rlbourges

Scene order, scene value, scenes on the cutting room floor

In Animals, Artists, Circus, Current reading, Drafts, Film, Hautvoir, Music, Theater on February 15, 2014 at 8:05 am

Among other discoveries yesterday: the origin of the French word entresort. So obvious, once explained. An entresort was one of those tents where you could sneak in and out for a peek at the two-headed stripper or the fish-tailed monkey and his headless trainer. Entre, sort. Go in. Come out. Théâtre du Rugissant uses the word to describe some of their shows.  Le Bal des Fous, for instance, or the current Tout Seul.

Useless word combos drift by. Stuff. On the outer ring of the interim, for instance. Wave them along, bye-bye. Slow start to the day.

Only twenty pages into John Banville’s Kepler. Delighted already. This, a keeper for the days when Glumdom looms: “A bubble of gloom rose and broke in the mud of his fuddled wits. Mästlin, even Mästlin had failed him: why expect more of Tycho the Dane? His vision swam as the tears welled. He was not yet thirty; he felt far older than that. But then, knuckling his eyes, he turned in time to witness the Junker Tengnagel, caparisoned blond brute, fall arse over tip off his rearing horse into the rutted slush of the road, and he marveled again at the inexhaustible bounty of the world, that has always a little consolation to offer.” 

Kepler, in search of the laws that govern the harmony of the universe. What’s not to love in such a one.

My own search, of more modest proportions: to bring some order to the piles of books and scribbled notes crowding in around my computer. Something that can’t happen yet. Why? The title explains.

A moment of dream-like poetry, yesterday afternoon when one of the principals of the Rugissant described his dream of doing a filmed version of the Moby Dick section in Le Bal des Fous. Lighting, camera angles, the waving sheet of blue-green fabric. The tiny boat climbing  the waves.

Suspension while the image unfurls. I can see it, too. Then, the crash back into reality. “Film’s so fucking expensive,” he says.

True. True.

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