just watched deerskin (2019) spontaneously. found out after that it was directed by Quentin Dupieux (who directed Rubber, about the killer tyre, and has a music career with the viral 'flat beat' produced under Mr Oizo)
absurdist, surreal, comedy/comedy horror, ridiculousness, obsession
what I liked about it at first was the link between his obsession with this deerskin jacket - receiving the camera at the same time. it's a narcissistic character unravelling as he documents the absurd unravelling of this one goal of being the only person with a jacket in this world. its this perfect balance between ridiculousness and complete seriousness but the viewer sees it as insanity. and the balance between comedy and horror. that crossover seems like a wonderful niche area that would appeal to surrealists. the solo documentation spoke to me.. makes me wanna film something.. its wonderful to get inspired..
like when I wanted to get my big camera out again when I went to see the MA photojournalism and documentary photography show with a group of recent graduates (called a question of when). I'm really glad I went, I found out about it because I wrote a piece (about living with others, flatsharing) for this girl who started a publication called sonder (which is amazing already) and her boyfriend was in the exhibition. there's something so fascinating about documentary photography and video. but documenting oneself.. that's different.. is it borderline narcissistic.. like deerskin.. i thought it was a great film. i could believe it, I could believe that I am about to embark on an absurd journey of slashing numerous people just with the tunnel vision of a goal of eliminating all the possibilities of jacket-wearing in the world. perhaps my coat is speaking to me. when you think about it, there is no reason why inanimate objects wont be speaking to you, even when you are asleep.
perhaps I should film something. perhaps my inanimate objects can speak to me in a similar fashion. this type of work needs more planning than the previous videos I filmed though. before, they were more like performances.. live performance documented. i want them to achieve simple things. i loved when the deerskin jacket asked him if georges wanted to know what his dream was. (to be the only jacket in the world) i loved that take on the idea of the Big Picture. of doing this very specific thing. it is peak ridiculousness thats genius. i want to be at a confident standstill on this border. ridiculous, profound, something. its the essay again. I'm going to go somewhere with this essay. i have to. its a train that seems to be slowly disintegrating but I need to start it up again. i cant take it anymore. it is so eager to go. it is going to explode. its ticking.. ticking.. its teasing me with time.. its saying, you look so silly over there, wasting time when you have so little of it! you sure are living life. you've lost yourself. you don't exist. (georges's wife tells him you're no one and you don't exist on the phone)
what would I film? what is the relationship between the camera and the whiteboard (and the train?) the whiteboard.. why are you so eager to be erased? the camera is the opposite. it strives to document and keep it forever.( a performance piece deleting everything I have). (a performance piece colouring in the whiteboard) and how does this relate to the cadaver? is the cadaver empty or full (of energy?) (is the cadaver half empty or half full?) to what extent am I going nowhere? could be the title of multiple things, could be an extremely long title.
to what extent am I going nowhere? I sit across the field from you. there is a train between us. the blushing flowers, they shudder every few seconds. then they flutter every two. it's an indication, of ticking time. of tickling spring, of sickening scenes. the train is not moving. it lies dead, in the vast expanse of your arms. I blow air onto it. it does not catch. it blows over, and it blows over again. I thought I saw a glimpse of something thawing in the cabin near the front. I pick up the pace. I breathe louder. there, whiffs of fog appear every few ticks on the borrowed glass. I pick up the hope. I throw it like a house, not a home. it hits, but the sound is dull. there was no rebound of gratification. there was no applause. there is only thaw without the source. I can say that now. the corpse was rotten. it was clear. I could see through it without question. sure, it was dissolving, but it seemed to stay a constant drizzle_. I can hear it fizz. it is equivalent to the flower's shudder. it was terrifying, it was terrific. it was.. not nauseating, it was fun. this is so fun. to claw away the non-snow, I dig a shallow pond. you'll be safe here, I say to the train, in question. I'll be safe here, it answers back. I push you off the cliff, and dried the hanger. this is your to be continued, I laugh. this is my to be, it scoffs.
for some profound reason, I found myself waving. not as an indication of goodbye, or hello, just a continued to be. just a continued to be.