You walk around, you’re all in a big fucking rush and your eyes move here and there. You look. You look at the door, at your toothbrush. You look at yourself in the mirror in the morning after you get out of bed, stretching your arms out and getting the crust out of your eyes because it feels good. Look at that bitch on the corner of Elms Street. Look at the flashing red tail lights in front of you and don’t hit the break.
Stop fucking moving around and stop looking and see the shit in front of your fucking eyes. See your reflection in the mirror and those pimples behind your ear.
Sure, cinema is a representation. So is literature, painting, sculpture, every form of art, every form of expression. Hell, even those dumb video games. Representation of life, ideas, dreams – some of them are good, some of them are bad, some are entertaining and some aren’t.
My point?
A representation will never be a complete or perfect portrayal of what it is attempting to display. You know that. Everyone knows that.
If that is the case, than tell me why more people see through viewing cinema than what those individual films represent. Check out those folks who choose not to acknowledge anything at all in their surroundings and state of being, and restrict themselves to consuming complete shit through cinema. Waste of life if you ask me.
Actually, I don’t know what my point is.
Who gives a fuck.
Film is beautiful. The experiences and relationships you develop through a picture is infinitely more real – more truthful – than anything in your life. In good cinema, the way you feel about a character is exactly the same, or more significant than those of “real life.” They’re one and the same. If anything, the only difference is the amount of time you spend with them.
Then they’re gone forever.
Sure, that dream isn’t the same. It’s focused, it’s displayed, it’s truth and meaning. It isn’t a lie, it’s never a lie. You take it as it is.
The pictures are life.
Filmmaking is too fucking hard I don’t have a creative bone in my body.
When I opened up Tarsem Singh’s The Fall, I had no idea what I was getting into. I had never heard of the film before, nor did I know what it was about, or what actors it had. Looking at the poster, I was expecting some sort of surrealist, fantasy hybrid: what saw surprised and captivated me.
Roger Ebert said, “You might want to see [the film] for no other reason than because it exists. There will never be another like it.” The Fall breaks no boundaries in it’s style, it does not seek to be a rebellious in it’s conventions; still, I have not seen anything like this, and I doubt I ever will.
Quick synopsis: Alexandria (Catinca Untaru), a young girl with a broken arm is recovering at a hospital where she meets a stunt man named Roy Walker (Lee Pace) who shares an “epic” story with her.
As usual, this is not a review, just points of personal interest.
The young girl at the center of the story is a more than suitable protagonist for this tale. Her youth, age and innocence – ignorant from the consequences of lying and stealing – provides an effective perspective on it’s subject matter. The Fall is a film about the power of the imagination, the blurred line, or lack thereof, between fiction and the real world. Without her to guide us, a reminder of this escapism and the exterior affect on the imagined and vice versa would be forgotten. The audience is given permission to explore in a manner that would be impossible with an adult (See The Diving Bell and the Butterfly for a different approach towards the relationship between real life and the imagination). At some point, it even covers what I feel to be one of the most important functions of cinema itself.
And as usual, I’m a sucker for those kinds of characters.
I don’t know much about music, I can’t play anything, I don’t know what instruments are making what sounds in whatever song. I don’t know jack.
I heard Kate Nash’s first album Made of Bricks back when it first came out in 2007, and I’ve been hooked ever since. Since I had the album virtually on repeat, it got boring quickly: leaving me searching endlessly for a close substitute. My Best Friend is You came out last night. I popped that shit in, closed my eyes, turned up the volume and went through as much as I could before sleeping for an 8AM class.
Again, I don’t know jack about music, I don’t know what makes a song good or bad, or how to even describe the songs and musicians I like. But this album, I absolutely love how playful it is. There are all these melodies that feel so disjointed in their performance, but sequential in it’s form. The vocals, sometimes split into two different recordings completely unified and contrasting. Tip-toeing piano, and the dry sarcastic lyrics I have grown to love.
The track Mansion Song starts with a rant which seems more like the reciting of a satirical poem, and for some reason it makes me think of a freestyle rap. A depressing and inspiring sort of narrative which is highly relevant. Of course it transitions into a full fledged track in it’s own right but it is absolutely everything I believe delivered with an angry, shouting, raging voice speaking out against the rampant social circumstances.
Strip! Strip! Strip! And shag! Fuck! Get fucked in drag! And be impressed!
In case I found myself in a position where there would be a lack of updates during a prolonged period of time, I hatched a backup plan. I will copy and paste one of a few academic papers relating to film. The following was an assignment regarding an Orson Welles quote for a “film language” course. There were several topic choices to tackle; me having a massive ego, I deviated from the original prompt.
Known as one of the greatest American films of all time, Citizen Kane employs a mixture of styles, points of view, and time frames. Referring to the implementation of these techniques, Orson Welles once said: “The film should indicate a process, not a product”, and “The solution to the film should be essentially poetic”. In other words, Welles states that film should display a sense of lyrical poetry, an ecstatic truth which can only be obtained through the process and purpose behind a work.
Before attending a Bill Cosby book signing for Come On People, I viewed the film Hickey and Boggs, starring Bill Cosby and Robert Culp (who also directed), written by Walter Hill of The Warriors fame and bought a poster to get autographed. Most people know the acting duo from the television series I Spy, which unfortunately, I have never seen. But, I liked the film. It was a bit hard to watch due to the terrible transfer; looked like it was copied straight off a VHS with bunch of grain added tossed on it. I haven’t seen it in a while so I can’t write up a comprehensive review or anything.
Cosby didn’t sign it. Still a nice guy though.
Two years later, Robert Culp was on the New York Comic-Con guest list. I wouldn’t consider myself a fan of him or spending $20 for a signature either. Even though I don’t like video games, I liked his work in Half Life 2, plus I spent $25 for this vintage poster anyway. I said, what the hell, what can I lose?
I recently viewed the Michael Haneke film La Pianiste (The Piano Teacher). I will make this brief, I don’t know how to explain how much it intrigued me.
Caché is the only other Haneke film I had seen. Though I enjoyed it immensely, I was a bit skeptical about highly stylistic lack of energy, which is relevant considering it’s subject matter. Still, I was afraid his body of work would rely heavily on this distinguished approach: an over-reliance on translucency and minimalism. Kind of like how M. Night’s body of work seems solid after viewing one or two films, but you immediately realize that they lack contrasting core structures. Twists and all. Sure, they work the first few times, but come on. Shyamalan’s cannot efficiently build on any narrative foundations than the one he started with.
Thankfully, La Pianiste failed to confirm my fears.
I don’t know what to say. What a fascinating piece of art. Haneke has an uncanny ability to delve into the human persona through film language. He knows exactly what knobs he is turning and why.
Through Erika (Isabelle Huppert), Haneke takes us deep inside her mind. He shows us the cross and lack thereof between sexuality and art. The fantasies and the frustrations. The fantasy and the reality.
