like a monkey with a miniature cymbal
I gotta get some sleep. I'm tired.
So I finished Vertigo and I'm beginning to wonder about Hitchcock. Vertigo is still easily one of my favorites, but now that I have a much more refined sense of the grammar and vocabulary of that era of filmmaking, I am starting to see Hitch as the world's worst pacer of film. He doesn't know when or how to get in and out of scenes at the right times. I'm all for long, slow, methodical action. I love a good meditative story (Hou Hsiao-Hsien and Terence Malick spring to mind) and I don't mean to suggest that everything's gotta go fast fast fast, but seriously. Not cutting when it's time to cut kills suspense, Hitch. Figure it out!
Also I finally hit on something, a way to express more clearly what the naked girl at the end of Open means, and therefore how to rewrite all the previous scenes to reflect that theme. Now I've just got to figure out how to do it. Will's kids book and Annie's dialogue are still holding me up, but at least I'm working on it again. That feels good.
I'm 75% of the way through Taxi Driver but I'll have to finish it tomorrow before work. What a screenwriterly film; it'd been so long I hadn't remembered just how script-heavy it is. But in a good way. It's a good script. Feels a little like a French New Wave movie with that All American vicious frustrated-rage mixed in. Like Godard spewing bile? I'm too tired for good analogies. You'll have to settle for that one.
Oh, and Colin called tonight. Apparently his old roommate is out and now all that's standing between me and my new place on NE MLK and Graham is filling out an application (formality, I'm assured?) and the first month's rent.
So. Up, I guess. Though I still feel the same old lazy freakout, unmotivated overstressed boredom-panic I always feel. Anxiety? Yeah, probably.
Good night.
So I finished Vertigo and I'm beginning to wonder about Hitchcock. Vertigo is still easily one of my favorites, but now that I have a much more refined sense of the grammar and vocabulary of that era of filmmaking, I am starting to see Hitch as the world's worst pacer of film. He doesn't know when or how to get in and out of scenes at the right times. I'm all for long, slow, methodical action. I love a good meditative story (Hou Hsiao-Hsien and Terence Malick spring to mind) and I don't mean to suggest that everything's gotta go fast fast fast, but seriously. Not cutting when it's time to cut kills suspense, Hitch. Figure it out!
Also I finally hit on something, a way to express more clearly what the naked girl at the end of Open means, and therefore how to rewrite all the previous scenes to reflect that theme. Now I've just got to figure out how to do it. Will's kids book and Annie's dialogue are still holding me up, but at least I'm working on it again. That feels good.
I'm 75% of the way through Taxi Driver but I'll have to finish it tomorrow before work. What a screenwriterly film; it'd been so long I hadn't remembered just how script-heavy it is. But in a good way. It's a good script. Feels a little like a French New Wave movie with that All American vicious frustrated-rage mixed in. Like Godard spewing bile? I'm too tired for good analogies. You'll have to settle for that one.
Oh, and Colin called tonight. Apparently his old roommate is out and now all that's standing between me and my new place on NE MLK and Graham is filling out an application (formality, I'm assured?) and the first month's rent.
So. Up, I guess. Though I still feel the same old lazy freakout, unmotivated overstressed boredom-panic I always feel. Anxiety? Yeah, probably.
Good night.