воскресенье, 28 октября 2007 г.

Blood on CCTV





These grisly ignorance, the fear that you, the blood
bibbernden lumps freeze. The brain gymnastics in all
directions, looking for tiny shreds least one reference point.
But where it also moves, it slips and slides back into the
zähklebrigen swamp complete helplessness. Nothing offers. The
house, from a side street. Gusseisern fenced. A freudloser
rhododendron bush in front of it. Cars park, passersby stroll
on the pavement. Anytime someone leaves the house. The view
remains unmoved. A door slams. Silence. Actually, completely
harmless. But who has the look ever thrown? And why send anyone
on the video tape preserved views, without regard to the final
races, and carries him into apparent children's drawings with
black contours and Blutgeschmier? Again and again the house
entrance. Thoughts turn in a circle, tumble in the boundless
space, finding no reason. One sees: Georges, as he breaks to
work, his son Pierrot in the Heimkunft. Otherwise nothing. But
why?



And then this Flüsteranrufe from somewhere. Without naming
them. Paranoia writhes the stomach every time, if Georges and
Anne Laurent rätselnd front of the giant screen of their
television amid their bücherüberpfropften cold living room,
fast forward, rewind, searching for the hidden clues. Georges
knows all the big, and considers himself a place for such.
Finally, he moderated the most successful literary Talk round
on television. But there is no dark spots, perhaps somewhere in
the past? And it could harm someone? Suddenly, not just the
doorstep passage. Georges birthplace, an unknown street, a
rooster with abgehacktem head. Oppressive reflection images.
The noose lies close to entangle themselves deeper and deeper
Georges and Anne, always panischer is the fear of persecution,
no one shall exercise physical violence, but the feeling to be
observed without knowing by whom, the next step suspect to be
paralyzed everything. And the videos draw districts.
Blutbeschmierte postcards landed in the school of Pierrot. And
again and again at family Laurent himself



Very slowly lurch long ignored reminder shreds back in Georges
selbstgefälliges memory. A durchtbarer suspected manifests
itself. He stumbles over his own narrow-mindedness and self
justice. Will trust and honesty, but he tries, even his closest
confidants to deceive, contains important to them prior to his
past will not make it. He suspected and convicted, even though
the evidence hardly tangible than soap bubbles. Fragmented
trust what Anne, as the only wise and sensitive acting family
mother, desperate. It runs with husband and son against
mistrust, bornierte and verhärmte emotional walls.



Caché, the new film by Michael Haneken
zerknabbert the nervous costume, is a genialisch-herber
boulders and even recently won the directing prize at the
Cannes Film Festival. It blurs the boundaries between filmed
reality, gefilmtem movie filmed in the reality and gefilmtem TV
filmed in the real world. An incredibly thrilling and
disturbing film about guilt and atonement, lies and
concealment, he turned. With a fine sense of nuanced character
traits and relationships with psychological acumen and unusual
means he stokes the fears of persecution, which is spread when
one realizes that followed and monitored - without knowing by
whom. He defines the wrong tracks, hidden, twisted, confused.
Spammers. Also, the audience will lied, it will be deprived of
important evidence, so he was in the same situation as the
movie characters. Nothing is clear, but we must somehow his
vision of the world so zusammenzuimmern. Very slowly lift the
veil, little really happened and it is almost like Jackson
Pollock, blood everywhere. Then something happens. But who is
at the end of guilt, who is the real perpetrator and the victim
who? And who has all really started? A grisly good film.

Not very crisp


"Since you have the salad."

"I wanted but did not."



He curls the forehead to a confused Faltenknäuel.



"Salad is healthy. Nahrhaft, refreshing, fiber. "



Funkelndes toothpaste smile.



"Ballast. Since sagste was. Such salad, I wanted not. And do
not tell me that the salad here healthy. The tugs and ziept to
nerves. "



It grummelt.



"You are also demanding."



The tone is patziger.



"I had a funny idea got me pretty, red threads meditative,
verschmitzte punch set ..."



He sighs, stemmt the elbow on the table and the fists in the
aufgeplusterten baking.



"So rather cables?"

"Actually, no salad, but I like to be someone grad meat salad
verwursten would."

"Too salad verwursten without sausage?"

"Come to me not even stupid!"



A sonnenfinsterer view hisses at him.



"What's wrong?"

"As I said, I had a great text almost done. Wasweißich how
long I sat there. And shortly before the Road Chicken on the
"back" button, and everything came off. Since I have the salad,
all right. But that's for nobody well, robs me nervous and
vitamins, speeds up the heart rate, increased blood pressure. "




Schulterzucken.



Word schreiben und dann rüberkopieren." "I
say 'yet: Texts always write in Word and
then rüberkopieren."

"When you say that? So far, you did not have said. "

"Is nonetheless."

"And now help is still not on. Wise sayings bring me the text
does not. "

"But you still have it in your head?"

"Yes, but no time everything down twice-and especially not in
the mood, the horse again completely from scratch aufzuzäumen
where I can still almost completely fixed."

"Impatient and irascible?"

"It's looks then."



The view is mistaken half wistful, half angry through space
and fragmented on the woodchip wallpaper.



"Well, sometimes I have to go. Not there's dinner. "

"Strammen Max? So, with fried eggs of chickens unhappy,
because they will soon only be allowed outside after the
winter, where it will nix the pecking? "

"Snow chicken fried eggs?"

"For example."

"Nee. No Strammen Max, in any case? "

"But?"

"... Bread and butter bread ... ... salad."

Warning Levels!


"Working on a good prose has three levels: a musical on which
they composed an architectural, on which they built a textile
finally upon which it is woven."



(Walter Benjamin)