Mamoru Oshii’s next film looks like a cross between Tampopo and City of the Lost Children that was violently shoved though the minds of internet comic-nerds who play too many video games before being handed to Terry Gilliams for Art Direction.
The Mark Ronson bootleg video, a montage of animated London graffiti, for a cover version of Radiohead’s track ‘Just’ is also pretty awesome. The animation’s a nice testament to the creativity of street artists.
Waverly films just did a video for Brendan Benson with a similar concept of animation style, simple forms interacting with real people quite cleverly.
And now it’s hailing.
I left the phone ringing, the receiver precariously jammed between my ear and my shoulder as I wrenched off my shoes, and forgot to pay attention, so when the answering machine said, “Hey, I lost my phone.” I panicked. I had no message ready. Without thinking, I recited an e.e. cummings poem that I’d recently posted. Annoyingly, it’s a bit of a nonsensical one when spoken aloud, so I may have just shot myself in the foot on the matter of getting a call back.
Now I feel like a milk-carton kid, invincibly printed and lonely. Today feels scripted, like someone wrote all of today down beforehand for me to recite. Even my longing seems kidnapped and two-dimensional. My want to go to the hotel and find him at the bar, to murmur into his ear, “I want to undress you.” will be found beaten and broken, in pieces in a ditch. The newspaper description will be like pornography – The lacerations on the wrists indicate a struggle. – without forgetting to be clinical. Injuries show evidence of penetration. Wrapped up in plastic bags, unable to scream.
Even the snow falling unexpectedly in thick clumps didn’t lift my mood. Usually I gather great pleasure from snow. Though aware that native Canadians aren’t supposed to get a thrill from it, I shed my jaded ennui the same way a native Californian might occasionally appreciate the luxury of a palm tree and frolic. I try to catch flakes on my tongue and see how much I can have land in my hair, where I can examine it minutely. Instead, as I watched it fall at the bus-stop this morning, I carried a heavy stinging feeling behind my ribs. My concentration shot, I tried to shed my impulse to uselessly peer through the front windows of the hotel and failed. The snow was a reminder of time softly passing. Time I’m not treating well, that I’m not feeling with passion.
My week of theater started well, though. Terri accompanied me to the opening cabaret. The most memorable performances were the burlesque dancing gorilla and a blockhead that did slight of hand. When he came out the first time, with the table and cups, I laughed. I used to do that act for childrens parties. When he came out the second time, with a small box of nails and a hammer, I cackled madly, the only one in the audience who knew what was about to happen. Tap, tap, and his hand came down and the nail stayed in. People fell out of chairs. Vancouver’s not used to that kind of level of performance. Me, I want lessons.