Out 1

Out 1

Or, Paris Plays Itself
Or, Waiting for Sátántangúffman

“Is this a game?”
“It’s lots of things.”

Must a film “mean” something? Can’t it just be 13 hours of Vibes intercut with experimental theater exercises, literary analysis and political/existential unrest?

What is “cinema,” anyway? It’s the movie itself, sure, but that’s just one thing. What about the characters’ lives beyond the confines of what we see as the conventional “story”? What about the experience of the audience as they watch—not just individual emotional response, but the movements of their bodies in the seats, their fleeting thoughts of what they’ll be doing afterwards, what they’ll say in their Letterboxd reviews, etc.? Who’s to say all of that—perhaps even life itself—isn’t also cinema? Rivette certainly seemed to think so, and as such he was a master at wringing a strange poetry from the most mundane corners of human existence. Cinema, he seems to say here, is happening at any given moment all around us, as long as we’re willing to look for it.

In conclusion, this made me very nostalgic for my college improv/theater days which is the highest compliment I can pay anything

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