Family
11-Aug-08Relic
04-Aug-08
This seems like a lifetime ago.
Subtlety
03-Aug-08When I first saw 2001 at age 11 or so, the Blue Danube spaceship docking sequence was boring and overly drawn out. I had no idea why Kubrick picked this particular song, and why there weren’t laser beams, TIE fighters, explosions or other displays of interstellar warfare. 10 minutes of a ship approaching a space station and docking. Lame.
When I saw it again at age 16, having learned about “motifs” and “themes” and “symbolism” from my AP English classes and having unwittingly turned into something of a Freudian (though I didn’t know enough to realize it at the time) this sequence was still boring and overly drawn out, but I took mild glee in pointing out that it was totally about sex. Granted, this was well before I had any firsthand knowledge of what sex was like, but from what little I learned in health class, I was convinced that this totally a sexual metaphor. But then again, I was pretty sure everything was a sexual metaphor of some kind, and that all symbolism and imagery had at their core sex as their basis. It made for some pretty interesting peer evaluations whenever I had to present my interpretations to the class.
When I watched this movie as a college student, I had another revelation: I was sure I sort of “got it”, or at least, I thought I did, how the interplay of sound and visuals cohered to make greater aesthetic statement. Sort of. The vaguely banal yet formal music highlighted how space travel was at the same time fantastic and commonplace within the context of the universe established within the story. Or something like that.
Now, a decent number of years and relationships later, I’ve come to accept that my 16-year-old know-nothing self might have been onto something, totally by accident, and that whatever other meanings might be secondarily distilled from the images (and my collegiate interpretation is, in retrospect, a load of complete horseshit) this sequence is primarily and overwhelmingly about sex, totally. A pointy ship slowly rotating and flying into a giant red rectanglar slot, set to the music of a naughty 19th century couples’ dance? Okay, I get it, Stanley, no need to be subtle here.
True Story, pt 115
24-Jul-08After braiding her hair, she always grabs the tips and runs her fingers through them, collecting the invariably large clump of breakaway strands that accumulate. This has become something of a ritual behavior whenever she’s in my car. Twice a week, on the way to summer league—braid, wrap, run hands through ends, collect pile of blonde hairs. Even when there’s no league, she habitually runs her hands through her hair, grabbing at it, combing for broken strands. Little clumps of gold in her hands, she cracks open the window and pushes them into the wind.
While stopped at an intersection, I look over and notice the furball she’s managed to pile up this time. It is a mass of no small size, a surprising amount of curly, golden frizz on her lap. Her head askew, a hair tie between her teeth, I laugh and manage my usual half-expressed mix of surprise, amusement and exasperation—God, Kris, that is just…—before she turns to me with a sharp “What?” as if she doesn’t know exactly what I mean. The hair, Kristen, the hair, I say, as she quickly rounds up the loose strands and cranks open her window. She shoves the mass through the gap, with marginal success. Look, seriously, it’s not that big a deal, I say, it’s not like this car isn’t already covered in—“I’ve got this,” she interrupts, her hands still fumbling with the loose, uncooperative clump. Half of the mess falls back inside. She sighs. “This would work a lot better if the car were moving, Dave.”
Sandblast
20-Jul-08
I think I’m getting better at this, the taking pictures of ultimate thing.
