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The Fall of The eXile For all those wondering what the "Save The eXile Fundrasier" banner is all about, here it is as simply as it can be phrased: The eXile is shutting down.
June 11, 2008 in eXile Blog

War Nerd: War of the Babies in Taki's Magazine The War Nerd talks about babies, the greatest weapon of the 20th century.
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Kids, Meet Your President A website for Russian kids to learn all about President Medvedev's passion for school, sports and family.
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May 20, 2008 in Face Control

More Classy B&W Dyev Photos Yet another hot Russian babe imitating the Catpower look...
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More Classy B&W Club Photos w/Russian Dyevs We took the Pepsi Challenge here...
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Kino Korner February 25, 2008
There Will Be Idiots: The Paul Thomas Anderson Sham
By Eileen Jones Browse author Email
You’re going to grow up to hate my oil man guts, son.

There Will Be Blood got to be an award-hogging cultural phenomenon before I could register any objections. So here they are:

My first objection to There Will Be Blood is the title. Totally misleading. There’s hardly any blood in the whole interminable epic. Characters get killed with a remarkable lack of spatter even when impaled by oil-drilling equipment, shot in the face, or bludgeoned about the head with an old-fashioned wooden bowling pin. Little known fact about 19th-20th turn-of-the-century Americans: it seems they didn’t bleed much no matter what you did to them.

Paul Thomas Anderson: Reason We’re Ashamed to be Americam #43

I assume this relative lack of gore is part of the film’s intended appeal to the art cinema crowd—you know, "Bloodless Films for Bloodless People." They’d naturally love its non-spatter deaths, its three-named director (Paul Thomas Anderson, director of Boogie Nights and Magnolia and other notable crap), its literary pedigree courtesy of source material by an earnest socialist, Upton Sinclair, whose books they haven’t read but they’ve heard his name somewhere, perhaps in some undergrad American Lit class, and knew that they were supposed to like him whether they read him or not. They’d love the way it seems to be saying something important about America then and now, about capitalism being bad, about greed not bringing happiness and money not buying love, or money buying love but not happiness—I forget how it goes.

That reminds me of my other objection: the fact that the movie makes absolutely no fucking sense whatsoever. And that it takes almost three hours in which not to make any fucking sense and is very loud and chesty about it. It’s sort of like the experience of being trapped in a stalled elevator with an egotistical would-be creative type telling you his great idea for a rock opera that’ll revolutionize the form. I bet Paul Thomas Anderson has a great idea for a rock opera.

The movie, for you non-cognoscenti who haven’t already seen it several times and devoted weeks to parsing its finer nuances, is about Daniel Plainview (Oscar-winner Daniel Day-Lewis, the greatest actor ever to appear in so many rotten pretentious films in a row), a hardscrabble Western silver miner circa 1900, who strikes oil and buys up property in southern California, and strikes more oil and gets very rich and then announces he hates everyone, and acts on it, winding up a lone homicidal nutter stewing in his own bile. Why? Well, if you know your Anglo-American tales, the consequence of wealth is almost always a furious estrangement from your fellow man. You can be the most popular charmer who ever stepped, never happier than when six-deep in people, but the minute you get rich, look out. Ebenezer Scrooge, Mr. Potter, Citizen Kane: you know the drill. We love the idea that the rich end up alone, raving in their shadowy mansions, which is why Howard Hughes is still a popular movie subject; he was a real zillionaire who obligingly lived out one of our favorite plotlines. (Quick reality check: guess who actually ends up alone, ranting in the dark? Crazy homeless woman on a below-zero night, that’s a good bet.)

Oddly enough, whole early hunks of this film show us Daniel Plainview surrounded by other workers, miners, tough oilmen like himself who seem to have a wordless kinship based on toil and danger. Fifteen no-dialogue minutes of pick hitting rock, toting and drilling, solemn male stares, romantic sunlight gleaming off hat brims: I figured this was supposed to mean something. Especially when a representative Son of Toil (Ciaran Hinds, an Irish actor whose face looks as if it were hewn from a tree) sticks silently with Daniel Plainview like Tonto, enacting the role of Right-hand Man without the benefit of dialogue. Why no dialogue? What’s with this Tonto? Your eyes keep glancing at him nervously—here’s this actor in a prominent role, clearly meant to be noticed, taking up half the screen in scene after scene with nothing to do but write in a little book or otherwise try to look busy. It’s embarrassing.

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Save The eXile: The War Nerd Calls Mayday
The future of The eXile is in your hands! We're holding a fundraiser to save the paper, and your soul. Tune in to Gary Brecher's urgent request for reinforcements and donate as much as you can. If you don't, we'll be overrun and wiped off the face of the earth, forever.

Eleven Years of Threats: The eXile's Incredible Journey
Feature Story By The eXile
Good Night, and Bad Luck: In a nation terrorized by its own government, one newspaper dared to fart in its face. Get out your hankies, cuz we’re taking a look back at the impossible crises we overcame.

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eXile club reviewer Babooshka takes a trip through time with the ghost of Moscow clubbing past, present and future, and true to form, gets laid in the process.

The Fortnight Spin
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Jared comes out with yet another roundup of upcoming bardak sessions.

Your Letters
Russia's freedom-loving free market martyr Mikhail Khodorkovsky answers some of this week's letters, and he's got nothing but praise for President Medvedev.

Scanning Moscow’s Traffic Cops
Automotive Section
We’re happy to introduce a new column in which we publish Moscow’s raw radio communications, courtesy of a Russian amateur radio enthusiast. This issue, eXile readers are given a peek into the secret conversations of Moscow’s traffic police, the notorious "GAIshniki."

Your Letters
Richard Gere tackles this week's letters. Now reformed, he fights for gerbil rights all around the world.

War Nerd Summer Reading Guide
The War Nerd By Gary Brecher
It’s summer, you’ve got a little more time off, so you can read up on war instead of trying to live in whatever boring suburb you live in. Lawns, neighbors, dogs, kids—it all sucks and the best thing you can do is get as far out of it as you can.


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