The chronic, indeed. Lady two rows back, loudly, to her date: “This feels more 3-D than Avatar.” Who wants to have depth, or be smart? I just want to feel what I feel. But where? The place-where-feeling-contends must be, as one by now expects, a world-within-this-one. Going from this land into that. In a way that 2001 didn’t, 2011 seems a frontier, a moment-truly-unto-eternal-return, with all the ambiguity that implies. Amor fati. Buy gold.
Sailing around, being tempted, manifesting one’s own deepest fears, it just gets better every time. The girl wants to be wanted; the boy calls forth from his mindscape a sea serpent/vagina dentata whose coils aptly depict the extra-moral turning-upon-oneself that makes the presence of a villain superfluous here. Aslan paws his litterbox-isle and roars the turmoil aright, then leads the kids and the rat-who-won’t-shut-up to the ceaselessly-cresting wave whose bitchin’ curl marks the border of his country, the world-within-the-world-within-this-one. “In your world I have another name,” he purrs. I tried to work it out—Arty Morty?
Writer Lewis is also known for making Satan bad again, director Apted for filming cute kids with funny accents growing up into the nightmare of adulthood. Ideology’s both a bolt from the blue and a long, painful slog. The Law isn’t all bad but it’s sad to see, in the deserted traffic circle, a lone car hit his turn signal out of pure habit. Midnight, winter solstice, full moon on the verge of a rare eclipse, I piss, brush, and plug in my cheap-shit, depleted phone.