Werner Herzog’s 1968 film Even Dwarves Started Small has a very specific and demanding vision dominated by extraordinarily long takes, the camera mercilessly watching as to what might unfold, be it a truck driving in an endless circle…Dwarves looking at pictures of nude girls…Or a chicken eating a dead mouse.Much is demanded of the audience, too much, throughout this drifting narrative in which dwarves yell and laugh maniacally as they wreck everything they can find.Says Herzog: “Film is out about our collective dreams and also our collective nightmares, something that cannot be extinguished from our minds.”
The treasured moments of your past are lost now. They cannot be retrieved, not in the drink, the music, the caress, even in trundling off into the great empty world.They cannot be shared because they are only approximate now. They are gone,
It’s not so much the story in Par Lagerkvist’s The Dwarf as how he develops the dwarf’s perspective, that, as a dwarf, there is no way to be disguised, especially to oneself.
I live only my dwarf life. I never go around tall and smooth-featured. I am myself, always the same. I live one life alone. I have no other being inside me. And I recognize everything within me, nothing ever comes up from my inner depths. Nothing is there shrouded in mystery.
I watch The Bachelorfor all of the right reasons. I am painfully amused by people making fools of themselves, confessing to devastating breakups, the loss of an alcoholic parent, awkwardly displaying their sensitivity just to make it as a low-level celebrity. And yet as pathetic as the participants may appear, one can’t help but feel sorry for them, their lack of understanding for the contracts they’ve signed, the blood in their deal with the devil. The Bachelor brand preaches a skewed morality – a GQ/ADHD cocktail of defending superficiality- to which all participants adhere, while they are coaxed to reveal their personal wreckage, be it a former love’s betrayal, a famous brother or deep, bitter anger. Host Chris Harrison has been employed to feign concern – “I know it isn’t easy for you to be out here with your heart on the line…but how did you survive that crushing day?” – to create the victims and monsters.And propagate the reality of this reality that love is sex, empathy is dishonesty and dreams only last until the next commercial.
Hollywood Cookie Cutters can be a guilty pleasure, good as background chatter, to be glanced at between reading, writing and or having a nap. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot has an occasional edge. Straight Outta Compton has scenes with great music. 10 Cloverfield Lane has John Goodman. Midnight Special has domes of light. And Everybody Wants Some has the glimpses of what Richard Linklater used to do – make a decent film.And yet each of these mind-numbing 2015/16 releases – desperately displaying arc points as they stumble derivatively through genre – scored an average rating of 85% on Rotten Tomatoes. This begs the question: How did audiences get this stupid?Oh, I forgot.
The mountains of the Great Divide are not, as everyone knows, born treeless, though we always think of them as above the timberline with the eternal snows on their heads.They wade up through the ancient forests and plunge into canyons tangled up with watercourses and pause in little gem-like valleys and march attended by loud winds across high plateaus, but all such incidents of the lower world they leave behind them when they begin to strip for the skies: like the Holy Ones of old, they go up alone and barren of all circumstance to meet their transfiguration. (Angle of Repose, 254)