I keep revisiting his work thinking I will eventually become a fan, as he is one of universally accepted masters of moving image; but I always leave disappointed and cold. Something about his work I just don't connect with; I don't think his films are bad, but I can never find myself enjoying or liking his form.
Portrait of an intimate space that the wonders of visual editing and the intelligent use of silence and music, transports (as a transfer) what could be a personal ambit to an individual cosmogony of the world, in a world. In little time, a film that shows the beauty of a look, when it exists: overlaps that induce a transforming plasticity, a chant that inhabits, as if a dream was dreaming us.
Ming Green plays like a compressed intro to W. Schroeter’s igneous Der Rosenkönig - two camera-poems rippling with sanguine reds, fleur-de-chair roses and operatic vocals. A breeze from the still (but inscribed with traces of past presences akin to a vibrating palimpsest) room in J.C. Rousseau’s Les Antiquités de Rome drifts in through the swollen curtain and coils as an auburn cat below the upturned, red and clawed