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Inception and a Tom Waits Lyric
Jul. 25th, 2010 08:45 amI think Inception may just be my favorite movie ever plus it will do s-o much for the sale of dreidels and Edith Piaf CDs!
I’m seriously thinking of stiffing the landlord on August’s rent and spending next week in a movie theater watching it again 15 or 20 times.
Both Salon and The New York Times gave it bad reviews. The film really isn’t about dreaming per se. I think Christopher Nolan actually gets the dreamscapes wrong – you can’t really capture a dream with a camera, dreams blur too much at the edges and the edges quite often show up in the middle. (What movies get dreamscapes right? Two off the top of my head -- Alex Proyas's brilliant Dark City and the much under-rated Thirteenth Floor.)
No, the movie was more about the nature of memes, what has been called viral information.
I’m inclined to think Nolan gets that wrong too – people are actually incredibly guileless and quite open to viral information depending on the source. Nolan should have read a little Jung while he was writing the screenplay. No matter, Inception is still such an amazingly thought-provoking and entertaining film, I came out of the theater with the physical sensation of having awakened from a very deep sleep and wandered around like that for about five hours afterwards.
###
I have vivid dreams. I suspect they’re more vivid than most people’s, although obviously that’s not something I’ll ever be in a position to prove. I’m never myself in my dreams, meaning I’m an ambient ego, a narrative point-of-view, but that POV is very seldom attached to the act we’ve known for all these years, Mizz Patrizia DiL.
So last night I dreamed I was in Hollywood, walking by a construction site in which the severed torsos, limbs and heads of LA’s latest serial killer were on display, waxy and white in the moonlight. They were young actresses and the cop patrolling the site was explaining to me why they’d become victims: “Well, of course you know, it’s the camera – it sucks out their mana and they have to replace it. So they devise these scenarios where people suffer and die in extraordinary circumstances. And then they come and watch the people when they die –“
“Who’s they?” I interrupted.
“Oh, it’s the Screen Actors Guild. Didn’t you know?” The cop looked nervous. “We’re not supposed to talk about it but I thought – well. That everybody knew –“
“Knew what?”
“Well, actors are vampires. They don’t feed on blood, they feed on that tiny little reflection of themselves in another person’s eyes. They feed better when that person is in a hyper-emotional state, of course, hence –“ The cop gestured at the dismembered bodies. One of the arms was starting to drag itself feebly by its fingers to one of the torsos. The torso had the most beautiful breasts I’d ever seen, velvety swoon of cleavage, nipples the color of apple blossoms even under the pale, punishing moonlight.
“Pull yourself together!” the cop screamed, and he laughed. “She’s got a deal already. They promised her an agent.”
“But, uh – she’s dead,” I said.
The cop looked at me severely. “She’ll get over it. Never drive a car when you’re dead.”
When I woke up I recognized that last line as a lyric from Telephone Call From Istanbul, a favorite Tom Waits song. No men in blue trench coats though.
I’m seriously thinking of stiffing the landlord on August’s rent and spending next week in a movie theater watching it again 15 or 20 times.
Both Salon and The New York Times gave it bad reviews. The film really isn’t about dreaming per se. I think Christopher Nolan actually gets the dreamscapes wrong – you can’t really capture a dream with a camera, dreams blur too much at the edges and the edges quite often show up in the middle. (What movies get dreamscapes right? Two off the top of my head -- Alex Proyas's brilliant Dark City and the much under-rated Thirteenth Floor.)
No, the movie was more about the nature of memes, what has been called viral information.
I’m inclined to think Nolan gets that wrong too – people are actually incredibly guileless and quite open to viral information depending on the source. Nolan should have read a little Jung while he was writing the screenplay. No matter, Inception is still such an amazingly thought-provoking and entertaining film, I came out of the theater with the physical sensation of having awakened from a very deep sleep and wandered around like that for about five hours afterwards.
I have vivid dreams. I suspect they’re more vivid than most people’s, although obviously that’s not something I’ll ever be in a position to prove. I’m never myself in my dreams, meaning I’m an ambient ego, a narrative point-of-view, but that POV is very seldom attached to the act we’ve known for all these years, Mizz Patrizia DiL.
So last night I dreamed I was in Hollywood, walking by a construction site in which the severed torsos, limbs and heads of LA’s latest serial killer were on display, waxy and white in the moonlight. They were young actresses and the cop patrolling the site was explaining to me why they’d become victims: “Well, of course you know, it’s the camera – it sucks out their mana and they have to replace it. So they devise these scenarios where people suffer and die in extraordinary circumstances. And then they come and watch the people when they die –“
“Who’s they?” I interrupted.
“Oh, it’s the Screen Actors Guild. Didn’t you know?” The cop looked nervous. “We’re not supposed to talk about it but I thought – well. That everybody knew –“
“Knew what?”
“Well, actors are vampires. They don’t feed on blood, they feed on that tiny little reflection of themselves in another person’s eyes. They feed better when that person is in a hyper-emotional state, of course, hence –“ The cop gestured at the dismembered bodies. One of the arms was starting to drag itself feebly by its fingers to one of the torsos. The torso had the most beautiful breasts I’d ever seen, velvety swoon of cleavage, nipples the color of apple blossoms even under the pale, punishing moonlight.
“Pull yourself together!” the cop screamed, and he laughed. “She’s got a deal already. They promised her an agent.”
“But, uh – she’s dead,” I said.
The cop looked at me severely. “She’ll get over it. Never drive a car when you’re dead.”
When I woke up I recognized that last line as a lyric from Telephone Call From Istanbul, a favorite Tom Waits song. No men in blue trench coats though.
