EXT. — STAIRS AT HOLLYWOOD “MAX” STATION — NIGHT
OUR HERO, INTREPID FILM-GOER, HAS JUST LEFT A SEVEN O’CLOCK SCREENING OF JIM JARMUSCH’S LATEST, THE LIMITS OF CONTROL. HE HAS LOST TRACK OF TIME WITHIN THE FILM — WHICH WAS PARTLY THE POINT — AND NEVER WEARS A WATCH.
IN SHORT: HE TRULY DOES NOT KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS.
(darting up the stairs, spitting out the following as soon as
he comes abreast of the first person he sees:)
Hey, do you know what time it is?
(it’s time to slow down, now, apparently . . . )
You . . . you, uh . . .
(stopping altogether, to stare at accoster, and wait . . .)
. . .
. . . you don’t know what time it is?
(cold as ice)
Oh . . . okay . . .
(of running for that “wanderer,” as of now . . .)
BEHIND THE SCENES: Curiously, as much as I was appreciative as a “pure cinema” endeavor (as I quickly — if not very specifically — categorized the movie to myself, soon after it began), I found myself having a hard time paying attention.
As much as I was treated to a veritable cornucopia of sound, image, texture, and travel through interesting places — something that, at age 37, I can now appreciate when it’s truly being rendered with a point to it, rather than just meandering out of the filmmaker’s “good intentions” — I found myself unable to pay much attention, due, perhaps, to some concerns or other hanging over my head.
Or maybe: it was due to having a constantly and gratuitously taxed psyche, which makes it no wonder why filmmakers like this — and the community that supports them — has to struggle to exist, while the purveyors of “pop-up ads” have this curious inability to even bother with the problems that seem to perturb those of us who still have to fly “coach” (y’know: like finding time to do interesting shit; marshalling the proper morale and interest; finding like-minded souls without lecturing them, or, being stuck with people who are all to happy to “throw themselves” into your life, since they have no place else to go . . . )
But, then again: maybe that’s just me.
Or: . . . not?