I used to want to write films and now they just make me cry at the weekends.
I ate a steak last Friday.
In the absence of a spoken narrative, we are forced to make our own, and what can we make?
Of afterbirth dragging across a brown slurried floor of shit and piss and blood and amniotic fluid; of being guided through rusty metal gates and fences; of the greiving lowing of a mother; of the plastic teet for her daughter; of the voices and the whistles that we don't understand, that guide us poorly through…
Nostalgia is one hell of a drug. Casual racism, misogyny, and those toxic relationships that kept us coming back for more - when treated by time's filters, and cut through with the omissions of faulty memory, almost seem quaint.
Gary Valentine is charming, charismatic and a complete grifter with no values. He talks a big game, but he's ultimately a coward. He tunes out the world at large, and only tunes in for either economic or sexual prospects.
I think this is the most beautiful film ever made.
If you ever doubted yourself, and loved someone - enough to show them all that doubt - and lost them, then you will know how it feels to ache for the past. You will yearn for something that no longer exists, and you will be nostalgic, but ultimately, you will have nothing left but memories.
This film makes you feel all that pain - the yearning, the nostalgia - through…