While Caravaggio (HB114,115)
has heavy, spotlit folds in an intensity of light-effect that convinces
the viewer of realism, the old noir-ish films I wanna bring-in (such as
Detour) are subdued and atmospheric.
The
darks are more gray than straight black, and the highlights are whispy
rather than smacking you in the4 face a la Cara. The noir-ish films
don't strive for realism in that a photo doesn't have to; they strive to
underplay form and let the contours of figures and grace of movement
carry the day.
In
a way, noir is trying to do the opposite to Caravaggio by downplaying
realism and really going for shadowy effects and mood - as opposed to
overpowering light-effects.
As a side-note, David and Goliath
would never be lit like that in reality, so the realism is itself
unreal or super-realism. Super-realism always has to do with light and
nowadays, by extension, with algorithms (electromagnetism).
Super-realism is convincing - like the SpaceX Falcon landings on a sixpence. It reminds me of CC Beck's quote in TCJ #90,
One
of the early aviators took an airplane over to China,and the Emperor
was not impressed at all... "Look, emperor, it's flying!" And he said,
"Well, that's what it's supposed to do, isn't it?"
The
Falcon landings are convincing because they are so precise. They exist
in the precise world of straight-lines and algorithms (light). This is
what I call the Dark Sun that is a sterile creation of the head or, in
this case, algorithms.
While
the true sun is attached to the sky - if you think naively - and
fertilizes the plants that feed the creatures that move, the Dark Sun is
attached to the head (brain), which becomes the body. The result is
physical boredom, and a fixation on sterile machines. This in turn
becomes a fixation on rubbish removal and renovation.
Whether
it be a spaceship or a smart-house, the result is physical boredom and
the same predisposition towards sterility. Whereas in a decrepit house
or a decrepit spaceship rubbish and bric-a-brac build up and dirt
proliferates letting in germs and strength (of immune-system), a smart
spaceship like a smart-city is always going to be robotically
clean-and-orderly (see Mr X).
This
area can seem illusory, as if a mirage or a video-game. The only thing
that is not illusory is the continual evaporation of rubbish. The reason
is that illusory space doesn't exist a s a physical substance that is
allowed to develop a patina of age. It is continually rebuilt and the
result of this is that rubbish must be continually carried away.
Whereas
I was saying previously in a place like Detroit buildings become
dilapidated and overrun and the patina of age and use is ever-present
and strong, a type of feminine decadence, this fertility and strength is
abhored in the era of the Dark Sun in which nothing is left to
gradually decline and everything is new and therefore at the same time
everything is rubbish!
The
two tendencies are the same, taking place in resolved space, where
there can be no possibility of revival from age-old patina and
decadence. Resolved space is the parallel universe constructed of light,
where everything is straight-lines and perspective. Everything is new
and so there is a predisposition to rubbish removal; the two are the
same.
Resolved
space is attractive to the ego (of acolytes) who spout words. Words
often become numbers (did you get Musk's new son?) and numbers become
the expressive algorithm (prev) which "approaches" the human. "They"
will write stories for these artificial faces, stories that have no
decadence, no feminine spirit and therefore no revival
(Artemis,Dionysus). Instead all is weakness and rubbish.
Only
logic-systems have the quickness to facilitate precise maneuvres, which
could seem advanced. Yes, but it depends if you wanna be run by
smart-machines that are moving INTO resolved space. Resolved space is
the logical space of the head. Some things are missing; mood and
atmosphere - age-old patina and decadence; sinuous line and movement -
the feminine ideal, the androgenous snake; temperament that is poetic
and favors sturm-and-drang over pristine machine.
In
short, action that is cyclical as opposed to the movements of things
that are logical. From this comes psychic introspection to the rhythms
and moods of nature, the eternal cycles of renewal.
Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee-
Assyria- Greece- Rome- Carthage- what are they?
Thy waters washed them power while they were free,
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey
The stranger, slave, or savage; -not so thou,
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play;
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow-
Such as Creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now
Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempest; in all time,
Calm or convulsed- in breeze, or gale, or storm-
Icing the Pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving- boundless, endless, and sublime-
The image of Eternity- the throne
Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
The monesters of the deep are made- each Zone
Obeys thee- thou goest forth, fathomless, alone.
And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports..(etc -Childe Harold, Canto IV stanzas 182-184)
The
unthinking harmony of physical substance carries the poet on the epic
journey. Without rhyme and rhythm what are words? The advances that
technology makes are somewhat illusory. I'm watching the Republic
cliffhanger Haunted Harbor, with Kane Richmond and Kay Aldridge (of Nyoka)
from about '45. The creaky, elemental patina of banged-up shacks goes
hand-in-hand with radio-controlled sea-monsters and wireless
dictaphones. Ingenious illusions of sea-serpents etc all organized from a
hi-tech control-station.
It's
pretty surprising how techno it is - or is it? Their radios aren't
"smart" like ours, but the tech is the same. Nothing changes in the
resolved space of electromagnetism. What changes is the atmosphere, the
gritty, sultry ornately woody darkness that is pretty charming.
Republic
also has a good line in primitive tribal cultures with bongo-beats and
ancestral laws that are immutable (here, burning Kane for the killing of
their chief). Nowadays, primitivism is supposed not to exist - the
great modern hoax of the acolyte's head.
It's
so convincing to them, this order of numbers, but decadence has its own
charms; feminine ones of savage grace that chases and rends and tears
(Diana the huntress and her hounds). The prey, the carrion, the age-old
patina of wood and limb, of fungus that grows in time-lost caverns.
