So Emily, BC and I went to see Good Night and Good Luck tonight. Eh. It didn’t seem to have much to say that was new or even pertinent–historically or artistically–but it was nicely shot, just ultimately forgettable. Unlike the interesting film by Sokurov that I saw earlier, Moloch, about a dreamy weekend in the alpine retreat with Adolph and Eva, and friends. Presented as a straightforward linear narrative, no one seems to really communicate. Instead, the film is a series of brief fragmented interactions. In one amazing scene, Adolph lectures Eva like a madman, a truly terrifying figure, and she responds by playfully kicking him in the butt as he bends over. He then chases her around the room in his undies. His madness remains something that she sees directed at the world, and she just ignores it, the Final Solution just an impediment to intimacy with her führer. The interview with Sokurov on the dvd was just silly, though. Some artists, especially artists who make such powerful works, should keep quiet. Mark Twain said that keeping one’s mouth shut and being thought of as stupid was preferable to opening one’s mouth and confirming it. Well, Sokurov spent the first 20 minutes talking about why he couldn’t tell us what his movie was about, and the remainder of the interview discussing why the soundtrack and dialogue had nothing to do with the film. Nyet, Sokurov, nyet!
So anyway, at the restaurant after the movie with Em and BC, this guy walks by, kind of a big hunky older biker type with a long beard, very handsome, and I smiled and said hi, not because I knew him, but he reminded me of a plus-sized version of my friend Eric, whom I like and don’t get to see enough of. He smiled, walked by and then turned around and said, “You seem really familiar, do I know you? What’s your name?” I told him I was Chris and shook his hand and told him no, I didn’t know him and he went on his way, perhaps perplexed by all the warm familiarity that I was projecting his way. I don’t know why I’m writing about such a stupid mundane encounter, but our brief interaction seemed framed by a potential for intensity that we grappled clumsily and hastily to acknowledge and understand. “Who are you?” I wanted to answer, “Someone who could love you,” but realized that being there with my boyfriend necessarily precluded such a response, and off he went, forever.