Peg4.com Weblog

Nowadays a curious trend may be observed – the comebacks of old rock’n’roll, heavy-metal, blues and rock bands, who managed to outlast their gerontologists and self-survive. Like Phoenixes, they tend to rise from ashes and to bombard the audience with their ubiquitous presence. They come up with new albums, tours and designs, though their image stays pretty much the same. Sometimes these retrospective shows produce touching effect (like Judas Priest), arouse pity (like The Kiss) or perplexity (like Dead Can Dance). Though sometimes they can really astonish you and make you wonder what makes then still roll. The only case of the last is The Rolling Stones, who despite everything are still able to give a good drive and prove that time is virtually nothing. Though the idea itself of restoring what should have gone long time ago is not that good. Rock should give the feeling of strength, fill you with power and energy and to charge you with a lot of stamina, not make you anticipate the inevitable end. Rock should have young outlook, not the faded face and the remnants of the hair. Rock should always adjust to time, not mirror the gone days. Rockers should change in the course of time, not always stay the same, with the same make-ups and costumes. Of course, it might be believed that stability is the feature of professionalism, that nostalgia for the past days is greater then the desire of new, that present-day art can’t be rivaled to the romance and drive of seventies. Well, perhaps. The older you become, the more you start to look back and long for those days. But on the other hand, the older you become, the younger you would like to be. But when you come to a concert and hear the songs you heard million years ago, you start counting you age. When you look at the stage and spot the faded faces and thinned out hair, you realize you are not getting younger either. Don’t think it is that much of a pleasure. Everything good is good in its season. What is passing should pass. And in case something is rock’n’rolling away, so let it roll.

The other boring and meaningless screening interpretation of Zorro has been introduced to the public. This time it is The Legend of Zorro starring Antonio Banderas and Catherine Zeta-Jones. The lack of at least somehow comprehensible plot or convincing actors’ performance is to some extent compensated by the comical effect. It even seems weird why the producers haven’t classified this movie as a comedy. Doubt that? So pay attention to the laugh-out-loud way the actors are goggling their hazel-nut eyes, blowing out their nostrils, swinging their arms and legs, kissing, etc., doing it more than the audience may chew. Though all this obviously hasn’t been sufficient for the film directors, so they decided to strengthen the fun-effect by introducing the Zorro-son who is behaving off his age (by the way, this very fact makes you think the next sequel will probably include Zorro-grandchildren). And of course, they couldn’t have done without thrillingly juicy explosion scene – what a Hollywood film without it! So, ladies and gentlemen, enjoy the dynamite-crammed train, which explodes in a rather spectacular way. All in all the film is a perfect time-eater, especially if you have any other deadline to meet.

Computer games are pretty suitable objects for screening, because the popularity with viewers and smashed book-office records are primordially guaranteed. Every person who has at least once switched on a computer to shoot the other hundred of monsters will hardly resist the temptation to witness the wiping out of the same creatures on a big screen. And if the title of the game is only used with such attribute as cult", then the fans of it are sure to come to the first night with the couple of friend to step into the shoes of a real keyboard knight armed with joystick and mouse. Though even the most trivial shooting game may be shot as a real piece of art, which is not quite the case of Andrew's Bartkowiak's Doom.
Contrasted to it even Lara Croft looks like a real masterpiece. Perhaps it is because the Doom is purely masculine, with robust machos with guns, and no place was left for such beauties as Angelina Jolly.

I’m not going to dwell upon my attitude to all those mawkish remakes and remixes of Jim Morrison’s songs by all those rap and DJ freaks – no one could be interested in it anyway. I’ll just describe what I feel. At a club party heard the remix by Snoop Dogg and DJ BT. All I wanted was an intoxicant amount of drinks or something of the kind to switch off and not to hear these pieces of … remakes. And this is what I normally feel while listening to Jim himself:

The day has gone. I open my window, unlock the door and close my eyes. I merge into the shadow of the night’s wing. Darkness; complete, scaring silence. The consciousness is wondering somewhere in the floods of truth. Thirst and blood, sand and eternity. Desert. I’m looking for Him. I’m on the right way – for I’ve deserved it. Because I live, being constantly burnt; live, being born postdeathly; live between short flashes of orgasms.