Shame as self-laceration, dark and bitter humour, yearning for human connection amid the turbulence of alienation, roots shorn at the base, yet striving nonetheless for sunlight, rain and sustenance.
Any similarity to real persons and events is not coincidental. It is INTENTIONAL.
In 1963 Greece, corruption seeps into the fissures of society. Here, we have a government propped up by the scaffolds of deceit, as discordant with truth as oil is to water. Revolt is quashed and plastered over with lies, murmurs of an accident, a mistake, smothering the people with ignorance, fear, mistrust. Yet within this soil of corruption, the seeds of rebellion prevail—for they can’t stop us…
A life caught between the snares of stillness, stagnation. Thoughts froth at the surface, qualms and dreams and petty agitations. The two men watch, eternal spectators to the theatre of mortality. They drift in suspension, hanging upon the cliffs of unreality—between the clutches of lucidity and delusion.
The sequence is crafted with a temporal fluidity; thoughts spill into words which contaminate, words which infect. But the infection is one barred from those who drift in eternity. They are saved from…
A rumination on solitude, detachment, the corrosive idealism of one submerged within his own illusions. He is the dreamer of Dostoyevsky’s White Nights, a wandering soul, frittering his days and years in the tomb of his mind’s fantasies. Slumbering within the sanctum of his dreams, he renounces reality. But it is a reluctant kind of sacrifice, something which slides into being without any true volition.
The days dribble by with a ritualistic recurrence: he walks, he mutters into his recording…