Tonight I got to see Touch of Evil, the 98 recut, in an amazing theatre -- an old movie palace built in the late 20's. The theater is amazing. Grand opulence from another age, not lovingly restored so much as a stabilized ruin. Well, I'm not too sure about the stabilized part. Looks like the volunteers are doing an admirable job of getting the derivative almost non-negative. In May they're going to be showing the latest edit of Bladerunner. I can't wait -- a beautiful vision of a decaying world shown in a beautiful decaying world. The snake swallows its tail.
Touch of Evil is, as always, fucking amazing. I happen to own this cut on dvd, and I'm watching it again as I type. The dialog builds such a frisson of tension. Orson Welles and Charlton Heston don't just 'bounce off each other' -- the energy that builds when they start talking over each other is like the air at the beginning of a thunder storm, black clouds low over a wide empty landscape, rumbling tremors rolling through the space in between. Heston tenses a muscle in his jaw and it breaks like thunder. The lighting -- the mileage they get out of shadows gliding over building sides, clouds over open dessert shot with yellow filters. Welles is a giant. His bulk rolling over his limp as he lists through the frame, the slow deliberate motion of his hinds winding a garrote, sweaty jowls pushed against his coat as he chokes the life out of Akim Tamiroff, eyes not exactly calm or cold next to Akim's useless feet kicking in the air, but simmering with the low heat of annoyance.
I raise you high on my shoulders,
of course my feet push
into the mud.
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2 comments:
Ooh.
This image is familiar.
I have a vague, hazy memory of you (David) saying a similar thing, while we are both too drunk to stand up, in my old apartment in Brookline - perhaps after band rehearsal. I have a very distinct memory of your voice, a lifting gesture, and staring dizzily into the floorboard.
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