There’s a blood vessel that pumps between the selves we drive through the day and the incubus we nourish, a creative self (perhaps cocreated by a love), relatively unconstrained, who we promise ourselves we will birth some day. The most sublime art is what we imagine that young, more unfettered mind imagines. Its why we live, a large part of it, I think. This is the domain Maddin has decided to explore. Its a sort of Joycean commitment, a raw commitment to dreams less shaped than usual by borrowed items and fed by distilled urges in blood. Small surprise that these don’t fully resonate; its supposed to be strange, strange in disturbing ways. I like the fact that this goes on too long. It has to go on long enough to plainly state that you are not a tourist, instead you’ve unknowingly entered something you can never really leave. In its general shape, it is “The Tempest” meets the “Sarrogossa Manuscript” visually flavored by Max Parrish. It has dreams within dreams and as they shift different controlling or dreaming minds move to the foreground, even a statue (us). There are sexual enchantments, shifting from honesty and deceit, knowing and manipulated. There’s a Prospero and a Miranda, a Bloom/hunter who dreamhunts.
1.52GB | 1h 32mn | 718×538 | mkv