The Odyssey. The story by means of which a hundred and more generations have contemplated the status of the gifted fraud. The sea and land vie on, to offer what each insists is the superior perspective on the stars. Heaven being that space between Clooney’s nose and upper lip. The monkey part of the face, the hot grill of the volatile ape. Hence the enormous, white handlebar moustache of Sam Elliott, who appears here, as in The Morgans, as the still center, that same laconic boundaryman who, it should be remembered, tells Lebowski’s tale. His key gesture in each role is to surprise even himself when he speaks.
The other night, from the idling car, I saw two young women leaning against a storefront window, one of whom had no head. Obviously it was a trick of the light or angle—people have heads—so I looked again. But gazing at the discarded mannequins I repented that too-ready disbelief in my own eyes. Does one step out the front door each day to be surprised by seeing or by knowing? It’s kind of important to decide.
Films that start in the clouds—like this one, like Triumph of the Will. Wanderer, frequent flyer, it was on some other island, and only there, that you were designated wield, that you were called caress. Maker’s Mark, rocks, Chris and Cecily tell us the Aztecs permanently downsized 20,000 of their number per year. Is the cherished formulation that holds the movie theater a communal temple at all correct? Full Friday-night audience, I turn my gaze and speculate about the identity of the word poised on each upturned face’s pair of slightly parted lips. The word the stoic executioner fishes from the mouth of your severed head.
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