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Emptiness, and metal and stone, infused with dusty, fragile, ancient faces, shielding the flow of blood that so ceaselessly moves forward, ever so forward, so backward, so forward; and the streets continue and twist, and the blood becomes a grid, and the grid expands; and with these faces come homes, and far away from these homes comes partially obstructed news, news of emptiness, infused with dusty, fragile, novel life.
[captured NYC with such mystical, melancholic audiovisual poetry; touched me deeply with the words of her mothers letters, obstructed by the noises of the city, while the imagery transported me to the place in which Chantel left her family to create --
and it fully transports you because the city is nothing resembling a backdrop; rather, New York City IS the film, the protagonist, the focus, with the peripheral focuses being Chantal's bittersweet relationship with the City and her poignant communication (or lack thereof) with her mother's words; an extraordinary work of experimental feature filmmaking, and one of the most moving films I've seen in quite some time]