New horizons, and more...
I have a habit of posting during bereft moments, which is perhaps understandable, I think, since from time to time a correspondent goes away and writing helps me mourn. I think you write for the larger audience that you would like to understand you, though, and while that is necessarily a scattershot affair it reminds you of how many people still inhabit your life and mean world upon world to you.
The deaths of Bergman and Antonioni were meaningful to me this past week. Woody Allen and Martin Scorsese, respectively, did a wonderful job eulogizing these film legends in this past Sunday's NYT. As much as I love Bergman, I think Antonioni's work struck me more powerfully over the years, and Scorsese's piece completely did it justice. I was mystified the first time I saw L'Avventura in high school, and captivated when I saw it again my second year of college. What mattered most to me was its ambiguity: not everything was resolved, and not every question had an answer. If movies are to mirror life, they shouldn't have quick and painless resolutions, and Antonioni's work allowed me to truly see the complexities we face as we deal with losses of the body and the spirit that seem to come from nowhere. I believe that Antonioni embraced a sort of nihilism as he grew older: the closing sequence of Zabriskie Point and the desert wanderings of The Passenger suggest that only violent action will break us out of our habits, and ultimately it won't accomplish anything. But his films were gorgeous, ambitious, and above all true; and his departure took a certain red, distended, magically realistic "fat old sun" out of the sky, one that our films and our lives needed, and one that we will remember as long as cinema tries to express our deepest longings, joys, fears and regrets.
Not to undersell Bergman, of course. I will have more to say about my complex relationship with his films at a later date. But Bergman has never lacked for acolytes or champions. :)
My mother turned 67 on Sunday, and shish kebobs of a certain Westernized yet very pleasant variety were on the menu. I stopped by my favorite local market, Corti Brothers, and picked up some prime top sirloin and a bunch of vegetables, and enjoyed my skewer-lacing. A lovely evening; my mother and I watched Big Love, a wonderful HBO show that's hitting its prime this year despite a few rough patches, and talked about our family and how we've changed and grown.
Monday evenings are never quite settled; the second day of a five-day week always awaits you, if you work my schedule. But the sun is still gorgeous outside, and I find myself reflecting that if Gerard Manley Hopkins asked his God to "send his roots rain," I am happy with the mild sunlight that slips just through my window slats as its source goes down, bringing the prospect of mild forgetting and an evening of literary immersion. The nights are just long enough to darken and soothe.
The deaths of Bergman and Antonioni were meaningful to me this past week. Woody Allen and Martin Scorsese, respectively, did a wonderful job eulogizing these film legends in this past Sunday's NYT. As much as I love Bergman, I think Antonioni's work struck me more powerfully over the years, and Scorsese's piece completely did it justice. I was mystified the first time I saw L'Avventura in high school, and captivated when I saw it again my second year of college. What mattered most to me was its ambiguity: not everything was resolved, and not every question had an answer. If movies are to mirror life, they shouldn't have quick and painless resolutions, and Antonioni's work allowed me to truly see the complexities we face as we deal with losses of the body and the spirit that seem to come from nowhere. I believe that Antonioni embraced a sort of nihilism as he grew older: the closing sequence of Zabriskie Point and the desert wanderings of The Passenger suggest that only violent action will break us out of our habits, and ultimately it won't accomplish anything. But his films were gorgeous, ambitious, and above all true; and his departure took a certain red, distended, magically realistic "fat old sun" out of the sky, one that our films and our lives needed, and one that we will remember as long as cinema tries to express our deepest longings, joys, fears and regrets.
Not to undersell Bergman, of course. I will have more to say about my complex relationship with his films at a later date. But Bergman has never lacked for acolytes or champions. :)
My mother turned 67 on Sunday, and shish kebobs of a certain Westernized yet very pleasant variety were on the menu. I stopped by my favorite local market, Corti Brothers, and picked up some prime top sirloin and a bunch of vegetables, and enjoyed my skewer-lacing. A lovely evening; my mother and I watched Big Love, a wonderful HBO show that's hitting its prime this year despite a few rough patches, and talked about our family and how we've changed and grown.
Monday evenings are never quite settled; the second day of a five-day week always awaits you, if you work my schedule. But the sun is still gorgeous outside, and I find myself reflecting that if Gerard Manley Hopkins asked his God to "send his roots rain," I am happy with the mild sunlight that slips just through my window slats as its source goes down, bringing the prospect of mild forgetting and an evening of literary immersion. The nights are just long enough to darken and soothe.