September. Litia says Virgos, seemingly put-together types, all harbor a “secret mess.” I’ve been putting my foot in my mouth a lot, lately: me, of all people, the longtime straight-A student of affront. Shelley’s monster wants to “become linked to the chain of existence and events.” You can groan that again, brutha. At least if you’re possessed you’ve always got a friend. I’ve always been pretty shallow—it’s okay to say—but a devil in you, that’s depth, the kind that goes all the way down.
After the final shot the guy behind me turns to his buddy, “That was the worst movie I’ve ever seen.” But the movie is great, so what’s he trying to pull? Is he just seizing as the moment for blasphemy the only part of a movie God watches, when the credits roll and his handiwork crawls up the screen? What’s all the fuss of always trying to insist a movie is a collaborative effort? As far as I see, it’s that many more people trying to get between me and what I care about seeing: the camera’s lunge for a face that, as it perceives the approach, commences to tremble. Cindy Sherman knows. The possessed girl steals a camera, at one point—the conceit is that it’s a documentary—and through its p.o.v. crosses the yard and enters the barn to trap the family cat and with a few savage blows stub out its life.
She’s a bit high-strung. The exorcist was groomed, as a kid, to perform faith, to with showmanship frenzy the flock. But now he’s faced with the worst task: be what he says he is. A printout taped to the lobby door says they’re looking for a full-time manager for this place. Isn’t possession just shorthand for the fib of control? And do they really expect us to think this place is managed? It’s so clearly dice-like, which is to say not managed but rolled.
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