Displaying articles for: April 2008
You left nothing
Left to say and yet there is this
Of finished thought, this
Wash of days over energy?s uneven rock. This
Vault door?s hollow closing
Crash behind which I say, Stop,
To the accidental.
Uncle, to the twisty wrist.
No matter how she beseeches, Bang cannot get her wish, and bitter lament follows. "The role of elegy is/to put a death mask on tragedy...To look for an imagined/Consolidation of grief/So we can all be finished/Once and for all and genuinely shut up." But loss lets loose a syntactical virus; a supercharged ontological magnet. It warps our sense of time, cruelly fooling. "He lived in her mind/As a limited aspect where time kept circling." And so it is perhaps no solace -- but worth saying, anyway -- that the much-loved son has become immortal in these essential, powerful poems.
Lost Highway, available for the first time on DVD, feels more crucial than ever. Released as perhaps Lynch's most mainstream effort -- witness the A-minus-list cast, '90s-metal soundtrack, and Marilyn Manson cameo -- it's since become the M”bius kink in an oeuvre that spans Eraserhead (1977) and Inland Empire (2007), aggressively obscure career bookends seemingly unhinged from all commercial exigencies.
Lost Highway is, in this sense, a most necessary film: it sleekly culminates Lynch's thematic vivisection of midcentury Americana (see Blue Velvet, 1986) and commences a late-period critique (see
Mulholland Drive, 2001) of the Hollywood dream factory itself. Rigorously bound to the formal expectations of a big-budget thriller, it may also, paradoxically, be the purest evocation of that peculiarly Lynchian frisson: that gnawing mathematician's dread that space and time are always twisting irrevocably out of joint. -
Dubbed "the Italian Simenon," Giorgio Scerbanenco (1911-1969) began his crime-writing career with books set in the USA, but quickly shifted scene closer to home, the city of Milan. In this adventure, appearing in English for the first time, his underdog hero Dr. Duca Lamberti finds himself in the middle of a seedy, scantily clad criminal racket, where the presence of an outsider could result in death.
Killed last year in the infamous terror attack at Nairobi's Westgate mall, Kofi Awoonor was a national treasure in his native Ghana. His career began in 1964 with Rediscovery, and this magnum opus serves as a tribute to his entire long journey charting his beloved nation's course through his accomplished poetry.
A pair of linked stories finds that, as translator Ann Jefferson relates, "[Pierre] Michon's great theme is the precarious balance between belief and imposture, and the way the greatest aspirations can be complicated by physical desire or the equally urgent desire for what he calls glory."