Bright Wall/Dark Room.
1 week ago
permalink
Breathless (Godard, 1960)

Breathless (Godard, 1960)

Comments
1 week ago
permalink
brightwalldarkroom:

OPEN CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS:We are now officially accepting unsolicited pitches and submissions for consideration in our October issue! It’s our annual Halloween issue, but as none of us are huge fans of modern horror films, we are looking specifically for essays on films that are either campy, chilly, creepy, or classically scary. 
By way of example, this would include films like Beetlejuice, Arachnophobia, Black Swan, Donnie Darko, The Craft, The Fly, The Thing, Nosferatu, Something Wicked This Way Comes, Vertigo, Repulsion, Peeping Tom, Cape Fear, The Others, The Burbs, Cat People, Dead Ringers, Return to Oz,The Witches of Eastwick, Eraserhead…
So, if you have an idea (or an essay) that you think might work, contact us via email (bwdr.editors@gmail.com), or pitch something through our Submittable page by Monday, September 8th.
If it’s something we can use, we’ll be in touch in the very near future — and you could see your piece published in our Halloween issue!

brightwalldarkroom:

OPEN CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS:

We are now officially accepting unsolicited pitches and submissions for consideration in our October issue! It’s our annual Halloween issue, but as none of us are huge fans of modern horror films, we are looking specifically for essays on films that are either campy, chilly, creepy, or classically scary. 

By way of example, this would include films like Beetlejuice, Arachnophobia, Black Swan, Donnie Darko, The Craft, The Fly, The Thing, Nosferatu, Something Wicked This Way Comes, Vertigo, Repulsion, Peeping Tom, Cape Fear, The Others, The Burbs, Cat People, Dead Ringers, Return to Oz,The Witches of Eastwick, Eraserhead…

So, if you have an idea (or an essay) that you think might work, contact us via email (bwdr.editors@gmail.com), or pitch something through our Submittable page by Monday, September 8th.

If it’s something we can use, we’ll be in touch in the very near future — and you could see your piece published in our Halloween issue!

Cite Arrow via brightwalldarkroom
Comments
permalink

"My father took me to see this film in 1950, when I was eight years old. And I’ve never forgotten it. I wouldn’t know how to begin to explain what this film has meant to me over the years. It’s about the joy and exuberance of film-making itself. It’s one of the true miracles of film history. What keeps nourishing me over the years is the spell the film casts, how it weaves the mystery of the obsession of creativity, of the creative drive. It all comes down to that wonderful exchange early in the film when Anton Walbrook confronts Moira Shearer at a cocktail party. ‘Why do you want to dance?’ he asks, and she answers, ‘Why do you want to live?’ The look on his face is extraordinary.’ Over the years, I’ve thought a lot about that exchange. It expresses so much about the burning need for art – the mystery of the passion to create. It’s not that you want to do it, it’s that you have to do it. You have no choice. You have to live it and it comes with a price. But what a time paying it."

—Martin Scorsese, on The Red Shoes (1948)

Comments
1 week ago
permalink
“At a meeting just outside Paris, a fifteen-year-old girl came up to me and said that she’d been to see [The Double Life of] Véronique. She’d gone once, twice, three times and only wanted to say one thing really - that she realized that there is such a thing as a soul. She hadn’t known before, but now she knew that the soul does exist. There’s something very beautiful in that. It was worth making Véronique for that girl. It was worth working for a year, sacrificing all that money, energy, time, patience, torturing yourself, killing yourself, taking thousands of decisions, so that one young girl in Paris should realize that there is such a thing as a soul. It’s worth it.”
—Krzysztof Kieślowski

At a meeting just outside Paris, a fifteen-year-old girl came up to me and said that she’d been to see [The Double Life of] Véronique. She’d gone once, twice, three times and only wanted to say one thing really - that she realized that there is such a thing as a soul. She hadn’t known before, but now she knew that the soul does exist. There’s something very beautiful in that. It was worth making Véronique for that girl. It was worth working for a year, sacrificing all that money, energy, time, patience, torturing yourself, killing yourself, taking thousands of decisions, so that one young girl in Paris should realize that there is such a thing as a soul. It’s worth it.”

—Krzysztof Kieślowski

Comments
1 week ago
permalink
I am easily moved to tears and rarely survive a visit to the cinema without shedding them, racked, as I am, by the most perfunctory, meretricious or even callously sentimental attempts at poignancy (something about the exterior of the human face, so vast and palpable, with the eyes and the lips: it is all writ too large for me, too immediate for me.) »Martin Amis, Experience: A Memoir
Comments
permalink
Summer Block on O Brother Where Art Thou?:
“Three escaped convicts and a young man who claims to have sold his soul to the Devil arrive at a political campaign dinner disguised in very obviously fake beads.  While the other men perform a song, their leader leans over, pulls the beard down from his chin, and whispers to his ex-wife, “I want to be what you want me to be, honey.”
And in that moment, he seems to believe it.
O Brother Where Art Thou? is about people wanting to be a better version of themselves, something a little lighter and brighter than the truth. But where others might warn against the dangers of self-delusion, O Brother seems to celebrate the wonders of self-delusion instead.  O Brother is a paean to the the wild, reckless joy of self-invention, and the sustaining power of myth to bring us closer to our best selves.”
—
This is an excerpt from the current issue of Bright Wall/Dark Room magazine. To read the rest of this essay, purchase a copy of the issue for $2, or subscribe online now. 

Summer Block on O Brother Where Art Thou?:

Three escaped convicts and a young man who claims to have sold his soul to the Devil arrive at a political campaign dinner disguised in very obviously fake beads.  While the other men perform a song, their leader leans over, pulls the beard down from his chin, and whispers to his ex-wife, “I want to be what you want me to be, honey.”

And in that moment, he seems to believe it.

O Brother Where Art Thou? is about people wanting to be a better version of themselves, something a little lighter and brighter than the truth. But where others might warn against the dangers of self-delusion, O Brother seems to celebrate the wonders of self-delusion instead.  O Brother is a paean to the the wild, reckless joy of self-invention, and the sustaining power of myth to bring us closer to our best selves.”

This is an excerpt from the current issue of Bright Wall/Dark Room magazine. To read the rest of this essay, purchase a copy of the issue for $2, or subscribe online now. 

Comments
1 week ago
permalink
"Never try to convey your idea to the audience - it is a thankless and senseless task. Show them life, and they’ll find within themselves the means to assess and appreciate it."
—Andrei Tarkovsky

"Never try to convey your idea to the audience - it is a thankless and senseless task. Show them life, and they’ll find within themselves the means to assess and appreciate it."

—Andrei Tarkovsky

Comments
2 weeks ago
permalink
Andrew Root on An American Tail (1986):
"As they board a transatlantic ship, Fievel asks questions endlessly; is that water the ocean? Does that smoke mean the ship is on fire? Are those seagulls? What’s a herring, and how are they different from just a regular ol’ fish? Fievel’s unbounded curiosity leads him out onto the deck during a storm, and he is swept overboard by the cruelty of the winds and waves. At the immigrant processing centre in New York, Papa’s tears appear unbidden, his jovial nature drained, his sadness complete. Afloat in a bottle, Fievel is exhausted, bewildered and lost. And the sadness - the dark liquid sadness - is very, very real."

Andrew Root on An American Tail (1986):

"As they board a transatlantic ship, Fievel asks questions endlessly; is that water the ocean? Does that smoke mean the ship is on fire? Are those seagulls? What’s a herring, and how are they different from just a regular ol’ fish? Fievel’s unbounded curiosity leads him out onto the deck during a storm, and he is swept overboard by the cruelty of the winds and waves. At the immigrant processing centre in New York, Papa’s tears appear unbidden, his jovial nature drained, his sadness complete. Afloat in a bottle, Fievel is exhausted, bewildered and lost. And the sadness - the dark liquid sadness - is very, very real."

Comments
2 weeks ago
permalink
Brianna Ashby on Fried Green Tomatoes (1991):
“My mother died on June 17, 2000, the morning of my high school graduation. I was standing barefoot in my best friend’s kitchen as my grandmother tried to lie to me over the phone, her voice twice it’s normal pitch and entirely lacking it’s customary softness and sparkle. Her forced nonchalance made my knees buckle, and the lump in my throat had me gasping for air even before she could finally bring herself to say the word, that word. And then, the lightning strike. White light, white heat. Blindness. The next thing I remember I was shifting anxiously in my plastic folding chair, waiting for my name to come over the microphone, cursing the cap and gown I could have sworn were made of lead. I’m still surprised I heard my name at all. 
I received a standing ovation when I crossed the stage to claim my diploma—the audience having been led through a moment of silence in my mother’s honor just a few minutes prior—but I was so focused on simply trying to keep my atoms from scattering themselves in all directions that I had no idea. The whiteness blanketed everything; I saw, but I couldn’t see. My world came to a grinding halt, even as things continued to move around me as they always had, their rhythms unchanged. How could everything be so completely different and yet entirely the same? I was a floe of ice drifting aimlessly on a shifting sea.
A heart can be broken, but it will keep beating just the same.
For years I laid awake at night, imagining the world with my mother still in it. I had prosaic dreams where she’d call me on the phone to ask a simple question, or I’d walk by our kitchen and see her standing over the stove. With little effort at all I could vividly conjure up her image, picturing the way her nose wrinkled when she laughed, or the way she looked when she was perched on the couch, engrossed in a book. The stunning ease with which I could reproduce it all made it difficult to accept that it was nothing more than a composite of moments already spent. The realization that I would never again see the face of someone I loved so fiercely nearly defied comprehension. When someone is so deeply alive in your heart, how can they possibly be dead?”
—
This is an excerpt from the current issue of Bright Wall/Dark Room magazine. To read the rest of this essay, purchase a copy of the issue for $2, or subscribe online now. 

Brianna Ashby on Fried Green Tomatoes (1991):

My mother died on June 17, 2000, the morning of my high school graduation. I was standing barefoot in my best friend’s kitchen as my grandmother tried to lie to me over the phone, her voice twice it’s normal pitch and entirely lacking it’s customary softness and sparkle. Her forced nonchalance made my knees buckle, and the lump in my throat had me gasping for air even before she could finally bring herself to say the word, that word. And then, the lightning strike. White light, white heat. Blindness. The next thing I remember I was shifting anxiously in my plastic folding chair, waiting for my name to come over the microphone, cursing the cap and gown I could have sworn were made of lead. I’m still surprised I heard my name at all.

I received a standing ovation when I crossed the stage to claim my diploma—the audience having been led through a moment of silence in my mother’s honor just a few minutes prior—but I was so focused on simply trying to keep my atoms from scattering themselves in all directions that I had no idea. The whiteness blanketed everything; I saw, but I couldn’t see. My world came to a grinding halt, even as things continued to move around me as they always had, their rhythms unchanged. How could everything be so completely different and yet entirely the same? I was a floe of ice drifting aimlessly on a shifting sea.

A heart can be broken, but it will keep beating just the same.

For years I laid awake at night, imagining the world with my mother still in it. I had prosaic dreams where she’d call me on the phone to ask a simple question, or I’d walk by our kitchen and see her standing over the stove. With little effort at all I could vividly conjure up her image, picturing the way her nose wrinkled when she laughed, or the way she looked when she was perched on the couch, engrossed in a book. The stunning ease with which I could reproduce it all made it difficult to accept that it was nothing more than a composite of moments already spent. The realization that I would never again see the face of someone I loved so fiercely nearly defied comprehension. When someone is so deeply alive in your heart, how can they possibly be dead?”

This is an excerpt from the current issue of Bright Wall/Dark Room magazine. To read the rest of this essay, purchase a copy of the issue for $2, or subscribe online now. 

Comments
2 weeks ago
permalink

Al Pacino’s auditions, readings, and screen tests for The Godfather (1972).

Comments
Powered by Tumblr Designed by:Doinwork