My phone seems to have a tendency toward independence.
I inquired something of a friend, and then it added 3am on its own. I sent a completely inappropriate Cool. 😎 One friend got a message that was totally gibberish.
So when the device got it into its head to make a panorama shot, I happily went along for the ride.
When I judge films, I consider the narrative. I want to be told a story. A movie’s success in my eyes has to do with how cogent a tale it tells.
What if the story isn’t the point? This is a visual medium. Pictures might be what you want to see. Sometimes the visuals are the story.
Splashes of color, images moving speedily or in slo-mo, all carefully superimposed over a generational chronicle are what you’ve come to see.
Or perhaps it’s just the art or the movement without the annals and references. Some films need no consistent content to be great or great fun.
Early films, before we had color to beguile us, were often short comedies, like the Charlie Chaplin or Buster Keaton movies or Western dramas or sometimes long dark fantasies like Nosferatu or Metropolis.
I hear, for instance, that Avatar 2 is spectacular. By all appearances that doesn’t mean I would find that it makes sense.
Likewise, I hear that Babylon, by the LaLaLand team, is another beautiful spectacle. In this case, based on its predecessor it likely has a lovely plot.
My assessments about a movie may need an overhaul. Just as I have come to like the ridiculous slapstick of The Stooges and the confusing dialog of the Brothers Marx, perhaps I can absorb and value fantastical ramblings in technicolor and beyond.
We know that a red sky [at night]
Portends a clear day [at morning]
What, prithee, does a sky of pink
Foretell? Should we expect our
Day to show uncertainty rather
Than clarity? Erring [of course]
On the side of delighting sailors?
I tend to think [rather without
Evidence] that the pink is red
Shivering from the cold, made
Pale by temperatures too low
For comfort, too high for frost.
Pink sky at dusk, warm up the
Cabin, Captain [and if you must
Sail] wear long Johns and a parka.
Just cause a place was a point of your origin, does not mean you haven’t overlooked some of its finer points.
For Instance, I never heard of a dessert called the bayadere which apparently is a specialty from my mother’s neck of the Balkans. I encountered one at Les Gateaux de Marie and have to admit it’s very addictive. I am a huge chocolate mixed with nuts fan.
The coffee at this little French bakery Cafe is far from solid. It’s the bajadera I come back for from time to time.
Speaking of La Bayadere, it’s also the name of a classical dance. While I never fully understood its virtues when I was the audience, it is an elaborate and much admired work. I think my imagination is stymied by the appearance of ghosts.
Marius Petipa conceived this dramatic tale of exotica and eternal love set in ancient India for a large troupe of his dancers. The title refers to the Indian temple dancer, Nikiya, whose ghost returns to seek vengeance and be reunited with her noble lover, Solor.
How the name for an Indian temple dancer came to grace a Croatian sweet, I cannot tell you. I will attest that the pastry is, like an Indian Temple Dancer, an exotic treat.
The ghost or a wraith of some sort is an oft seen character in ballet, from Giselle, Les Sylphides to the apotheosis in Swan Lake.
Thus closes this Halloween-themed episode….
The tried and the trite can keep us just as entertained as watching a ping-pong ball across the net does.
Here’s what I bring to the table.
So, I feel like I’m between a rock and a hard place.
Maybe I opened a can of worms when I let some secrets slip to that loose cannon friend of yours.
The more the merrier I say, bring it on, this challenge is the perfect storm.
It’s an uphill battle but I know that like me you’re as tough as nails so for you this will be a piece of cake. The question is will I weather the storm?
Let’s think outside the box here for a minute. If I play my cards right I’ll be right as rain.
Maybe I should read between the lines because I’ve learned you can’t judge a book by its cover.
Well, I guess better safe than sorry.
You have been as quiet as a church mouse. Did you get up on the wrong side of the bed this morning? Or has the cat got your tongue?
I know you’re going to warn me that what goes around comes around. That’s easy for you to say.
Whoever said the grass is always greener on the other side never had to mend fences. If I didn’t act in haste, I would be dead as a doornail.
Chances are I’d be serving up a tray of low-hanging fruit. You’d be eating the plenty of fish in the sea.
It was a bit of a tease when I said “There will always be ghosts,” so let me elaborate.
I can’t guarantee that my story will clarify anything but I must try.
Some nearly 50 years ago I was settling into a sweet apartment in an old New York walk-up. I wandered into the bedroom. I immediately sensed a presence.
Now, I am not especially susceptible to the spiritual. In fact, I have a level-headed appreciation for the rational. I have alwsys endeavored, however, to be open-minded. I was even more so in those days.
I hedge my bets against a greater power by labeling myself an agnostic. Who knows? There may well have been a specter inhabiting 5A. He (and his gender was determined) walked about as I turned on the floor lamp.
I spoke aloud to my cohabitant, asking him to enjoy our mutual space. I also suggested that I would not interfere with his activities as long as he left me to my own.
After this, no flickering light would ever disturb me again.
He did not reappear. But his proximity on that first night was palpable. We met and remained friendly at a distance.
In the next 40 years, I modernized the space to suit me. My phantasma voiced no objection.
I mentioned him to noone. My discretion was rewarded as my friend never troubled me during the long length of my tenancy.
All The Best