I killed my family and then I went to the cinema

Donatello Fumarola

(A cut-up for Vlado Škafar's Dad)

A barbarian way to rethink a movie giving back to it some of the blindness that it expresses through its way of being an image.

 

There is no final enough of wisdom, experience – any fucking thing. No Holy Grail, No Final Satori, no solution. Just conflict.

 

Only thing that can resolve conflict is love.

 

Love? What is it?
Most natural painkiller what there is.
LOVE.

 

In one point we can see the entire perspective of one world. It is an important story, because it is the valid explanation of obscurity in art. A method involving apparent obscurity is surely justified when it is clearest (as Thelonious Monk said: “It's always night, or we wouldn't need light”).

 

The images of the trees, of the river, of the sky, the words and the silence in it, fluttering in the memory of the visions I had months ago (lives ago). All of this is over-impressed into hidden perspectives – not just imaginary, not yet imaginary, maybe something political, in the way of being in front of what we (what HE, the film-maker) want “cinema” to be.

 

What we call “nature”, with its own mask (of clear darkness), a drop in a dialog between a child and his father (as in a philosophical tale of an ancient time). The “natural” bond. The nature of this "natural" bond. In his ambiguity and in his beauty. A beauty so clear that, in its transparency, the darkness behind it is revealed.

In this darkness we find struggle, the brutality of a reality in which the economic meaning of a human life is the only meaning of this life. This is the critical point at which Vlado Škafar points his view and where he find his cinema.

Peterka was already this. An approach to a human being in his point of crisis. A point of crisis faced with poetic necessity.

 

The bird whistled again, invisible, a sound meaningless and profound, inflexionless, ceasing as though cut off with the blow of a knife, and again, and the sense of water swift and peaceful above secret places, felt, not seen not heard.

 

What could this strange silence do to our knowledge? What image could speak to us better than a thousand words? What relationship could reveal to us the clear (or the real) way to understand darkness? What is the reality of “reality”? What kind of conflict comes out of our meeting with reality?
(What film could have all the answers to all of these questions?)

 

Never sleeping, clamorous as a nonstop feast day, Inconvenience, once a vehicle of sky-pilgrimage, has transformed into his own destination, where any wish that can be made is at least addressed, if not always granted. For every wish to come true would mean that in the known Creation, good unsought and uncompensated would have evolved somehow, to become at least more accessible to us. No one aboard Inconvenience has yet observed any sign of this. They know it is there, like an approaching rainstorm, but invisible. Soon they will see the pressure-gauge begin to fall. They will feel the turn in the wind. They will put on smoked goggles for the glory of what is coming to part the sky. They fly toward grace.

 

(In between: William Burroughs' last words, William Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury, Thomas Pynchon's Against the Day)