Please help me by critiquing this short video. I want to know what works for you in this video, as well as what does not.You need not be a video editor. You know what you like. Use your instincts. Please be as specific as possible with constructive criticism so that I may improve the final version.
AN OUTRO FOR NOUS FILMS
MUVIPIX FRIENDS HERE IS THE TIMELINE IMAGE
Can someone please cram an entire 2-hour action film (one fierce enough for Quentin Tarantino) into one single five-minute viewing experience?
Yes, the “Biting Elbows,” can; and they do a commendable job in the music video for their single, “Bad Mother Fucker.”
On no occasion have I seen a cinematographer bring a music video to life in such a manner. The video depicts an assassination mark escaping from a stronghold of syndicated mercenaries. [Yes a guy’s movie]
Tunefully, the song “Bad Mother Fucker,” starts with classical music, which evolves, rising to a crescendo of hard rock, and finally a (proficient) rap style vocal lyric section.
Creative Interests Rates it as four stars.
Everyone has a Dad. Enjoy them while you have them. My Dad is a Scientist. I love you Dad.Happy Father’s day.
Marvel as my Dad talks about the Chemistry of Plastics and Monkeys.
Creative Interests Band Review
This is the unofficial Music Video for “Full Blown Cranium,” featuring the hit single “She is Happy Only When She’s Feeling Miserable,” the first publicly released track from the band’s debut album, “Cacophony of Weirdos.”
(All music and lyrics © 2013 by Full Blown Cranium.)
Bryan Edmondson created this video and he bears all legal responsibilities for this video, as pertaining to online media use law.
Full Blown Cranium
is Tony Parisi and Eric J Baker.
Loss and fear as seen through the war-torn eyes of a young boy
– Telluride Film Festival (short film section)
– Student Academy Awards (national gold prize)
– Independent Film Channel (student showcase award)
This is my award winning digital composting film.in nude art video editing. Compositing in Premiere Pro and After Effects. Chroma and Luma keying.
This is a Vimeo Staff Pick Video. It is a heart warming, short drama about a mentally retarded boy; a boy with problems. He must deal with bullies, an overbearing teacher, and relating to a small girl who has a crush on him. He has a tendency towards jumping off roofs, In the end must face a visit to the principal’s office and a leather belt. This would make a great short story. I watched it three times.
Eric John Baker
|The Hives chord structure bears a strong similarity to The Kinks’ “All Day and All of the Night”. It also lists at 244 on Pitchfork Media’s Top 500 songs of the 2000s (decade). In October 2011, NME placed it at number 84 on its list “150 Best Tracks of the Past 15 Years
Hate to Say I Told You So”
…is the first single from Swedish garage band The Hives’ second studio album Veni Vidi Vicious. It is internationally known as the Hives’ signature song. It was nominated for the Kerrang! Award for Best Single in 2002. In March 2005, Qmagazine placed it at number 54 in its list of the 100 Greatest Guitar Tracks.”
The Suicide Girls Featured with the Hives
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see’st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
I must say, killing a man is not hard,
It was digging the hole in his back yard
That really wore on me. Plus hiding the gun,
Will his child crave revenge—hot, like the sun?
The smell of gunpowder is the smell of death
The blood on my hands like Lady Macbeth
The Word Press Editor’s pick: Award for consistently publishing blog posts with only the most hideously, incomprehensible, misspelling of common nouns, an inexcusable tendency towards shocking profanity, an appalling misapplication of punctuation symbol “!,” and a senseless, butchery of English Grammar.
Monkey Wrench Blog Apart from the Rest
Public Endorsements of Monkey Wrench Blog by Big Name Players.
- Word Press Staff: “A humiliating disgrace to the Blogging Community.”
- Yahoo! News: “The Little Blog that Couldn’t.”
- Google: “This Blog is a festering abscess on the buttocks of search engine technology query returns.
- Bing : “We do not believe in censorship, but there is always an exception, This blog is it.”
- Monkey Wrench Blog Visitor: “This blog…It just made me sick… I felt dirty afterwards and I still cannot wash the shame off.
“One will need to drink in order to muddle their wayt through this arcane, circuitous, gobbledygook. Bryan Edmondson has a third grade education–at best. He is the only blogger we have ever seen to start a sentence with a ‘?’ mark and use less periods than Faulkner.” -The New Yorker.
“Visiting Monkey Wrench Blog is much like reading a Russian novel in braille, but only being allowed to use your toes to feel the bumps with,” said Samuel Jackson.
Pinky Middleton, a grad student working on his PhD. at The Anvil Foundation, tried to write his dissertation on this blog. Middleton contended that the egregious errors were really a brilliant puzzle, the cipher of genius, an intricate maze within a maze.
Working nonstop, drinking 20 cups of coffee per day, and using a Hewlett Packard calculator, Middleton painstakingly undertook decoding Monkey Wrench Blog posts, After reading Monkey Wrench Blog at the keyboard of his Dell Inspiron, for 9 straight days without sleep. Pinky was purportedly rambling incoherently about being the other son of God. Later that day Middleton was admitted to a psychiatric hospital for delusions of grammar. The Anvil Fake News
NEWSPAPER ARTICLE HOUSTON: THOUSANDS ANGERED BY INDEFENSIBLE MISUSE OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE
The Victim Shelter: 87 Blog Visitors were so abused by the abhorrent misuse of the English Language at “Monkey Wrench” that they were forced to go to a victim’s shelter or live on the streets. Monkey Wrench Victims Shelter bases its recovery plan on a monotonous 12 step program. “It really works, and you only have to come to a meeting 3 times a day for the rest of your life,” said a recovery victim while blinking one eye in a Post Traumatic Facial Tic. The 3 victims who made it out of the halfway house, college graduates, again began living their lives independently. They are said to panhandle between 12 step meetings, and to take life “one day at a time.” When a mean spirits scientist doing an unethical study showed the recovering graduates a computer monitor with the Monkey Wrench Blog on the home page, they began to cry, sweat, and curl up into a ball and rock for hours. The scientist performing the study then applied electric shocks to the survivors at arbitrary intervals, as he thought it was funny. Medical Doctors think that survivors made need to take strong psychotropic medications for a theraputic period. That period being the rest of their lives.
The Late William Strunk said, “This Blog Makes me roll over in my grave.”The deceased literary guru is expected to make a posthumous, zombie, staggering path, more or less straight, for “Monkey Wrench Blog,” headquarters, “To exact revenge.”
This will prove difficult as the dead scholar is not looking for a man named “Bryan,” who is a 57 year old, unemployed, dead animal, shoveling, removal technician, at the animal crematorium in Houston Texas. Bryan still still lives alone with his mother, pecking away at a keyboard on a Dell Inspiron Laptop in the attic which he lives in.
Please don’t believe the rumors. This Blog is rolling out great American Novels like toilet paper. Bryan Edmondson writes 40 words a day. Most he has to look up the definition for, like “Bastard” a word he sees in many flaming posts from flaming Blog visitors outraged by this blog. A blog in this reporters opinion, that is “Avery smelly sack of very small potatoes.”
She told me that she loved me and I knew that she felt just as much in love as I did.
When we kissed, our lips, moved together and touched so
softly, like a butterfly closing its velvet wings, right when
they whisper gently together.
To my lament, I noticed one day that when we kissed, her
lips were colder than mine were.
This continued from that day on.
I thought that the heat of my lips meant that I was
passionate for her, but what it actually meant was that I
loved her in an all-embracing way, and she loved me in a less
I then realized that two people could love one another in different ways and the more joyful one would never recognize the rejection.
Never underestimate the power of denial.
Did she ever love me? Now I wonder if I can trust what she said to me. I would like to
think that I could because she said such warm, safe, and happy things.
I did not cling to her in fear. I lived and existed to cherish her. I wanted to share with
my life with her, two people fused into one soul, yet two separate individuals with their
But then again I think that she always had unspoken white lies so as not to hurt me.
Ironically, that is the thing that
I think hurt me the most.
I still live wounded from a broken heart,
and even though it was never actually true—
– that she was mine, when she was not –
—when I was living and thinking that, she
was mine, and not knowing— that she was gone – that was the happiest time of my life
She is the love of my life.
I do not know how to top that sort of resplendent joy.
I thought about how to go on with my life. I yearned dig a hole and crawl in it, and die. That was my
But my life goes on with or without my will. So now, I just get up each morning and breathe. Then I do
it again and again until I fall asleep at night.
I try not to dream of her, but I do, I wake up, and remember that she is not here. That really burns,
aches, and throbs like a red-hot hammer hit me in the chest.
Love comes in so many forms. Every love is different.
This one felled all my joy like a slain tree.
Entirely overwhelmed, Barbara abruptly stood straight up and screamed out uncontrollably, repetitively, and hysterically. She shrieked out in a number of strident cries that caused the windowpane glass to quiver. She was having a full-blown nervous breakdown.
Barbara’s dark emotional sky lit up with her screams in a volley of shooting stars. Her frantic shrieks hurled across that dark canvas of her firmament, painting it with the long, luminous streaks of the colors of a fiery meteor shower.
Her soul’s heavens heard the screaming colors of blazing emerald terror, the roaring conflagration of crimson rage, the unheard sound of the smoldering ashes of denial, and the whispering hiss of the waning coals of dark hopelessness.
I wore myself out trying to write just one good sentence. My goal was to compose a sentence that I believed was respectable. So I sat down and I began to write a solitary sentence on a blank sheet of paper.
I struggled to compose that sentence, and when I finished it, I studied the sentence. I scrutinized it. I dissected it. I strained to grasp its essence. I touched it with my eyes hoping to feel its singular textural meaning.
Next, I used my ears to take in the sentence. I read my sentence aloud. I listened to the sounds of the words that communicated it. I made note of these audible words. I observed if they had palpable cadence. I took note of any phonological melody, if it existed. And I listened for any mellifluousness that sang in its phonetics.
Having done all this, next I strove to experiment with the sentence. I endeavored to improve it, and I constantly sat back down and then I rewrote it, and when finished I analyzed it all over again. Continue reading