Gah! Rapturous. We, like the film, are an ecstatic composite of memories, like scraps of souls. We know the bittersweet allure of ephemera: prolonged. It's the nature of our own existence, after all. And the archivist can keep us filed away, from death. Just a unit of meaning. A souvenir from time. I imagine them - these scraps, drawn like moths to tell the story of their protector, out of flickers in the light. 4.5
If the cinema screen has memories it might looking something like this. A nice accompaniment to David Thomson's 'The Big Screen', Morrison skilfully weaves our history with that of the cinema, and the result is something like hauntology. Is the history of cinema a man's pursuit of beautiful women? Our desire to gaze? A constant projection of ourselves as ghosts?