rearranging the pictures to proper position then film starts going...broken pictures
body parts mixrf
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Thursday, January 17, 2008
..oh, and the assignment
Woman with a movie camera; edit a narrative from 30 minutes of
spontaneous, unscripted POV footage shot in places you’ve never been
before, with people you don't know. While on location focus on
lighting and composition, and while editing pay attention to pacing
and structure.
spontaneous, unscripted POV footage shot in places you’ve never been
before, with people you don't know. While on location focus on
lighting and composition, and while editing pay attention to pacing
and structure.
gwag!
-someone going around with a polaroid…only by snapping pictures of themselves can you see what they are feeling
-doesn’t make sense, different people
manipulating time…b/c stacked on top of each other, collision of edits, time and space doesn’t necessarily have to make sense…play with this
Soviet Montage:
based on conflicts of scale, volume, rhythm, motion (speed, as well as direction of movement within the frame), as well as more conceptual values such as class.
-each portion leads to a certain emotion, when that emotion is reached – or on the breach of being reached scene changes
places I’ve never been….love, complete vulnerability, the moon, the bottom of the ocean, things I’ve never fit into…uniformity, fitting in, all of my insecurities
big hand vs smaller man’s hand…tough calluses, growing out of position…on ground, the step, then table till I’m a giant
a film, a trailer, for something that will never happen, in places I’ve never been
turning down staircases, as round the corner on different staircases (one by 20th apartment)…walk up and away
Trailers:
Misleading?? – bad ones maybe → if tell the whole story definitely bad
Want to make people see it – different psychology there and methodology of working
Moments that never happen
Looking at a film, analyzing it, and reinterpreting it
Title sequence often better than the film itself
Like a poem or haiku of the film
Intro to great novel kind of
Opportunity to make the film of your dreams, just make the trailer for it
Typography
-about visual language
-william tell apple poster – the text actually is encoded with the meaning
-trailer: a film within a film
themes into symbolic forms
introduction, throwing audience into general world of the film
Bond films – intro with circles, bullets, and women →power of intro
Barbarella intro w/ jane fonda – zero gravity strip tease
-words are adolescent in behavior – the words can have personality
working with or against the music
---ringing of a bell, rippling water reverbing out, drop, as hits bell hits letters form
-the typographic voice
-doesn’t make sense, different people
manipulating time…b/c stacked on top of each other, collision of edits, time and space doesn’t necessarily have to make sense…play with this
Soviet Montage:
based on conflicts of scale, volume, rhythm, motion (speed, as well as direction of movement within the frame), as well as more conceptual values such as class.
-each portion leads to a certain emotion, when that emotion is reached – or on the breach of being reached scene changes
places I’ve never been….love, complete vulnerability, the moon, the bottom of the ocean, things I’ve never fit into…uniformity, fitting in, all of my insecurities
big hand vs smaller man’s hand…tough calluses, growing out of position…on ground, the step, then table till I’m a giant
a film, a trailer, for something that will never happen, in places I’ve never been
turning down staircases, as round the corner on different staircases (one by 20th apartment)…walk up and away
Trailers:
Misleading?? – bad ones maybe → if tell the whole story definitely bad
Want to make people see it – different psychology there and methodology of working
Moments that never happen
Looking at a film, analyzing it, and reinterpreting it
Title sequence often better than the film itself
Like a poem or haiku of the film
Intro to great novel kind of
Opportunity to make the film of your dreams, just make the trailer for it
Typography
-about visual language
-william tell apple poster – the text actually is encoded with the meaning
-trailer: a film within a film
themes into symbolic forms
introduction, throwing audience into general world of the film
Bond films – intro with circles, bullets, and women →power of intro
Barbarella intro w/ jane fonda – zero gravity strip tease
-words are adolescent in behavior – the words can have personality
working with or against the music
---ringing of a bell, rippling water reverbing out, drop, as hits bell hits letters form
-the typographic voice
Monday, January 14, 2008
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Harpies
I want to write of girls free and vicious like lions, tearing at branches and beating silver backed chests. I want to talk of little girls of fire and spit! After weighted walking, they’re running through the streets. War calling. Jumping into space.
Something’s in my skin and I can’t get it out. I wriggles and writhes like an insidious worm through the pockets of my bone. It fastens my muscle to my flesh. No matter how much I stretch I can’t flex it out.
Toe flexing sinews.
Something in my mother died last month. Today I looked up, and the weight of sorrow and fatigue in her eyes was enough to discern even through her glasses. This is not a poetic line. This is not a description quoting the typical tale of distraught women surviving. This is my own mother, and her eyes are heavy, and I didn’t even notice, and it pains me. When exactly did this occur? It could’ve been years ago! This ghost, hanging in a droop, in the groove of her wrinkles. It’s sick. I missed it. To realize that you haven’t been awake, you haven’t been watching, you haven’t checked, haven’t turned around to check what is now or what is home. Yesterdays left and today I found my mother wrenching, quietly, as she watched over me, like she always has, and now I’m pained. From the pits of my being something rang so horribly hollow. A wind blew inside me, all throughout. That is what it is to be sick. Hollowness of being. An emptying.
Dream Slip.
Somewhere near the beginning of time, we lived in agricultural peace amongst warriors akin to Gods. These demi-Gods watched over our villages, and were a source of beauty, grace, and pride. They served as representatives for our lands, and utilized their talents in service and aid. They were celebrated as swans amongst birds. There was no jealousy.
This peace however was new, and proceeded a time of great violence and bloodshed. A time where brute strength and malicious wit was valued over honor and understanding. A time when breaking another man paid off more than showing him kindness.
In these dark times, the demi-Gods were employed by their city-states in the sole interest of slaughter. In an unending struggle for power, their superior skill, agility, mental, and athletic prowess was prized above everything because it gave them the ability to black out life. Their divine gift gave fat senators a right to rule, their divine gift beat upon the heads of those who cannot stand against the wind. People were ripped from the plots of their life.
Powerful yet malleable these warriors were weak, as most creatures are, against the ever tireless and agile hands of human manipulation. So we shaped them to resemble hell’s fury, we shaped them to bore out holes reflecting our emptiness. We let them loose. We said kill. They killed.
But these brutal times grew tired, worn, and eventually ceased. Governments failed as they always do. Man returned to the earth to taste the salt on his lips and feel the sweat on his brow. He returned to the sensations born under the sun that unfailing nourishes everyone. Steady hands and quiet labor. He forgot his dreams of dominance, traded black for blue sky, and violence rippled further and further away until it was only a shiver in our memories, only when the wind whispered.
To be continued…
I want to write of girls free and vicious like lions, tearing at branches and beating silver backed chests. I want to talk of little girls of fire and spit! After weighted walking, they’re running through the streets. War calling. Jumping into space.
Something’s in my skin and I can’t get it out. I wriggles and writhes like an insidious worm through the pockets of my bone. It fastens my muscle to my flesh. No matter how much I stretch I can’t flex it out.
Toe flexing sinews.
Something in my mother died last month. Today I looked up, and the weight of sorrow and fatigue in her eyes was enough to discern even through her glasses. This is not a poetic line. This is not a description quoting the typical tale of distraught women surviving. This is my own mother, and her eyes are heavy, and I didn’t even notice, and it pains me. When exactly did this occur? It could’ve been years ago! This ghost, hanging in a droop, in the groove of her wrinkles. It’s sick. I missed it. To realize that you haven’t been awake, you haven’t been watching, you haven’t checked, haven’t turned around to check what is now or what is home. Yesterdays left and today I found my mother wrenching, quietly, as she watched over me, like she always has, and now I’m pained. From the pits of my being something rang so horribly hollow. A wind blew inside me, all throughout. That is what it is to be sick. Hollowness of being. An emptying.
Dream Slip.
Somewhere near the beginning of time, we lived in agricultural peace amongst warriors akin to Gods. These demi-Gods watched over our villages, and were a source of beauty, grace, and pride. They served as representatives for our lands, and utilized their talents in service and aid. They were celebrated as swans amongst birds. There was no jealousy.
This peace however was new, and proceeded a time of great violence and bloodshed. A time where brute strength and malicious wit was valued over honor and understanding. A time when breaking another man paid off more than showing him kindness.
In these dark times, the demi-Gods were employed by their city-states in the sole interest of slaughter. In an unending struggle for power, their superior skill, agility, mental, and athletic prowess was prized above everything because it gave them the ability to black out life. Their divine gift gave fat senators a right to rule, their divine gift beat upon the heads of those who cannot stand against the wind. People were ripped from the plots of their life.
Powerful yet malleable these warriors were weak, as most creatures are, against the ever tireless and agile hands of human manipulation. So we shaped them to resemble hell’s fury, we shaped them to bore out holes reflecting our emptiness. We let them loose. We said kill. They killed.
But these brutal times grew tired, worn, and eventually ceased. Governments failed as they always do. Man returned to the earth to taste the salt on his lips and feel the sweat on his brow. He returned to the sensations born under the sun that unfailing nourishes everyone. Steady hands and quiet labor. He forgot his dreams of dominance, traded black for blue sky, and violence rippled further and further away until it was only a shiver in our memories, only when the wind whispered.
To be continued…
film ideas spilling
A shadow, drowning in a city of sunlight. Walking out in the street, amongst all the people, falling away. Maybe just a footprint of where it was last standing.
a short trip to hell, briefcase, masked figures surrounding you, standing in a line, hell masked in a city, like waiting in line to enter a building or something, men in coats and hats
sinking in the water, a shoe slipping off revealing a bare foot…maybe that of a child, or no, a sandal slipping
white sheets flowing composited to make water
the life of a star, living isolated in the sky looking down at the grains of sand that are the people wishing upon it below, receiving the wishes…cataloging them. → like commercial in a big circle lit from behind
calling out to each other, echoing, across great distances, across the mountains…Ikue Asazaki
I had a dream once. The sky was grey and milky. Vaporous clouds sifted through the different levels of atmosphere like oil. A man had drunk up the earth as if by a straw, and all that remained of the ocean was a soft smell of salt and a large extended puddle. By that time the fish had already sprouted wings. Flittering and flopping through they air, they look like drunk and awkward dragonflies with a weight too heavy for tenuous wings. Goggle eyed they stare up and down at me as I float by. Up on the streets people ride the trolleys. Fastened to electric cable’s they propel on one-way tracks. They dart like beetles, full of city men. The clanging of their bells has left a permanent melody in my head. One travels by air balloon to the docks below. The construction men work down there. The smash of their hammers and the slice of their drill is my lullaby at night. Their working never ceases. It’s cause of the state-wide policy: to build a bridge across to the Eastern lands. Each day they drill down into the mud and establish a foundation. From there they lay down plank upon plank stretching outward. What would the Chinese say do you think? If you walked right up to their doorstep from the sea? The dock must be miles long now. It’s the edge of the earth. Many of the men walk down those planks and don’t come back. It’s just too far! To travel back and forth like that. Sure, they have a special trolley that moves along the bridge. It can get them back home in a couple of days. But out there, they say they work straight under the horizon. That out there, the clouds move in quiet herds. The sun catches their edges, and penetrates their curves. It moistens the throat of a mass that begins to breath. Breaking through in golds and blue the sky salivates and swells, fills with God, and reveals the kept horizon. At the beginning it was like a stubby root, a tongue sticking itself out. The dock reaches like a long finger now, pointing to something I cannot see. When infinity is but a long walk out to sea, I wonder why it is that I’m still sitting here.
a short trip to hell, briefcase, masked figures surrounding you, standing in a line, hell masked in a city, like waiting in line to enter a building or something, men in coats and hats
sinking in the water, a shoe slipping off revealing a bare foot…maybe that of a child, or no, a sandal slipping
white sheets flowing composited to make water
the life of a star, living isolated in the sky looking down at the grains of sand that are the people wishing upon it below, receiving the wishes…cataloging them. → like commercial in a big circle lit from behind
calling out to each other, echoing, across great distances, across the mountains…Ikue Asazaki
I had a dream once. The sky was grey and milky. Vaporous clouds sifted through the different levels of atmosphere like oil. A man had drunk up the earth as if by a straw, and all that remained of the ocean was a soft smell of salt and a large extended puddle. By that time the fish had already sprouted wings. Flittering and flopping through they air, they look like drunk and awkward dragonflies with a weight too heavy for tenuous wings. Goggle eyed they stare up and down at me as I float by. Up on the streets people ride the trolleys. Fastened to electric cable’s they propel on one-way tracks. They dart like beetles, full of city men. The clanging of their bells has left a permanent melody in my head. One travels by air balloon to the docks below. The construction men work down there. The smash of their hammers and the slice of their drill is my lullaby at night. Their working never ceases. It’s cause of the state-wide policy: to build a bridge across to the Eastern lands. Each day they drill down into the mud and establish a foundation. From there they lay down plank upon plank stretching outward. What would the Chinese say do you think? If you walked right up to their doorstep from the sea? The dock must be miles long now. It’s the edge of the earth. Many of the men walk down those planks and don’t come back. It’s just too far! To travel back and forth like that. Sure, they have a special trolley that moves along the bridge. It can get them back home in a couple of days. But out there, they say they work straight under the horizon. That out there, the clouds move in quiet herds. The sun catches their edges, and penetrates their curves. It moistens the throat of a mass that begins to breath. Breaking through in golds and blue the sky salivates and swells, fills with God, and reveals the kept horizon. At the beginning it was like a stubby root, a tongue sticking itself out. The dock reaches like a long finger now, pointing to something I cannot see. When infinity is but a long walk out to sea, I wonder why it is that I’m still sitting here.
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