Відео

Even ignoring what choosing Ellen over May would have done to his position in society and the reality that he is the main support of his mother and sister --- I can't imagine him being thrilled to mingle with all of her artist and acting acquaintances. That world and the world of demimonde society were very decadent. "Big Gloria" (the Gloria Vanderbilt's mother ... Anderson Cooper's grandmother) lost custody of "Little Gloria" in the 1920's/ early 1930's for being a part of that social set.

You cant really compare Matthew perry and Danny Day Lewis

@@MthieuBrdoux I wasn’t comparing them. They’re both great in their own right 😊

​@@gabbysolares8682 Only 1 is great

Wha

This absolutely isn't the last time he was on camera

Nagh. Meryl takes the cake, Sorry.

Brando, DeNiro, Nicholson, Welles

@arriuscalpurniuspiso .. Daniel can portray all of the above mentioned .....and...... win an Oscar doing it

Seriously .. that good

As my wife lay strapped to the hospital bed with a catheter intruding one end, and a needle pierced through another, she struggled in labor as if reduced to a ward in an insane asylum, trying to fight off both the pain of labor and the humility of incarceration. But we "had faith" in the institution we had trusted, and believed they knew what was best for her, thus we had no hesitations as my wife was monitored by machines like a mouse in a cage, a test subject of sorts, injected with foreign fluids, violating her most intimate space as they conducted "internal checks" at an excessive rate, and worst of all, induced a numb sensation throughout her body as they administered a drug in the form of an epidural that sent shockwaves of depressants through her central nervous system; sending her body to a momentary death. A death just long enough to deprive her of the natural God given sensations of bearing her first child. That Nirvanic and beautiful pain was stolen in the sake of discouragement and pity... Vanishing by the wayside of artificial chemicals whose potion was crafted to sensor the truth. But Alas, our baby had traveled through the metaphoric canal, still connected to the nautical naval, now ready to exit the waters of mother; The contractions (meaning to bring together or to abridge) had emerged closer, her cervix had gone through waves of dilatations (breadth, widening, the opening of the puerta/door/portal) and baby's crown was finally visible. Ahhh!!! With nervous excitement and blood filled anticipation, I ready myself to meet a Queen, a King, I don't know the gender yet, but I do know they are sovereign and royal as I can with clarity see a CROWN! The ghost of my wife in all her visible agony, yet void of complete sensation, then pushed out the evolutionary entirety of our 23 chromosome donation that has for 40 weeks evolved from a single cell zygote into a fully developed unique, original, vintage fetus with a 46 chromosomes "original package" that belonged to her and only her. And she is born. It all happened so fast, gleefully and still flushed with nerves I let the dockmaster do their job as they checked the vitals of the baby. Then they handed our child to her mother for the first time and in my vulnerable state of ghostly presence, the dockmaster asked me, "Dad, would you like to CUT THE CORD?" As if an honor only meant for the most deserving had been bestowed upon me, a twisted milestone of sorts. I stupidly, ignorantly, and hastily fall for the trap. And I commit the crime of aborting my own child from all her extra embryonic material. Her possessions. The ark that guided her genetic covenant through the allegorical 40 days and 40 nights of her Noah's flood. The Church that housed and sheltered her most holy of sacraments, and the baby Jesus that was her sacrificial lamb and bore her crossing of her motherland from the country where no man returns. In an instant. Without even asking my baby or considering her wishes, I abandoned her property that was so pure and innocent, unblemished, and without defects. She is now the phantom of the opera as the French saying goes, "Le Mort Vivant". The living dead. All the while, her placenta was still pulsating and yet to be naturally delivered from momma. And as Shakespeare so eloquently put it, her "Fair Youth", had ended before it had the chance to begin. The dockmaster and his goonies then yanked my baby's extra embryonic material out of her mother and disposed of it as if dumping a bag of trash. Unappreciated and neglected. Still alive and pulsating with blood, on its way to becoming a deposit and the MATTER of fact. THEE specimen that gave rise to the birth certificated decedent estate known as my daughters name. Held in title. Held in trust. Abandoned, unclaimed by it's rightful owner, and pirated at the Cestui Que Vie trust law of the holy sea. Oh Henry VIII, you murderous king! You are to blame! You are the fault which caused me to de-fault on my child! She is not at fault! How could she be? She is but a precious jewel who's my job it was to protect. Ahhh!!!! You useful idiot! Not only have I failed to protect my child in her arrival, I am an assailant to the crime. A stumbling fool caught red handed with the weapon. Running with scissors never ends well. And as the saying goes, "the first cut is the deepest". And this is just the first of many natural shocks the flesh is heir to. Allah Shakespeare speaks truth once again. Like a drunken fool, I had offered up her dowry as she readies for her consummation. Enter Woodcock stage left. The proverbial Woodcock is behind the curtains in the backroom, fashioning her a new wedding dress, as the marriage between Church and STATE is about to commence. And with the weaving of a spell, with bright eyes I am handed a form. This form that con-forms to the will of another. An unseen force, yet one that strikes fear and as Alma puts it. Demands respect. Demands every piece of you. I handed the form over to my wife who was still in a state of pain and agony. And with her sign of nature, through her voluntary consent, and on my dumb watch, she offers her sig-nature as the legal guardian and informant letting the receiver know the cargo is ready for the taking. Like a chattel branded with hot iron and coal, my baby has been given a name. Not not just a name, but has been assigned a TITLE in ALL CAPS to signify her place in office. Still bright eyed with incompetence, I am told that I must take this evidentiary piece of paper to an elusive office of vital records to Re-chord her TITLE in a ritualistic registration. Ahh, she is now regal like Alma, the courting ended faster than it began. She had been placed on a pedestal and her dimensions have been taken by the metaphoric Woodcock with meticulous precision as his bookkeeper Cyril jots down her statics for the re-cord. Head circumference, length of arms, length of legs, body, belly. It is done. Her identification has been alchemized. And she is now part of the House of Woodcock. What was once the property of one becomes the property of another. From gill breathing sperm to encapsulated egg, this single cell zygote which has the handprint of God, Da Vinci's Sistine chapel, has been desecrated. Though the water creature fish had fully developed into a healthy amphibian fetus, simultaneously living in the waters yet breathing oxygen through the interface of her mother through the holy bond they genetically shared via the placenta. To finally, a walking, breathing, spirit filled bipedal in its entirety... I ruined, in the act of the cut. Dis-ease. To be out of ease. Without peace. Unwhole. In the eyes of the Church, this child now needs salvaging which can only come through salvation. The church is there to offer her Jesus, Buddha, and Allah. In the eyes of the STATE, she is incompetent and inconsistent. Another loony in the loony house. The STATE is there to offer its services of administration, benefits, and the management of her Cesqui Vie Trust as an incestuous and wretched trustee. And Woodcock. The middleman. The one who sewed her phantom limb back together again. Daniel Day Lewis. The useful idiot, so pompous and well respected. Revered by the masses. Whose name carries clout! The truth is out of our control yet it is inside of us all. Oh you stranger on UA-cam! The gull to speak such blasphemies about my life!?! You digital avatar dare rain on my parade?! Well more often than not, the things we most cherish in life, are the things most toxic for our health. Ask Alma, as she desperately tries to gain the love and affection of Woodcocks, yet ironically faces the constant growing scorn of his condescending abuse. Toxic and un-natural. The marriage of CHURCH and STATE. Ultimately Alma is marginalized to an empty vessel without a soul. Le Mort Vivant. She has fallen for his trap. And is now the living dead. From the moment they had first locked eyes in the restaurant, Woodcock had found his mark. She was both his mark and his beast, his frankenstein to defame. He would chip away at her spirit, until she had little resemblance to the purity she once had. Expressed by his insatiable appetite, she would be something too grotesque to salvage. The first meeting of the two at the restaurant is the most important scene as it begins her downfall. Naively she enters into a contract with him as she takes his glutenous order. He asks her to re-member it, to make it part of her as if a member of one's family. He takes the original paper, symbolic of the evidentiary contract. He asks her out for dinner, knowing she would accept as she never stood a fighting chance. She then seals the deal in the act of handing him a document giving her Name (title), date, and initials, and most important; her voluntary sign of nature. He found his mark. She had given her signature and symbolically registered it into his keeping. The act of registration. This was not the first time the house of Woodcock needed a new body. Not a woman, not a soul inspired by God, but a vibrant, youthful body of whose soul was to be sucked away. That was the real deal. She had entered into a commercial trust that would revolve around her body being the collateral for the agreement evidenced by her birth certificated decedent (dead) estate. The part of her that was living once, as Shakespear says, " For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil". That mortal coil, reader, is the toroidal, spiral, umbilical cord that attaches baby to mother through the interface of the placenta, which is then alchemically sewn back together by the dressmaker with his phantom thread.

Woodcock made it clear on their first intimate rendezvous that he was not interested in her love, but her equity, strictly a matter of business. He would use her and abuse her without remorse, just a subject to be profited from. Commercialized. He would parade her around in the manner that his aristocratic clients would do in his dresses. His job was to fashion, to fabricate and weave a story of lies, and extort her essence by deriving an artifact in the form of a dress that had a link to her God given biological estate. And he did this with the phantom thread as the bond holding that TRUST in place, re-attaching her metaphoric deposit, a.k.a. the phantom limb. Her anty, her chip in the game. Her placenta. As Shakespeare Hamlet says, "Ay there's the rub." She was to suffer the same fate as Joanna did in the very early onset of the story once Alma's asset had been fully depreciated and sucked dry. Nothing more than a tax write-off to be sent to salvage. Alma, being a native of the land, Cyril instructed Woodcock to visit "the country" to find their next SUBJECT. Cyril said, "I will be there tomorrow". Alma, the indigenous woman, had begun her journey innocent and without defect. Sovereign. And had fallen into a conspiracy too evil to be believed. We readers, if you are still there, have suffered the same trap as Alma. Our God inspired/spiritual native, indigenous manhood and womanhood has been stripped of its sovereignty. We've been domiciled and domesticated from the people of the land to the souls lost at sea. Dead souls at that. A resident of the Situs. A citizen of the STATE. In her fit of jealousy and insecurity, Alma confronts the French princess by reminding the princess that the House of Woodcock was her residence. Do not make the same mistake as Alma. Do not be Hamlet and let the seed of injustice rot into a fruit of passion and revenge. You must be a pacifist and learn to forgive and forget. In full disclosure, I haven't even finished watching the film, but I think I know how this story will end. As Hollywood partakes in the soft disclosure of the truth, with an insidious twist that is; Alma becomes the tragic hero by devising a plan to murder and poison Woodcock. She is the Hamlet of Denmark. Enraged in madness, stooping to the same level as her abuser. She has made the decision to not let bygones be bygones, or let dead dogs lay, she seeks vengeance to, "settle the score". The world is a game and I'm just a player in it. That is my prize and I will compete for its deed. I think I will end here. I've beaten this horse to death and there is no more water for it to drink. Now that you've made it to the end, you can now re-watch this movie with a new frame of reference. The reference of TRUTH. Once you see the truth you can't unsee it. It will crawl out from the underbelly of the beast and shine like the brightest star. Daniel Day Lewis knows this. He has perpetuated this story in many of his "his-storically" based films. Glazing over the past, romanticizing, dramatizing, and propagandizing the "jus cogens" to the people fallen victim. Crimes of humanity. The trafficking of the innocent. Oh the twisted irony of the holly-wood. Now go. And return the authority back to yourself by the only means possible. Not through the sword, but through the word. Become the author of your own story and correct the fault that was not yours to begin. I gave you a shovel. Now dig.