Posted on: January 31, 2009
The Fall
Visually stunning, with a brilliant, imaginative surface, The Fall (2006) is a movie made for polarities. Viewers will love it, hate it, find it exotic and intriguing, shallow and boring, but probably not many things in between. It was made to appeal to the director, Tarsem, it seems. The audience might just have been an afterthought.
It’s the story of a paralyzed stunt man, Roy Walker (Lee Pace), convalescing in Los Angeles, cerca 1915. He meets a five-year-old Romanian girl, Alexandria (Catinca Untaru), who is also convalescing there, from a badly broken arm. They strike up a friendship and Roy begins telling her incredible stories of heroes, villains, lost loves and revenge. The fantasy mirrors Roy’s own predicament, though with grandiose proportions, wild scene changes, and obvious mythic elements included. Roy wants to…
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Posted on: January 26, 2009
What you see is often not what you see. In wartime, borders vanish, buildings, people, loyalties, trust. Vanish. Morality, ethics, the truth. Vanish. Not for everyone, at all times. But for many, and for most of the time. The god of ambiguity loves war. Perhaps as much as he loves love. As much as he loves the way people alter their behavior when faced with moral dilemmas. Strife, fear, hatred, betrayal. War feeds all of that. More often than not, we want to see things in black and white, but we really get shades. Or think we do. Blurring, in and out of focus, sharp over here, dull and fuzzy over there.
If war has music, it thunders all too often. It shrieks and rises into crescendos and then tanks. Collapses of its own weight.…
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Posted on: January 24, 2009
Marcel Duchamp’s Nude Descending a Staircase. 1912
Below, we have a new essay by Robert Mueller. He deals with two fine poets, Barbara Guest and Jill Magi, with imagination and verve.
Jill Magi’s author’s page over at Shearsman Books can be found here. Jill’s homepage can be found here.
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The topic of poetic space on the page is an interesting one. How it looks alters our reception and perception. We read it differently to ourselves depending upon topography.
Poetry is both spatial and aural. Traditionally, poetry was heard, not seen, passed down to us from bard to bard, from shaman to shaman, registering across the centuries in the ear, as we imagined the words and their referents with our inner eye. With the advent books, of…
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