“Then I went down into the basement,
Where my friend, the maniac, busies himself with his electronic graffiti,
Finally his language touches me,
Because he talks to that part of us which insists on drawing profiles on prison walls,
In that moment, poetry will be made by everyone,
And there will be emu’s in the zone.”
I woke up with these words echoing through my head. A sound clip that is used by Kasabian at the beginning of their song ‘West Ryder Silver Bullet’.
It haunted me so that I climbed down opened my laptop and went on a search. Resulting in my trusted – corporate – friend Google answering: Sans Soleil (1983) by Chris Marker. A experimental documentary almost Eliot-esque.
The documentary is almost a presentation of a esoteric essay. On life. On existence. On everything. The voice-over guides you through the existential thoughts. Thoughts that don’t stand in a one to one ratio to the images, but in their eclectic combination moves the viewer beyond. In this very manner and by this very method the effect of this film echoes trough to the very core of it’s viewer.
Like the emu’s that are running round my head, inhabiting an ever-extending desert known as the zone.
