Antonio:
I came across these lines from a very old book of the Aeneid by Virgil. It sums up
much of what goes on today. People attack and attack and attack, but men and
women with true character stand fast while the rest fall away.
Uni odisque viro telisque frequentibus instant.
Ille velut rupes vastum quae prodit in aequor,
Obvia ventorum furus, expostaque ponto,
Vim cunctam, atque minas ferfet coelique marisque,
Ipsa immota manens.
They attack this one man with their hate and their shower of weapons.
But he is like some rock which stretches into the vast sea and which,
exposed to the fury of the winds and beaten against by the waves, endures
all the violence and threats of heaven and sea, himself standing unmoved.
Virgil, Aeneid
A great thought from a great man at a time when greatness is personified
by the truly small-minded.
Giovanni
August 27, 2009
August 19, 2009
Giovanni's Pocket Oxford - Cliche'
Dear 'extremely cantankerous person':
How many times have you come across the cliche' "not that there's anything wrong with that"? This hackneyed phrase goes on and on from pen to mouth without letting up, and of course, what is usually meant concerns an often-overused opinion of one kind or another. If truth were told, there is found in the realm of opinions "much that is wrong with that."
Giovanni
How many times have you come across the cliche' "not that there's anything wrong with that"? This hackneyed phrase goes on and on from pen to mouth without letting up, and of course, what is usually meant concerns an often-overused opinion of one kind or another. If truth were told, there is found in the realm of opinions "much that is wrong with that."
Giovanni
August 17, 2009
Giovanni's Review of GLENN MARTIN, DDS
To Ragazzino:
I can do without Michael Eisner's petty show and without those servants that parade this measly stuff. Mr. Eisner is rather pleased with himself, I see, but no matter what costumes he dresses his talents in, they still have a distinct odor not unlike the smell of clothes washed in a camper's toilet. That a person would fob a thing off on the public such as this driveling cartoon shows Eisner's vanity, which I suppose is colossal. I am sure that he could do better if he were willing to try. To those who would prefer a review with more homely imagery and quiet phrases, I am sorry for them, for I am afraid I must disappoint their expectations.
Giovanni
August 17, 2009
Raggazino, we should not give the impression that we are willing to be pleasing at any cost when stupidity gallops freely throughout the world.
I can do without Michael Eisner's petty show and without those servants that parade this measly stuff. Mr. Eisner is rather pleased with himself, I see, but no matter what costumes he dresses his talents in, they still have a distinct odor not unlike the smell of clothes washed in a camper's toilet. That a person would fob a thing off on the public such as this driveling cartoon shows Eisner's vanity, which I suppose is colossal. I am sure that he could do better if he were willing to try. To those who would prefer a review with more homely imagery and quiet phrases, I am sorry for them, for I am afraid I must disappoint their expectations.
Giovanni
August 17, 2009
Raggazino, we should not give the impression that we are willing to be pleasing at any cost when stupidity gallops freely throughout the world.
August 5, 2009
Jughead (Review)
For his nine hundred ninety-ninth feature film, British director Sam Smoothy (Amsterdam Hybris) turns to the pages of Anthony Advice's 999 book on his experiences in the Golf War, and enlists the aid of William W. Willy-Willy, Sr. - a former Marine Captain who fought in Jungle I - to convert the story into a credible screenplay. Smoothy's film weaves back and forth (a usual cinematic device) in excruciating Heavy Metal Tin Pot territory in the first twenty-five minutes, with young recruit Swaphead (Jeke Nolopololo) undertaking some rigorous basic training under the glowering, unwavering gaze of constantly shouting Staff Sgt. Sanctum (Dick Dock). Impressed with Swaphead's reading material in basic training - The French Philosophy of Canute Camuck, Sanctum invites Swaphead to become part of his secretly-shrouded team of raiders known as "The Lightnin' Fleas of Flambeau", and partners him with ubergrunt-recruit Joe (Matthew Hicycle), who both finish first in Basic Potato Peeling and Sniping, ultimately taking them to Desert Canyon to fight in the first Golf War. Once they arrive in the punishing desert heat, the long wait for battle with the ticks, bed bugs, and assorted vermin, known collectively as the National Leftist Liberation Army of Creepy Crawlers (NLLACC), does not immediately begin, putting them all in danger of being destroyed by a bombardment of golf balls that periodically falls around them. Not being used to inaction, Swaphead and Joe nearly go out of their minds doing nothing from the long wait under the intense sun shining pitilessly down upon their heads. They threaten to take more personal action but Sergeant Sanctum convinces them that, in due time, they will be needed by the General Staff for a secret mission that only they are capable of accomplishing with any measure of success. So they wait. And wait. And wait, until gradually the searing heat takes its toll on the Marines around them who begin running off in all directions lobbing grenades at sand hills, shooting flies out of the air with machine guns, holding midnight raids on the chow halls, and chasing SKIRTS with the points of their bayonets, while all the time shrieking like sun-crazed maniacs. As you can imagine, it is frustrating being in a desert war. You have little water but the warm mouthfuls you carry in a plastic canteen that reminds you of urine as you tilt it to your lips and stare dizzily into the burning sun. This was the standstill for writer Anthony Advice, who found himself going into "action" but not seeing it before his naked eyes, and director Smoothy rakes it across the screen in smooth lines of torment and boredom that the soldiers encounter. Drawing on the experience of acclaimed cinematographer Dink Donkin (The Shuttlecock Redeemer) to help cinema goers understand exactly what misery it is that Marines have to undergo in the punishing desert heat, Smoothy's film marches deeply into untamed territory, the likes of which many movie watchers haven't seen since Sheeni Martini lost his mental balance in that acclaimed but totally overrated epic Archipelago of Snuff. Indeed, Smoothy deploys a few similar tactics that made F.F.F. Copenhagen's 999 film so effective: a hip-hopper opera soundtrack that uses songs from artists as varied as Garbage Monster City, Public Enemy of Ham n' Eggs and The Goons, and the feeling of disillusionment and futility is brought to bear on the minds of the soldiers filling the screen with smoke from the fires that seem to drift in from all corners of nowhere and blackens the desert sky. Intelligently, Smoothy stops in mid-track with a moment of humor to overcome the monotony of their daily routine, when Swaphead, Joe, and their team discover a mysterious rocket found in their midst, long and white and smoking furiously from one end. Fearing that it might explode at any moment, Swaphead enlists the team to urinate on it and diffuse the hot warhead. Swaphead receives a medal for his cool, determined action in the face of death. Avoiding any overt antiwar sentiments (antiwar has often been confused and misread in books and films for decades), Smoothy tries very hard to provide a thoughtful account of life in the modern military, demonstrating how technology has made the job of soldiering all but redundant, creating disaffected troops who are as much a threat to each other as the enemy they wait to slaughter in the sandpits of hell--which is how Smoothy would like the viewer to see it on the screen. But real honest-to-goodness flea soldiers know that this is an unrealistic view of soldiering. There is much more to fleas in fatigues than we usually find portrayed in contemporary Hollywhacked blockbusters. Even in pre-999 war movies there is much to be taken seriously and directors such as Smoothy fail to take this into consideration. Smoothy is a cut above the flag-waving propagandist but only just, as are the directors in his league who bring to film their own unbalanced soul-searching and inner turmoil. They display their personal nobility of forces to justify their power or lack thereof, by harshly criticizing an enemy or even those they deem less than their intellectual equals (home-grown enemies)--and in essence all films are propaganda--who makes it is a moot point. The question must be asked why do these newer films sell only once to an unsuspecting public with their updated propagandist tendencies and tossed over at a tenth of their original price, while classic films of propagandist or national interest last in the memory for decades and the demand for them only increases? But it is not for me to burden Smoothy or other filmmakers with tough questions that they may be unable or unwilling to answer. The director's job is to direct. Smoothy's film is strong in some points, his lighting of the desert for instance, but gives an overall appearance of being orchestrated by a gang of back-seat monkeys wielding shotguns. Anthony Advice's book swoons over the burden of war without ever having fired a shot, and Smoothy's direction picks up the broken pieces of Advice's dismay through William W. Willy-Willy, Sr.'s screenplay about a war he wasn't even a part of and we get an off into the wild-brown-over-there war movie angst vs. cockroach vs. Spanish Flea. Jeke Nolopololo ought to have stayed at home and baked oatmeal cookies for his dog instead of oo-rahing into the night with wooden-legged player Matthew Hicycle, who likewise, would have been better off elsewhere. Dick Dock's Sanctum at least, has the physical appearance of a Marine Staff Sergeant, although he does have an annoying habit of scratching whenever he is about to speak, which isn't as often as he is shouting. Sally Diddley (Blogger's Cafe' 999) gives a brilliant but brief one minute performance as Air Force Colonel Doodli Dudley before she mysteriously spins off into who knows where. Jughead is an intense catastrophe of a movie waiting for an alibi by everyone involved, actors, director, producers, who can offer no credible excuse for being part of such a disaster. Nothing happens. The old spark is gone and someone has to be unlucky enough to tell the cast and crew the bad news. The unnerving honesty of a war film is covered over by bombs and burning bushes while the Marines give sleepy interviews to eager journalists that are apparently asking questions far out of harm's reach. What this film loses (a sense of purpose) it makes up for with a greater velocity into the mindlessness of other war films such as Kubra Dick's Blondes in Big Wigs, specifically the boot camp scenes, and leans heavily on Oliver Rhinestones Schlock at War Trilogy. References to other war films cannot save Sam Smoothy's Jughead from motion picture oblivion. Smoothy, as all contemporary directors seem to do, feels compelled to sink what might have been a meaningful film with gratuitous crap language, smarmy leftist violence, and indigenous vermin nonsense. The fleas just don't get it anymore.
Giovanni
What other reviewers are saying:
3 stars out of 5 - "Sun melting on butter!" The Gonzo GoNightly - Glenda Glantz (9/99/999)
5 stars out of 5 - Jughead inches you up to the brink of disaster and drops you on your head." - Rolling Bone - Itch Jones (9/99/999)
"It was William Shakeflea who wrote: "Compare this play to a swan or crow, and I will make you think this swans a cow." - The London Box Office - R.L. Loo Rav (9/99/999)
"A misplaced agression." - New York Times & Fishwrapper - Crowthly Bowsler 9/99/999)
5 stars - "I went to the movies to fill the empty vessel that is my head, ready and waiting for the history and myth that's spliced from the director's chair, and I wasn't disappointed. Sam Smoothy gave this impressionable wannabe gal gyrene a buzzcut experience like no other." - Saturday Night's Covered with Alice - Alice Ben-Decht (9/99/999)
"Six legs up! I was mesmerized as the fleas moved silently up to the rim of the sandpit...I can't give away the ending. Another war movie without a shot being fired!" - Chicago Lake Sun Times - Roger eBogarte (9/99/999)
Giovanni
What other reviewers are saying:
3 stars out of 5 - "Sun melting on butter!" The Gonzo GoNightly - Glenda Glantz (9/99/999)
5 stars out of 5 - Jughead inches you up to the brink of disaster and drops you on your head." - Rolling Bone - Itch Jones (9/99/999)
"It was William Shakeflea who wrote: "Compare this play to a swan or crow, and I will make you think this swans a cow." - The London Box Office - R.L. Loo Rav (9/99/999)
"A misplaced agression." - New York Times & Fishwrapper - Crowthly Bowsler 9/99/999)
5 stars - "I went to the movies to fill the empty vessel that is my head, ready and waiting for the history and myth that's spliced from the director's chair, and I wasn't disappointed. Sam Smoothy gave this impressionable wannabe gal gyrene a buzzcut experience like no other." - Saturday Night's Covered with Alice - Alice Ben-Decht (9/99/999)
"Six legs up! I was mesmerized as the fleas moved silently up to the rim of the sandpit...I can't give away the ending. Another war movie without a shot being fired!" - Chicago Lake Sun Times - Roger eBogarte (9/99/999)
August 1, 2009
A Boring Pairie Home (Letter to Ludo Sforzi)
Ludo,
I have amended my letter somewhat and added a few new thoughts. First, ours is an age when nearly everyone can be bought for the right price, whether it is with money, political power, or social persuasion of numerous ordinary kinds. This is no time for tears or thinking better not to have been born, but a time for comforting the human spirit in an aftermath of nearly incomprehensible comedic tragedy.
Now, as to your question about Garrison Kiellor: I have listened to many of his radio broadcasts in the past and I have read a number of his more recent newspaper commentaries. When I first began to listen to A Prairie Home Companion, I thought that the monologues were skilfully edited and recorded but slightly tedious. He arranges and projects his monologues in a learned monotonous manner, using country commonplaces, events, people, and places such as the fictional town of Lake Wobegone, Minnesota. They are quite believable. It makes me believe that rural Minnesotans are actually like they are in Kiellor's imagination. Certainly it is a draw for many of his listeners. I am afraid that it will do little to drive away the impression for many that Minnesotans are generally politically and socially addlebrained. Which we know is nonsense but hold to the illusion of truth.
As time went on I listened while I worked, like the good sort of elfin that I am. One day I put down my hammer and the shoes I was working on because my early fascination with Kiellor's radio discourses was slowly beginning to crumble. That his programs still sells to audiences all over, as I understand it, is not much of a factor. We are all of us slow to rise our minds from listening to the dead. I think that Kiellor unknowingly projects (to use an old term) a kind of learned Bohemianism, a picture of a free and irregular life that is only supposed to affect someone in the arts and not the rest of us. This is an uncomplimentary bogy in writing but compelling to many of his listeners, for they are distracted by the stories or by his praise in the marketplace. The ready answer for us is that there exists a place for cultural analysis, fairly without animosity.
Many of Garrison Kiellor's committed listeners are simply unable to disengage. More recently upon reading his newspaper commentaries, I believe that I have found him to be less a humorist and more the appalling cynic. His bona fide in the radio programs I do not question, but his good faith in the written comments I do. His one-sided and overused interpretations of many people and their motives are beginning to wear. Particularly, if those same do not measure to a preconceived opinion found only in more nervy, wire strung individuals, and far worse, he writes as though he owed no person anything. Kiellor's inhumane view of others with differing viewpoints contradicts his learning and the image he attempts to project of himself as the all-around good guy with the humorist's look upon life.
There appears to be no economy of style or judicious wording present in the commentaries. It is all a dark look at other people and their psychological frame of reference and nothing at all of who we are in this human thing together. What is really being presented is a faux beauty. A variety of smoothed-over vulgarities and sycophantesque masks in place of a jack-pudding face of imagination is what I am reading. Once all of the groups in Kiellor's repertoire in which it is easy to make a joke about without troubling himself are gone, what is left? It is easy to make jokes about characters in a piece of fiction but an incredible stretch to go from there to making constant and offensive cracks about living people in an ongoing public forum. It is not only that, it is stupid and in bad taste. He manipulates his readers and bullies his antagonists by evoking a subtle hostility towards them.
The road from humor to criticism often follows a mean path. We should not often flatter ourselves into believing we are modern reincarnations of Mark Twain. Too soon desperation sets in, and we find that unlike Twain we are no longer funny. Mark Twain was not a desperate man. If we don't think that he was natural, we don't think. Here I break with Garrison Kiellor. The bare facts speak for themselves: that he holds no moral righteousness is most persuasive. I find him in his writings smooth and smug, and condescending to those he dislikes. His focus is artificial and it is here also that the demons lurking in the pit of his imagination are beginning to falter. They are becoming unruly and disobedient and he no longer has what is needed to tame them. The major newspapers have pretty much a monopoly in the area of who will appear in print. Kiellor's commentaries appear because of their beneficence towards him and it is unlikely to be any other way. It is inevitable that the press blows hot and cold.
Do not be discouraged or criticize him more than is needful for that will be harmful to you. That there are so many people today who publicly poison the wells of civility without any remorse, and who will make no concessions of any kind towards the people they kick is not to be underestimated. They are drinking the pure waters of terrorism. They make a show of being grand gentlemen and ladies; some do not even pretend to that elevation but make much of being coarse and crude. In my judgment they use the hands of authority to abuse, condemn, and ridicule. In his writings Kiellor makes astounding statements that are obviously not true. Should Kiellor hold too long on his present course of condemnation of people like yourself he will find no safe haven. Eventually his support will falter even if it does not completely fade away. Certainly, at the very least, he will die like all of us are destined to do, and he will be buried with honors by his peers. His abuse then will come to an abrupt and perhaps unwilling end. Ludo, it is much safer to be kind than to be totally condemning.
I am sure that Kiellor will be remembered for the distinctive style of his early A Prairie Home Companion work. In that I wish him well. As a critic he is bitter and vehement. It's too early to tell how he will end up. I think that he is nearing seventy years of age and habits die hard, especially if we do not turn them while we still can; that is, while we are young enough to know better and not old enough to be arrogant in the place of sense and duty. Nostalgia is not all that it is made up to be. Sometimes it is a pile of tripe. Perhaps Garrison Kiellor has abandoned his dreams. His is not really a warm and fuzzy personality.
Giovanni
P.S. If you are going to quarrel don't quarrel over goat's wool, Ludo. It's all or nothing.
Think of Aristotle's example of a syllogism:
All men are mortal.
Demetrius is a man.
Therefore Demetrius is mortal.
I have amended my letter somewhat and added a few new thoughts. First, ours is an age when nearly everyone can be bought for the right price, whether it is with money, political power, or social persuasion of numerous ordinary kinds. This is no time for tears or thinking better not to have been born, but a time for comforting the human spirit in an aftermath of nearly incomprehensible comedic tragedy.
Now, as to your question about Garrison Kiellor: I have listened to many of his radio broadcasts in the past and I have read a number of his more recent newspaper commentaries. When I first began to listen to A Prairie Home Companion, I thought that the monologues were skilfully edited and recorded but slightly tedious. He arranges and projects his monologues in a learned monotonous manner, using country commonplaces, events, people, and places such as the fictional town of Lake Wobegone, Minnesota. They are quite believable. It makes me believe that rural Minnesotans are actually like they are in Kiellor's imagination. Certainly it is a draw for many of his listeners. I am afraid that it will do little to drive away the impression for many that Minnesotans are generally politically and socially addlebrained. Which we know is nonsense but hold to the illusion of truth.
As time went on I listened while I worked, like the good sort of elfin that I am. One day I put down my hammer and the shoes I was working on because my early fascination with Kiellor's radio discourses was slowly beginning to crumble. That his programs still sells to audiences all over, as I understand it, is not much of a factor. We are all of us slow to rise our minds from listening to the dead. I think that Kiellor unknowingly projects (to use an old term) a kind of learned Bohemianism, a picture of a free and irregular life that is only supposed to affect someone in the arts and not the rest of us. This is an uncomplimentary bogy in writing but compelling to many of his listeners, for they are distracted by the stories or by his praise in the marketplace. The ready answer for us is that there exists a place for cultural analysis, fairly without animosity.
Many of Garrison Kiellor's committed listeners are simply unable to disengage. More recently upon reading his newspaper commentaries, I believe that I have found him to be less a humorist and more the appalling cynic. His bona fide in the radio programs I do not question, but his good faith in the written comments I do. His one-sided and overused interpretations of many people and their motives are beginning to wear. Particularly, if those same do not measure to a preconceived opinion found only in more nervy, wire strung individuals, and far worse, he writes as though he owed no person anything. Kiellor's inhumane view of others with differing viewpoints contradicts his learning and the image he attempts to project of himself as the all-around good guy with the humorist's look upon life.
There appears to be no economy of style or judicious wording present in the commentaries. It is all a dark look at other people and their psychological frame of reference and nothing at all of who we are in this human thing together. What is really being presented is a faux beauty. A variety of smoothed-over vulgarities and sycophantesque masks in place of a jack-pudding face of imagination is what I am reading. Once all of the groups in Kiellor's repertoire in which it is easy to make a joke about without troubling himself are gone, what is left? It is easy to make jokes about characters in a piece of fiction but an incredible stretch to go from there to making constant and offensive cracks about living people in an ongoing public forum. It is not only that, it is stupid and in bad taste. He manipulates his readers and bullies his antagonists by evoking a subtle hostility towards them.
The road from humor to criticism often follows a mean path. We should not often flatter ourselves into believing we are modern reincarnations of Mark Twain. Too soon desperation sets in, and we find that unlike Twain we are no longer funny. Mark Twain was not a desperate man. If we don't think that he was natural, we don't think. Here I break with Garrison Kiellor. The bare facts speak for themselves: that he holds no moral righteousness is most persuasive. I find him in his writings smooth and smug, and condescending to those he dislikes. His focus is artificial and it is here also that the demons lurking in the pit of his imagination are beginning to falter. They are becoming unruly and disobedient and he no longer has what is needed to tame them. The major newspapers have pretty much a monopoly in the area of who will appear in print. Kiellor's commentaries appear because of their beneficence towards him and it is unlikely to be any other way. It is inevitable that the press blows hot and cold.
Do not be discouraged or criticize him more than is needful for that will be harmful to you. That there are so many people today who publicly poison the wells of civility without any remorse, and who will make no concessions of any kind towards the people they kick is not to be underestimated. They are drinking the pure waters of terrorism. They make a show of being grand gentlemen and ladies; some do not even pretend to that elevation but make much of being coarse and crude. In my judgment they use the hands of authority to abuse, condemn, and ridicule. In his writings Kiellor makes astounding statements that are obviously not true. Should Kiellor hold too long on his present course of condemnation of people like yourself he will find no safe haven. Eventually his support will falter even if it does not completely fade away. Certainly, at the very least, he will die like all of us are destined to do, and he will be buried with honors by his peers. His abuse then will come to an abrupt and perhaps unwilling end. Ludo, it is much safer to be kind than to be totally condemning.
I am sure that Kiellor will be remembered for the distinctive style of his early A Prairie Home Companion work. In that I wish him well. As a critic he is bitter and vehement. It's too early to tell how he will end up. I think that he is nearing seventy years of age and habits die hard, especially if we do not turn them while we still can; that is, while we are young enough to know better and not old enough to be arrogant in the place of sense and duty. Nostalgia is not all that it is made up to be. Sometimes it is a pile of tripe. Perhaps Garrison Kiellor has abandoned his dreams. His is not really a warm and fuzzy personality.
Giovanni
P.S. If you are going to quarrel don't quarrel over goat's wool, Ludo. It's all or nothing.
Think of Aristotle's example of a syllogism:
All men are mortal.
Demetrius is a man.
Therefore Demetrius is mortal.
Cornycopaye (Review)
After a leisurely number of debut seasons, FLEBU's stunningly creative cable-television series Cornycopaye stepped up the pace in round fifty-nine of its allegorical tale of good and evil set against the backdrop of a Twenty-first century traveling circus. By the beginning of the fifty-ninth season, carnival-roustie Scratch Hawkens (Dick Bleak) reveals that he is a credible avatar-cum-circus performer, who has grudgingly accepted his destiny as a "being of light" while continuing to search for his proto-goddess-like mother, Missoula Montana (Henrietta Bo-Simpson), in a gothi-Homeric odyssey that takes him from his demented backwoods clan to an eerily cloying spinner of death shrouds. Meanwhile, Scratch's nemesis, the evil university professor Brother Bat Harvard-Oxford (Clint Clute) does his best to instigate an apocalyptic shootout between Chi Chi Guevaro street urchins and Nemo Nomad's demagogic band of progressive rabble rousers via an increasingly powerful left wing political campaign that invites obvious comparisons to early-2oth-century neosocialist politics. When polar-opposite avatars Scratch and Bat finally meet in the season's final moments, the result is one of the most emotional, profound, and terrifying climaxes in television history. Though it was unduly canceled after the fifty-ninth season (the show was conceived and directed by Daniel Pompadorous Schmittchfeld as a sixty-six season story arc), Cornycopaye is an ephemeral germ that will undoubtedly unfold to become a cult favorite among the upper classes as iconic as that other benchmark of the dark and bizarre, Double Mountains. This collection presents on HDVe all 59 episodes of the unjustly short-lived series' fifty-ninth and final season.
Giovanni
What other Editorial Reviewers are saying:
5 stars out of 5 - "Cornycopaye is a plush epic, featuring exotic locations and a cast of millions. A genuine tribute to flea television." - Rolling Bone - Itch Jones (9/9/999)
3.5 stars out of 4 - "No one who cares about organic acting will want to miss Dick Bleak's magnificent performance, his brooding eyes reflecting wells of idealism and exploding torment. Impossible? Impressive!" - London Box Office - R.L. Loo Rav (9/9/999)
"Schmittchfeld has done it again! It's beautiful and enigmatic. We ran out at the break of dawn and waited in line for hours for the complete boxed set of the 3,481 episodes of Cornycopaye for Junior's birthday." - The Boston Wailer - Scotty Wott and Sadie Saxxe (9/9/999)
"A dog and pony show." - The New York Times & Fishwrapper - Crowthley Bowsler (9/9/999)
"Six legs up! Daniel Pompadorous Schmittchfeld's writing and directing is persuasive, an ethical firebrand among the dry branches, in a series that includes the commonplace with the unfamiliar and unusual chapters in a flea's life." - Chicago Lake-Sun-Times - Roger eBogarte (9/9/999)
Giovanni
What other Editorial Reviewers are saying:
5 stars out of 5 - "Cornycopaye is a plush epic, featuring exotic locations and a cast of millions. A genuine tribute to flea television." - Rolling Bone - Itch Jones (9/9/999)
3.5 stars out of 4 - "No one who cares about organic acting will want to miss Dick Bleak's magnificent performance, his brooding eyes reflecting wells of idealism and exploding torment. Impossible? Impressive!" - London Box Office - R.L. Loo Rav (9/9/999)
"Schmittchfeld has done it again! It's beautiful and enigmatic. We ran out at the break of dawn and waited in line for hours for the complete boxed set of the 3,481 episodes of Cornycopaye for Junior's birthday." - The Boston Wailer - Scotty Wott and Sadie Saxxe (9/9/999)
"A dog and pony show." - The New York Times & Fishwrapper - Crowthley Bowsler (9/9/999)
"Six legs up! Daniel Pompadorous Schmittchfeld's writing and directing is persuasive, an ethical firebrand among the dry branches, in a series that includes the commonplace with the unfamiliar and unusual chapters in a flea's life." - Chicago Lake-Sun-Times - Roger eBogarte (9/9/999)
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