The Great Man's Influence

[John Bailey]

All very well put, Paul. I personally don't think that there could be a 
Pynchonian film in many ways, as the quality of his books is inseparable 
from the literariness. But there can be films which raise similar issues, as 
you point out re: paranoia, or films which evoke similiar stylistic devices, 
ie anything with some hallucinogenic sequence (which is simply how a lot of 
people seem to regard Pynchon's books), or films with similar political 
concerns (please let's not start). But all of these things are endlessly 
debatable, and though I can debate films till my keyboard is smeared with 
the blood of ten eroded digits I've managed to get by a long time here 
without receiving a personal insult (well I did, long ago, but I think it 
was a case of mistaken identity).

Tarkovsky - too even a tone, in my opinion. Not the polyphony of voices you 
find in P. That said, some of the sequences in Stalker...woah. The room with 
the sanddunes and the tunnel preceding stand as some of the most incredible 
instances of pure filmic pleasure I have ever experienced. Altman, yeah, you 
make some good points regarding his reworking of history, and McCabe is an 
amazing film, but I think he lacks some empathy, and is a bit too caustic 
(I'm thinking of Nashville, here, mostly, but also 3 Women, Streamers, The 
Player, Pret-a-Porter). Same goes for Kubrick - they're both a little 
misanthropic. Oh yeah, people wuz talking about the word for hating men 
recently, it's misandrony, I just didn't want to get involved.



Yes, his face really is so terrible
you cannot turn away. And only
that thin sheet of glass between you,
clouding with his breath.
Behind him: the dark scribbles of trees
in the orchard, where you walked alone
just an hour ago, after the storm had passed,
watching water drip from the gnarled branches,
stepping carefully over the sodden fruit.
At any moment he could put his fist
right through that window. And on your side:
you could grab hold of this
letter opener, or even now try
very slowly to slide the revolver
out of the drawer of the desk in front of you.
But none of this will happen. And not because
you feel sorry for him, or detect
in his scarred face some helplessness
that shows in your own as compassion.
You will never know what he wanted,
what he might have done, since
this thing, of its own accord, turns away.
And because yours is a life in which
such a monster cannot figure for long,
you compose yourself, and return
to your letter about the storm, how it bent
the apple trees so low they dragged
on the ground, ruining the harvest.

Lawrence Raab, "Sudden Appearance of a Monster at a Window"

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