i walk out of two movies (a quiet passion and benediction) in one week, both by terence davies - the first from tedium and to honour the emily he's wanting to honour, the second just from tedium
the comedian in annette irritates too much and sleep has her house requires a better larger screen and more darkness so i turn to le quattro volte which delights - vuk the dog in the first phase won a 2010 palm dog award but the goats and ants should have won palm goat and palm ant awards too
in each of its four phases something dies a whonym a goatkid a tree charcoal and the films wondrous partially because it accomplishes a rare feat in this world of hyper whonym supremacy in that i feel more empathy and sadness as the goatkid and tree die than the whonym whose death is timely, overshadowed by soft comedy
autumns almanac, damnation, the man from london - difficult beautiful films, all flawed pirouettes around satantango
altered states - a ridiculous melodrama with all the cheap cliches of amerikana - the devils is likewise but becomes better through its content and setting
life of brian (rewatch) - still holds with so many gags that work the equal many that fall flat don't matter that much - the external controversies over sacrilege by religious groups sadly hilarious
marketa lazarová czechoslovakia 1967 joins the seventh seal sweden 1957 and andrei rublev russia 1966 as one of the finest medieval films
exit 8 - not scary or fun, moving or engaging
il buco - its scene near the end of the film, just before the bottom of the cave, squiggling through a narrow passage over 600 metres into the earth - far more terrifying than anything in exit 8
into great silence - a bit silly, too much the contrapunt to wall street and so bound to the same sphere - i'd rather the monks than investment bankers - the monks are clearly far less destructive, but their cloistered innocence seems the bifurcated necessity to bifurcated political exigencies
the obvious injunction is that we're to admire respect even envy these hermits' lives, yet where's the dirt of the politics, the interiorities ... where there's no mud there's no art and quite possibly no god - what would we be admiring or respecting other than a marketed abstraction
and while i'll give sleep has her house an opportunity - these nature solitary films seem too romantic - a kind of religious porn - for those who're detached from inhabiting nature and solitude themselves and so bring it as a microdose of packaged distant otherness
then the sea that thinks comes along and says - or the tree it thinks it's thinking says - i am more monk that those monks because i dont try to do ... or maybe not because i don't but just as i don't
i dont this donting is our doo
the 2000 dutch films a sieving of nature through whonym consciousness, rather than cloistering nature repressing it channeling it into aggression domination subjugation oppression it stays within its within and allows itself to be blown around in the nature that's been absorbed - through nature's external absence it becomes manifest in minds that avoid doing anything with it other than describing its meteorologies in langwiches that emerge from their experience being possessed by nature - this avoiding describing possessing absorbing we could call art and the sea that thinks not only an amusing friendly example but along with naked lunch one of the better explorations of being debecoming becoming debeing a writer, of being seduced into that swamp sometimes called langwich
the wolf house spectacular - a perfect transmutation of horror and suffering, a vital noble application of imaginative energies