Read e-book The Fassbinder Diaries

Читать онлайн «The Fassbinder Diaries»

Contents:

Recent Comments

5 days ago [The Fassbinder Diaries] is an experience more immediate and thrilling than one expects in such a small place, and lingers thereafter like a. The Fassbinder Diaries [James Pate] on www.farmersmarketmusic.com *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. The gauze of James Pate's nightmare, critical & cinematic beauty.

One of the best books of poetry I've read this year. Jul 17, Ipsith added it Shelves: There are many processes and perspectives turned on and left running all at once. The book begins with the description of some cryptic film populated by glass shards and mangled bodies; then suddenly we are watching others watch a Pasolini film before they go to bed; then, just as quickly, we are in the memory of another movie, full of elderly nuns and a masturbating boy, a Nazi flag hidden in a drawer.

The book is full of cryptic rumors, half-remembered visions, and everyday images tied into the absurd, like an elevator on a beach releasing pink mist. This world, however, clearly touches the human one: Page by page the book continues to open and pile on itself, building as it goes a kind of catalog of cryptic films and sound, all of it laced together by the body of the book and coming open in odd places, with sudden images from nowhere like: By the end, it is an experience more immediate and thrilling than one expects in such a small place, and lingers thereafter like a video you flipped to late one night on some shitty TV in a strange house and felt infatuated with or hypnotized by and never saw again.

Aug 26, Stephan rated it it was amazing. Highly memorable, with staticky language and gray-toned scenelets reminiscent of provocative foreign art films. Jul 10, Daniel Rounds rated it it was amazing. Best poetry book released Daniel rated it it was amazing May 01, Andrew rated it it was amazing Nov 30, So we became friends.

We watched movies until we fell asleep. I love the way James talks about art: But he has a similar attitude towards less obviously pornographic books, for example some mystic from the middle ages or Foucault. There are twelve stories about Fatty Arbuckle, and this might be the final one.

We know how he spent wasted, drank through, destroyed loved ones, burnt beds, to be seen in nickelodeons nodding off on junk and gorging pig-like on duck and busting heads and breaking hearts his final decades. Because of the underground nature of his later years basements and brothels and dank laboratories and warehouses and seashells we can only hope certain makeshift records napkin poems, restroom wall sketches, carvings in trunks, nails through voodoo dolls, digits sent to ex-lovers, whispers floating back off ocean breeze, legends from El Salvador, French myths, personally performed porno in blurred film stock, corpses in floor boards, postcards to cousins, a jam session on tape with Fatty on tenor appear from the rivers of far drums.

We wish ourselves luck.

The Fassbinder Diaries

Particularly because of this obscurity. In fact the two do no contradict each other but enhance each other: The Fassbinder Diaries are full of this. In fact the entire book starts out with:. The first scenes are silent. The footage is grainy, as if the world being shown has gone through a storm of broken glass shards. The entire factory or bedroom or meadow dripping light from its lips.

See a Problem?

Or maybe delicate drops of acid have eaten the scene. There are figures on the ground, silently squirming. We are watching them in the dark. It is a black-and-white dark. Outside, it is a black-and-white dark. Franz said bite me here, and Mieze bit him there, and Mieze said bite me here, and Franz bit her there. The carpet was pink. The lights were out. The wallpaper was yellow. In the movie the fierce nun spanks the demure student.

Where the fierce older nuns then tie a crown of thorns around her torso. The School of the Holy Beasts. A film I saw in Chicago, in a theater where I had snuck in Vietnamese sandwiches. I was twelve or twenty-two. In one dark room or a later one. The Japanese nun hiking through the French woods. The French boy jerking-off under a blossoming cherry tree. Having arrived at the age where a fine violet shade lingered in my head.

Where I imagined other shades in other heads. Nights heavy as damp sand and nights light as drifting sand.

Civil Coping Mechanisms

In Naples we played games. Or maybe delicate drops of acid have eaten the scene. The film critic argues with her mother while watching Klaus Kinski stride about in the rain, violet flashes of lightning in the mountains behind him. Christian Kiefer rated it it was amazing Feb 25, I was twelve and in the living room of an otherwise empty house. The seconds were already ahead of them, waiting with their guns pulled.

The taste of pork and cilantro in the silent and serious and ever alert theater. And the curtains remained closed. And the stand of the lamp remained orange and curved. And the chair containing myself continued to be crimson and heavily stuffed. And the wallpaper even in the dimness consisted of yellow flowers from which countless animals stared. Could it have ever been resolved retroactively?

So we went to Naples. It was fun and tiring and boring and scary and hot and noisy and occasionally windy and perpetually dusty. We temporarily had some money because of X, not much, but enough for two maybe three weeks. When the sun fell it kept falling. When night arrived it kept arriving. That was how things played out there. Or that was my thinking at the time. The men were scraps of wind with red dots inside. The women were noises emitted from a crisp red light.

So we grew hot and noisy and our heads turned windy, a breeze hazy with dust. There was a man begging by the train station. He looked like Jesus, had Jesus been fat. Dante stood in the middle of a piazza with trash at his feet and graffiti on the shops around him. We had coffee across the street, under the palm trees. One of us wondered how many people had been killed in Pompeii. None of us knew the answer. It was fun and boring and tiring and scary, like red lights, and then purple lights.