Unfaithfully Yours (1948)

           ALFRED
Poor baby.
           DAPHNE
Why?
           ALFRED
'Cause you know that I know. You can feel
it. It's made you all small and ashamed and
unhappy. As if we could control our love--
lead it by the hand like an obedient child
and order it to do our bidding.
           DAPHNE
I don't know what you're talking about.
           ALFRED
Yes, you know what I'm talking about 'cause
love took you by the hand and led you,
albeit slyly and reluctantly, into the presence
of this beautiful young man and said,
"See little Daphne what I have intended for
you. Gaze upon your destiny. See how gently
the tendrils of his luscious hair curl behind
his ears. See how respectfully he lowers his
silken lashes when addressing you. But notice
the spark that leaps from his skin to yours
when accidentally your hands meet."
           DAPHNE
Oh no. No.
           ALFRED
I don't blame you darling. You didn't want to.
I'm the one to blame. Entirely and alone. I'm
deeply ashamed Daphne for what I've done to you.
           DAPHNE
You? Ashamed? I'm the one...
           ALFRED
No darling. The one who knows the most carries
the responsibility.  He and he alone must judge
the chances of success... or failure. A union
between a man of the world--a seasoned traveler
--and a child from Porthole, Michigan, I suppose
was doomed from the start.
           DAPHNE
(Sobbing)
Porthaul.
           ALFRED
I'll never remember it.  A baby with bows in
her hair, that wonderful night. Pity we
couldn't keep it up. Oh don't cry my darling.
I couldn't understand music as well as I do
if I didn't understand the human heart a
little.  Neither of you has done anything
wrong. Youth belongs to youth, beauty to
beauty.

The pen of Preston Sturges, the voice of Rex Harrison, the lens of Victor Milner, the music of Richard--not Strauss but Wagner, the taste of honeyed ham lingers on the tongue 'til eyes water.

Wages of Fear (1953)

1950s nitroglycerin ravages South American forest in a moment of imperialistic terror on which angry petroholic pleasures rest--Angelenos shout, 'More blood for oil! More blood for oil!"--tracable back to post-Ottoman betrayal, Lawrence of Arabia, nineteenth century penetration of inscrutable Kafirs, The Man Who Would Be King, sixteenth century El Dorado driven madness, Aguirre, the Wrath of God.

Trucklust permits no escape from the misogyny of male bonding--whether mythopoetic Iron Johns, hyperretropuritan Promise Keepers, or late '90s Vegas partiers, Swingers to Very Bad Things. Don't hesitate to kick a pleading woman in the mud for a chance to hand roll French tobacco with your mec in the cab.

What time is it there?

My blog has moved to Life on Film.

Blog has moved

Fotsch on Film has moved to pmfilm.blogspot.com

Lovely and Amazing (2001)

From campus, I can see the fire, bright orange edge zig-zagging down mountain, pink pork belly smoke mud western sky.

Last week I joined the Y and took my first Yoga class. The instructor tells us Yoga can be an emotional experience. It can make you angry, sad, frustrated as body pinches resistance to imaginary self. Fall over if you fall over, let it fall, but always breathe, breathe deep breaths. If you do this, the toxins will be released.

Close-Up (1990)

On the day of atonement, when performing supplication, make it understood to be real. Perhaps the receiver will collect the authenticity of acting. But will the justice of potted flowers wash innocence of guilt, guilt of innocence? Doesn't the burden of forgiveness weigh heavier on the beggar shamed by the tainted joy of belief than the comfortable troubled by the falseness of true praise?

What time is it there? / 你那邊幾點 /Et là-bas, quelle heure est-il?

If I had the time I would write a book on this film.

But let me begin here:

This is a silent comedy. It is Buster Keaton breaking his neck in the water spout sequence of Sherlock Jr. It is Harold Lloyd hanging from the tower clock with right missing thumb and forefinger hidden by glove in Safety Last. It is Chaplin confounded by conveyor belt in Modern Times. And most of all it is the final scene from City Lights: the mockery of shopping for connection in a place of unrelenting pain.