Early film theorists aimed to define cinema as a medium. They asked themselves, "what sets film apart from other forms of art?" Rejecting schools of thought that saw film as an extension of literature, theatre, or music, many experimented to explore the boundaries of film. This birthed an abundance of movements currently studied by academics across the world. There's so much to say about the Germans and their mise-en-scene-- everything in front of the camera. The carnival that Dr. Caligari walked through are recorded by ultra-flammable celluloid strips and fallible human memory, yet it remains untouched in film history. The Left Bank filmmakers painted 1960's Paris so vividly with such stylistic camera work that you can still feel the condescending glare of its inhabitants. Their bitter commentary still sharply pierce through your fragile sense of individuality as you wander through the city that is no longer not quite the same as it appears on screen. The Russians weren't so fortunate. Low production costs meant that they had to deal with what they had. So they were able to pioneer the art of montage for the sake of bringing film to the common man. At its core, film is the child of sound and image bound together by time. Everything that else just comes with the territory. (I am aware that you can pull this information from an introductory film studies course. This information is not impressive. Fuck off)
Me? I'm still a slave to David Bordwell and his theory on narration. To me, stories have always been a manipulation of feelings and emotions. I know this because it's never the plot that quite sticks with me. It's the sentiments evoked, the feelings that are kept safe within the confines of my brain, withstanding the sensory overload of everyday life. I find myself still remembering the most mundane (read: useless) details of my childhood. I didn't know it at the time (who did?) but events such as my being bit by the German Sherpard twice my size when I was six or the time when I missed the tree trunk sledding down a steep hill may have been the greatest adventures of my life. There are some things in life that you just don't forget.
Before I continue to type away at my keyboard, I want to make it known that it's not bad at all to be Alan Lin at this moment in time. There is simply so much to be thankful for. At this moment, I wake up exhausted but carry on with so much to look forward to. Even if it's just to experience the marking of a new year, something not so distant in the future.
With that said, I live a cinematic life without being born into one. I stare off into space and breathe in deeply. There is a full orchestra every time I head into bed. Each dark corner I round, there's another never-ending hallway waiting. I pick my own soundtrack for rainy nights. By now you should know: I am a hopeless dramatic.
As the bitterness of each sip of alcohol reaches my lips, it washes away each smartass, inappropriate remark that I could have but didn't make at work. The vodka and carbonation in the diet tonic water sets production for the opening scene for Touch of Evil-- a lengthy escape destined to end up in flames. The first drag of the well-deserved cigarette: I am Paul Newman in Cool Hand Luke. As the nicotine from my second puff enters my bloodstream, I am Vincent Vega. By the time the chemicals in my body take over, I am a prop with legs ready to be put on strings. I am Min Sik Choi. I am Sessue Hayakawa. I am DeNiro, Untouchable. I am Boris. I am invincible.
Then I blink and I realize that I'm out of frame-- a little lost, holding onto whatever I have with my dear life... barely a production assistant. But I guess it's okay. I know what I felt and what I didn't get to feel yet. There's always a sequel, and I'm planning to make this a franchise.
