My current half-baked theory of Stuff is that art that seeks to be of the world is far more interesting than art that attempts to run counter to or outside of it. In the works of Farley and Roxburgh I am finding a singularly pure justification for this theory. Each film is as necessarily sincere an ode to people, art and places as one can expect to find in cinema. Built out of nothing but the beautiful drive to make…
Obviously transporting, made me think about trees, poetry in sounds, textures etc etc etc. Also struck me in the moment as possibly minor in the filmography - if nothing else its Weerasethakul's clearest variation on themes, and there's a palpable bitterness to the film's uncharacteristically direct central metaphor that is an interesting wrinkle, but which I somehow felt to be vaguely cheapening for an artist this delicate. Then I took a walk while listening to this banger and it dawned on me that all is nothing, criticism is subterfuge, and this is the best movie ever.