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We’re All Hotel Clerks
There are moments when I feel I am nothing but the small clerk of some hotel without a proprietor, who has all his work cut out to enter the names and hand the keys to the willful guests.–Katherine Mansfield
I came across this in Tracy Daugherty’s Joan Didion biography, The Last Love Song, which I’ve been reading thirstily and disdainfully. I don’t mind the anonymity the quote describes, but I’ve been flashing on it as I’ve been watching the day turn to night. Sun’s turning all kinds of neon bruises that’ll disappear with her grand exit, permakitten Grace and I are admiring from the kitchen window, and there’s this feeling–immense, bottomless–of all of us passing through each other without leaving a dent. What’s interesting is how completely I’ve come to accept this. It’s not sad, not really. It’s just the fourth dimension, slicing through our existential chatter.
A Very Literary NY Film Festival
It’s that time again. Along with the autumnal equinox, the Jewish New Year, and, this year, the East Coast visit of the Pope, the New York Film Festival is kicking off its fifty-third lineup with a signature mix of high-brow fare from around the world and mainstream entertainment. As always, a significant portion of the program promises to be literary-minded, so I’ve compiled a list of the adaptations that intrigue me most.
“Arabian Nights Volumes 1, 2, and 3”
Portuguese writer/director Miguel Gomes (and co-writer Mariana Ricardo) uses folk tales from the eponymous book to paint a portrait of Portugal’s current (and rather bleak) economic realities. At roughly 338 minutes, it is not for the faint of heart (The New York Times’s Manohla Dargis called it an “indulgence“) but the ever-maverick Gomes channels a rich, intellectually rigorous absurdism that suits the film’s sketch-within-a-sketch anthology format. Continue Reading →