The Mark of Caïn
7 May, 2008
Sadness and terror mixed with soot and urine, the last dregs of one’s humanity pierced into flesh with a guitar string and a wind-up razor. The echoes of pride are distilled, fermented and rotten, and fed to you in a metal bowl. And you believe that you have succeeded in surpassing your own worth, and you believe you have survived, but I still see the reflections of bars in your eyes.
The Counterfeiters
5 May, 2008
There are things lurking in all the corners, people hardened and brittle and those with seemingly inexplicable ideals still intact. It makes one consider- which would I be? Do I save five people I know or thousands I do not? And is there a way to do both?
Iron Man
3 May, 2008
Not being on drugs has done wonders for Robert Downey Jr.’s appearance.
I have nothing else.
Rebel Without a Cause
3 May, 2008
Melodrama of the highest order and yet still so powerful as a story – powerful in spite of years, in spite of camp, in spite of everything. Even on a small screen, even with the lights on, Dean as Stark commands the frame. Tormented feline grace, kept in too small a pen, and I am forced to look away. If I don’t I fear my soul will be torn through my gut. This long-dead man, reborn as a flickering shadow of humanity, and still the weight of his heart lays heavy in my own. A generation grew up with those baleful eyes, and we have nothing to compare.
Perhaps the world does end at dawn. Perhaps it ended already.
Once Upon a Time in the West
2 May, 2008
I remember the first time, cinescope screening in a rickety theatre with uncomfortable chairs. Going in in the daytime with a headache and coming out in the dark so filled with light I had to skip home in the snow, harmonica haunting my mind.
The echos of that first time play back even now, and even now as I stare into Charles Bronson’s eyes and listen to Henry Fonda’s rasping voice I feel my chest expanding. There is an incredible lightness about this place and there is water slowly dripping through my life, scraping away the layers.
4 Months, 3 weeks and 2 days
1 May, 2008
Color is drained from the frame, all that remains is yellow and green, vivid and putrid. Society is rotting from the inside and the jaundiced skin is peeling from slack flesh. Everything has been filed down to a point, all softness sheared off, the world is hard. Hell is neither hot nor cold but lukewarm and every body is covered in a fine layer of filmy feversweat and grime.
There is no hope and the waiter may never come back, and you will be left to eat liver and breaded brains.
