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ssvas1966 · 1 year

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Health - A long journey from 1996 to 2021

Background story – implications of pre dispositions/susceptible tendencies

As far as record goes and by memories / tell tales, our forefathers stayed at Malur taluk of Kolar Dist, earlier known as Malligepura, as many jasmine flower growers were there once upon a time. My grandfather Shri MR Krishna Rao (MRK) a teacher by profession, came to Bangalore during 1940s after his retirement.

Three generations of our lineage were teachers starting from Malur Raamaih to MRK and K. Seetharamaiah, my father. All were either named after Rama or Krishna !! Strict disciplinarians they were, having a great reputation in their times so much that our grand father used to sit along with Panchas for dispute resolution of the near by villages, even though he was officially just a School-master. He was also a Scout teacher and we have a proud photo of him with children and also participated in freedom struggle.

An interesting story is that there was a theft in the village in which we lost many gold jewellery during a marriage ceremony. MRK had only Son and seven daughters to take care. It is said that there is always one or the other daughter at all times in our house for delivering a baby. The Scout programme is said to be a fund raiser for compensating the monetary loss caused due to theft which would have otherwise strained relationship with in laws. Those days anything was possible to help the school-master!!

After shifting to Bangalore in search of better education and career, they stayed close to Malleshwaram in Bangalore. Appa was later transferred to Chamarajpet Middle School, making the family to move to Gavipuram area. It appears that one day the land Lady “Hombalamma” scolded my mother on the ground that there was a paralytic patient (Appa’s maternal uncle Mr.Vasudevachar, another interesting character of our family whom we will see later) at home and daily chores for his “U ma he” was disgusting. This irritated my father so much; and without second thoughts he decided to move out of rented house.

Within a month our new house was built in three days during 1966 for a meagre Rs.3,500/-. I was a new born baby and there was all new mud construction in a remote part of underdeveloped Bangalore. My ill health as a child is attributed to cold and in hospitable condition’s of this new area in revenue pocket of Bangalore. You can see this prediction in my horoscope also – child will have “Sheetha badhe” – cold related issues. Also, Appa lost his money purse in Ganesha temple on the day I was born and I was also branded as born in “Chor Nakshatra” !!

The family of K Seetharamaiah settled down in Srinagar and I have fond memories of Amba Bhavani School nearby, where I had to literally run across the small hilly terrain to reach school. It was scary to see and we used to run through the path. By this time, Akkaji was also married and settled in Nanjamba Agrahara whih is just across the Kempambudhi lake, which we used to fondly walk through. There was also a Hindu Cemetery and in fact initially we could even see the glazing pyres as there were no buildings in between.

Visiting Akka - Bhava in Chamarajpet was one of our regular routines. We two Kitty and Cheeni were ferocious kids who like to play all the time. WE also had a special task some times to go the Akkaji’s factory to give lunch. Family of four with Andalamma being the second daughter and we two were happy enough, even though there was generally a shortage of food and comforts of life. We grew well in our own secluded place as there were not many Brahmin families around and we were not encouraged to make friends from the area.

Though Appa had no inhibition about the caste formations, Amma was bit ortho. She was a strict disciplinarian as far as “vratha-nema” and would not drink water during her upavas vrath. I remember she climbing Tirumala hills without taking any food till Darshan of Lord Venkateshwara. We never followed ritualistic path, as appa was very rational and encouraged us to develop good conscience and made us to listen to it more than inculcating a god fearing attitude.

Following our own Conscience, maintaining integrity of character, is what he use to tell always and made us follow through out. We loved to listen to stories from Amma and every summer vacation is fully of learning new things, languages, going to relatives as far as Yelahanka to visit our grand father’s house. We had good entertainment in those days with Upendra, Radhakrishna and Manju, our cousins.

The other places of frequent visit being Kaval - byrasandra to meet our Alamelu atte family and another aunt Nagatthe family, at Yadagondanahalli. Distinctly remember the fabulous treatment we use to get in these places, as Appa was very much liked by everyone and known for his generosity to take care of his nephews and nieces. He is the only son in the family and all the sisters look upon him as a saviour in their troubled times. We got royal treatment in these places. I even remember a long journey to Basavapattana far off in North Karnataka where my maternal uncle Ramu Mava was working. He had three daughters and we were the future possible’s !!.

We grew up and studied at local schools and colleges. Ashu studied science with Biology and Appa wanted her to be a teacher. Hence she also did B.Ed. As destiny decided, she could not continue for long as a teacher and joined ESIC. Seeing the difficulty of a Factory life of Akkaji, it was a conscious decision to make her join a government department. We use to call her Andalamma as she has good appetite and little plumy.

Her future took a turn after marriage with TVS and they settled down in Azadnagar, after a brief stint at Mumbai. Their two adorable kids Ajay and Sheru were the ones whose child hood opened up our own dreams and particularly, Ajay was my tryst with a young life and made me feel very proud, as if he is my son. Sheru was so innocent and sweet, that I used to call him Mankanna. Both these little cuties were the centre of attraction and when Ajay was born I was almost free of my studies and enjoyed taking care of the kids.

Kitty joined BSNL after some stint in private sector and settled down in life in 1988. The bride was from a well to do family and we had issues back home, as in any middle class Brahmin family. Quietly we tried to settle down, as we had lost Amma few years before and Ashu has moved out after marriage. Three gentlemen (?) with one dignified lady member had difficulties in adjusting and we pulled on with new life of Kitty, trying to blend into a normal family life which was shattered due to loss of Amma in 1984. After Ashu’s marriage in 1985, we were literally orphaned and three of us had tough times till Kitty got married in 1988, creating more expectations in our joint futures.

I started earning immediately after my II PUC and worked in an Engine Overhauling concern as Typist/Assistant. My first pay was just Rs.70/- and I also further continued to work in the typing instituted as Instructor. Income earned was just sufficient for my needs to buy some books spend on my own. After losing Amma in my I year B.Com, the life became very dreaded and tough, and may be I lost a few more sentiments left out in the rational mind.

I finished Degree and joined ICWA for better career prospects. Before I could take exams, I had to join IT Department at Mysore and it was a real turning point of my life. Knowing the promotion aspects, I took some competitive exams to excel and became an Inspector during 1990. My father was proud with my achievements and he used to boast with all known people that my son is an Inspector!!

All these years of my growth seem to be quite dry as I did not enjoy most of it in a very positive manner. I had no plans to get married also and probably would have remained a vagabond, had I not asked a question to Veenu on the fateful day of 15th Jan 1994. We had gone for a long walk to Sri Ramana Maharshi Ashram in Mekhri Circle and after visiting the Shrine came out to sit on a big rock for a while. I initiated the discussion with her to seek her opinion about future course of action after completing degree.

Having lost her father very early age and some of her external beauty due to accident, I felt it was now our responsibility to take care. Just like Appa took care of his nephews and nieces, I also thought it is my job. I wanted to know whether she would like to work/study or get married. More importantly, marriage was the main topic.

Surprisingly and shockingly, she said in very clear terms that she wants to marry ME only, without any second thoughts. I never knew her intention though I knew that she had liking for my qualities. I used to entertain her with lot of stories, both known and cooked up ones, which she used to enjoy during her visit to our house. She even pretend that she is not well or gone to sleep to avoid her going back to parents house. She had admirable qualities in work and I had a liking for that only. After giving a brief thought, I consented and our LIFE journey started. Many times, I don’t remember when we got married, but I know the date on which I got involved in this proposal!!!!

With the above background, I will now shift to Health issues in the family.

Ours was a con-sanguial marriage (marriage within the family) and Akkaji also had same. It was therefore double con-sanguial on both sides. Even before I got married, I was very health conscious due to history of early deaths in our family and this factor made us more conscious. One of my deepest regrets in life is that both my parents did not live longer to see our progress. We ourselves were very unfortunate and never saw our grand parents. Whenever I see some one grand parenting and great grand parenting, I feel terrible. One of my child hood days dream was to live for more than 100 years and see all my great grandchildren. Of course now I don’t have that kind of interest!! It is only a question of remaining relevant to the present.

From the age of 12, I had observed Amma suffering from health issues, particularly stomach related issues and eventually leaving us when she was barely 45. Her physique was quite fragile and delicate ever since I remember her. Mentally strong but physiologically not. She also had a traumatic life after marriage with many mis carriages and in getting used to rustic life my father could offer her. Her main complaint was acidity resulted in surgery of appendix/ulcerated part which later got converted into Stomach Cancer. Two consequent surgeries virtually made her fragile and she could not withstand the onslaught of medicines given. Her metabolism had gone bad for several years and I have seen her barely able to eat two idlies after the surgery.

Next deep impact was the devastating death of Bhavaji due to Kidney failure at his prime age, leaving two vulnerable daughters at tender age to their fate, an aged mother who solely depended on him and a loving wife who cared for him. The kind of health issues faced by both, I have seen very closely and tried to analyse them at very young age. Both did not live longer to fulfil their obligation towards their siblings and many of our infirmities in personality, immaturities and foolishness, might be due to their absence in most formative part of our lives. I never wanted this to happen to our future generations.

As I look back now, we have a great history of early deaths, untimely departures in the whole family, which I have tried to trace upto two-to-three generations. Before going into those details, I will narrate our sojourn from marriage till date relating to Health issues, in the above background and certain hard decisions taken to avoid such issues in our own case.

Bhavaji was a very fine personality, well mannered, highly intellectual, well read and soft spoken person. He was a kind of role model for us and we admire adore and seek his wisdom always. In spite of all his virtues, what made him to leave early, was a million-dollar question for me. The kind of trauma and tension prevailing in our family during his ill health, is un forgettable. Why it happened, if we objectively analyse, it appears that he had all the good qualities with a great taste for food.

He was a good eater and connoisseur of food and movies. I remember his penchant for different dishes prepared in various hotels and he used to enjoy them with friends and family. He lost his father even before he was born and there is a family history of early death. This habbit of eating tasty food probably landed him in trouble. He was a long standing diabetic since the age of 30 and this has finally resulted in kidney failure at the age of 44.

With all the virtues in life and wisdom of life, he couldn’t stay longer with family. This is one of the main reasons which imprinted in my mind that we should never go after taste alone. Developing a taste is one thing and being addicted to eating tasty food is another. I never commented on the quality of food and mostly took it as my destiny to eat. My eating habits were different from young age itself and I never preferred to eat anything in between meals. Home food was my favourite and I remember, even after coming back from search duty, I used to have dinner at midnight as late as 2 a.m. and then only go to sleep. This ideology got imbued into my personality, when I saw two untimely deaths in our family.

Secondly, my mother’s early departure, was devastating to us particularly, Appa suffered loneliness, became highly irritable and felt purposeless. He used to find purpose in going out in the pretesxt of some odd job, and service to society in his own way. Amma was a stubborn lady with a delicate body and used to be constantly worrying all the time, which probably caused her ulcers and later turned into Cancer. She could not face tough life offered by Appa and sulked for long. All these are my inferences and I do not really know.

Journey from Naturopathy to Homeopathy:

After the marriage, we took an informal owe to maintain health in the most natural way. I had attended Yoga programme at Maradi Subbaiah Chowltry premises in my earlier days and we both attended a Naturopathy course at that time. In this course, we were also taught about acupressure, reiki and other systems of healing along with naturopathy. Incidentally, we were also introduced to Vipassana and both of us did a two 10 day course, which got us into the field of philosophy put to use. This is actually a turning point which made both of us aware of our strength and weaknesses and the ways to over come, besides giving a perspective of life.

Veenu was against any allopathic treatment as she also suffered due to over medication at her early days. She had a weak constitution and parents tried their best to give all kinds of food to build her strength. Every time she fell sick, there will be a medical intervention at the immediate instance and she has taken allopathic drugs and carried a weak constitution. She realised this and practiced yoga and naturopathy more vigorously. Though we can’t blame the parents, their ignorance and too much concern for the first baby costed her health. Probably they were also scared of their con-sanguial marriage and the complications noted in the second child.

With renewed vigour both started practicing alternative method since 1996 and our drugless journey started. Meanwhile, she did some advanced courses in healing and I had also an occasion to pursue homeopathic studies for long. As naturopathy may not be completely suitable for kids, I started to take interest in life sciences and studied further. In fact during the first pregnancy, Veenu went to SVYASA to get yogic assistance and stayed there under a special programme for pregnant women for 15 days.

In spite of all the precautions and preparations made, the first baby born through caesarean and this shattered our confidence. When we saw the medical complications and the diagnosis made, treatment suggested for the one month old kid, heavens virtually fell and we had no one to give support. At this point of time, we were introduced to Dr.Devaki Devadas, who was primarily a paediatrician in St John’s Hospital later converted into homeopathic practice.

We desperately wanted to avoid Allopathic treatment and finally, we got an alternative. But every time we visit her, our EGO used to get hurt a lot as she was very shrewed and blunt. We couldn’t argue and silently suffered in long waits, frequent visits. Her main requirement was that there could not be any parallel medical support and it has to be pure classical homeopathy. No vaccination is to be administered and it is complete homeo cure which she guaranteed. We had seen one instance in family and we had no option. Her faith in the system was unflinchable and we had no option to believe in ourselves and give a try. The amount of pressure and tension at the crucial moments of his treatment is really unexplainable.

By god’s grace and our faith in Homeo sailed us through and both the children are on right track without any kind of vaccination till date (except recent one due to compulsion of college, which is now antidoted with homeo medicine !!). To come to this stage, it was not easy. Since the day Chinmaya was born and even before, we faced the dilemma. When he was a month old baby, the doctor called me for a discussion and suggested surgical procedure. After understanding the issue and discussion with other doctors, we took a stand that we will not allow any kind of surgical intervention at this age. Doctor was very upset and made a remark in the record that father is not agreeing and wants second opinion. We did all kinds of diagnostic tests suggested including a test in Nuclear medicine – which I don’t really know what it is. It was a painful test where the functioning of kidneys is assessed by injecting chemicals into kidney through urethra. I can never forgive myself for the pain and trauma caused to little beloved one.

Our tryst with Homeo was not very smooth and we had to face a tough doctor who will snub us for any enquiry and we had to wait for hours patiently. In fact this waiting has helped us in realising that the health can be regained only by sustained efforts and time given for cure. Once we are introduced to her maternal uncle Dr. Megharajan at Davanagare and it was a great blessing. He was a professor at IIT and resigned to do social service and practice homeopathy.

Divine soul as he was, I had a personal rapport and great admiration for his philosophical bent of mind and crisp understanding of homeo principles. He was a classical homeopath doing great service to patients in and around Davanagere. They originally belong to Tamilnadu and came long ago to settle down at Hiriyur and homeo health camps are regularly done for the benefit of villagers around.

His nephew is Dr.Rangarajan who is moulded by the principles of his uncle and continuing to do service to the needy patients. Our interactions with Dr.Rangarajan also made us understand the basics of Classical homeopathy and he eventually started teaching us the science behind homeopathy. I had an occasion to learn Homeo for about one year in Mysore conducted by World Teacher’s Trust and deeply inspired by its efficacy in curing chronic diseases. This helped me to strengthen the belief in the system of medicine which we are administering to both the sons since birth. In fact, for Yagnik it is before birth and he is under homeo care without any allopathic medicine/vaccinations.

Principles of Homeo:

The basic premise of Homeopathy is that there is a LIFE FORCE which takes care of most of the ailments bothering us and it is inherent nature of any being. The fundamental principle is that Similia Similibus curenthar – meaning similar cures to similar. Any medicinal substance which gives raise to a symptom in a healthy person (as per proving made with hundreds of volunteers and sometimes doctor himself); will cure the disease which produces a symptom in a sick person. In short, if a patient is getting symptoms due to disease, a remedy (drug) causing similar symptoms is administered.

The remedy will trigger the symptom to an optimum level and seek a proper response from te LIFE FORCE which will start working. The medicinal substances are from plant kingdom, animal kingdom, minerals, energy levels, and even diseased /dead tissues!! These are extracted and potentised to the required level. When a substance is diluted in the proportion of 1 x 100 and again 1 x 100 for nearly 30 times, it is called potency of 30C which is the normal minimum potency given. (One part of substance mixed with 99 parts of alcohol/liquid base and from this dilution one part is taken and again 99 parts is mixed. Like this 30 times is 30C).

You may not be even able to find out the chemical properties of the medicine originally extracted and how it works is a miracle. They say it may be water memory, energy spikes and chemical signature which remains after potentisation. These potencies go upto 200C and now we have 0/1, 0/2…. Potencies which are still more diluted in centesimal ratio. It only shows that the homeo remedies work at a deeper level which may be beyond molecular, cellular or even sub atomic levels. There are a number of researches which show that the remedies at very deeply to the level of miasms; ( genetic pre dispositions for which there are constitutional remedies in homeo.

When I further completed another online course by Dr.Bhatia for two to three months, I could get vast amount of material to substantiate the claims made by Homeopaths. Some of the literatures and research articles written by Dr. Rajan Sankaran strengthened our belief about this system of medicine as it is very close to Naturopathy, where we allow the body to cure itself and give support. We basically turned to Homeo only for the kids as they may not be able to follow principles of Naturopathy and may need assistance. Dr Rajan Sankaran’’s works on the nature of dreams and its indications in treating through homeo medicine is amazing. Deep insight into human psychology and also the complex nature of physiological systems which we are trying to understand/cure were obtained through this.

With all the above struggles and adventures/mis-adventures over a period of more than 25 years, we have come to believe that there won’t be any need for major medical assistance. It is basically because of the fact that this human machine is self contained, self healing and self reconstructing mechanism which needs to be handled with due care. These systems have evolved over millions of years and its too naïve to measure them in terms of numbers which are randomized on the basis of a few hundred persons. All these parameters beginning from pulse rate, temperature, blood pressure and now the latest, Oxygen levels are dynamic in nature.

Any treatment has to be holistic and the method of treatment has to consider a person as one whole unit requiring attention. You can’t treat your skin without treating the Kidneys / lungs which is giving problem. Most of the so called diseases like fever, cold, head aches are only symptoms and at best a reaction to a situation created from outside and some times due to inherent pre dispositions. If they are persisting over a period of time and creating trouble, you may need medical intervention. Not everyone getting wet in rain would catch cold and we have to distinguish between the root cause and the maintaining cause of a disease.

Unless we understand the problem and its root cause in physiological terms it is not possible to cure. All these diseases are actually an expression of the body which we fail to respond properly with proper life style, food habits and diet. Understanding the language of body is paramount importance than understanding the parameters given in numbers and ratios which can be very misleading when we look at a person a whole. They also create more and more inhibitions and fear psychosis and do not allow us think about the present and clear danger which is expressed by the body in its own language.

Finally coming to our encounter with Corona, I believe, I got it during first wave itself and it was asymptomatic. The trouble was least, lasting about a week with mild fever, body pain and head ache with loss of smell/taste. It was not alarming and it died down without any kind of medication. But during April, when we did the function at Bangalore, its effects were severe and suffering was longer/intense. The latest mutant (B.1.617 – Delta version) appears to be more infectious and troublesome. However, Homeo did not fail us and with proper diet and rest, all four of us successfully came out unscathed. There is a great rejuvenation after the recovery; my back ache, sleep apnea and other small issues have gone for a toss. We are more confident of facing any future variant since our bodies are more equipped now.

It’s very clear that if you can face the disease without much medical intervention and hospitalization, it is going to go naturally. More and more medicines would definitely reduce your natural immunity and the resistance artificially caused would invite more superior variants as a reaction. There are studies that indicate vaccination would induce more mutations and infections. Probably this is what happened during second wave in our case also. It is an admitted fact that vaccination does not give immunity from getting infected again and some of the vaccines have not even cleared Phase 3 trials. It is expressly given as an Emergency usage basis which indicates that it should not be administered very routinely.

Natural methods of healing, alternative systems of medicine – (a misnomer, since everyone believes that Allopathy is the main system and others are only alternatives !!) - can do miracles with a proper understanding of our physiology, nature of disease and the kind of treatment required in each and every case. There cannot be an attitude of “One hat fits all” especially in health matters as each individual is unique carrying genetic pre dispositions of multitude nature. It requires a will to persevere with the process of getting cured and public faith clubbed with government patronage which is very much lacking, probably due to pharma lobby and vested interest of medical practitioners’.

The times ahead would not be as simple as before, due to over conscious health behavior, undue health awareness artificially triggered by the insecurity caused by Virus and of course our own ageing factors. We are going to see a new world order creating unnecessary dependency on medical support and exploitation by the privileged few. We have to gear up ourselves to survive in the tough world which is going to be. Make your choices wisely with proper background study and develop right perspective about the nature of Health. All the very best in your endeavor to remain with the nature for a purpose living ahead and to achieve over all well being. Thank you for your time and patience in reading a lengthy passage.

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whileiamdying · 1 year

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Immaginare la Vita

— Dario CECCHI

Immaginare la vita: questo potrebbe essere preso come il programma implicito di tutta la filmografia di Kiarostami. Ci sono i cortometraggi patrocinati dal Kanun, che mettono al centro luoghi (la campagna in trasformazione, la periferia povera di una capitale in rapida espansione) e persone (i bambini, i vecchi, le donne): questi soggetti chiedono che le loro vite non siano solo documentate, ma anche in una certa misura narrate a causa della loro marginalità. Ci sono poi i film, come nel caso della trilogia di Koker o di Ta'm e guilass (1997; Il sapore della ciliegia), in cui a essere raccontato non è nemmeno una storia in quanto tale, quanto l'incontro tra il cinema e una vicenda umana: qui il film non testimonia tanto una vita, quanto l'incontro tra il cinema e la vita. Si vede bene, allora, che l'apporto immaginativo si fa più forte, perché ciò che è chiamato vita non si fa più comprendere solo come quella vita. La vita, così come emerge dai film di Kiarostami, è riferita allo stesso tempo alla singola vicenda individuale e a tutto quello che si affaccia oltre ciò che della vita le immagini lasciano vedere e che tuttavia il film lascia immaginare. È solo il cinema - grazie a un montaggio usato spesso per far letteralmente sentire la presenza del fuori campo nell'immagine, come nel finale di Nema-ye Nazdik (1990; Close-Up), di Zendegi va digar hich (1992; E la vita continua), o del Sapore della ciliegia - a poter mettere in comunicazione una vita con tutto ciò che nel mondo le darà occasione di proseguire, in breve con la vita.

Immaginare la vita non significa, di conseguenza, fantasticare un'altra vita. Immaginazione e vita designano due cose affatto differenti da fantasia e realtà. La fantasia è il potere di "fingersi" una realtà diversa da quella che è offerta dai puri dati di fatto. All'immaginazione non manca la capacità di attivare una modalità di pensare le cose altrimenti da come sono, o meglio da come appaiono immediatamente. Non si tratta però di essere trasportati in un "altro mondo": questo pensare altrimenti non si applica a mondi possibili, ma alle forme di questo mondo. Dico le forme perché, se il cinema di Kiarostami esercita un potere sulle cose, è proprio quello di far emergere le loro forme. E per forma si può intendere niente altro che questo: i punti di apertura nelle cose, in cui queste lasciano intravedere dove si dirigono, dove porteranno la vita. Così nel finale di Zire darakhatan zeyton (1994; Sotto gli ulivi) possiamo chiederci dove l'amore, una delle forme più potenti che la vita può assumere, condurrà le esistenze di Hossein e Tahereh e fino a che punto lo sguardo del cinema potrà accompagnare i due (possibili) amanti. Le forme stanno perciò tra i dati di fatto attuali e visibili e quelli futuri e possibili. È dandole forma attraverso le immagini che il cinema può testimoniare la vita. Dall'ottica di Kiarostami, in fondo, la vita non si trova - o non si trova eminentemente - che nell'intervallo tra le immagini; e con essa in questo "*tra" si trovano anchel cinema e l'immaginazione.

In questo senso si possono intendere le parole pronunciate da Kiarostami durante un'intervista: «quando la poesia raggiunge il massimo, e quindi ottiene un potere, in quel momento inizia la sua menzogna»[1]. Il regista riporta qui un pensiero del poeta e filosofo persiano Nezami, che considera, in linea con la tradizione del suo Paese, un maestro di saggezza. Questo concetto va però ricondotto a un preciso contesto culturale - Nezami appartiene al periodo "classico" della letteratura persiana, essendo vissuto tra il xu e il xI secolo - e a un genere artistico ben definito, la poesia; altrimenti si sarebbe indotti a opporre la realtà (vera) all'opera (bella, ma menzognera) dell'arte e si sarebbe così portati a interpretare quello di Kiarostami come un cinema "di fantasia". Nel confronto con la poesia il cinema sconta un "di meno", ma mostra anche un "di più". Il cinema è meno della poesia, perché solo attraverso le immagini della poesia, che sono fatte di parole, è possibile confrontare il lavoro dell'immaginazione con il linguaggio attraverso cui normalmente esprimiamo i nostri pensieri e ci riferiamo a stati di cose. È a proposito della poesia che si può stabilire in senso stretto una distinzione tra verità e menzogna. Il cinema è però in vantaggio sulla poesia, perché le sue immagini visive, il cui senso dipende dal montaggio e non dal linguaggio, permettono di riferirsi alle cose sospendendo momentaneamente la questione della verità o della menzogna della realtà narrata. Il cinema induce anzi lo spettatore a esplorare fino a che punto la realtà è tale nella misura in cui sono gli uomini a immaginarla, cioè a darle forma.

Non è un caso se, nel film in cui omaggia il "maestro" Nezami, Shirin (2008; Id.), le parole del poeta, messe in scena in forma teatrale, diventano un fuori campo - lo spettatore ascolta, ma non vede l'azione sulla scena che attraverso le battute recitate dagli interpreti -, mentre la macchina da presa si concentra sulle spettatrici presenti a teatro, sui loro volti attoniti, attenti, rapiti, commossi dalla storia. Il film non indaga la "menzogna" poetica del racconto mitico della principessa che l'amore porterà all'amarezza e al dolore, ma si interessa alla realtà viva e mobile delle emozioni delle donne che seguono la vicenda. Si può allora ben dire - e capire in che senso - il cinema di Kiarostami è un cinema in cui l'immaginazione è forza della vita. Non è casuale se il cinema del regista iraniano abbia fatto spesso riferimento - nei suoi esiti migliori - proprio al suo Paese: se il suo compito è indagare la vita attraverso l'immaginazione, è naturale che abbia cominciato "guardandosi intorno", cercando proprio nelle immagini più usuali, più immediate e reali il "sostrato immaginativo" presente nella vita.

Vorrei in primo luogo esprimere la mia gratitudine al mio maestro, Pietro Montani, per avermi insegnato quanto si può apprendere dal cinema. Ringrazio gli amici Luca Venzi, per la possibilità offertami, Alessia Cervini e Alessio Scarlato, per i consigli e il sostegno. Vorrei inoltre ricordare la mia famiglia per avermi trasmesso una certa "sensibilità persiana". Un grazie sentito va a Chiara Supplizi: nomen omen ma in senso contrario e uno (di lungo corso) va anche a Catia della Libreria Fahrenheit e al suo harem. Vorrei ringraziare infine, last but not least, Edda Marazia, che ha a cuore la mia creatività.

[1] J-L. Nancy, L'évidence du film. Abbas Kiarostami, Yves Gevaert, Bruxelles, 2001; tr. it. a cura di Alfonso Cariolato, Abbas Kiarostami. L'evidenza del film, Donzelli, Roma 2004, p. 120.

Works Cited:

Cecci, D. (2013). Abbas Kiarostami: Immaginare la vità. Roma, Lazio, Italia: Edizione Fondazione Ente dello Spettacolo.

#abbas kiarostami #dario cecchi

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thatpastaguy · 4 years

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The Determined Podcast Announcement!

Greetings everyone! I’m here to announce that The Determined Podcast newest episode will be streaming live on Twitch and Youtube Tomorrow at 2 PM EST January 6th. This time our special guest is a talented upcoming comic creator by the name of @corpupine. She’ll be talking about her wonderful comic NemaTale. With beautiful artwork and interesting plot they’ll be plenty to talk about. Hope all of you can join!

Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCNIb6htpa18_apouCjweNRA

Twitch: https://www.twitch.tv/pastaguya

#undertale #thedeterminedpodcast #podcast #nema tale #undertale au

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darkhymns-fic · 3 years

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Needless Concerns

After the surprising reveal of Hawken and Nema escaping their punishment, it's only natural for everyone to want to take a moment and breathe.

This is where Aegis and Kanata reflect on their parents, on the cruelties of what had been and what could have been, on the pains that resurface, no matter if the grief is even deserved. But lending an ear is what friends do for each other.

Fandom: Tales of Crestoria Characters: Aegis Alver, Kanata Hjuger, Hawken Alver, Nema Alver, the Crestoria party Rating: G Word Count: 6621 Mirror Link: AO3 Notes: Written after reading Chapter 10! The title comes from the skit between Aegis and Kanata in the chapter, and I wanted to explore more about their family circumstances.

He had never felt such exhaustion before.

It was almost something out of a fairy tale book, the way the red-haired woman had appeared out of thin air, startling even the Great Transgressor. In truth, Aegis had barely been listening to her, her words shifting around his ears like white noise. Already, he was mapping the grave plots for his parents, the hurt there still fresh, but a sting that only pricked at him if he prodded it for too long. He was at that strange balance between numbness and outright despair. A careful balancing act he had to endure.

And like a fairy tale, the woman revealed the faces of his parents from nothing– the parents that should have been dead the moment their Stains of Guilt were branded across their skin, that had been bound for the Enforcers to take their punishment on for speaking good of him and-

He couldn’t finish the thought without breaking down.

“Aegis?” his father spoke, a broad-shouldered man whose own virtues had been impressed upon him since an early age. A man who had spoken on Vision Central with such conviction in his voice, that it both heartened Aegis and made him feel such guilt that he wished he could have been half the man his father believed him to be.

He spoke to him with such raw pain, but with such bright joy which made his voice crack, that any feeble walls Aegis had put up around himself then crumbled into dust.

I can’t…believe this…

Soon, he was like a child again, having woken up from nightmares with only the arms of his mother and father to soothe him away to sleep.

That was all it was, wasn’t it? Just a nightmare.

Orwin’s voice was, surprisingly, the most sensible out of them all. “We should give them some space,” he said, with a tone that felt so out-of-place, but tempered the emotions all the same. “Parents need their time with their kid, y’know.”

Vicious just shrugged to that, already walking down the road, his back to the group. “Fine by me. Not like I’m good with this sappy crap anyway.”

“Oh, must you?” Yuna called after him, shaking her head. It didn’t change much, as he was already some distance away, making the woman sigh. “A barbarian, through an’ through, ‘az always.”

Still, few words were said. Aegis’ sobs keened through the air, their mix of relief and desperation so deeply felt in one’s bones, only to be quieted by the hands of his only family. It was too private a scene to even look at, and so it didn’t take much prodding from Orwin to give the Alver’s their moment. Misella showed a rare pity in her gaze before she stepped back, and Kanata lingered for a while until her hand gently guided him away.

There were things they must do, but such a moment demanded its time and respect.

“It sounds like you have experience in this sort of thing,” spoke Ivis to Orwin, and her presence was like a strange puzzle piece that they couldn’t find anywhere to fit.

Orwin looked to her with a curious glance that was a far cry from his stated perceptions of her when she first appeared, a line forming between his brows. “These parents put themselves on the line for their son, and nearly lost their lives because of it. We all thought they were goners… Nothing complicated about what they all need right now.”

The woman merely smiled, the strangeness about her all the more apparent. Perhaps it was something noteworthy, but how could anyone focus on her after what they’d been through?

Kanata kept looking towards Aegis, his weeping more subdued, more held in as he buried his face in his mother’s shoulder, as his father’s arms wrapped around them both.

The gentle squeeze of his hand took his attention away. “Hm?”

“Kanata…” Misella spoke, and the knowledge was there, in just the utterance of his name. “Are you thinking of…?”

He shook his head quickly, placing a smile on his lips. “Don’t worry about me. We should… just keep thinking of Aegis. He’ll need us afterwards, I’m sure.”

The warmth of her hands were like the gentle flames of a fireplace, that he hadn’t realized he squeezed back before making himself release his grip.

Memories may come unbidden, but this was not the place. This was not the time. Someone around here must be allowed to heal.

“You must tell us all about what happened after you left Medegal,” spoke his father. His voice still carried that same baritone that Aegis had heard rumble through the screen in the plaza, but quieter now, with a smile that lifted his mustache high. “Look at you… You still carry on your Knight’s emblem with such strength.”

“Please, I’m sure he would rather rest after today.” His mother’s voice was always of reason, and just the familiar tones of it was nearly enough to send Aegis to tears. But he persevered, holding them back, now only holding both of his parents’ hands in his, instead of clinging to them like some scared, lost child.

Strange he had rarely felt anything but.

“I will explain… everything,” he promised, gazing back at them as if they would vanish before his sight at any moment now. After all, what if this wasn’t all but some grand illusion he was being subjected to? Or what if he was merely seeing ghosts in his imagination, wishing so desperately for his parents to be alive and well?

After all that had happened, all he could do was question, and hold back their hands so tightly.

“Careful!” his father laughed. “The dry weather makes my bones ache more than usual. They can’t stand up to such a steely grip!”

“R-right, I’m so sorry, Dad. I mean, Father.” His hands had barely stopped shaking since he’d seen them, but his gaze couldn’t help but shift to the Stains of Guilt on both of their forearms, the intricate designs of them too blatant to be denied.

His mother caught the direction of his gaze, and absently rubbed a free hand over the mark. “It appeared… so suddenly for us. As if it had always been there.” She sighed sadly, the setting sun turning her hair to sapphire. “A strange thought, I suppose.”

Just like that, the guilt instantly returned. But he swallowed it down so that he wouldn’t choke on its very meaning.

“It matters not,” spoke his father. “I will bear a hundred of these marks if it means I will defend my son! Hell, they may slam one right on my very face and I won’t bat an eye!”

“Now that’s being a little ridiculous,” yet even through his mother’s chastisement, Aegis couldn’t help but shiver, even through the guilt. Or perhaps even because of it.

For what kind of son was ecstatic that his own parents would lay their lives for him with barely a thought?

“Perhaps…I did go a bit overboard just then,” came the apology, but his father had always been so quick to talk, so quick to give his own perceptions, especially when it had to do with justice…

Aegis’ eyes were still wet from tears, but he attempted to meet his parents’ faces with bravery, as if he had just gotten back home to Wigaseya for a quick visit. “Please, I would also like you to meet my companions. It will help me better to tell you what has happened since my… departure from the knighthood.”

It’s the best he could say of it, as if it were just a simple early retirement, or a difference in a career path. But he couldn’t bear the brunt of their disappointment, even though he knew they must be feeling so with him, somewhere deep inside their hearts. They were just too kind to simply let it show.

Of course, when he turned around, many of his companions seemed to have… wandered off? They were still around, but some like Vicious went walking down the road. (Where the hell is he going?!) He could hardly think on him though, as he felt the eyes of Kanata and Misella on him, standing within the fields near each other, sharing their glances towards him occasionally.

A tugging of his hand, and he turned back to meet his mother’s eyes that were a match of his own. “Aegis, I’ve been meaning to ask you… You still like those books of yours, yes? The, um…” She seemed to have trouble placing the name, using her free hand to tap at her husband’s shoulder. “You should know them, right? It starts with an ‘A’, I’m sure.”

“Oh, right!” His father snapped his fingers. “The Avalon series! Yeah? Wait, no.” Forehead scrunched, the man placed a hand on his chin, thinking quite heavily. “You read them so much as a child, I should be able to recite them with barely any trouble!”

Aegis was stunned at this turn in conversation, but he supplied the help his parents so desperately needed. “It’s the Avalanche series, if those are the books you mean.” He chucked, feeling a little self-conscious all the sudden, despite such novels being of great work, but what a time to discuss them now… “The… Silver Mechaknight Avalanche series, to be more specific…”

At that, his mother had let go of his hand, but only to clap her hands together joyfully. “Ah, I knew it! I had a feeling it was something like that. I wasn’t sure, but-” Then she reached through a deep pocket within her dress, something that must have weighed her down earlier, going by the thickness of its make. But she held it out to Aegis with a bit of pride in her eyes. “Here it is! When we heard the news on Vision Central, I just had to take this with me. Maybe it was foolish, but I remember how your eyes would always light up as you read these by the fireplace. And, maybe I could have said so on Vision Central and convinced everyone that you didn’t do those crimes…”

Aegis stared, a mixture of feelings welling up in his chest. A bit of mortification that his mother had seriously considered waving around his book in front of an angry crowd, but also touched that she would even recall such a long-ago memory. He reached out to take the book in his hands, the cover of it faded, and the spine a bit cracked from how often he had opened it when he was young.

“Ah, I do remember those books now. And how much you liked me doing the voices!” His father grinned, then puffed out his chest as he thought back on such ancient words. “Now, what was one of them? I think it was something like, ‘Platinum Extension Beaaammmm!!’”

Aegis heard a sharp stutter and cough from the distance. The deepness of it reminded him of Orwin, who probably jumped at the suddenness of his father’s voice that reverberated in the air like a great echo.

“Ah, too loud, Hawken! You would always go overboard that the neighbors would start complaining.”

“But Aegis loved it when I did it that way! Right, son?” Then as if realizing what he’d just done, the man chuckled and scratched at his cheek, his brand burning as bright as shadow in the light. “Ha, but here I am, treating you as if you’re a child and not a man.”

“No, no, that’s not-” Aegis started, stopped, his voice clogged with emotion. “That’s not…”

Here they were, having just been exiled out of the village that they made their home in for their entire lives in just a single day, having just been bound by the very neighbors that they spoke of with so little hesitance, those same neighbors he had been so intent on killing, that had made him see absolute red…

His parents were forever branded as criminals on the run, alongside him, and yet, all that they truly worried about was preserving his most favorite book that one could get for a measly few Gald at a nearby shop.

He could barely read the title, his eyesight once again getting blurry.

“Oh no, was this the wrong one?” His mother asked with such sincerity it was like barbs to his chest. “I should have gone for the blue cover, but we were in such a rush and-”

“Please, it’s too much. I mean, It’s fine!” Aegis said, holding the book close, smiling as another tear left him. “I promise you, it’s fine…”

He wiped away his tears with the back of his hand, smiling now, but more genuine than before. “Let me take you to my friends. I want you to meet them more than anything.”

As the night deepened, the silhouette of the Great Grassvalley Tree painted itself against the sky like a darker shadow, branches so impossibly tall, leaves reaching up to touch a place thought to be unattainable, a place where only the gods could reside.

To think such a great tree existed, and to think it could have been so easily destroyed, all in an instant.

But that had apparently happened to the Great Pasca Tree, according to Ivis. They should be hurrying, but still the weight of everything was almost so much – so they decided a night was what they could afford themselves. Just one night, before the next day with all its trials started again.

Kanata couldn’t help but keep staring at the tree before him, remembering the singed bark inside, and the deep gouges made into the wood from destructive artes, like wounds that were difficult to heal. He wondered if Milla was doing alright in there, if she needed help. But she had always been so capable, and even with all that he learned, he did still feel so small.

He was separate from the others who sat before a quickly-built campfire. From that distance, he heard the laughter of new voices, and just glanced behind to see Aegis’ parents huddled near him. For people who had just lost their home and their way of living, they radiated such positive energy that seemed to infect the entire group. Even a grumpy Vicious who still half-whined about not having any booze nearby, seemed to let his shoulders relax as he sat nearest the flickering flames.

The light shone brightly against the dark Stains of Guilt on their forearms, Hawken never bothering to roll down his sleeves to hide it away, and Nema pointedly not touching it. Newly-minted Transgressors, like the rest of them. And all because they wanted to protect the reputation of their only son.

Kanata had to excuse his presence for a moment, politely declining Misella’s questions as he left the warm firelight and retreated into shadows. It was only by chance that he decided to look up at the great tree, knowing where they must head off to next. By tomorrow, they would need to leave. But, would that mean Aegis’ parents would join them? Or would Ivis? He almost wished he could ask Milla for help on this.

He must have stared at that same tree for a long time, seated atop the fresh-dew grass. He hadn’t heard the footsteps at all until they were accompanied by a voice.

“Kanata, you’ve been sitting here by yourself?”

He jerked around, seeing Aegis standing behind him. His friend held a clay bowl in his hands, one of the provisions that he remembered Aegis had insisted on buying on one of their supply trips when he soon joined their group. “You all don’t plan to eat out of your hands, do you?” he had questioned, though had done so when Misella had tacitly been tearing seasoned meat off the bone with her teeth at the time…

Kanata quickly got to his feet. “Aegis! I was just… thinking, that’s all.” He scratched the back of his head, needing something to do with his hands. “And, I figured you would want to keep speaking with your parents.”

Aegis looked like his usual self again, albeit without the thread of irritation that would line his forehead over something a certain someone (Vicious) had done with their supplies and/or money. He walked up to Kanata and handed him the bowl, which the other couldn’t help but accept.

“My mother made us some chili. It’s the kind I would have when I was younger, as this was all we could, well, afford most of the time. Here, this is your share.”

“Oh… thank you.” Kanata looked down, somehow impressed at a simple bowl of chili, the heat of it warming up his fingers through the bowl. “It smells very good!”

Aegis looked quite pleased at the compliment, eyes seeming to shine from the moonlight overhead. “I can’t tell you just how many bowls I would have of this back as a child. It’s a recipe I still need to perfect myself, I just need to get the order of the spices right.”

Kanata blinked. “Oh, you mean like that overly spicy stew you made for us two weeks ago? Is that what this is supposed to be?” He now looked to the chili bowl with a bit of concern.

“It wasn’t overly spicy! You need a reasonable amount of spiciness to warm you up adequately!” Aegis blinked, then cleared his throat. “Erm, anyway… This is much better, I promise you.”

While Kanata still felt wary as he gazed at his meal, he knew he shouldn’t reject it, and had a spoonful of it. He smiled as the food hit his tastebuds.

“Wow, this is really amazing! I hope you can finally learn how to make this recipe so we can have more of it later!”

“Of course!” Aegis said, before pausing. “Although I… didn’t think my earliest attempts were that off the mark, but your criticism is noted.”

Kanata was still going through the rest of the bowl, careful not to spill a drop on his clothes, but something about the warmth of the meal made his chest feel oddly tight. He had only eaten it halfway before he felt he had to stop.

Aegis’ expression was of worry. “Is something wrong?”

“No, just…” Kanata didn’t know how to put it into words, or if he even could. But the weight of a cooked meal from a parent made him find at least something sufficient to say. “I’m just… so relieved.”

This only served to confuse Aegis even more. “Kanata, you’ve truly lost me.”

“I mean, relieved for you!” Kanata faced Aegis with more light to his eyes, his feelings finding their way to his throat, though almost a bit too loudly. “That you could still have this! That you didn’t lose…” He quieted a bit, hesitant, but already said too much. “That you can still have them in your life.”

There was no need to specify who he meant. Aegis became quiet, his gaze flickering away from Kanata to the two figures by the campfire. They seemed to be busy chatting with Yuna, who held out her camera for them, like it was of great interest.

“…I know,” Aegis said finally, subdued. “It is incredibly lucky that they are still alive. If Ivis hadn’t found them…” He trailed off, but the meaning was clear. “You’re right. Even this simple bowl of chili would not exist at this moment.”

Kanata looked to the food he held, and felt such a welling of guilt. Why did he even bring it up in such a way for Aegis to confront?

“…But Kanata, just now you also sound so pained. Why?”

He could almost feel the burning in the back of his right hand. Searing, almost unbearable.

Aegis took the bowl from Kanata’s hands, setting it carefully on a nearby stump before speaking again. “Kanata? Talk to me.”

For Aegis to offer some comfort after what he’d already been through, it only served to make Kanata feel much worse about it. But he owed more to Aegis than just thick silence.

“I keep thinking if my father was anything like your parents, just how…different things might have been.”

There was the shameful, selfish thing that he let free. Kanata couldn’t take it back now. But something, about the way they had held Aegis close with tears in their eyes, the image of it would not leave his head. To be filled with happiness and relief, but also…

Yet when Aegis spoke, it wasn’t with contempt or anything of the sort.

“I think I understand a bit now. The pain of losing a parent.” He paused, finding the right words. “Even though they are here now, for a while, I felt that same grief.”

“But…it’s not the same. It shouldn’t be.” He gritted his teeth. “I shouldn’t grieve, should I?”

Aegis didn’t reply.

“My father was an awful man. Selling children to strangers, and hurting Misella… even after all that, I still can’t help but think of him. He was still a father to Sonia, and he was still a father to me, in some ways…” Kanata shook his head. “But after all he did, why should I grieve for something that was never there in the first place?”

Was it the words of Aegis’ father playing through Vision Central that nestled themselves into Kanata’s head, lauding his child? Was it his mother’s pleads, begging for compassion, only to be followed by pain when brands of their guilt showed on their skin?

It was unnerving somehow, for Kanata could not imagine his father ever doing something so similar, and knowing now, with certainty, that he wouldn’t. It had not been in his nature at all.

A hand clasped his shoulder, making him start and raise his head.

“Kanata, it’s not a sin to wish that your father had been decent.” He emphasized this, and Kanata felt anger from Aegis, but not directed at him. “It’s not a sin to wish that he hadn’t made you go through such pain because you had no choice.”

It felt wrong for Aegis to try and comfort him, after everything today. But Aegis’ parents were alive and smiling, and Kanata… he still remembered the spilling of hot blood on his hands, his hands gripping the hilt of the blade so tightly. He said he would carry his sin, but some days, such words felt like a horrible lie on his tongue.

“A parent should want only the best for their child. My father taught me that, as well as my mother. They have given everything for me, and would have even given their lives.” Aegis’ anger slowly left him, like sand through a sieve. “I’m only now realizing how rare such a thing is.”

Kanata shook his head. “Aegis… this shouldn’t be about me.”

“Nonsense. I’m your friend, and I want to help you. Because that’s what friends do for each other, remember?”

Kanata paused, hearing the echo of his own words. Why did it sound like it meant so much more coming from Aegis’ mouth?

“Besides,” Aegis continued. “You’ve also helped me. You stopped me from making a terrible mistake. I… would have never been able to look my parents in the eyes if I had truly killed those people.”

Wigaseya was a harsh memory, but at the forefront of it was Vicious, guns in hand. Kanata was not sure if he truly deserved the praise. “It was Vicious who did–”

“But so did you. All of you did.” Both hands were on Kanata’s shoulders, Aegis meeting his eyes with such conviction. “You didn’t want me to suffer even more guilt… I understand that now.”

Kanata felt his burden in the sword he carried, how at times it would make his arm shake just from wielding it. The weight of a life he had taken away, no matter how deserving.

Aegis had his own sin already. He didn’t deserve more.

“I am…extremely lucky to have the parents that I do, and to have friends like you.” Aegis gave another squeeze on Kanata’s shoulders before finally letting go. “To think that I attacked you all just for trying to get me to my senses.”

“Ah, no no!” Kanata flailed slightly, the white linen around his hand flying with the motion. “You shouldn’t feel bad about that! I was able to dodge most of your attacks anyway! A lot of your moves are very easy to read after a while.”

“…I’m honestly not sure if I should feel relieved or insulted, so I’m going to let such a comment on my fighting stature slide for now.”

The wind picked up then, making Kanata shiver. He heard the rustle of the leaves overhead from the great tree, catching the scent of pine and…perhaps something else. The mana that the tree harbored, could he be sensing that too?

“Kanata, would you want to spend more time with my parents?” Aegis asked then, the question so sudden it made Kanata give a small yelp at the prospect. “Uh, why did you just make that sound?”

“I didn’t mean anything bad by it!” Kanata tried to wave off, then worried he was indeed making it sound like something quite bad actually. “Just… I wouldn’t want to interrupt your time together with them.”

Aegis chuckled. “You’ve barely spoken with them all this time. I think it would be good. And… I think after Wigaseya, they could use some new friends as well.”

In Aegis’ words, there was a small plea, one that Kanata would be a fool to ignore. Once again, Aegis needed help.

And friends were supposed to help each other. Kanata should at least follow his own words.

Maybe the warmth in his chest was trying to tell him so.

“Okay… yeah, of course!” Kanata smiled. “I’d actually want to learn a bit more of your mother’s recipes-”

Maybe the gunshot in the air shouldn’t have startled them both, but still Kanata lost his words, and Aegis flinched so violently that he summoned his Blood Sin in his hand, turning so quickly to his right.

Vicious was already laying an arm right on top of his head, twirling one of his smoking guns in his hand. “Hey! You guys fall in a pit or what? Where the hell you two been?”

“Oh, Vicious!” Kanata greeted, happy to see Vicious despite the man dangerously waving his guns right near his face. So he unconsciously moved out of its line of sight, just in case. “Um, what are you doing here?”

Vicious raised an eyebrow, completely ignoring Aegis struggling underneath his stance. “Knighty boy’s folks started worrying about his ass, so I thought I’d do come get him. Also, not good with all that family stuff, they give me the willies.”

“Get off me already!” Aegis shoved the arm aside, getting rid of his Blood Sin in the process. “If you simply wanted me to come along, you didn’t need to shoot off your weapons like a madman!”

Vicious cackled, then proceeded to invade the other’s personal space and clap a rough hand on Aegis’ head, mussing up his silver hair with glee. “Had to make sure you were behaving! Don’t want to have to take away your toy again, do you?”

“That’s- That’s quite enough!” Aegis shoved the other man back, already back to trying to fix up his tousles and curls. “I thought we were under attack, that was the only reason I had my weapon out.”

Though the conversation from tonight must have had Aegis reconsider, for he then continued in a quiet voice, “Still, I do thank you for the quick thinking on your part, taking away my…” He swallowed. “It was for the best, because if I had…”

“Huh, you still hung up on that actually?” Vicious blinked, then shrugged. “It was no sweat. Knew you weren’t a killer at heart so I did what I could. Also, it was pretty much a gamble anyway.” Vicious started cackling again, but the implication sent something pale over Aegis’ cheeks.

“What. A gamble? I don’t…”

“Didn’t even think I could really do that! Take away one’s blood sin and all. Never had to before!” Vicious whistled low, shaking his head. “Might’ve been a real mess otherwise. Heh. Gotta say I surprise even me.”

“Y-you… You didn’t even know that-!?” Aegis stuttered, choked on his words until he resolved to just glare at Vicious. “Are you insane?!”

“What’s got you all pissy? Turned out fine, didn’t it? If it didn’t work, I’d have just shot you as a Plan B!” Vicious grinned again, this time slapping Aegis on the shoulder. “You should owe me with a free round of drinks!”

“I would never! And where do you think I have that kind of money!?”

“Sooo just get your folks to pay it then. See? I think ahead!”

“Are you seriously asking that after they’ve just been exiled from my village? What is wrong with you?!”

“Eh? Yuna’s the one trying to get your mom to cash out on some sleeping pics of yours, so why you blaming me?!”

Aegis looked like he was about to have a heart attack at that very moment. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Um,” Kanata tapped Aegis’ shoulder, then pointed towards the campfire. “I see Yuna with her camera out so I think Vicious is telling the truth…”

Sure enough, Yuna was there, seated on the same log as his mother and father, waving around what looked like a sepia-toned photograph in her hand. Orwin and Misella seemed to be just as fascinated as they gathered around her findings. It was hard to tell from the distance, but it was definitely of a person, and from the shape, looked like one who was curled around a pillow and in some blankets…

“Oh, Aegrouch! Did you also want a copy?” Yuna winked at him as she gleefully shouted. “Your mère already wants several!”

Aegis gaped for a few seconds before immediately running off to the scene. “Why are you taking pictures of me while I sleep?!” he yelled, his voice high-pitched. “And why are you trying to scam my own parents?”

Kanata and Vicious watched as Aegis ran off, his voice rolling along with the wind. The scene felt very familiar, almost surreal after all that had happened.

After a moment, Kanata heard Vicious sigh, like he had held in a breath for too long. “Vicious?” he asked.

“That guy’s been on edge all day. Good to see him finally go back to his old annoying self.” Kanata knew Vicious would never admit it, but the sincerity in his voice was genuine, almost heartfelt. Violet eyes flicked to him. “What’d you say to him anyway?”

“Ah… not much at all,” Kanata said with a soft chuckle. “He had more to say then I did, really.”

Vicious stared before giving a grin, then reached up to mess with Kanata’s own hair, brushing several blond strands over the boy’s face. “Well, whatever you did, keep doing it! As long as I don’t have to do the boring talks around here.”

“Vicious, you’re gonna tangle up my hair, this takes so long to fix!” Kanata pleaded, until a thought made its way to his head. “Hey… were you just messing with Aegis before? About not knowing if taking away his Blood Sin would work?”

At that, the Great Transgressor laughed, further putting Kanata’s hair into a tangled frenzy. “Hey, gotta keep knighty boy on his toes!”

The campfire continued to flicker, the flames like that of a thoroughly spent fireplace, as those around it decided to finally sleep for the night.

Much of Aegis’ evening had been locked in negotiations with Yuna for the pictures, until he had to promise that he’d share any future Gald earnings to be given to her in exchange. It aggravated him since, of course, Yuna knew he’d be loyal to such a promise, no matter how much of it was caused by blackmail.

So, he was grumbling here and there as he helped put away some supplies, packing their provisions safely, doing all he could to fall into the tasks to not worry about the next day.

Questions floated into his mind as he worked; of where could he take his parents to, now that they no longer had a home, the very home that he had grown up in? Would Ivis know a place for them to stay? Would he stay with his parents to ensure that they were safe?

None that he knew the answer to just yet. Perhaps that was just another failing on his part.

In his motions, he came across some packed kibble that had been for Meakyu – and was suddenly reminded of the little creature. He realized he hadn’t seen him in quite some time.

“Meakyu?” he called out, hoping that just the mention of his name would be enough. “Did you want dinner?”

As if on command, he heard the familiar sound of the animal, accompanied by his mother’s laughter.

“He’s so adorable!”

Aegis looked to his left where the campfire was. His parents were huddled near the orange-furred animal who stood upon a log, and appeared to be demonstrating… some kind of punching motions? And doing so to both his father and mother’s delight.

“Ha! This tiny creature has a lot of spark to him!” His father laughed, watching Meakyu do his best to give a double-punch to the air, followed by a kick.

“Kyu! Kyu kyu!”

“Do you think Aegis taught him this trick?” his mother asked. “He’s always been so good with animals.”

Awkwardly carrying the bag of pet food in his hand, Aegis walked up to them, just as little Meakyu nearly fell off the log from attempting the motion of a roundhouse kick. “So, you’ve met him as well.”

His mother raised her head, the firelight catching off her hair, like the waves in a sea storm. “Ah, Aegis! Is he yours? He reminds me of the little puppy you wanted to adopt, but couldn’t because of your father’s allergies.”

His father gave a little sniffle, then edged his seat a little further to the right on the log. “Hm, he’s not a new type of dog breed, is he?”

“He’s not a dog! Or, well, I assume not.” Aegis naturally sat with them, as if he was curled up by the crumbling fireplace on the floor, like he used to do at home. “We found him in the Nation of Sin. …He’s the only survivor that’s left of it.”

Meakyu was attempting to stand up again, rubbing at his whiskers, then turned to Aegis as he spoke. “Meakyu?”

Aegis smiled. “He’s been part of our group since. Me and Kanata share the pet duties of feeding him.”

“Oh, that boy,” his mother said with a nod. “How sweet he is. He asked about my recipe for tonight. Also, he wanted to know how I get my hair to shine like this, I suppose?”

“…I can’t say I’m surprised.” He could only now imagine Kanata with his mother’s hair and wasn’t sure how to feel on the prospect.

“Aegis,” spoke his father, and when he turned to face him, he was reminded of when he’d sit on his knee, upheld by a strength he admired. His father’s arms still looked as strong as ever, only now with the Stain of Guilt that seemed to engulf his very skin.

“Ah, sorry, I know that there is a lot that I…need to make up for,” Aegis replied by instinct. He still had never mentioned what had happened in Wigaseya, and didn’t know when he even could. But his father shook his head.

“I can’t fathom what you need to apologize for. From what I’ve heard from you and your friends, you have always lived a righteous life.” His father clenched his hands, and only then did Aegis notice something else. Around his wrists, a red, splotchy mark, looking so similar to a rope burn…

Aegis turned, seeing that on his mother’s own wrists. The memory resurfaced, even if the torrid emotions remained as placid as it could.

“When they tied us both up, I had never before wanted to bash someone’s head in until then.” A closing of the eyes, his father taking a deep breath. “Our neighbors, those we considered our friends… they tossed us out like we were nothing but waste.”

“And those orbs…” His mother spoke next, her voice betraying that similar sadness. “Once they ruptured, it was like the glass stuck into us and made…these. They saw that, and suddenly, we just weren’t even human to them.”

“Nema,” but she shook her head at his father’s words.

“You felt it too. Their looks of hatred on us… And, you must have felt that as well, Aegis.” She reached out to grasp at her son’s gloved hand, holding it tight. “This system, what we have been following all this time… it truly is awful, isn’t it? It makes us eat each other alive. But that’s why you continue to fight.”

“I’m…” Aegis struggled, and oh, was he going to weep once again today? But he heard the sincerity from them both, and even small Meakyu was looking up at him with wide, green eyes. “I just… I can’t let more people die. And yet, I almost lost you both. And… I almost…”

A pat on his shoulder, the grip strong and comforting. But no reproaching words. His father had never reprimanded him for letting his tears show.

“We have our moments of weakness, but Aegis…” He smiled, the wrinkles crinkling around his eyes. Only now did it hit Aegis on the age of his parents, on their own mortality, and how it could have ended so violently were it not for the kindness of a stranger. “We are still so proud of you.”

The backdrop of the stars behind his father was startling, it rendered Aegis speechless. But he felt their hands on him, warm and alive. They were alive.

He treasured that more than anything.

“Kanata…” Off by the Great Grassvalley Tree, Misella’s grip was steady as they both strolled in the grass, watching the swaying of the giant boughs overhead, hearing the wind make the leaves dance and whisper. “Do you feel any better today?”

“A bit…” Kanata scratched at his cheek, feeling a blush rising to them. It wasn’t the same place as that field full of brightblazes, but the span of the night sky made Misella’s hair come to life. He did all he could to not just reach out, content to just see her, to stand by her. “Still, I should be helping Aegis more then he should need to help me.”

Misella shook her head, the petals of the flower he’d given her still as vibrant as back then. The campfire was far off in the distance, but its light danced at their backs, along with laughter, and the curious deep voice of a man who kept shouting off what sounded like strange lines from a book. “You did, by letting him know he can be your friend too.” She closed her eyes. “I approve of his conduct.”

“Misella, it’s not a test….” he said with a laugh. But Kanata felt his heart warm up, still going over the finer details of Nema teaching him to secret to luxurious hair on a budget, and remembering how not just her eyes, but her smile resembled that of her son.

Whatever the next day would bring, Kanata knew they all had each other to find their way to a brighter dawn.

#tales of crestoria #aegis alver #kanata hjuger #hawken alver #nema alver #fanfiction #one shot

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komehyappyou · 2 years

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Did you know this about the Senju's names?

仏間butsuma: alcove/room where 仏壇butsudan, buddhist altar is placed. 柱間hashirama/space between pillars,bay-> 柱/pillars 扉間tobirama (no meaning) -> 扉/doors(hinges) 瓦間kawarama (no meaning)-> 瓦/roof tiles 板間itama/wooden floor room-> 板/woodenPlanks(flooring)

They end with 間ma/space, room. 板ita/瓦kawara are odd/boring compared to 柱Hashira(symbolic, used for counting kami, pillars/support), 扉Tobira(symbolic, gate to new places/changes)

Ah... but there seems to be a theme...parts of a traditional japanese house/architecture? or temple?

Similar Senju Names: Butsuma's name Mystery

Background: if you remember, Naruto manga was released weekly, Butsuma appeared in ch622 and had a week where he was unnamed. people tried guessing his name, based on pillars/doors/roof tiles/planks theme. Some guessed his name correctly. But naturally you get some silly answers.

Let's learn a few parts of a traditional Japanese house!(mostly end in ma)

梁間harima,etc -> 梁/beams

襖fusuma are opaque/solid sliding doors(ex has black outline, white, but sometimes they have paintings), but 障子shouji are translucent sliding doors with wooden grids. 畳tatami is flooring in traditional house. 欄間ranma(my guess w) are carved/grid "transom window" above sliding doors.

床の間tokonoma(床間) aclove for decorations, sometimes next to 仏間butsuma and often has a 掛軸kakejiku/hangingscroll as decor. 押入れoshiire is built in closet. 地袋jibukuro(red), is ground cupboard. Not the 経机kyouzukue/sutraTable, incense holder in front. Above is a frame of 無量寿/eternal life a reference for AmidaNyorai, important figure in esp. pure land sects.

茶の間chanoma(茶間) originally "tea room" for ceremony, but used like living room. similar to 居間ima, western style.

寝間nema is an old word for bedroom. 寝室shinshitsu or "bedroom" is common modern days.

Joke guess but interesting history

陰間kagema... 陰kage\shadow... "shadow space"...

painting by 鈴木春信SuzukiHarunobu of Kagema(boy prostitute) and customer.

Originally, kagema was a term for Kabuki-in-training boys, who didn't appear in stage,(in shadow space). Young boys(13-20) replaced women roles, and often did prostitution to make ends meet. Later term became synonymous with male prostitute and served men and women customers.

During later Edo period, "pinnacle of sexual passion" was experiencing men and women, so kagema "teahouses" prospered, but eventually faded until meji era's draft/changes which ended prostitution. wikilink

Random: Tsunade and Nawaki

of course Tsunade is a character from the famous goukan, "The Tale of Gallant Jiraya"

綱手tsunade is short for 綱手縄tsunadenawa in the olden days was rope to pull boat back to shore.

Tsunade's brother name in kanji 縄樹nawaki, is "rope tree", 縄nawa is thinner rope than 綱tsuna

Of course Nawaki and Tsunade names, makes me think of shintou practices of 注連縄shimenawa with 四手/紙垂shide wrapped around 神木shinboku/sacred tree, which are used to section off kami's world vs man's world.

Interesting to think about.

#naruto #meta #naruto meta #butsuma senju #tobirama senju #hashirama senju #kawarama senju #itama senju #tsunade #senju #nawaki #naruto fandom #naruto meme #hashirama #tobirama #kawarama #itama #naruto series #butsuma

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damgoodfantasy · 3 years

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What Remains of Usud Morae - A Tale of Tloren

This week, I've read a lot on English hill forts (as you do), and it's got me thinking about important monuments with rich histories in my own fantasy world of Tloren. In the writings of archeological sites, you can often find the authors interpolating what happened based on the few remnants they can find. In the words of Clive Waddington and colleagues from the Longstone Local History Group, "it is just possible that we can make some sense of the distant echo" by analyzing the remains of such ancient places.

And so, I wish to write today about a hill fort of my own creation -- Usud Morae -- located in the far north of the country Ekrain in my world of Tloren. No worries if you haven't read anything of my world before! This little history is self-contained, and hopefully will give you a glimpse into the war-torn past of the South. It is written as a verbal history, such as you would hear around a hearth in a small north-Ekrani farmstead.

Enjoy, and any feedback is highly appreciated!

"Do you hear the wind, the sighing wind come down from the mountain? Listen. The Lady of Storms speaks to us. Her breath is music, and it tells of a time before.

"Listen. Do you hear it? The name, the name in the wind -- Usud Morae. Know you of its name? No? Nema denjae -- there are few who remember that old place. Yet today I hear its name, and I fell Her will. So listen as I tell of Usud Morae, hill of the Fates-damned.

"Our people first came to live in the shadow of the mountain when the sun was young and all was calm. It was a time of plenty -- water flowed free from the peak to the lake, and much grew from soft soil. The moons smiled bright, and so our people prospered. And so our numbers grew.

"More did we ask of the Fates, and much did they provide. For many five-cycles, we sang and loved and built. The valley swelled with laughter and with more hands came more hearths. Our finest stoneshapers, proud of what we had built, decided to give to the Fates a proper home -- a place to overlook their blessed flock. For one hundred cycles they toiled through rain and sun and storm, bringing great white stone from rifts to the south. Upon the highest hill they chipped and carved and stacked until at last arose Usud Morae. In those days its name was spoken in reverence: the hill of Fates above. They say nothing built by man was ever so beautiful as that place -- some say still nothing has surpassed its glory.

"Five great circles did they build to give each Fate a hearth. Each moon-carved structure they say was equally immense, larger by half than even our own gathering hall. In each they raised great pillars carved in the Fates' likeness, supporting roofs of glass -- yes, glass. By that time our people knew of others to the south, great melters of sand whose skill in glass was unmatched. Each great roof appeared like a phase of the moons, built in glass clear and black.

"At first, our people rejoiced! 'Sing, sing!' they said. 'Sing for the glory of the Fates!' And for some years all was good.

"Then came the ship-men of the west. Our people had neither blade nor club nor arrow. None was needed in those times. Within a cycle hearths burned with our bones, and the soil wept our blood into the lake. Most ship-men left our valley once the rice went sour and the waters stank of death. But some remained, and made their home upon that hill. And so its name remained, yet spoken now in whispers: the hill of the Fates-damned. The ship-men claimed to love the Fates, but in their homes they took our people against their will. I will speak no further of such times.

"Before the great swamp, around that hill wound a path to the North -- the only path for many miles. After a generation, our ship-men kings became uneasy. Their blood yearned for greater things, though still the valley provided all they could want. And so they ventured north.

"Here my tale will sound familiar, as it is the tale of all the South. The fools of Usud Morae brought back not trade nor gold nor glory from the North. No, they brought Tlogard. They brought the Old Empire. The ironclad legions of northmen came down upon our valley like great wolves, and tore many apart. Our last few fled to the hill, to Usud Morae.

"For five days and nights they barred the doors to the five moons. The northmen, though, had something the Fates did not intend: alchemy. They set their white-hot fires all around our people, until at last the stone cracked and the great glass bubbled and fell. Very few escaped a meeting with the stars that day. Very few.

"Since that day, none have dared build anew atop that hill, not even in the days of Tlogardian rule. They say you may still hear the screams of Usud Morae, the death-yell of those trapped forever in melted glass. Tonight I have heard their song. So too now have you."

#worldbuilding #placemaking #Tloren #fantasy #fantasy history #Tale of Tloren

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adibencun · 3 years

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TEMPUS FUGIT

Zabilježi ideju na vrijeme. Ne mogu to dovoljno naglasiti. Ili dopusti da prenoći. Da je sažvačeš, i provariš. Jutro će je možda zamijeniti novom i aktuelnijom - relevantnijom za ono što si danas, u odnosu na ono što si bio jučer. Možemo samo nagađati šta nas očekuje sutra. Brojni su, mislioci i stručnjaci, na brojne načine, o tome već razglabali. Neki od njih, danas, za to primaju i pristojnu platu. Ipak, sutra nije obećano. Niti meni, niti tebi. Imamo samo sebe. Samo danas.

Možda je i 'popularna' zabluda da veliki umjetnici svoja bezvremenska djela skladaju u jednom pokušaju ili, da pokušam biti poetičan, u jednom dahu. Nadovezujući se, bez izvođenja statističkih zaključaka, međutim, postoji mogućnost da je također 'popularno' pogrešno shvatanje i o količini sadržaja kojeg jedan autor stvori za vrijeme svog života. Mislim da se to naročito odnosi na slikare o kojima ste bili primorani učiti u osnovnoj i srednjoj školi. Moram napomenuti, ipak, da ovo nipošto nije suptilni udarac ili prozivka izrazito divnog bića koje sam imao prilike upoznati krajem prethodne godine. Spojila nas je strast prema umjetnosti (kao i hodnik studentskog doma), ali u konačnici razdvojilo moje ne-kršćanstvo. O kako tužnih ljubavi ima. . .

Možda sam to trebao i očekivati, ali ko bi to uopšte želio pretpostaviti? O tome razmišljati? Neznanje je ponekad zaista blaženstvo. Nadalje, ko bilo koga može okriviti za predikciju koja će se ispostaviti neispravnom. . . U konačnici, nije važno ko je kriv. . . Sve je dopušteno u ljubavi, umjetnosti i ratu. Nekada djeluje kao da je to, zapravo, ista, jedna jedina stvar.

Zamislite scenario: glava domaćinstva u hodniku kuće odluči zamijeniti linoleum sa pločicama. Promjena je pomno isplanirana, te se akciji kupovine materijala i angažovanja izvođača radova ozbiljno pristupilo tek nakon izvjesnog vremena sakupljanja, odnosno, štednje novca, kao i nakon reevaluacije alternative. Čak i prije angažovanja gorespomenutih resursa, trebalo je opet proći određeno vrijeme - od perioda kada je postavljen linoleum - do perioda kada se domaćin već zasitio istog i započeo razmišljati o promjeni.

Sada, zamislite da gledate video izvođenja radova; najprije postavljanje linoleuma, zatim njegovo uklanjanje, potom 'pripremanje terena' za novu površinu, i najzad, postavljanje pločica; ali oba videa jedan za drugim, u "time-lapse" fotografskoj tehnici - odnosno, ubrzanoj sekvenci gdje je veća jedinica vremena svedena na kraći i brži video uradak. Pomislili biste, impresivno, ali pomalo besmisleno, zar ne?

Logičan zaključak je da, smisao u ove dvije navedene situacije, čini šta? Vrijeme. . .

Opet sadašnjost. . .

Gledajući u telefonski imenik, tačnije, u kontakt drage osobe; počinjem zamišljati isti video sa pločicama i linoleumom.

Ne donosim ishitrenu odluku. Pripremio sam teren, da ni za čim nemam žaliti. Srećom, vjerujem da smo oboje kadar, da i nećemo žaliti. Imali smo dobru stvar, ali je sada moram napustiti. Imali smo jako dobru stvar.

U mislima sam je napustio već nekoliko mjeseci unazad. Vjerujem da je i ona mene. Složili smo se da je to zrela stvar za napraviti uzevši u obzir okolnosti. Drugačije bi bila zarobljena u mojim mislima, a to nije dobra osnova za nastaviti živjeti i započeti neki novi odnos. Ne želim živjeti u prošlosti. Ne želim takvu sudbinu ni za nju.

Nešto ranije, sugerisala je neopterećenost i sreću. Dragi bog zna da to nije bilo tako na rastanku. Ni za jedno od nas.

Međutim, galeb je raširio svoja krila i uputio se do obližnjeg mola, izoštrio oči i sluh, dok je istovremeno jedna gusjenica postala leptir i do najljepšeg cvijeta ponosno odlepršala u svim svojim bojama i elegantnoj raskoši.

Mislim da smo spremni. Vjerujem. Dodirujem ekran i potvrđujem svoj izbor. Hiljade poruka, dogodovština, fotografija, videa, uspomena, dogovora, svađa i mirenja - nestade u jednom trenu. Ne u zaborav, već u trezor, sakriven u internu memoriju vlastitog uma, gdje je pohranjeno svako moje iskustvo do sada. Naročito ona lijepa. Sjećanja mi na lice stavljaju osmijeh.

Ovo će možda jednog dana biti smiješno, tiješim se. Ne danas, ali jednog dana. Čovjek mora vjerovati u nešto. ("Mi smo priče koje pričamo sebi" - Shekar Kapur)

Najzad, prisjećam se momenata svog života i nekolicine ljudi koji su kroz njega prošli. Nikada ne znaš koji je od tih susreta posljednji, i to je zastrašujuća pomisao.

Povremeno pogledam i listu osoba sa kojim sam vodio konverzaciju na društvenim mrežama. Neke poruke su ostale vječno neotvorene, a brojna pitanja neodgovorena. Možeš se odlučiti ponovno povezati i ljubazno upitati šta si mogao učiniti da toga ne dođe, ili ne.

Ukoliko zaista budeš insistirao, možeš čak dobiti i odgovor koji će zvučati nešto poput: "Svi planovi i sastanci predviđeni za ovaj dan (...) se odgađaju do daljnjeg, čitaj, kad vitamin D bude padao sa neba. Odmaraj." Možda malo na stranu nadrealnog i zabrinjavajuće drskog, ali svakako iznimno kreativno.

'Vraćam film' na "A Bronx Tale", jedan od mojih vječitih favorita, prisjećajući se dugovanja od 20 dolara i legendarnog spisateljstva Chazza i Bobby de Nira. "Koštalo te je 20 dolara da ga se riješiš... On je van tvog života za 20 dolara. Čak si prošao jeftino. Zaboravi ga."

I biram zaboravljati. Biram bitke. Biram ih ne voditi uopšte. Zašto? Da li ja to priznajem poraz? Da, priznajem, ukoliko ćeš se osjećati bolje mudrice. Kao što se može osjećati (...) kada utrči u cilj ispred djevojke. Tokom humanitarne 'utrke'. Biram biti bolji od toga.

Da mogu, birao bih da usporim snimak, i da donesem drugačije odluke. Možda bi onda ona ubrzana montaža izgledala drugačije, bila bi duža. . . Ali pametniji sam od toga. Znam da bih stvorio kontra-efekat. Možda stvarno nema sretnih završetaka.

Možda bi se kao protagonist u "Project Almanac" našao u novim i boljim okolnostima, ali na koje opet ne bih znao adekvatno reagovati. Da li bi svako malo koristio svoj uređaj za upravljanje vremenom? Da, kvarim ti posljednju scenu u kojoj gledamo nasmijano lice tipa koji je konačno 'prevario sudbinu' i posložio stvari u svoju korist, ostvario je ono što je čitavo vrijeme htio i - REZ! Razmišljam; nadaj se da ti tvoj uređaj neće ispasti iz ruku tokom odjavne špice. . .

Potvrdu sasvim opravdanom skepticizmu donose i stravični prizori iz "The Butterfly Effect" koji kazuje da ni u jednoj verziji realnosti ne može postojati jedna idealna sudbina za sve. Da bi neko pobjedio, neko mora izgubiti. Da bismo cijenili svjetlo, mora postojati tama. Suprotne strane kovanice. Polarnost. Sve ono što ti ne znači apsolutno ništa kada patiš. Šta te briga što je to već neko tamo iskusio i što tvoj slučaj nije jedinstven i nije ni po čemu poseban. Tvoje brige su (jako često) samo tvoje i tebi su najveće na svijetu. Ne trebaju se relativizirati.

Već si jako dugo slušao o mojima. Hvala ti. Uradio bih isto i ja za tebe, samo kad bih znao.

PS: Iz iznenađujuće bremenitog i osjećajnog dijaloga kojeg sam zatekao u post-Charlie Sheen svijetu serije "Two and a Half Men", ne mogu ne primjetiti korelaciju večerašnjeg monologa sa razgovorom Alana, Charlievog brata, i njegovog sina, Jakea.

Naime, mladi Jake raskida svoju vezu sa više od deset godina starijom ženom koja već ima djecu iz prvog braka, kao i tetovaže po cijelom tijelu (glumi ju sjajna Jaime Pressley, također poznata po ulozi Joy u još jednom omiljenom klasiku "My Name is Earl") a uz to pokazuje više 'muškosti' nego Alan i Jake na trenutke.

Kreator Chuck Lorre i ostali pisci nude zanimljivu perspektivu, parafraziram:

Alan: Da li ponovo uradio isto, znajući kako će se stvari završiti?

Jake (nakon kraće pauze): Da, samo bi to uradio više puta!

PPS: Izrazito vulgarno, znam! Možda je vrijeme da se povučem. Ukoliko i ne postoji sutra, za mene i nas, ovo je izgleda mojih jedanaest. Startna postava. Odabrani za bitku, sa samim sobom. Iscrpljujuće je. Pri tome niko ne pazi na vrijeme, niti na rezultat. Reći ćemo da je ostalo neriješeno. . .

#veza #ljubav #odnosi #vrijeme #umjetnost

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sleepykittypaws · 4 years

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A Sugar & Spice Holiday

Original Airdate: December 13, 2020 (Lifetime) Where to Watch?: Lifetime will re-air it in this, and likely future seasons, too; It’s also available to purchase on iTunes et al, or you can watch now, with ads, for a limited time, on mylifetime.com (cable login required)

A Sugar & Spice Holiday was another one of Lifetime's marquee 2020 holiday projects, and it shows. Great cast, great script and actual attention paid to telling a diverse, yet still cozy Christmas story.

Lifetime's first Chinese-American Christmas tale (filmed, like most of these movies, entirely in Canada), it featured not only a main cast all of Asian descent—Jacky Lai, Tony Giroux, Tzi Ma, Lillian Lim and Cardi Wong—but also writer Eirene Donohue and director Jennifer Liao.

The diversity behind-the-scenes clearly helped shape some of the movie's best moments, like Lai's "Suzy" calling out the casual racisim of a co-worker, with a blunt, "I'm from Maine." Smart, funny and pointed, without feeling overly message-y.

Wasn't really familiar with Lai before this, but she's sharp, funny and has great delivery, and the first 15-20 minutes of this movie was easily one of the very best of the season.

The movie followed a very traditional formula—successful businesswoman returns home and takes part in holiday baking contest with old crush—but turned it enough on its head to make it feel special, different and true to the characters.

Introducing all the characters by comparing them to cookies was a genius move, that really worked, and I laughed out loud at the scone joke. There was tone of whimsy here that was incredibly charming, and truly endearing

Even the flashbacks, for once, really worked to help establish Nema as a real presence and influence in Suzy's life, though I'm not sure what we're supposed to think when she wakes up with the rolling pin in her arms. Is Ghost Grandma real? Was Suzy sleepwalking?

Even the ubuiqitious baking contest is improved with the addition of Grandma's recipe, and the metaphors about life and happiness. Plus, the rival baker, played by Sasha Hayden, was really making a meal of her villian role and I was there for every intentionally over-the-top moment. Not to mention that Prince Harry ginger cookies are a genius idea.

Unfortunately, love story was probably the least strong part of this story. Both actors were very charming, but they went from supposedly being annoyed with one another to absolutely in love with little expiation showed or given, and while I liked seeing a couple that actually gets together before the very end, and the recreating the Christmas Dance moment was extremely swoon-worthy (minus Giroux's white socks and tennis shoes with a tux look), just didn't see enough about how Suzy went from "Oh no, not him!" to "He's the one."

The whole lost-my-project thing also really didn't seem to go anywhere, and was fairly unecessary. Not to mention unrealistic that she had so little frustration about it.

And, as with every Christmas movie, Sugar & Spice have used more Cardi Wong, here as Suzy’s underused brother. But do have to say the young boy cast as his son was spot in, at least in terms of resemblance, so much so that I tried to look up and see if they were actually related in some way. Anyway, the child actor is Micah Chen, and as far as I can tell, he and Wong aren't relatives, but it was pretty uncanny. I mean…

The ending, where (spoiler alert) Giroux's “Billy” decides to follow Suzy to Australia after she does, in fact, get the big Christmas promotion at work is perfect. A rare you-can-have-it-all moment in these movies that are constantly making women choose between success in their work or personal lives.

Honestly, the somewhat rushed love story is the only reason I'm not giving this one four-paws, but it was still one of my very favorite movies of the season, and if Lifetime could make a dozen movies a year like this and The Christmas Setup—with that quality, attention to detail and cleverness—instead of presenting 34 mediocre or worse movies of which only half a dozen are actually pretty good, they'd kick Hallmark's butt. Because when Lifetime movies work, they're a little fresher, a lot funnier and just the tinest bit more special than anything Hallmark has produced. A Sugar & Spice Holiday is one of those special movies, and well worth a watch.

Final Judgement: 3 Paws Up and now I'm craving pork buns

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essenceoffilm · 6 years

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“Is She Real?” and Other Distant Dreams within Dreams: Fifteen Films Which Are Completely Their Own Thing

There are films which stick to one’s mind due to their greatness as well as those which do the same for their extreme inferiority. Mediocre films have a tendency to leave one’s mind like an uneventful day once the night falls. Then there are films which one keeps coming back to because they are completely their own thing. These are films which stay in memory due to their striking originality. They might be masterpieces, and thus greatness could be among the explanans for the phenomenon of preservation, but they do not have to be. In terms of quality or personal preference, these films might be somewhere in the middle. They elude the nightfall of oblivion on other grounds. Although their survival of the test of time can thus be explained by reference to uniqueness, it should be emphasized that uniqueness in this case does not mean any conventional weirdness or doing the extraordinary. The notion I am interested here is not what you might call in-your-face uniqueness (feel free to insert a list of contemporary “indie” directors). Rather, I am interested in the unique unique. I am talking about films which stay with you, but you can’t really point your finger at them and say why; they stay with you not because of quirkiness, of artistic mastery, of historical significance, of intricate story or peculiar characters, but because of an utterly original approach to cinematic discourse -- which might, of course, include all of these to altering degrees. Such originality might be less obvious, but it is there, it is real, and it is singular.

The following list of fifteen unique films will not include the obvious candidates from the first films which did this or that to the weird-for-the-sake-of-being-weird adventures. I have tried to resist the urge to go where the fence is lowest and make a list of “weird movies”; instead I have tried to focus on a more subtle notion of uniqueness. The challenge as well as the allure of list-making are the constant limitations one sets for oneself. That is also the reason why no director pops up twice in the list. Another yardstick for a unique film of this kind is that the film in question cannot really be compared to anything else. Or if it can, the comparison remains loose at best. Hence the absence of films from auteurs whose bodies of work form distinct unique wholes but precisely as wholes, not singular parts. Jean-Luc Godard, Jean-Pierre Melville, Robert Bresson, Douglas Sirk, Howard Hawks, Yasujiro Ozu, Jean Rouch, Michelangelo Antonioni, you name it. All of them managed to craft an original cinematic discourse, but they developed the execution of that discourse in countless films that form an admirable whole of aesthetic consistency.

So, here, I am not interested in cultural peculiarity, a director’s originality, or uniqueness within a genre. I am interested in a slightly different kind of personality with regard to cinematic discourse. Although each of the following fifteen films exemplifying this unique uniqueness obviously belong to a director’s oeuvre, I believe that all of them stick out in one way or another. They have not been listed in order of personal preference or quality but in terms of uniqueness (which is, of course, a notion difficult to define, and which is a notion not completely free from personal preference and quality, I’m sure). As such, they tell another story, perhaps unique by nature, about the enigma of the seventh art.

15. Cria cuervos (1976, Carlos Saura, SPAIN)

It is an indescribable delight to witness Carlos Saura’s magnum opus Cria cuervos (1976) unfold before you for the very first time. Since the film, which tells the story about a young girl and her two sisters who try to cope with growing up after the death of their parents, was released one year after Francisco Franco’s death, it has become something of a standard interpretation to watch Cria cuervos as an allegorical tale of "the children of Spain” coping with the loss of their patriarchal leader in a new social reality. Yet any serious spectator will tell you that this is just one side of the film’s multi-layered coin of meanings. Its ambiguous structure might tie in with the prevalent narrative tendencies of Saura’s generation of left-wing Spanish directors, but it also works as a metaphor for the vague human mind. Not only cutting but also panning between the present, the past, and an imagined future, the film unfolds as a poignant story about loss and longing, the desire to be somewhere else, something else, some other time. One of the best films about childhood ever made, Cria cuervos denies romantic innocence without falling into the trap of naive pessimism. It embraces childhood as a part of being human, being mortal, being without something, being toward loss, being as always losing something.

The most famous scene from the film -- and an example of just this -- is definitely the scene where the young girl, played by the unforgettable Ana Torrent, listens to a pop song “Porque te vas” by Jeanette, a nostalgic love song about leaving that reminds the girl of her mother’s death. A touching moment beyond words that can only happen in the cinema, this scene exemplifies beautifully the tendency of children to cling onto seemingly insignificant objects that they will carry with them for the rest of their lives. The images where the girl quietly moves her lips in synchronization with the song are breath-taking and heart-breaking. The way how Saura executes this brief scene, in one sequence shot, is just so original, so inimitable, and so Saura. The emotions are not clearly visible on the child’s face, most likely because she is unable to understand let alone express them, but they come from another place that lies somewhere in between of sound and image. The context for this scene is her frustration with her aunt, who she briefly impersonates (”turn down the music”), which further pushes the obvious meanings and the obvious feelings outside. Maybe it is just a random pop song? What is left is the ambiguity of meaning and feeling. And that resonates. Powerfully. I have never seen anything quite like it. These are unique images which speak loudly about the power of cinema. Some might say that what makes Cria cuervos as unique as it is are Ana Torrent’s dark button eyes, but, in reality, it is how Saura frames them, how he lights them, and how he cuts from them. Cria cuervos has no single detail which would exhaust Saura’s style; yet his sense of composition, his choice of shot scale, his sense of color, sound, and movement are in every second of the film; they are characterized by the subtlest nuances which distinguish an ordinary beautiful object from a true work of art.

14. Nema-ye Nazdik (1990, Abbas Kiarostami, IRAN)

Abbas Kiarostami’s penchant for meta-cinematic discourse, which addresses enduring human themes through postmodern questioning of the possibilities of representation, reaches a peak in Nema-ye Nazdik (1990, Close-Up). Based on true events, it tells the peculiar story about a poor Iranian man, Hossain Sabzian (played by himself, like all the performers in the film) who pretended to be the famous Iranian director Mohsen Makhmalbaf for the Ahankas, an upper-class Iranian family to whom Sabzian told that he wanted to use them and their house for his next film. When Sabzian’s hoax was revealed, the Ahankha family sued him only to drop charges after Sabzian’s intentions proved out to be more complex than those of a traditional impostor. Kiarostami mixes documentary footage with staged scenes of what happened to the extent that it is impossible for the spectator to make a distinction. Not because of slyness, or Kiarostami’s talent to cover his tracks, but precisely because the distinction disappears: when the people involved are placed in front of the camera, acting out what has happened in the not-so-distant past, there is no longer a sense of staging but of being.

In a marvelous moment of poetic intuition and cinematic genius, Kiarostami’s camera picks up an empty spray can rolling downhill on asphalt. In the spirit of the “phenomenological realism” of the Italian neorealists, Kiarostami’s objets trouvés, like the empty spray can, are not symbols for something else. It might be juicy to see meaning written in the code of the empty spray can, say, in terms of the looming void behind the roles we all play, but Kiarostami’s camera uncovers it as a mere abandoned tool. Heidegger would call it Vorhanden, a being present-at-hand, whose factual existence is obvious to us after it has lost its functional purpose in its appropriate context, its primordial being as Zuhanden, a being ready-to-hand that one surrounds oneself with in the everyday reality of practical life. Even if this coarsely rolling empty spray can was the postmodern alternative to Sisyphus’ rock, it would be more a metonymy than a metaphor. It is a desolate, cast-off tool whose lonely mundane being paradoxically charms us in its banality. It is, what we might call in the spirit of anticipation, the taste of cherry.

Here, in the peculiar zone between metaphor and metonomy, meaning and the lack of it (or independent meaning), inhabited by empty spray cans, lies the uniqueness of Nema-ye Nazdik. There is nothing holy or sacred in Kiarostami’s images. The material density of the rough texture of the depicted reality drains from them. The close-ups of the film -- whether in actual shot scale or in narrative intimacy achieved by precisely restrictive framing and extensive use of the off-screen space -- startle us with this banality of the facticity of being and the phenomenal surface of reality. The final close-up of the film shows us Sabzian, looking down, holding a bouquet at the gate of the Ahanka residence where Makhmalbaf has taken him to make amends. One senses the Chaplinesque tragedy of life in close-up. It is tragic because there is no comfort from contextualization; there is a factual detail thrown at us in its strange existential disclosure. A rolling empty spray can or a structured identity at ruins -- revealed, stripped, naked. The human theme of longing coalesces with the meta-cinematic theme of the possibility of representation as one feels the unquenchable thirst for escape, the yearning to be someone else in this banal world of objects-at-present. Where else in the cinema does one find all of this?

13. The Wrong Man (1956, Alfred Hitchcock, USA)

Although Hitchcock is definitely a genre director, meaning that he really devoted his whole career to the genre of suspense (whether in thriller, horror, espionage, or adventure), he made a lot of films which pushed the limits of genre aesthetics, conventional narration, and classical style toward unexplored territories in the land of film. Hitchcock’s legacy is in fact constituted precisely by his relentless desire to look for new ways of cinematic expression. The most obvious example would probably be the “trilogy” in which Hitchcock tested -- and, perhaps to popular opinion, failed -- the slow aesthetics of the long take: Rope (1948), Under Capricorn (1949), and Stage Fright (1950). Their uniqueness is admirable, and the two latter border on masterpiece, but the most unique of Hitchcock’s films is, I believe, The Wrong Man (1956).

If Hitchcock, the great manipulator of his audience whose “buttons” he loved to push, is placed in the group of directors who mastered formalist montage over realist mise-en-scène, following a heavily Bazinian distinction, we might conclude that The Wrong Man is the closest Hitchcock ever got to cinematic realism. Although the film does manipulate the spectator, guiding their gaze throughout rather than giving them the freedom of deep focus and multiplanar composition (the cardinal virtues of Bazin’s theory), its austere mise-en-scène, economic narration, and minimalist editing make it Hitchcock’s most Bressonian film. Interestingly enough, and this will bring us to the film’s uniqueness in a moment, Hitchcock’s biggest fan and André Bazin’s most famous disciple, François Truffaut first expressed great appreciation for The Wrong Man when it came out and later disowned the film in his famous interview book with Hitchcock [1].

The passage where Truffaut challenges Hitchcock, not in order to humiliate him but in order to get him to defend his artistic choices, is among the best parts of the whole interview book. Their discussion concerns the scene where the protagonist, played by Henry Fonda, is taken to his prison cell where he does not belong to because he really has not committed the crime he is being accused of committing. There is no dialogue or voice-over narration to tell us what the character is going through, but Hitchcock’s cinematic narration still visually focalizes into his internal, first-person point of view, while switching to an external, non-focalized third-person perspective in medium shots of the character in captivity. Hitchcock cuts between these medium close-ups of the character’s face as he is looking at something and point of view shots of the austere cell that serves as the object of his gaze. There is no music, no sound -- just stark images of a narrow, grey space. The calm cutting between these two types of shots manages to reflect the character’s inner life which becomes, so to speak, externalized by cinematic means. It is as though his mind extended to the space whose austerity became to articulate his experience of imprisonment, isolation, and, ultimately, loss of self. The non-subjective space turns subjective; its concrete features start to channel the character’s mental states in ways which contemporary directors like Lucrecia Martel have mastered.

The problem Truffaut has with the scene is its ending. The scene concludes with a medium shot where the protagonist leans against the wall of his cell, eyes closed, distraught, powerless. Suddenly, non-diegetic music starts playing on the soundtrack and the camera begins swirling in a circular loop around the character. As the movement of the camera accelerates, the music intensifies and finally reaches a crescendo coinciding with a fade-to-black to the next scene. Truffaut disliked this shot because it seemed to break with the Bressonian asceticism that Hitchcock had been practicing prior to it. It is also noteworthy to add that never again is there anything like this in the rest of the film (and thus the shot does break against the norm of consistency): The Wrong Man returns to its minimalist, Bressonian roots, letting go of the striking expressivity of such camera movement (which is not used to follow a character or reveal further details of narrative significance in the diegetic space). One might recall, for example, the unforgettable shot which dissolves the praying protagonist’s face with the “right man’s” face, and what a completely different feel that shot has to it -- it is something Bresson would never do, but it is something the Bressonian side of Hitchcock does.

Despite Truffaut’s challenge, Hitchcock refused to defend his film, disappointingly noticing that it was not that important to him. That might be the case, but it might also be that Hitchcock was not sure of his artistic choice, or he didn’t know how to explain his intuition, or he didn’t want to argue about such matters. Maybe he thought he had failed in his experiment. Either way, it is this moment which always gets me. It feels a little awkward, and it always pushes me just a little away from the film, to a strange borderline zone of cringe -- but, at the same time, it feels wonderful. It’s the moment where one can so clearly see Hitchcock’s legacy as an innovator and a re-generator, looking for new ways to make films -- and not always with success. It’s the moment when you realize that you are not watching Un condamné à mort s’est échappé (1956, A Man Escaped) but The Wrong Man. It goes against the realist style which avoids blatant and outspoken expression, but it goes so well with Hitchcock’s own style where a sudden cut to an extreme long shot from an extreme high-angle on the top of the United Nations building is completely natural. It’s also one of those moments, definitely alongside the great dissolve of the two faces, where one can sense the presence of cinematic uniqueness. Although I think Un condamné à mort s’est échappé is a better film, there is really nothing like The Wrong Man. From Hitchcock’s startling opening monologue to the inexplicable happy end, bordering on Sirkian irony, The Wrong Man is really its own idiosyncratic thing.

12. Lola Montès (1955, Max Ophüls, FRANCE)

Master director Max Ophüls’ final film and cinematic legacy Lola Montès (1955) is the definitive cult film. It’s strange, it’s wild, and its off-the-rails uniqueness made it a massive flop. It’s the stuff that dreams are made of... the dreams in cult film land. A lavishly told story about a woman with hundreds of lovers, who is now presented to us as a circus attraction, did not resonate with contemporary audiences. With the exception of the new film critics of Cahiers du Cinéma, who were to define the cinema of the following decade, everybody hated the film. To those who understood the magic, however, it was wonderful. To those who still do, it is beyond divine. The combination of box-office and critical failure with a huge budget and an unprecedented desire to challenge convention from the 50-year-old director, who was soon to pass away, turned Ophüls into a martyr figure for the new generation of French filmmakers. Like Orson Welles, Ophüls was -- to them in their own land -- a misunderstood genius, a maestro who died two years after the release of his final film that found too few kindred spirits.

What makes the case of Ophüls’ martyrdom so fascinating is the fact that on paper Lola Montès sounds like everything Truffaut et co. hated. It is based on a novel, its script has other writers in addition to Ophüls, it has an all-star cast (and without the obvious choice, the Ophüls favorite of the 50′s, Danielle Darrieux!), and it has lavish production values backed by a big budget. Does this not sound like le cinéma de qualité par excellence?

The fact that Lola Montès sounds like dull quality cinema on paper, however, does not mean that it looks like it on celluloid. And that’s what makes it unique. Known for his penchant for sumptuously elaborate camera movement (to the extent that a camera which is not moving on tracks simply looks naked in the Ophüls universe), Ophüls went an extra mile to make his forward-tracking dolly shots work in a wide circus arena without revealing the tracks. Resonating with the width of the diegetic space and the volume brought to it by such cinematography, Ophüls also widened his film into color and the CinemaScope aspect ratio for the first time in his career. Unlike anyone prior to him and few after, during a time when CinemaScope had not been around for longer than two years, Ophüls made the unexpected decision to play with the aspect ratio. For most of the screen time, we see the events unfold in 2.55:1, but, every now and then, when mood or character identification so requires, Ophüls narrows the aspect ratio back to the Academy ratio by placing curtains on both sides of the lens. The peculiar technique of altering the aspect ratio within shots in itself is enough to make Lola Montès unique, but the way it connects to the theme of the theater -- not only as the circus milieu but also as the publicization of the private sphere -- and the surprising yet accurate (which never feel too much on-the-nose) choices Ophüls makes in using it turn Lola Montès into a bizarre marvel.

11. Daisy Kenyon (1947, Otto Preminger, USA)

On paper, again, Otto Preminger’s Daisy Kenyon (1947) seems like nothing but a love triangle done to death. Joan Crawford plays a woman who is having an affair with a married man, played by the impeccable Dana Andrews, but in the middle of their troubled affair -- that would suffice to constitute a love triangle -- enters a returning war veteran, played by Henry Fonda (the only actor to appear twice on this list!), who also catches the woman’s eye. The film unfolds as a series of moments which push the female protagonist to the embrace of one man or the other. What makes the film so unique, however, is its original cinematic discourse, its use of style and narration. In his admirably insightful new book on 40′s Hollywood, Reinventing Hollywood: How 1940s Filmmakers Changed Movie Storytelling (2018), professor of film studies, David Bordwell calls Daisy Kenyon “one of the most psychologically opaque films of 1940′s” [2]. Preminger’s cinematic narration is characteristically restrictive of narrative information. There is no voice-over, which would provide the spectator information about the characters’ inner motivations and feelings, but this is only made more ambiguous by the dialogue where the characters keep making contradictory statements about themselves and others. It is difficult to keep track of their mood swings as well as their cognitive discontinuities, and make any cohesive conception of their true motivations and feelings. This was yet to become the dominant characteristic of modern European cinema (mainly Antonioni, above all), but here it blends with classical Hollywood.

The film is filled with strange moments of peculiar, recurring pauses in dialogue which enhance an ambiguity that starts to feel bigger than the characters and their petty worries. Fonda’s character suddenly ends a moment of conversation with Crawford’s by saying “my wife’s dead” without receiving a response of any kind from his romantic interlocutor. Similarly, he nonchalantly proclaims his love to her -- “I love you” -- but gets no response in another passing moment of indifferent quietude. There are no typical responses nor are there typical initiatives. There are only words that try to grab onto something but most often miss their targets that perhaps never even existed.

The lack of conventional non-diegetic music, the use of deep-focus cinematography, deep space compositions, and lingering shots create a mood of emptiness and despair, which reflect a deeper difficulty in expressing oneself. This theme is articulated on the formal level of style and narration, but it also becomes knitted into the story world toward the end when the courtroom sequence plays with the ideas of illogical human behavior and the impossibilities of finding out what people have done and felt. When one of the two men and the Crawford character embrace one another in the film's final shot, it is equally impossible for the spectator to believe that this is the stable, happy end of a typical Hollywood romance. It is merely another dumbfounded pause, another pointless initiative, another unnoticed response, which will soon be followed by quietude, distance, and alienation.

10. Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975, Peter Weir, AUSTRALIA)

Australian director Peter Weir has made a lot of weak films (I am not a fan of the sentimental Dead Poets Society [1989] or the pseudo-intellectual The Truman Show [1998] -- though I do have a little thing for Fearless [1993]), but his breakthrough film, based on the novel by Joan Lindsay, Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975) is a real treat. A fictional account of the disappearance of three schoolgirls and their teacher during an all-girls boarding school’s picnic on St. Valentine’s Day in 1900, Picnic at Hanging Rock begins with a quasi-documentary opening text and concludes with an extra-diegetic voice-over discussing the case, making it seem as if the story was true. More than fooling the audience, this device guides them into another world, where something like this might have happened, and into the hypnotic trance of a mystery, all of which is enhanced, of course, by the first images of a foggy landscape and the girl’s words in voice-over:

What we see and what we seem are but a dream, a dream within a dream.

Weir’s greatest film leaves a lasting impression with its unique, impressionist aesthetics of pale colors, quiet sounds, soft focus, lush cinematography, eerie panpipes music, and an often strictly limited field of focus. It is as if the film had been shot through lace or a veil, giving the effect of the faded fantasy image of the romantic belle époque. The final jaded slow-motion shots of the group before the disappearance have an otherworldly quality. They bear a resemblance to impressionist paintings, but the jaded pace of the visual stream of the images emphasizes their mechanic artificiality as though these were paintings made with the first motion picture cameras. Weir’s narrative structure is likewise closer to poetry or painting than to prose as the focalization of the narration is constantly switching, the characters remain a mystery with their inner world and their psychological motives left completely in the dark, the relations between the diegetic events are vague to say the least, and Weir cuts between them in an unconventional fashion. It is nothing short of cinematic uniqueness which stays with the spectator for the rest of their life. One of the most sensitive and clever mystery films of all time, Picnic at Hanging Rock keeps astonishing with its whimsical combination of mystery and reportage, impressionism and mystique, the fantastical and the real.

9. A Canterbury Tale (1944, Michael Powell & Emeric Pressburger, UK)

Made in the days of Capra’s wartime propaganda series Why We Fight (1942-1945), whose patriotic spirit spread across the Atlantic to films calling for Anglo-American solidarity, Powell and Pressburger’s A Canterbury Tale (1944) defies tired cliches and patriotic sentiments in its utterly unique rhythm and tone. Taking Chaucer’s classic as an inter-textual framework, A Canterbury Tale focuses on three characters who, on their way to Canterbury, stop at a small village where a mysterious “glue-man” is terrorizing young women who dare to date soldiers. In contrast to most of the wartime productions of the time, Powell and Pressburger’s film turns its gaze from the grandiose to the minuscule, a small village that is unafraid to show its quirky silliness but as such grows into a metaphor for western civilization.

One of the famous director duo’s biggest critical and commercial flops, A Canterbury Tale defies easy classifications. What makes the film unique in a timeless sense lies in its tone and rhythm that are hard to describe. The set-up could mark the beginning of a frivolous farce, and the film is definitely not lost on moments of genuine hilarity, but, as a whole, A Canterbury Tale develops toward the area of peculiar pathos, humanistic tenderness, and profound melancholy. The mythic and the mundane, the romantic and the realist, the everyday and the sublime, the eternal and the transient all find their strange fusion in the film’s rendez-vous of distinct tones, moods, and ideas. Classical studio artificiality gets mixed with on-location authenticity, which is characterized by historical uniqueness as the contemporary spectator realizes that these places are no longer there, creating a tone like no other. In terms of rhythm, the film is always flowing without a hurry, yet never too slowly to announce itself as different or weird. The film’s uniqueness seems so simple, encapsulated in the smallest of things (the co-presence of the past and the present, the smell of the countryside that is imagined through the images, the allure of the any-space-whatevers), but it is so difficult to describe let alone achieve. It must be seen to be believed...

8. Dong (1998, Tsai Ming-Liang, TAIWAN)

The late 1990′s attracted some filmmakers to imagine eschatological scenarios and project them on the big screen. The approaching arrival of the new millennium generated visions of both anxiety and hope, but man’s relentless tendency toward end-of-the-world nightmares drew him closer to the former. These cinematic efforts on the brink of the new millennium usually vary between downright awful (Armageddon, 1998; End of Days, 1999) and surprisingly tolerable (12 Monkeys, 1995), but Taiwanese director Tsai Ming-Liang’s -- who had made a reputation for himself with the understated tale of eroticism Ai qing wan sui(1994, Vive L’Amour), whose final shot in itself might earn its own prize of uniqueness -- Dong (1998, The Hole) shows not only genuine originality and imagination before new times but also a unique tonal combination of both emotions associated with the historic transition: fear and hope.

These emotions are tied together in the film’s thematic nexus of encountering something new, a theme that is treated by Ming-Liang appropriately in an utterly novel fashion. The story takes place in a block of flats in the semi-urban outskirts of a Taiwanese city where people live in quarantine due to the lack of clean water, a problem that has some dire consequences, fitting for the new millennium: without water, people turn into cockroach-like entities that crawl in the dark spaces of moist dirt and dry trash. Two people, a man and a woman, who try to survive in this situation, are united when a hole appears on the man’s floor (being the woman’s roof) due to plumbing renovations. This hole, which is both physical and emotional -- concrete to the point that we can sense its material urgency and abstract to the point that words are not enough to express it -- begins to generate unprecedented intimacy between the two. The characters rarely communicate. At best, they might yell at each other when the woman, the neighbor beneath, finds her ceiling leaking. But there is a more tender connection, one that cannot be expressed by them. In a stroke of charming genius, Ming-Liang uses 50′s-style musical sequences, where well-dressed characters sing Grace Chang’s songs and perform dance numbers that convey the introverted characters silent feelings in a manner that obfuscates more than it clarifies (there is no aha-moment tailored for the spectator). As these musical sequences take place in the same desolate urban spaces where the characters exist, Ming-Liang’s realist aesthetics of the long take, deep space compositions, and a detailed naturalist mise-en-scène of faded colors and flickering lights are challenged by romantic artifice. The space, which turns into its own character, starts dreaming. It dreams of becoming something else, somewhere else, far and away, safe from the arrival of the new.

As the world prepares for never-before-seen destruction, the holes in the characters’ souls become tangible in the form of a narrow gap, not only the grey chasm between the two apartments but also the distinction between these two diegetic dimensions (the world of song and the world of silence). As the new both anxiety-inducing and hope-awakening millennium approaches, the two characters encounter love, something they had not expected, something they had forgotten, something that appears in a totally unprecedented form -- to them as well as to us, the audience. This unique story provides us with an interlude to reflect. Where are we going? New times are coming. We can always look back to the past. We can find solace in its embrace. What is collapsing? What can be recovered? What will the abyss of the hole engulf? And what will it bring about in times of chaos? A new connection, a new intimacy, a new cinema?

7. Herz aus Glas (1976, Werner Herzog, GERMANY)

Shot mainly in director Werner Herzog’s home environment of Bavaria, accompanied with gorgeous landscape shots from all over the world which still merge with the same central milieu, as well as Popol Vuh’s score, Swiss yodeling, and medieval music, Herz aus Glas (1976, Heart of Glass) is the shining ruby in Herzog’s prolific yet familiar oeuvre. Although Herzog is often celebrated as an eccentric filmmaker whose cinema constitutes an entirely unique thing of its own, his films are usually quite clearly connected to one another, and one knows what to expect from them (which is also a compliment to Herzog’s auteur caliber). Herz aus Glas, however, brings a breath of fresh air into a catalog that already seems to be as fresh as fresh can be. It is definitely the film that sticks out. No other Herzog film employs his unquenchable desire to pursue new profound images as strongly and startlingly.

The story concerns a Bavarian town in late 18th century whose main source of income comes from blowing a rare type of ruby glass. When the secret of the ruby glass passes away with the town’s deceased master, a prophetic seer from the hills descends to the townspeople and foresees their destruction. To anyone who has seen the film, it is quite clear that the story is secondary to the film’s strange, private discourse which might be better left unanalyzed since its mere verbal description seems to aggregate an insult at worst and a failure at best.

While there are certainly more than one factor which explain the film’s incomparable uniqueness (the presence of seemingly unrelated landscape shots as an additional level of discourse, the ambiguous story as well as its elusive structure, the extremely stylized mise-en-scène that creates a sense of alienation and distance), the raison d’être for the film’s reputation obviously derives from Herzog’s exceptional decision to shoot the whole film with the actors under hypnosis. Consequently, the film is rife with images of hypnotized people who stare very attentively at something in the off-screen space -- something, an object, a sight, an event, something that remains a mystery to the hopelessly unaware spectator. In the physical space, the actors are obviously looking at something Herzog the hypnotist has guided them to look at, but in the diegetic space, the characters are looking with great attention and focus on their pre-determined doom. Their focus is startling because, despite their attentiveness, they do nothing but walk towards their demise. This works because, though pre-determined, their doom is indeterminate in the sense that they cannot really make any sense out of it. A stroke of genius on Herzog’s part, this heavily stylized acting turns into a metaphorical framework for a community which is under collective hypnosis heading out to the horizon of destruction with a sense of blind determination.

The film is totally alienated from classical story-telling, and many of its scenes take place in spaces which we might see only once and whose relations to the rest of the spaces remain unclear. Mapmakers of fictive worlds, beware. They are places which Herzog remembers from his childhood, or places which he has imagined for his past or future. There are many elements which would annoy the regular movie-goer from the slowly developing cry of a woman as she witnesses two seemingly dead men on the ground to the inexplicable bursts of laughter from the old man. There are plenty of scenes which seem to serve no clear purpose. There is a scene where a painting falls from the wall behind a man after which he tries to lift it, fails, and then returns to his original posture as if nothing had happened. There is also a sequence shot of a glassblower making a glass horse out of the melt matter. This scene has no obvious meaning in the film, nor should it; the shot is just there. It is there for us to marvel at it and to reflect on the beauty of craftsmanship, the art of glassblowing.

If the quest of Herzog’s cinema is to always look for new images, then Herz aus Glas delivers more than any of his films. One of the many peculiarities of the film are the recurring landscape shots from all over the world which remind one of Herzog’s brilliant documentary Fata Morgana (1971). These landscapes might be the visions of the attentively looking townspeople or not. As such, they might be images of destruction, of the end, or of the beginning -- or not. They might be an imagined landscape of origins. My personal favorite is the shot, which has been done mechanically by a frame-by-frame technique, of a river of clouds on the top of a forest. There is an enchanting mystique to this hypnotic image. When we look at it, we might think that it is about something, but we should not make the mistake of trying to explain what that something is. Nor should we find an external point of reference to call it a metaphor for something else. We should embrace its mere cinematic aboutness.

6. The Quiet Man (1952, John Ford, USA)

John Ford, the man who made westerns, is to modern America what Homer is to ancient Greece. Beyond the genre of lonely travelers in the wild west, Ford took his cinematic myth-making to other worlds. They Were Expendable (1944) provided the first signs of Ford’s unadorned and unsung sensitivities beyond the desert, which, after initial opposition, he was able to appreciate (sort of) after Lindsay Anderson pressed him on the emotional depth of the film in his celebrated interview book. The real deal when it comes to Ford’s hidden personality, his artistic ambition, and his aesthetic sensitivity, however, is The Quiet Man (1952), a film like no other if there ever was one. It is a unique, poetic fable of pastoral idyll, understated modern anxieties, battling dialectics of reality and fantasy.

A classical love story where a man, Sean Thornton, played by Ford soulmate John Wayne, returns to Ireland from America where he falls in love with Mary, played by Maureen O’Hara, The Quiet Man is like an idyllic postcard, a tale of the fantastical countryside that is presented in an overly romanticized fashion. Its humor, varying between masculine slapstick and battle-of-the-sexes screwball comedy, would make the advocates of the me-too era cringe. However, I believe that Peter von Bagh was right in seeing the film as greater than life. To him, its scenes of love carry “metaphysical might.” [3] There is more to them than the eye can see. When Sean pulls Mary away from the door opened by ferocious wind to kiss her for the first time, there is a sense of baroque awe as Mary’s hems bend against her rigid legs in a gust of divine wind. Perhaps telling of its uniqueness, the film’s closest kindred spirit seems to be a film that looks totally different, Murnau’s Sunrise (1927), which carries similar “metaphysical might.”

The Quiet Man was not received well during its initial release. Its fable-like illusions threw away all hopes of Ford’s return to the realist cinema of Hollywood he helped establish in the late 30′s and early 40′s. The far landscapes of the wild west were replaced by a postcard idyllic Irish village of Inisfree where trains are late, chores can be put on a halt to chit-chat, and traditions persevere. From the beginning locus amoreus of a boat by lakeside at dusk to pastoral iconography of a redhead shepherding sheep, a priest fooling fish, and drunkards playing the accordion, The Quiet Man is Irish pastoral of 50′s American optimism. Despite the film’s idyllic nature and the romantic mise-en-scène that gives birth to it, one would be making the mistake if one concluded that The Quiet Man was completely lost on realism. “Inisfree is far from heaven, Mr. Thornton!,” reminds one character. It is rather that in it Ford manages to find a totally unique combination of realism and romanticism, the modern and the traditional, the American and the Irish, in a fashion that reminds me of Brontë’s Wuthering Heights (1847). Sean escapes America, the land of freedom and opportunities, to his home country of Ireland. Although never stated explicitly in the film, one can see a social undertone, as noticed by von Bagh: during the Korean War, which was still going on, disillusions scattered throughout America. Inisfree’s distance from heaven might be lost on Sean’s nostalgic eyes, but he seems to imply something about the looming vicinity of realism to us when, upon seeing Mary for the first time, his yet undiscovered love interest and wife-to-be, he states: “is she real?”

It is, in fact, this scene, this first encounter between the lovers-to-be, that always gets me. Its uniqueness escapes words. The scene begins with a long full shot of Mary amid sheep, which is motivated as Sean’s point of view shot as the scene progresses. There is a cut to a low-angle medium shot of Mary, which is followed by a reverse shot of Sean and then another low-angle medium shot of Mary, as she slowly vanishes beyond the frames of the screen space. A return to the long full shot of Mary amid sheep is followed by a medium shot of Sean. Dumbfounded, amazed, looking afar, and hopelessly in love, he says: “Is she real?” Ford’s brilliant choices in montage and shot scale articulate the distance between the characters, which will be a recurring theme in the film -- “There’ll be no locks or bolts between us, Mary Kate!” -- while also bringing them in close intimacy that still remains a mystery to both of them. There is a heavenly feeling to all of this. Where are we? The modern Sean, escaping the disillusions of 50′s American optimism, might be asking himself: “Is this -- Inisfree -- real?” We, the viewers, we, the lovers of the film, we, the lovers of cinema, might be asking ourselves: “Is this -- The Quiet Man -- real?”

5. Tini zabutykh predkiv (1964, Sergei Parajanov, USSR/UKRAINE)

Ukraine-born director, Sergei Parajanov’s breakthrough film Tini zabutykh predkiv (1964, Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors) is on fire. It is on fire like a mixture of jazz and opera, a blend of ancient epic and modernist poem, a mishmash of waltz and jitterbug that never, for some odd unfathomable reason, feels haphazard. It feels eternal, timeless, and archaic, but, at the same time, contemporary and modern. The truly marvelous thing about all this is the fact that the story itself is a fairly traditional love story. Ivan and Marichka, whose families are rivals by heart, fall in love at a young age. After Marichka drowns in an accident, Ivan falls into depression but then remarries. In his new life of work and dull everyday chores, he is tormented by the memory of his first love. In the end, he dies either due to a hit from a sorcerer, who has made passes at Ivan’s new wife, or due to his incurable loneliness in a void universe without love.

Such a classical romantic tale acquires an unprecedented energy from Parajanov’s cinematography that is characteristically free and mobile -- in stark contrast to that of Sayat Nova (1969, The Color of Pomegranates), the director’s best-known film. The handheld camera is always on the move. It does not shake in the sense that the contemporary spectator has become accustomed to identify “handheld camerawork;” in fact, it can be very steady at times, but it moves quickly and ferociously. It pans so fast from one place to another that the eye does not register the spaces between the two steady screen spaces before and after the pan. It can appear to be fixed on a spot, but then it starts gliding or flying as in the amazing shot of Ivan lying on the large raft on the river. Watching the film unfold on the big screen is like having your head dislocated in some strange non-physical sense. One might think that such energy is distracting and makes one pay too much attention to the cinematography. The effect, however, is the opposite. It’s hypnotic. Everything feels intuitive and natural. One simply feels bewildered before this film to the extent that one starts imagining new images to the film. It is as if the camera found freedom and was liberated from its physical ties, becoming a disembodied eye whose movements are impossible to be predicted. The spectator never knows where the camera is going to move next, what the next angle will be, or in which scale the next shot shall be.

As such, the camera turns into a lyrical speaker of a poem or a stream-of-consciousness narrator of prose who identifies with the characters’ experience that cannot be accessed unambiguously. The most obvious example is not surprisingly the use of point of view shot when Ivan’s father is axed to death: red blood fills the screen, which is followed by a strange image of red silhouettes of running horses. Less obviously subjectivized stylistic decisions, where the camera identifies with characters’ experience, include the beginning scene where there is a “point of view shot” from a falling tree’s perspective, which is followed by a hypnotic spin of the camera as though it detached from material reality after a character dies under the tree. During the first embrace of Ivan and Marichka, Parajanov’s camera keeps the characters in focus and in a tight medium close-up, but the intimacy is complicated by implied visual distance: the use of the telephoto lens coalesces multiple layers of tree branches and other flora as a soft, flat veil enfolding the lovers in their natural innocence as the camera encircles them in eternity. When Ivan falls into depression after Marichka’s death, not only are the colors replaced by a surprising shift to black-and-white but also the movement of the camera becomes significantly calmer and slower. When Ivan starts feeling the presence of the dead Marichka -- as a ghost, as a memory -- there is a series of jump cuts showing Marichka behind Ivan’s window, rather than a return to the previous stylistic program. All of these exemplify cinema’s ability to subjectivize without the use of point of view shot or voice-over. Parajanov realizes this potentiality beautifully and uses different cinematic means without restriction but never without a consistent vision.

There are shadows from the past which obstruct Ivan and Marichka’s innocent love, but there are also shadows from the new past which prevent Ivan from moving on with his life. In an unforgettable scene that is still unparalleled in film history, Marichka’s ghost entices the delirious Ivan, recently struck by the sorcerer, to death in a wintry forest. Both characters move toward each other, but they do not seem to be walking in the medium shots that only show their heads moving against the background of the white forest as their voices sing a song of love without their lips moving. There is a strange sense of movement and ceased time. There is a touching sense of the wonderful yet painful grip of love. There it is, unshadowed, unforgotten, now.

4. Sud pralad (2004, Apichatpong Weerasethakul, THAILAND)

In terms of mere structure, this film is bonkers. Hardly ever has a film dropped as many jaws as Thai director Apichatpong Weerasethakul’s breakthrough feature Sud pralad (2004, Tropical Malady) during its initial festival release. At first glance, it might be tedious, it might be irritating, it might be, well, just too mysterious. It might feel too private. As one allows the images and the sounds to sink in, however, this masterful, dualistically structured film starts to make sense like Lynch’s Mulholland Drive (2001). Even more so than Lynch’s, I believe, Weerasethakul’s film is one of the best and most unique films ever made about love.

What begins as a love story between two men, a soldier and a country boy working at an ice factory, ending in an unexplained break-up, suddenly turns into a silent fable about a shape-shifting shaman and a soldier. The second part can be seen as an allegory for the first -- or vice versa. They comment on one another. They are co-dependent. They are lovers. There isn’t one without the other. What is more important than the logical connections between the two parts (one can either see them as flip sides of the same story or as a continuous story in the same fictive world) are their sensual and emotional resonances. Being a love story, the film’s English title (which is not a direct translation, one might add) already suggests a peculiar vision of love: not as a cure or as a utopia but as a malady, a sickness, something that consumes one’s body and soul. As the two men separate, they first devour each other. There is a sense of mystery in the air. What happened? Exactly. Who knows. Who’s to say?

Since their feelings -- both in initial infatuation and in the out-of-the-blue separation -- cannot be explained in words, they are articulated by the fable. The soldier is being consumed by the shaman, he is dying because of him, but he is also dependent on the shaman and must approach him. As the shaman shifts into a tiger, the aspect of consumption becomes poignantly discernible. Weerasethakul uses many lingering shots in the dark forest that suggest a fluctuation between the two characters. There is movement in the screen space, but is it the soldier or the tiger? They finally face each other in a bigger-than-life scene of intense stares that will haunt you for an eternity. The stare of the tiger occupies the screen space, dominating, hypnotizing the audience. There’s a strange sense of fear but also of lust; there’s an inexplicable desire to surrender as the malady takes over. Weerasethakul’s long take allows the tiger’s stare to sink in, to drill down to the spectator’s spine where its sensuous force begins to fester. The moment of devouring is at hand. This scene breaks hearts and sews them back together.

Weerasethakul’s inimitable cinematic discourse, which operates on the immediate level of senses and sensations, uncovers animals and other natural entities in their own right, as they appear, rather than as conventional metaphors for something else. They are embraced as the Other. Indeed: Sud pralad is a film about primordial otherness of everything else beyond oneself, a theme that Weerasethakul tackles by telling a love story. Because in love one experiences otherness most intimately but also most painfully. One might be very close to the other, but one also experiences the growing distance. One must confront the insurmountable challenge to understand the other. There is one’s own mind to keep one company, and then there is the rest of the world. There is the man devouring one’s hand and then going away for good. There are street lights in the night. There is music in the air. There is a sense of heartrending wonder. There is the intensely staring tiger ready to devour the one. And there is the one ready to take the plunge.

3. Distant Voices, Still Lives (1988, Terence Davies, UK)

By its enigmatic title alone, Terence Davies’ heavily autobiographical film Distant Voices, Still Lives (1988) invites expectations of originality, and those expectations are not disappointed to the slightest. The ambiguous title is rife with meaning, but at the most direct level it works as a structural point of reference since the film is distinctly divided into two separate parts. A story about a working-class family living in Liverpool, the film’s first part, “Distant Voices” focuses on the power the family’s father has on their co-existence in 1940′s, while the second part, “Still Lives” portrays the lives of the children in their early adulthood in the 1950′s -- away from the presence of the war but still far from the new youth culture that was about to emerge. Under the father’s abusive influence, they cried and sang in a bomb shelter; now, safe from heavy rain in a cinema, they cry as they watch Henry King’s Love Is a Many-Splendored Thing (1955). This is but one parallel in a film where things get entangled, where popular culture, communal singing, historical events, universal themes, and extremely personal memories fuse in an unprecedented network of cinematic thinking.

The peculiar two-part structure, made striking by the two-year gap in production and inevitable change in some of the crew, would be enough to mark the film as singular, but this narrative division is only one element in an idiosyncratic whole that constantly draws the spectator’s attention to the artificial nature of the cinematic representation in question. The film’s narration itself is self-aware to the extent that the spectator inevitably pays attention to it: the non-linear representation of past events in an order that seems associative at best is bound to make the spectator ponder representation. Davies thematizes representation or, more accurately put, memory, its mechanics, and the possibility of representing and remembering. On an immediately stylistic level, Davies employs heavy use of light coming from an off-screen source as well as over-exposed light in the screen space which, together with the pale and tainted colors that filter every image, give a peculiar, golden hue to the sepia-like, nostalgic mise-en-scène reminiscent of scuffed photographs. The cinematography, which varies between utter stillness and slow pans and dolly shots, often gives a strong impression of tableaux vivants from early cinema, which remind one of old family photographs. The same goes for the film’s strikingly exact and centralized compositions: never has a symmetrical two-shot felt this precise and powerful, static and dynamic at the same time -- artificial and proud of it.

On both levels of narration and style, Davies draws the spectator’s attention to the artificiality of everything: that all this has been “produced” -- structured and conditioned by a mind that is reminiscing something. That something belongs to a world that no longer is, and that never was just like this. It is an utterly unique world that is only here and now, in the moment one is watching this film and remembering it in their own mind. There is a sense of discipline and order which always leave something outside, making it absent, outside of memory’s reach, while encapsulating something, making it present, within memory’s constituted and conditioned sphere. On both levels, Davies’ film is strongly characterized by elements of distance and stillness as his filmic portrayal of family leaves his characters relatively distant, beyond our absolute reach, in picturesque mobile paintings that invite us to reflect what lies beyond their frames of stillness and distance, sight and sound.

2. Zerkalo (1975, Andrei Tarkovsky, USSR)

It’s nothing. Everything will be alright. Everything will be...

A monumental yet intimate masterpiece of memory, undoubtedly the best film on this list, if not simply the best film ever made, and one of the few films I have seen more than ten times, Andrei Tarkovsky’s most personal film Zerkalo (1975, Mirror) is beyond flawless. Like Bresson, Tarkovsky certainly has a very distinctive oeuvre that feels consistent in its stylistic unity, but there is something intensely singular about Zerkalo that elevates it above a body of six other masterpieces or fringe-masterpieces. Some directors have tried to follow Tarkovsky in creating their own mirrors, but none have achieved either the same level of quality or of uniqueness. The beautiful thing about the film is, and this is key to its uniqueness as well, that Tarkovsky manages to bring the private to the public (not only by juxtaposing his own experiences with Russian history but also by uncovering the universal structure in human experience) without ever coming close to sacrificing the innate privacy of some of his images at the altar of effortless intelligibility.

The first time viewer is bound to be confused by the enigma. In the course of repeated viewings, however, the fuzzy reflection begins to take shape. A dying poet recalls his life which unfolds in sequences that take place in three different time frames: his childhood in the early 30′s, his adolescence during WWII in the early 40′s, and his parenthood in the late 60′s. He ventures into the abyss of his suffering as well as that of his nation and humankind in general, but, in the midst of pain, a vague promise of peace is discovered. Mixing archival footage with traditional scenes of dialogue on different time frames, reciting poems and playing music, using oneiric images as well as concrete motifs of mirrors and fire, juxtaposing colors with sepia and black-and-white, Zerkalo coalesces the personal with the collective and the dreamlike with the material. It creates an unparalleled rhythm that has an eerie, otherworldly feel to it, which, nevertheless, feels so intimately tied to nature and sensation that one can almost touch it. But when you reach your hand toward the mirror, it once again reveals its elusive shape that escapes your grasp.

In its stream of impressions and ideas, the poetically flowing narrative of Zerkalo works as a lucid parable of the human mind. The mere viewing experience of the film works as a cheap form of psychoanalysis for some. Film scholar and programmer Antti Alanen calls it “a space odyssey into the interior of the psyche” [4]. The ambiguously focalized narration flows in ways which resemble free association. There is an event and there is another; there is an image, then a sound; there are pauses and gaps, inexplicable connections of heart and soul, lines drawn by a tormented mind trying to comprehend and grasp something that, as he himself puts it, cannot be expressed by words. From grand sights such as the collapse of the house and the flight of a bird through a window to tender details of a human hand before a flame, a redhead with a blistered lip in the snow, and a cut from one gaze to another, the film’s narrative flow follows a logic of its own, a logic on a higher level, a logic that feels consistent but cannot be laid out in non-cinematic terms. To some, there is spiritual force in this, the power of both the subconscious and the Hegelian Weltgeist traversing across the images.

Zerkalo tackles questions that are no less than the biggest but also the simplest in life: What is human life? What is its meaning? What is its meaning to us as individuals and as mankind? Why and how is it experienced as meaningful? There are no answers, there is no great revelation, and how could there be, but there are little junctures of awe, touches with the world, small manifestations of fire before us. The protagonist’s ex-wife wonders why something like the burning bush never appeared to her. We might wonder the same. In Tarkovsky’s mind, it seems to me, this is due to the loss of connection to something transcendent to us and our petty affairs -- not necessarily to god but perhaps to nature, to values as such, to what really matter, to our primordial origin. Or, perhaps, more modestly, there is a loss of connection to the mirrors around us, manifesting as the inability to accept bewilderment and live in lack of comprehension. The film is full of moments of such transcendence: the bird landing on the boy’s head in a strikingly beautiful composition of Brueghelian proportions, the massive gust of wind blowing over the departing man on the serene field after a chance encounter, the mysterious fall of an oil lamp from the table on the wooden floor, and the disappearance of a faint ring stain on a table as the lady vanishes. What are these magical moments, these manifestations of burning bushes, other than Ereignisse that ask us to accept irrationality, to look into the mirror and marvel? The great revelation to the big questions might never come, but the reflection on the mirror keeps getting clearer only to be beclouded again and vice versa.

1. Sans soleil (1983, Chris Marker, FRANCE)

Contrarily to what people say, the use of the first person in films tends to be a sign of humility: all I have to offer is myself. [5]

These are the words of Chris Marker. A private recluse, a documentarian, a poet and a reporter of the cinema, Marker escapes easy classification. The creator of the most unique short film La jétée (1962), Marker is also celebrated as the father of subjective documentary. After making what is most likely the best depiction of the political turmoil in the second half of the 20th century in Le fond de l’air est rouge (1977, A Grin without a Cat), Marker turned inward -- or did he? -- in the pioneer piece of whatever you want to call it, poetic essay film or subjective documentary, Sans soleil (1983, Sunless). “I could tell you that the film intended to be,” Marker affirms, “and is nothing more than a home movie. I really think that my main talent has been to find people to pay for my home movies.“ [6]

Anybody can make home movies, and everybody does in these pathetic days of YouTube vlogging, but only Marker can make home movies that are simultaneously ultimately his and ultimately ours. A home movie for the ages, Sans soleil tackles the perennial topic of French cinema (think of the whole oeuvre of Alain Resnais), the difficulty of memory, which has both individual and social implications for the representation of the past. In the beginning, there is an image of children in Iceland. Happiness signified. Is this a memory? Images signifying a happy childhood memory, any-memory-whatever. “How can you remember thirst,” asks the man behind the camera, whose letters the female voice-over, the alleged receiver of these letters with an alleged sender, another disembodied character like the man, reads out loud.

Marker’s Sans soleil does not develop ordinary motifs or conventional techniques in dealing with memory. No matter how innovative -- and groundbreaking -- Resnais’ methods are, they are no match for Marker’s meta-approach. Rather than thematizing memory with a device, Marker deals with the theme through itself, by trying to remember it, by trying to become conscious of itself. The man wonders how have people been able to remember anything without pictures. Pictures are the memory. Montage is the memory. Viewing the film is memory.

While timeless, Sans soleil is also absolutely a film of its time. It comes right out of the postmodern era when man’s relationship with history, time, memory, and space was challenged on all fronts of human thought and creativity. The history of the documentary film is filled with numerous travelogues -- from the ghost train films of early cinema to Flaherty’s Nanook of the North (1922) and Wright’s The Song of Ceylon (1934) -- but Marker’s Sans soleil challenges the whole possibility and meaningfulness of the travelogue. In his mind, in the mind of Sans soleil, time and space cannot be conveyed over individual, experienced knowledge. The poetic narration of Sans soleil constantly turns to itself and challenges its representation. The film consists of shots, which are more or less separate from one another, that are organized by the letters read by the woman, letters that she has received from a man, the man behind the camera. Thus there is a double focalization, the word and the image. When the levels of the image and the words of the letters occasionally coincide, the spectator is tempted to think of the images as shot by the man from his point of view, but Marker’s film seems to escape such an easy way out of the puzzle. Marker takes man’s relationship with history and the past by dealing with the relation between real and reconstructed memory. Is there a difference? Is there a difference between our collective history and our personal histories? Is there a difference between a home movie and a movie? Is knowledge of the world possible?

We know little of Marker’s private life. His most private and personal film, Sans soleil, perhaps paradoxically, adds nothing to this lack of knowledge. In a strange way, it achieves an extremely intimate level by creating a peculiar distance. It hides behind images and words. We never see the central characters. We see reconstruction. We see implications. We see conclusions without premises. We see the end of the road but not the road.

There are no clichés in Sans soleil because it is beyond the definition of cliché and convention. The man behind the camera has seen so much that at the moment only banality interests him, as he states in a letter. The unique and the original have become dull. The banal is the new unique. He preys banality like a bounty hunter. In this quest, banality turns into something else -- or does it? In a synthesis of banal moments, the montage of images becomes its own living thing.

A filmic version of stream of consciousness, the only structure of Sans soleil is its lack of structure. There is fragmentation on both the level of the whole and the level of the part. The words stop and random notes put a pause on a flow that, for a moment, seemed to have a clear structure. “By the way, did I tell you that there are emus in the Île de France?” The images freeze, the words stop, the images continue, the images give rise to a continuation into an unprecedented series of separate images. Yet, despite all of this, the film has a rhythm like no other, and it never feels scattered. It is cohesive on another level. It follows the unknown logic of its private internal auteur. Sans soleil is not remembered for its words nor for its images, but for the synthesis of it all -- and, most importantly, the impressions and feelings that arise from this synthesis. We do not remember individual shots, individual sentences, or at least we do not think of them. We remember the film.

I remember the cut from the Japanese dancing to an emu. I remember the abrupt cuts from the serene desert to the chaotic Hong Kong. I remember the cats in the temple. I remember. I remember the electronic sounds accompanying swans in a lake. I remember the counterpoint. I remember the tension, the voltage, the trance of it all. I remember the lack and the absence. I remember the presence and the richness. I remember the unique, the one and only, Sans soleil, the distant voice that both fades and stays in memory.

Some runner-uppers, or the mandatory honorable mentions: Stanley Kubrick’s Eyes Wide Shut (1999) and 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), Woody Allen’s Zelig (1983), Jean Vigo’s L’Atalante (1934), Dziga Vertov’s Chelovek s kino apparatom (1929), Souleymane Cissé’s Yeelen (1987), Leos Carax’s Mauvais sang (1986), Luis Buñuel’s L’Age d’Or (1930), Atom Egoyan’s Exotica (1994), David Lynch’s Dune (1984), Frank Perry’s The Swimmer (1968), Edward Dmytryk’s The Sniper (1952). Charles Laughton’s The Night of the Hunter (1955).

Notes:

[1] Truffaut, François. 1984. Hitchcock. Revised Edition. New York: Simon & Schuster Paperbacks, p. 239-243.

[2] Bordwell, David. 2018. Reinventing Hollywood: How 1940s Filmmakers Changed Movie Storytelling. Chicago: Chicago University Press, p. 220.

[3] Bagh, Peter von. 1989. Elämää suuremmat elokuvat [Films Bigger Than Life]. Otava, p. 405. My own translation.

[4] https://www.bfi.org.uk/films-tv-people/sightandsoundpoll2012/voter/785.

[5] https://chrismarker.org/chris-marker/notes-to-theresa-on-sans-soleil-by-chris-marker/.

[6] Ibid.

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