The Scenic Route

The Scenic Route

Perhaps this is just me, but the austerity of the film’s sensual faculties have a heightened eroticism, the often estranged affects of the dramaturgy being very literally articulated through certain in-motion tableaux, in addition to the determination Rappaport has strained when constructing a film dominately compromised of aimless gazes. It’s that very lack of directionality in the harpooned stares which is at the crux of the film’s paradox: Operatic emotionality as represented by the sterility of an image, the technical moving image in juxtaposition to a mythos. The iconography is the funniest element here, mostly due to its arbitrary and vacant  presence, everything evoked for the sake of itself as representation, rather than how it usually goes, you know, that causal expediency of normative narrativity and its lie of the familiar. The lie, here, is proudly confronting us in the very first frame, and from then on its all extrapolation and pontification, which is why this works so well and is also so sexy: bullshit that smears itself in the stink as performance. Truth is not in the image, but the apparatus!