Ouch!
Sunday night, we watched Sick, about the life and art of Bob Flanagan, a man who was a masochist and who also had cyctic fibrosis.
Um ... Wow.
In films, I am usually drawn to moments of lyricism, fucked-with narrative or perspective. Stories don't often get me. Especially stories that supposedly go into corners and drag out taboo subject matter ... I am usually unimpressed by shock narratives.
Flanagan's story had the potential to be this sort of shockumentary, I guess, but it wasn't. Actually complex renderings of sub-dom emotional dynamics, frank-to-the-point-of-nearly-scientific looks at illness and death, questions about bodily presence and art, poetic appeals concerning the importance of claiming your sexuality.
:
Dang. It was good.
Um ... Wow.
In films, I am usually drawn to moments of lyricism, fucked-with narrative or perspective. Stories don't often get me. Especially stories that supposedly go into corners and drag out taboo subject matter ... I am usually unimpressed by shock narratives.
Flanagan's story had the potential to be this sort of shockumentary, I guess, but it wasn't. Actually complex renderings of sub-dom emotional dynamics, frank-to-the-point-of-nearly-scientific looks at illness and death, questions about bodily presence and art, poetic appeals concerning the importance of claiming your sexuality.
:
Dang. It was good.