You may have noticed that I've been reading some Proust. I started À la recherche du temps perdu over the weekend. In case your jaw was about to hit the floor, I am not reading all seven (or eight) volumes. I doubt we'll even make it through Du côté de chez Swann. A few weeks back, when I began reading Madame Bovary, I thought I'd entered literature's Elysian fields. It seems that my stay has been extended. Few other books have struck such a chord in my intellectually stained soul (stained with intellect that is). A list compiled off the cuff runs to only four books: One Hundred Years of Solitude, The House of Spirits, Madame Bovary, and Swann's Way (in order of reading). I might add L'Amour, la fantasia to that list, or perhaps Les Soleils des indépendances.
I just watched City of God. It was such a seductively told story that I barely noticed the cinematography, directing or editing. I liked the chicken in the opening scenes. Simpler metaphors are often better, and the chicken, chased through streets by a pack of children, was effective as a metaphor in large part thanks to its obvious referent. I also really enjoyed the history of the apartment scene. It is perhaps the best use of an off camera narrative that I have ever seen. I'm usually wary narrative intervention in that way, but it was so deftly combined with the onscreen images that I couldn't help but be impressed (Bresson be damned).
I must get back to Proust.
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