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288 pages, Hardcover
First published June 4, 2019
I filmed the teenagers who gathered at the ice cream parlor, the girls flirting by pressing their hands quickly to the boys' arms and then recoiling from their muscles as if burned; the boys yelling insults to each other or calling out from the rolled-down windows of passing cars, everyone performing, summertime a stage. I was recording an adolescence I'd never had. In the garden shed I cut the film together, cicadas and girls, old men and moonlight. All my life I'd gathered tidbits – things I read, a picture that lingered, the memory of an afternoon in a movie theatre, the face of my sister as she laughed – and sometimes my head felt cluttered as an attic with them. But stitching a film together satisfied this collector's itch perfectly, my magpie treasures woven and spackled into a nest.
I remember Olga lecturing in an almost empty hall at Worthen; she was talking about Eisenstein, the great Russian filmmaker, and his theories of dialectical montage. He was interested in editing for contrast as well as continuity. If you juxtapose two images, he said – or Olga said – no matter how different, the viewer will make meaning from the montage. The second image in the sequence will alter the meaning of the first. It was, I thought, how memory worked: yoking disparate elements together across time. My sister next to me now changed how I thought of her then. My sister next to me changed how I thought of myself.
He talked about the camera as a kind of mirror held up to the content of the scene, making its presence felt even though the equipment is itself unseen. He said any filmmaker embodied the Heisenberg uncertainty principle, affecting the proceedings by observing them, and that the complexity of filmmaking embraced this complication rather than attempting to smooth it away.
I've watched the movie many times since then. And each time I see it differently; sometimes its wit makes me laugh, other times I've shuddered at the meanness of it, its smartly directed blows. On that day, which was my first viewing, it made me feel as if something had been taken away from me, though I couldn't have said what; like all films, it showed me a reflection of myself, and the reflection was injured and dented, open to theft.