tied to a chair watching the gorbachev pizza hut commercial frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog
This review may contain spoilers. I can handle the truth.
all the whimsy i've grown to love and expect from rivette, and the fervor i love from brontë, is nowhere to be found. the characters as presented by rivette are not just unlikable, they are wholly unremarkable, passionless, and empty, just like the film itself.
this week, i sped through emily brontë's 'wuthering heights' in two evenings, devouring the brooding passion right off the pages, hungry for more and more without ever losing steam. i felt what the baneful lovers…
a tale of a fetishized existence as an idealized feminine object of perceived innocence, otherized and rendered a non-person: a doll. seen, but ultimately not heard. the tender hands of a repressed bourgeois creep versus the madonna-whore complex of a brutish prole.
territorial lust intercepts gaiety, the curtains are drawn, and a georges bataille quote comes to mind: beauty is desired in order that it may be befouled; not for its own sake, but for the joy brought by the certainty of profaning it.