rlbourges

Ma’am, I think the blue bird on your shoulder just pooped on your blouse?

In Animals, Artists, Collage, Current reading, Film, Music, Revision, The Crab Walker, Theater on June 23, 2014 at 7:55 am

Several annoying moments in Michel Gondry’s Conversation animée avec Noam Chomsky at the cinema last night. Moments where I was tempted to tell Gondry to shut up and listen to what Chomsky was trying to tell him (and let the viewer get Chomsky’s meaning by the same token.)

As an interesting consequence, those irritating moments when the two men seem to be talking at cross-purposes are what keep the film alive in my mind this morning. Those moments where I almost got what Chomsky was saying, only to have Gondry barge in to say “but what I mean is…” Enough of both men’s meaning came through to make the experience worthwhile.

Moments that flow. Times that don’t. Then, in all the stops to say hi on your right and hey there on your left at the Sunday market: pieces that fit together. Word of mouth is the main competitor to twitter, in this town. Hey, I hear you’re doing a workshop on improv. Hey, so-and-so’s looking for …. (fill in the blank: a dog, an apartment, a scriptwriter, a recipe for home-made leben, a piano teacher…). The man with the dim wit and kind heart (dim, in the sense he doesn’t know the difference between things you say and things you keep for yourself) stops me: your makeup was running all over your face last night, he says. No, it wasn’t, I answer. You’re not used to seeing me with eye liner, that’s all. Oh. Well, I think you have the best voice of them all, he answers. They say that, don’t they? That fat women have the best voices? Yes, some of them do say that, I reply. Pat him on the shoulder. Get bussed on both cheeks, and he’s off.

Rain: falling straight down with total abandon. Excellent for the new flowers put into the planters early this morning when the heat wasn’t oppressive. I wanted nasturtium but the plant lady didn’t have any so I took African daisies instead.

The revision: much like doing patchwork. Reading through the material. Snipping out the moth-eaten parts. Figuring out how best to recombine the rest. Plus improv, always. The small comment, the unexpected bit out of nowhere when the words show up on their own because of (and not despite) all the other attempts at making them show up on cue.

 

 

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