Cold, cold sadness
It was some time ago that I took a stab at my unexplainable and unnecessary takes on movies. Mostly because I can’t say why I do it. But being an artist, not knowing why is the best reasons to continue.
And, you know, when you consume as much moving pictures as we do in our age, not often – but once in a while – something sticks.
I watched The Ides of March and I suppose it was meant to be a sad and cynic affair. I wouldn’t really recommend it (what with Clooney’s superficial critique of the system that feeds him, or what have you); not when you’d surely enjoy rewatching The Contender or All The President’s Men or Wag The Dog so much more – yet, some stills beg to be harvested, some glimpses have a meaning that can be brought out of its context and used for other fruitful purposes.
Molly (Evan Rachel Wood) reminds me of someone I’m not sure if I have ever met or only made up, but in this scene, they’re almost twin sisters. And furthermore, that shot of her in the diner was so intriguing, because the light outside, the buildings in the background – it looks so much like Northern Europe. Like my world. Grand, efficiently manufactured American movie stories are supposed to take place somewhere wild and far away (i.e. California, Arizona, New York City and possibly parts of Florida). So this scene is a case of, well, reversed leakage. In the words of Clifford Worley, I find that shit fascinating.
Not sure where I’m going with this. Hell, it looks like old paintings. I’ve been dabbling in amateur 3D modeling for several years now and it’s so damn hard to get something usable out of it.
I decided to give Vue another try. Despite the feeling of playing with dolls, that so many people enjoy in Poser, it’s… oh, I guess it’s no different than building model railroad landscapes. The moody God perspective. You spend hours upon hours prodding your way through really crappy software, and if you’re lucky you produce something that almost doesn’t look completely awful. All this instead of drawing or painting by hand. Dammit.
But it’s still fascinating. Exploring obtuse and obsolete work methods. Using apps in ways they weren’t intended to be. Laughing at violent software screw-ups. Alternating between careful adjustments and wild abandon. Gaping at the unexpected results.
And there’s still something cool about constructing almost-believable nature scenes that didn’t exist before.
Your window is crowded with monsters
Some nights I browse around news and humor sites and social networks and find a few gems here and there. Once in a while, there’s even a surprise. Rarely, but still, sometimes, I leave a page with new hope and confidence.
Other nights are like this. All these bright colors, the smiling faces, all the dancing and singing floods my screen like an army draft. You must join us. This is the tune we’re singing. If you don’t sing along, why don’t we just rape you and leave you in a ditch?
Of course, I was born in the 20th century. So much of my mind was shaped by a world without Internet. Back then, if you looked in magazines, watched movies, it didn’t look much different.
But that part of the world, the hits, the blockbusters, the scoops, the fear of missing out — in the last fifteen years, all that just took over. Little by little, I’m forgetting that there ever was an alternative. And now I live in a world with no outside.
Really, how do you live outside of mankind?
I want to be a racer, a player, a fighter, a dancer. I want to follow this ship of fools into a twisted, scary future. But really, I could never enjoy a song, supposed to be so sweet but now clogging your throat, or follow a rhythm that sound so much like marching. No matter how fancy our uniforms. No matter how blinding the floodlights.
Because no matter how grand the promise of bliss, it seems to be spoken by monsters.
If I had ever believed that God wasn’t a egomaniacal psychopath, my disgust with the world could have turned me to faith. I’d be a priest or a monk. But that’s only another prison. And the promise of happiness and relief and calm that a church promotes, it always sounded too much like a half-comfort, half-threat nursery rhyme.
When the protectors of the light turns out to be so bloodthirsty… When messages of love, excitement, reason, compassion only address those who are fit for the Sixth Reich… When the world looks like Disneyland crashed into Camp X-ray… When you no longer remember if there ever existed anything before this silencelessness… Who do you turn to?
Another week not going crazy
Having your foot in a cast is like wearing a rubber boot that you can’t take off. Ever.