January 7th, 2016

The Red Tree

"And afterwards I swore that I would haunt you. Now, I'm way too tired to give a shit."

Sunny today, and currently 39˚F.

Such perfect bleakness. I can almost appreciate the aesthetics presented by the near-perfect, corpse-flower bleakness of Providence in January, that lines may be drawn so very sharply, that contrast can be so stark. That a landscape may be rendered so completely devoid of comfort. But I can only almost appreciate it, because some sliver of my self still wants to live, and I'm pretty sure I'd have to smother that part of me to admire such a consummate expression of life in death.

Yesterday, I wrote a mere 639 words on "Eurydice Eduction," but I think I've found a way to make the piece work. I have to finish it by Monday.

Please have a look at the current eBay auctions. Thank you.

Last night, after pizza from Sicilia's, we watched M. Night Shyamalan's The Visit (2015). I should preface what I'm about to say with a reminder that I once considered Shyamalan a genius. He made what are, in my opinion, four brilliant films – The Sixth Sense (1999), Unbreakable (2000), Signs (2002), and The Village (2004). I even liked The Lady in the Water (2006), though it stumbles here and there and never quite lives up to its potential. Then Shyamalan lost me with The Happening (2008), and his work thereafter has left me baffled and longing for the great works he once gave us. I'd kept hearing that The Visit was some sort of return to form for him, and for that reason I put off seeing it. Because if it wasn't, well, these days I just don't need any extra disappointment. And disappointing it is. The first three quarters of the film are competent. Certainly not great, not what I once came to expect from Shyamalan, but enjoyable enough and, at times, effectively creepy. It seems on the verge of doing something interesting with "Hansel and Gretal" and various other fairy-tale fears of carnivorous adults. Then in the last fifteen minutes or so the whole thing unravels is a dreadfully stupid tumult of sophomoric jump scares and scatalogical gross outs. It's almost as if the director, uncertain how to wrap things up, despaired and passed the film along to a frat house to finish the job for him. I would still like to believe that Shyamalan can come back, but it's getting harder with every stumble.

Aunt Beast