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THIS MAY SOUND LIKE A STATEMENT, yet it isn’t quite clear for what or for whom. The viewer feels a pain in his chest, his temples house a horrible beat, the words thrust him down a bottomless pit. As he crawls back from hell to his own self a stranger, he looks in the mirror and finds eyes full of anger. Hair mussed and filthy, forehead wrinkled, asweat, his mind is clear and fearless of death! I wish I could write it without plot or story, yet show the connection between this text and that video. Thin sentences sketch rare paragraphs; sharp words light a burnt bulb in your desk lamp at night. BRUSH can’t be mentioned in the same breath with 39 Steps, nor with Titanic, for it lacks the budget, the colors, the actors, and more. BRUSH won’t walk hand in hand with La Jetée, nor with Breathless, for it’s written in prose and not rhymed like a poem; take a deep breath to follow its chapters, conversations, and songs! While reading these lines and watching that picture, the viewer (that’s you) will discover the good and the ugly (the bad is not there)—the tension between actors, the flat British dubbing, the natural decor; the script that was written after a love long or short. The subtle and stormy, the messy and neat, will unite with great force one can’t seize or beat—for the will to write or to film is just the desire to shake you right off your seat! The time in your hands is more fragile than glass that broke and was mended and fell once again and broke and was mended once more, till one cannot tell where it all started and where it will end. Purple-blue lightning in a bright crystal ball touches the fingers of a curious boy. And then it all seems certain and clear for a second or less, through the letters and words that this text manifests. |