BY STEVEN GRAY
I write reviews of films for people who have already seen them, and to let others know a certain film exists, however foreign, old, obscure, or obtuse.
I use a movie as a starting point and free-associate myself into an essay.
I come up with a five or six-page meditation on the automatic sin machine of cinema.
I may give away the plot or not, while questioning the mass psychology of entertainment.
I look at films from the perspective of a Marxist or a literary mammal or a dreamer (an unconscious film director).
I let a movie push me around emotionally and aesthetically, if not politically. Then I push back, having a sword fight with a projector beam. I’m used to wrestling with an angel and getting thrown into the unknown.
I write about my experience of a film as someone who saw Eraserhead while stoned and alone and on the verge of walking out.
I write about the vertigo of celluloid, the horizontal free-fall of an audience projected into someone else’s life while staring at the wall.
A film is the reflection of professional pretenders on a moving stream.
A man or woman on a movie screen is so magnified you see their thoughts passing through their skin. In return my thoughts are passing on the page with a thin-skinned verisimilitude.
Similar to sex and drugs, I don’t have movies every day.
I live in an electric city shot through with eclectic time-warps and I have no sense of boundaries when it comes to when and where a movie was distilled into existence.