Two new movies out now in Britain - Buried and Frozen - chart terrifying ordeals by people caught in a single location - a coffin, or a chair-lift above howling wolves. Psycho introduced us arguably to the psychopathology of the film experience - Peeping Tom had made audiences recoil a year before. Now, viewers have been groomed to want, and expect, more sadism, more suffering. Where once audiences cheered on heroes or ordinary people (they laughed, they cried) now they sneer, jeer and cheer as victims are tortured, mutilated, humiliated, and forced to endure the most nightmarish of scenarios. There is no doubting the force of "car crash" viewing - some spectacles demand our begrudging, horrified looking - but is pandering to such a looking the best use of the filmic art? I myself think both films are likely to be suspenseful, well-oiled, and, worst of all, entertaining. Yet, how will this trend pan out? As we aim ever more tightly at the heart of the isolated human being in extremis, what shall we, as viewers, hit? Truth, beauty, or a lowered humanity, on the bestial floor among the gum and stale popcorn.
A poem for my mother, July 15 When she was dying And I was in a different country I dreamt I was there with her Flying over the ocean very quickly, And arriving in the room like a dream And I was a dream, but the meaning was more Than a dream has – it was a moving over time And land, over water, to get love across Fast enough, to be there, before she died, To lean over the small, huddled figure, In the dark, and without bothering her Even with apologies, and be a kiss in the air, A dream of a kiss, or even less, the thought of one, And when I woke, none of this had happened, She was still far distant, and we had not spoken.
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