It's via the quill of coincidence that this letter trundles from my mind to the page and subsequently your senses, for I have indeed recently experienced the film of which you write. And, indeed, the circumstances surrounding the viewing were of an unusual variety. Allow me now to recount the happening that happened to happen to me only last weekend.
Following my exercises in post-colonial pretension in the South Americas, I returned to the mansion on the heath, much depleted of sustenance and holding a bowel-load of the finest of Amazonian cuisine. A hasty sprint to the lavatory later, and I was unpacking the various crates of belongings I had lugged around that equatorial squalor. For the occasional tweed jacket I flung out, I had three or four linen pinafores browned by tropical grime, or three or four sweater vests half-digested by a bunch of dirty bastard moths!
Luckily the presents I had painstakingly picked off the shelves of the port gift-shop had remained uncorrupted by the travails of my lengthy journey. The house staff took these alms with much rejoice. How I enjoyed watching their little frowns transmute into grins when their master issued forth such vibrant altruism. Those Copacabana snow-globes will forever bring those maids and groundsmen into an orgiastic frenzy at the thought of the sincere generosity of he who gifted them such a luxury.
(Let me take this moment to detour slightly from the on-going regale to say that your import copy of Agharta sits on my mantel awaiting collection.)
It was a Saturday evening and I had spent the entire afternoon scrubbing the stains out of my khakis, so I was weary and tiresome. I informed the maid of my intention to retire to slumber for the night, then proceeded northwards to the master bedroom. Once there, I found the last of my woollen neckties spread upon the bed-sheeting. Obstructing my anticipated sleep, I moved to transfer them to the closet. When I angled myself down to the woollen confluence, and made the requisite motions to lift their selves, a massive moth exploded from the cavalcade of fabric; fabric that it had been making a meal out of. It orbited the room a few times before taxiing to a halt on the cranium of an ancient statuette I had pilfered from a monastery near the Peruvian border. The statuette was in the form of a simian, a naturalistic percept of our evolutionary cousins lovingly constructed with eyes set on detail. Alas, I purloined it due to its likeness to Ron Perlman.
Article comments
1 - Steve C.
I always knew cinema was a lifeblood of sorts, but I never expected it literally.
Awesome stuff, as always. I'm never quite sure what to make of Godard, but rarely are his films not worth a look at least.
2 - Aaron Fleming
I agree Steve, Godard's films are always at least somewhat interesting, even though some are much better than others; just compare Alphaville with The Riflemen.
And thanks!
3 - Mat Brewster
Should I comment on the cinematic hoo hah or the Fleming moth? Too hard to chooose, so I'll just say I this very noon picked up a copy of Alphaville and look forward to its cinematic graces.
Brillians stuff gents, absolutely brilliant.
4 - Aaron Fleming
Alphaville is genius Mat, you'll love it!
5 - -E
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