its like walking into a byzantine gallery of mosaics. the frame is a box in which these tableaux are arranged in full frontal mode. the narrative is obscure and replaced by allegory and metaphor. each frame is like a joseph cornell installation with carefully arranged parts like miniature machines swaying like pendulums. i cant say i understood the film but watching it was like trying to piece together a story by being offered exquisitely crafted fragments.
there is a strange book that i am reading about the relationship of architecture with life. in it ‘architecture’ or the restricting frame is contrasted with the mutability of life. the museum becomes then for me the place where architecture actually perfects its hold over life. in the film the architectonic frame collapses only when the poet finally dies and suddenly new horizons appear; spaces are revealed behind the otherwise stage like setting, and then there are spaces below and above as we hover above the poet as he falls to his death in a field of candles or watch from below as the angel child hangs from the center of a dome.
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