A cinematic tone poem that flows from a sustained meditation on death and other forms of absence, then seamlessly weaves together thoughts on Tibetan Buddhism, reincarnation, the modern surveillance state, and the artistic lives of dogs, all in elegy for Anderson’s beloved rat terrier, Lolabelle.
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Arghhh, the female narrator has to be one of the most irritating I've ever heard and not that there is anything of value to begin with, but she manages to make this unwatchable. Visually, it has some good segments. Whilst it does cover othet topics, I've always been baffled by people's desire to keep animals as pets just for their enjoyment.
There are some legitimately great revelations within this film. And as a big fan of the essay genre, there are plenty of moments that shine for me. However I must admit that I got tired of the same rain drop filter being applied to nearly half of the film.
Salvam-se a sequência do Hospital, sobre os queimados — a queda na piscina (ainda me apanho a tentar perceber como raio ela falhou a água) e o cache-cache da memória —, bem como o episódio do lago gelado e dos irmãozinhos gêmeos que nele mergulham. E a música, claro, de Laurie Anderson.
O filme revala-se algo estéril — terminada a projecção, murmura-se, foi isto, onde está o filme?
The bait of contemporary cinema. Theme and mode confluent in an illustrative manner, with an obvious and imposing discourse, not in appearance but in its fluency, "poetic" beautification effect of a frustrate poeticity. The discursive cadence of Anderson elocution, that works very well in her music, as a conductive voice-over is only soporific. An accumulation of banal visual effects and discursive irrelevancies.
Laurie Anderson has found the sweet spot between incantatory soliloquy and hardheaded-if-playful philosophical essay film of the Chris Marker school. At times it made me wonder what it would be like if Chris Marker declared cinema war (as act of love) on a Spalding Gray monologue. The form invokes a whirlpool, or perhaps the bardo, where the dead live for forty-nine days, even if they are dogs. Way spiritual.
FNC '15 'Every love story is a ghost story' Laurie Anderson gives us a meandering, melancholic but mesmerizing personal essay film examining grief and the notion of family while still providing thought on Tibetan teachings and living in a new world of surveillance with the loss of personal freedom after 9/11. Like in her performance and musical work her voice is a special instrument both lulling and hypnotic.
Imagine a collection of peoples' consciousnesses, like float tanks, that you could pick from, spend an hour in... That's what this was like. A place to drift, let yourself be comfortably enveloped. Someone else's dream, with scraps of poetry (“the purpose of death is the release of love”...) Not extraordinary, but calming, conducive to rest, maybe regeneration. Even if her dog makes mine look like an underachiever...