|Me in school:||what if my favorite band member comes to spend the day here|
|Me at home:||what if my favorite band's bus broke down and rings my doorbell for help|
|Me taking a walk:||what if my favorite band member drives up and asks if I need a ride|
|Me going to sleep:||what if my favorite band member breaks through the window and kidnaps me|
|Me at a concert:||what if my favorite band member notices me in the crowd and calls me up on stage and asks me to hang out later|
|Me in the grocery store:||what if my favorite band member is here buying groceries|
|Me in the car:||what if I get into an accident but it's with my favorite band member|
|Me on the Internet:||what if my favorite band member is secretly stalking me|
|Me when I tweet my favorite band member:||what if they see my tweet and think I'm really pretty/funny so they private message me|
|Me on an airplane:||what if my favorite band is on this flight|
In the beginning of every issue of Little White Lies mag, the writer asks the subject of the issue, ”what do you love about movies?” And every time I pick up an issue, I’m left to ponder that very question myself. I have thought out my own answer time and time again, making lists like Woody Allen’s reasons to live. I wonder sometimes, why is film so important to me? Why is this the thing I have chosen as a sort of creative lifeblood? Why have a wracked up five to six figures worth of debt to study and take in? But I’ve come to the realization that its not something I can articulate or place a finger on but when it hits, I know it’s there, and it’s what gives me a reason to say— fuck everything, maybe there is damn worth in the world and maybe today I want to live through it.
In the documentary Side by Side, someone describes going to the movies as the church of the 21st century because it informs our thoughts and actions and emotions. But a church is a place for people who believe, without concrete evidence or facts, just blind faith in an idea because it evokes something in them to navigate their way through life. You can use it as a tool to inform you or you can allow it so simply live inside you and breathe without hindering your own mind. But when it comes to cinema, the trick isn’t to tell us when to cry or when to laugh or when to feel guilty, but allow us to peer inside and unzip those thoughts and emotions lying there in the dark. And yes, there’s the usual reasons why cinema is a beautiful thing: the shared experience of sitting in a darkened room and watching a story come to life on the screen, the ability to escape, and to see a piece of moving art but to truly allow yourself to take something in, requires a rawness and great deal of faith.
I’m saying this because I just saw the Master. And I don’t want to give you some capsule review or some analysis on PT’s take on the post-war man’s alienation, I just want to say that it was so painfully good that it was exhausting. If you love cinema, see it. It’s not easy, it’s not poppy, it doesn’t glide past your eyes like a dream. No, it’s a drunken journey through a disjointed existence. I left the theatre seasick. And I couldn’t have been happier. And this thing I’m feeling, it’s obviously not contained to simply the Master, but to get to spend two hours and seventeen minutes of your life wrapped up in something like this, I really cannot think of anything more satisfying.
When I think about the process of actually making a film this voracious and grand, it always boggles my mind. I can imagine the script and its text, the fade ins and fade outs on the page; I can picture the set (sort of) and the endless hours spent in the editing room. But what I cannot imagine is good ol PT sitting there writing this all out, these epic scenes and conversations just floating around in his brain—these massive characters existing inside him, jumping out onto the page. And then the way in which he must have conveyed every fucking little detail of their essence to PSH and Joaquin because, my god, I do not think I have ever seen two more able-bodied actors share a screen. This one really hurt. And well, I guess I’m just going to have to see it again tomorrow.
Ayn Rand (via turquoisebluedreams)
Bleeding Out by Imagine Dragons
So I bare my skin and I count my sins