the future Mary Shelley—Bridget Fonda). Directed by cheese-master Roger Corman.

This is the sort of movie that is very hard to review. An objective rating is impossible, as one’s love of bad camp, high corn, and general silly antics must come into play. The movie combines some extremely pseudo-intellectual philosophizing with enthusiastically gruesome violence. The sex is, sadly, underemphasized in favor of the gore and Deep Meaning.

Personally, I prefer my cheesy movies with nipples.

None of the philosophizing makes all that much sense. Hurt makes a maddeningly unscientific scientist. He doesn’t care a damn bit about the repercussions of time travel, and never notices that every other scientist who has ever discussed the subject has been concerned with changing the future by introducing modern technology into the past. His character, Dr. Buchanan, is simply delighted to show anyone who’ll look his cool car, his cool watch, and even a printout of the book Mary Shelley has not yet finished. Having created a horrific phenomenon with his laser weapon, he has no apparent compunctions about using it again, even as it becomes more and more destructive to reality. All this while acknowledging that he, too, is a Frankenstein, having created his own monster. Maybe the point is that mad scientists love their monsters. Despite all the verbal rumination, they never got to that idea, but Raul Julia expresses it indirectly in a mad, look-at-my-crazy-eyes sort of way. Julia was cool.

Dr. Buchanan is incurious about the past, he just wants to have fun in it. He thinks it’s cool to meet people he’s read about, and he thinks he can save people from their errors (ignoring, again, the time paradox) simply by saying, quite forcefully, that he’s right. It’s amusing how John Hurt is so emphatically not an action hero. In scenes where he’s in a hurry, where Bruce or Arnie or Clint or Pierce would race like the wind, Hurt sort of gently trots, at a pace just enough above walking to convey he is concerned.

Buchanan’s characterization is problematic, the stupid enormous plot holes considerably less so. One doesn’t watch a movie like this because it is smart. Dumb would be great if the hero were not so much a dork.

But hey, Frankenstein Unbound has fun moments. You have to admire a movie that has the future Mary Shelley say “Byron and Shelley preach free love. I practice it” before getting the hero into bed. And my heavens he looks so happy afterwards! That is one fine post-coital moment. And any movie in which a monster rips off his own arm in order to beat someone with it has got to earn points for enthusiasm. Way to go! I don’t usually find “funny” gore funny, but come on, that’s a riot!

Wiccan Headstone News

A very good summary of the situation. As the article pointed out, this fight has been going on for over a decade. Every time another Wiccan veteran dies, the next petition circulates. Wiccans and other Pagans have been working tirelessly, slogging through oceans of red tape, for years and years.

Why then, [Pagans] ask, has their religion been snubbed when more than 30 others – including such relatively obscure ones as Seicho-No-Ie, Eckankar, Sufism and Humanism – are permitted? Even atheists have their own approved symbol, which features an atom and the letter ”A” in the center.

This always baffles me. It never seems like religious prejudice when you read that, because these are not well-loved groups in conservative corners. Here’s one reason:

In a step interpreted as partially smoothing the way for Pentacle approval, the VA’s National Cemetery Administration amended a rule last October that had been a bureaucratic roadblock. Until then, applicants had to submit a letter from a ”recognized central head” of the faith attesting to the fact that the requested symbol in fact represented the religion.

Because the Wiccan faith and its related sects are substantially decentralized, that requirement was essentially impossible to meet. Now, the National Cemetery Administration asks for a letter from ”a recognized leader.”

Energy exercize

When you’re raising energy in a group, most people just do something together. They all drum. Or they all “Om.” Or they meditate together.

But different people are…different. Their experience, temperment, and ability to respond and move with energy are different. They have different comfort levels, and different experiences of pleasure.

Try this:

In a group, first do something together to get a feel for that. Om or breath together or something.

Then everyone do something different. One person drum, one person Om, one person breath, one person clap hands or shake a rattle, and so on.

It’s powerful to discover that you’re all still together. There’s a beauty to it. I don’t see a lot of Pagans exploring that beauty of being different together. Try it.

The buzz she begins

CommanderBond.net has a nice preview up of The Ultimate James Bond Fan Book. The article also links to a discussion topic on their forums, which has been lively.

It’s Here!

I have the very first copies of The Way of Four Spellbook in my hands right now! Booksellers should have them in a week or so. Oooh, baby!

If there were good news

Day before yesterday I was listening to Randi Rhodes and a caller made what I thought was an extremely astute observation. He was from Pearl River, NY which is right local to me, so I was paying particular attention.

‘If there really was good news from Iraq’, said the caller, ‘Fox News would be broadcasting it 24/7. They wouldn’t be reaching for spin on the bad news. It’d be all good news all the time.’

Friday Kittenblogging: The Cute

Sometimes their cutest stuff happens when picture-taking is impossible. Like when Fanty cries and reaches to be put into my lap. Meow meow and poking me with her little paws, but she won’t just jump up. So at last I pick her up and put her in my lap and then suddenly WHAMMO Mingo is in my lap. It’s a little awkward. Sort of like it’s a Dr. Seuss story and cats will just keep appearing and appearing.

More supercat

I am LONG! I am INVINCIBLE!
» Read more..

Dying Dinosaurs

Per Shakes, fewer people are opposed to gay marriage.

Here’s my thinking: I actually think that what’s happening is, as the issue comes to the fore (thanks to the homobigots) more and more gay couples are just speaking plainly about why they’d like to marry.

It is always much easier to be bigoted against an abstract than against a person. The “wedge issue” has created a condition in which conservatives are, for the first time, being exposed to Teh Gay as persons.

Thing is, the homobigots are dinosaurs and they know it. I’ve seen studies that suggest close to 80% of people under the age of 25 are in favor of legal gay marriage. The bigots are going to die out, and they are in the anger and denial stages. They are thrashing around destroying the foliage like dinosaurs in their final throes.

Say goodbye to the bigots, Timmy.

One day last June

Here’s what happened to me one day last June. I’ve told this story a lot. It’s time to write it down.

The setting is a Pagan festival. Some of you will know some or all of the people and places, but names have been changed. Suffice it to say there’s a lot of history, a lot of people who’ve known each other for a lot of years, and it’s a very special and magical place to be.

It begins with a full body massage around 11 a.m. This is a very powerful way to start the day. After that I taught two classes back-to-back. So I’m in this very shifting state; the deep relaxation and healing of massage, followed by a whoosh into teaching focusing reciting engaging being in the right place on time. Plus, teaching’s always a little dehydrating, all that talk talk talk. Never ideal after a massage. But anyway.

Now comes my friend “Alice.” (Don’t those quotes make me look like Ann Landers?) Alice is dying. This festival is where I met her, some fourteen years before. She used to come every year. Now she has cancer and wants to come to Festival one last time. I haven’t seen her in two years. Her sister is picking her up at the hospice and is bringing her to the festival. She is expected to arrive around 5 p.m. Alice’s ex-husband is also at the festival, and she doesn’t want to see him, or indeed for him to know she’s there. So there’s a certain amount of sneaking around involved in seeing her. So my inner energy flow now looks like: Healing-rushing-focusing-grieving-sneaking. Which is a little unmanageable.

So I find Alice and we hang out and we talk and hug and she wants my shirt. Demands my shirt. And I think I can give it to her, and then I think “Her sister will give it back to me soon, anyway.” That’s a hateful thought. I can’t bear that I thought it. To avoid acknowledging the thought, I refuse to give her the shirt.

I go back to camp for dinner, but no one is there, because everyone is at the tattoo ritual. One of our clan is getting a big piece on his chest, a beautiful Ganesha. I walk to the tattoo booth, and from a distance I can hear the chanting. There are a dozen or more people gathered around, giving energy to the tattooing, chanting

Jai Ganesha, Jai Ganesha, Jai Ganesha, Pahiman
Sri Ganesha, Sri Ganesha, Sri Ganesha, Rakshaman

As I arrive, the wife of the guy getting tattooed has just gotten up from her seat next to her husband, in the center of this wall of sound (she later told me it was becoming overwhelming for her). So the seat is empty, I walk up, and Being Tattooed Guy beckons me right into the center. Another whoosh, from Alice to this deep, vibrant, sacred space. I am there, chanting, in the center of it all, for maybe forty-five minutes. The artist finishes by coloring the Om in the center of Ganesha’s forehead, and we change the chant to Om.

The artist begins to clean up. People get up to leave. All at once, I just burst into tears, and sob and sob with big heaving gulping deep-belly sobs. Then it passes. (The people who held me while I sobbed had no idea what my day had been. They were just there for me. I explained much later.)

I walk back to camp. Now I’m really DAMN hungry. The path from tattoo place to camp place has merchants. I see Alice and her sisters at the bookseller’s. They’re buying The Way of Four. I go in to talk with them. Alice demands an autograph. Then she demands my shirt. Now she’s actually tugging at it, which would be weird from some people, but is not unlike Alice. So I take it off and give it to her, and walk back to camp topless.

Coda: Alice died in October, and her ashes were scattered at the festival site, at the big tree where she always camped. Her sister says she wore my shirt constantly for all her remaining days. I’m getting the shirt back in June.

The Cats Ate My Homework

For Spring Equinox, we planted seeds. It was really beautiful. Also silly, because thyme seeds turn out to be borderline microscopic, and none of us could pick them up in order to plant them. Next year, back to peas.

Anyway, so I had these microscopic seeds sprinkled across the top of this mini-greenhouse kit, sitting in the window soaking up the sun.

Then cats happened.

Now I don’t know what to do. I cleaned up the dirt that was all over the kitchen counter, and I put as much of the loose dirt as possible into my rosemary plant. Some of the microscopic seeds might have gotten in there too, and might germinate. Or not. My loose plan is now to have rosemary bread in ritual in June instead of thyme bread.

But it does sort of feel like Mingo and Fanty have prevented spring from coming, the rat bastards. That’s Arthur’s new name for them: Bastards With Paws.