methrowrock: (My Neighbour Totoro)
[personal profile] methrowrock

It has been nearly a week, and I have nothing much to say. That is one drawback of growing overly reliant on something. Instead of breathing through the nose, you find that you can draw in so much more air with the mouth. Vast drafts travel through the internal passageways, tickling the slimy walls and combing through the fan-shaped bronchi. Then, you suck in and choke on a fly buzzing nearby. You hack, you wheeze, yet somehow, the sensation of a scratchy, foreign object clogging up the airways persists. You seal your lips tight from then on, but always, you remember the days when breathing was unencumbered and when you could do it with a grin. I fear the day when words cannot sustain me, or rather, I can no longer sustain words. Time to start reading again!

Or watch movies. I watched The Artist with the Pingeon on Wednesday afternoon, and it was beautiful. Elegant. Vintage. One-word sentences seem to encapsulate the essence of it best, because that is how exquisite it was. Sure, there were grand flourishes and dramatic cymbals, but there were little touches that were highlighted due to the lack of dialogue. Apparently, it was a homage to silent films, but I don't know much about the latter to appreciate the parallels. The only silent film I've watched before was 大路 (1934), which was uh, more nationalistic and situated in an entirely different environment. Going into the theatre, I harboured some apprehension about being bored or dozing off, but nope, it was two full hours of being enthralled. The recreation of glamorous Hollywood in the 1930s was seamless and entirely dissimilar to what we are accustomed today. The artistic inflections behind the theatrical expressions, the grainy luminescence that accompanies a world in grey-scale. It makes one gasp in wonderment and twitch with longing for a first-hand experience. They sure don't make it like that anymore. It was a common plot: the dimming of a superstar that is matched with the first flaring of a supernova. Success, hubris, failure, redemption. But it was filmed lovingly, humorously, and with a gorgeous orchestral soundtrack to boot. What's not to love? Patriarchy in the film industry strikes again!- reinforcement of the male gaze, because everything needs to be seen from the man's perspective. Peppy Miller is reduced to being a prop?, to compare his success/failure to, to compare his happiness/sadness to, to compare his pomposity/likeability to. But thankfully, there was more to love.

There were quite a few scenes interspersed in between that I really loved. Peppy putting her arm into the coat-arm of George Valentin and pretending that it really his arm. How delightful, how adorable! The tapdance-off between the two, veiled by the screen. The scene where George poured alcohol on the table, producing a reflection that the camera swiveled upon = interesting angle. George's head hovering above the shopfront display of a tuxedo, that was pure genius and heartbreaking. And the utmost favourite: the scene of George and Peppy standing on the stairs, with Peppy talking away giddily and George simply staring at her. I always found the moments of characters falling in love with another to be the pinnacle of sweetness. There was Peppy, chattering away charmingly, unaware of the influence that she was wielding upon him. And there was George, unable to tear his eyes away, preferring to burn the image of her,- curls close to the head and beaming peepers- into his retinas. It did not matter what she was saying; it mattered that she was saying it to him. He probably did not register the content of her comments; instead, her voice poured over him like warm honey, her trills of laughter as crisp as breakfast waffles, and her smile is the sunlight that sets the world into motion. That is the beautiful part: the dawning realization of teh emotionz, the bleary beginning, the stirring awake. It was captured so gracefully. How nice it must be to feel that about someone. Hmm.

The rest of the week hasn't been too shoddy. Hanging out with Imba on New Year's Day = making fun of Mr ** as always. Teo Heng with NUSWS on Monday, wuhahaha~ Forcing people to sing, forcing people to listen, forcing people to watch, all in good fun right? Hehe. Tuesday was buy-farewell-present (=forever winterwear), which involved ripping off Gwilys imaginary nametag Running Man style haha. Then, sending Jelly off with FT and Bara. D'awww. Wednesday was the movie and TH training. That night was when I started on SHERLOCK. Oh my goodness, it was absolutely brilliant. The cinematography, the writing, the pacing: top-notch. Add an impatient, diva-esque genius with a scarred, complex military man, and you get CHEMISTRY. It is so fun to watch their banter and hijinks. The visual details that appear with Sherlock's deductive rambles are spot-on too. He slams a brick-wall of ten thousand words inyerface, but how can one complain when it is so perfectly executed? The very next day, a gripe-fest with Jia about episode 2, which exoticised Chinese culture for no apparent reason. -_- Then Friday, a spazz-fest about Episode 3, which took us through dozens of hairpin plot-turns. We take our television very seriously, HAHA. But yes, I love finding a good new show with solid characters and sexciting storylines. Finally today, picnic with NUSWS at Marina Barrage! Gahh, it was fun, getting excited and laughing at the smallest of things. Talking about nothing. It was nice to just hang out. 3 picnic mats, 11 people splayed over laps and leaning on each other in a loosely connected circle, tens of LED-lined kites flashing loudly as they zoomed around in kamikaze patterns, hundreds of lights dotting the buildings in the distance, thousands of unseen stars twinkling as they had been for millions of years. I don't think I will forget that image soon: of sprawled limbs, rippling hair, and jet-black sky.
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