mounting spontaneity or (dumb luck)
It's not fair.
I love Raymond Carver, long takes, theatre, Batman, NYC rooftops and alleyways, the blending layers of self-referential fiction, delirious fantasy, the creative process, the insane logistics of run-on cinematography, the seamless assembly of shifting environments, stepping into unresolved mental spaces, demonstrations of solitary madness and the unbearable anticipation of being, being judged, being booed, un-being, unhinging, delusional uppers, existential downers, magic surrealism, telekinetic fury, dreams of flying, throwing tantrums, the fragile yet invincible ego, immaculately constructed chaos, the recurring climax of ending it all -- where the blazes is that blasted improvisational drumming coming from? -- oh there, and there, so absurd, don't stop, the shot must go on, the show must go on, "You are not important, get used to it," she said, but so much angst overwhelms him, tethered to a feathered fantasy, a nagging reminder of what once was, or could have been, refusing to believe it's too late to soar to former heights, yet grounded by time and gravity, trapped in a narrative, caged in a fabrication, "You're an actress, honey," says another, "you have no self-respect" and all actors are game, Keaton and Stone zoned-in, knowing the pain, pretending to not care or pretending to matter, failing to be authentic, acting over acting, meta-acting meta-fiction meta-filmed with a meta-critical message: yeah, we're all messed-up and meta-fµcked, but after shooting your nose to spite the ruse, by unmasking the unexpected virtue of ignorance, peeling off layers of pretense and self-importance, you just might find a momentary strain of pure, uncomplicated innocence.
It's not fair. I love this sh*t!