Films call up memories, and they also shape them, give them a lattice to grow on; viewing and memory, like lattice and vine, are interwoven. Everyone has a secret life in the movies.
I love that — the thing that is so intense and painful that you have to live a life glancing sidelong at it, and are surprised when you are, once again, somehow, in the midst of it, wondering how it is that you led yourself there.
Detropia registers a mood of attenuated uncertainty, the precarious present understood not as a single melodramatic catastrophe but as “a thick moment of ongoingness.”
What happened on Friday was not a regime officer tossing copies of Marx one by one into a bonfire in a public square, but it was nonetheless a book burning, an attempt to intimidate a movement or stifle an ideology by destroying its literature.