It seems simple (or simplistic) to assume that mimicking another’s easily recognizable quirks is of course a mockery. It is likely, or at least possible, that the parody is a tribute.
High Anxiety, homage or spoof? The send-ups of Psycho, The Birds, Vertigo, are all over the top, of course. Mel Brooks is clearly piling on the Alfred Hitchcock tropes and making fun of them, but so lovingly that it could easily be read as an ironic tribute.
I said Camus, but perhaps Woody Allen was aiming for Hitchcock, too. His Irrational Manis among the best of his recent works; it’s dark and introspective. Infidelity, mortality, uncertainty in relationships, is usual fare for Allen it is always intensely personal. Here, as in Manhattan Murder Mystery he looks at characters who commit murder with indifference.
Hitchcock always served murder with a slice of irony. Nonchalance was the modus operandi of his villainous heroes.
The Ladykillers, famously with Sir Alec Guinness and directed in 1955 by Alexander Mackendrick, finds new life with a hilariously bumbling Tom Hanks under the direction of Coen Brothers. Like the Hitchcock homages mentioned, this film is completely sui generis. It’s originality is fueled by outstanding performances by Irma P. Hall, Hanks, and an ensemble of fools bent on a sketchy get-rich scheme.
Some six months ago, I shut down one of my many blogs, Observations: Lest I Forgetand transferred much of its content to this one. I fully intended to put new content here and leave the …Lest I Forgetsite to history.
Truth is, I have a lot about which I wish to opine, and enjoy doing so in different fora and diverse platforms. So Observations: Lest I Forgetis being revived today, with fresh content all its own.
There are times I am gripped by what feels like a lingual fantasy. I can hear the words of a proverb in what was once my native, or at least first, language in my head, but I cannot form them. I am unable to repeat them even though they are on the tip of my tongue.
Instead, I stammer and realize the inadequacy of the attempt.
Afflictions of the tongue
What was my mother tongue is lost to me in almost every way. It remains a shadow, a memory that I cannot express. These afflictions of the tongue sometimes feel like afflictions of the heart, too.
It saddens me that the words I should be able to say are stuck in my throat. i feel like I am dreaming words that are familiar, and the dream becomes a waking nightmare of regret.
The words I hear in my head sound as if they were under water. There is no ease in repetition. The harder I try to express them, the stucker I feel. Stuck in an adopted language, one in which I am quite adept; speaking the words of a country of choice, not birth, more fluently than I ever remember speaking the language of the country I left behind.
Nativists would argue against bi-lingualism. I, despite my ineptitude, am all for it. I would love to be able to speak well in both the languages to which I belong.
I miss the fluidity I once had in moving between two languages, the gift of easy expression.