“Don’t hope for a miracle. Make one.” And if one knew what the Good was, one would do it. But even the angels don’t know the plan—only that it perfectly exists.
We know there are no angels. But imagine a film that is not, as we expect, merely the sum of the best take of every scene—the others discarded on the cutting-room floor or its digital equivalent—but instead compiled from scenes for which every other possible scene that might have been was shot. If you knew yourself to be watching such a film its aura of inevitability would crush you in your seat. Or better yet, pop you open like a kernel of corn in the hot kettle: inside-out flower, frozen in full bloom, whose petals were always already there.
We all know more than we ever thought we would about pharmacology. So that when Encino Man and Felicity and Han Solo in his old-man jeans stand around discussing enzyme action and glycogen uptake the shit is exciting. We hope the biotech firm’s start-up capital materializes. We hope the office park does not appear too much, from above, like a body, pumping blood and dripping hormone and rising up, each improbable morning, to live another weird day as charged meat. Upright, flexible flesh draped upon its armature, stamped—for purposes of identification—with a face.
Thanks, C&C, for the whiskey. And thanks, Patrick Bachau, for playing the CEO; Rohmer is dead, with his love of office park and suburban zone alike, with his pity for our, no, his delight in our sun-drenched, sun-stunned filling the long spaces between anything ordained actually occurring, vast howling spaces we may unsupervised smoke, chat, flirt, sip, and snack away.
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