As Labradford’s careless melodies spread through the night, fevers such as awe and awe fill us with words that the thick piece of cloth wrapped around the microphone before distortion and vocalization became widespread, steaming, mechanizing. That is to say: if the so-called documentary form should serve as a modest tool on its own, not as a category, but as a means for us to feel the pain we do not experience, it must see, it has taken its hand from Tarkovsky, Tarr, and Kiarostami, and it has clearly shown this without pretending to tell it with an original stillness, and an honest film is spreading to the eyes. Are we sure we’re watching the movie with both eyes at the same time? Isn’t it unfortunate to think that we should use both eyes when a pile of pictures is falling on us through a single lens. Perhaps as primitive beings who have not attained the elasticity to which two eyes can move independently of each other, we swallow our indiscretions, which will drown the films in more meaning than necessary, as intellectual accumulation. Please, let’s lie down and look at the screen. From one evening to another, from one exile to one exile, we watch as the hand of a man who returns to bury his dead does not go away. With the great skill of ignoring our own mourning and our dead and our burnt human bodies, we begin to learn, again and again, how to mourn, how to lift the dead.
Labradford dinleyin, sızınız azalırsa. ✪
