I have browsed amongst the books on my bookshelf to select one I had not read yet, and ended up picking one that sat there for years: Lolita by Nabokov. I had watched the movie when I was a kid, and after scrolling through other, more tempting titles, I decided this was appropriate for the moment. Before you report me to the authorities, let me say it’s just because of the mood of the book.
I was surprised to notice how different I felt towards the movie, so after reading a bit I googled the 1997 film and noticed that the actress was seventeen at the time, not twelve like in the written version. It’s quite the statement to make a movie about a man who abuses a child by choosing a girl who’s about to enter adulthood, who wears lipstick and looks like a woman — admittedly, still a minor, but very different from a preadolescent child. In Kubrick’s version the girl sucks a lollipop and wears heart sunglasses in the cover. I find both very interesting choices.
It’s no mystery movies do this, and you have not really lived if you haven’t heard someone tell you at least once how “the book is actually better”. If you haven’t, you’re probably the one who tells others. Stop.
Movies and books are quite different means of artistic expression, and whoever tries to simplify the matter probably just likes to be part of a team — or is someone who has certainties, ew. I was asked years ago what form of art is my favorite one and I’m still trying to find the right answer. How am I supposed to choose between literature, cinema and music? I need them at very different times and in very different ways, but my life would be equally empty without either one. What I can choose is something for each moment: in Lolita, I can place myself inside that “I” and feel empathy, disgust, discomfort. Reading a book lets my imagination project and receive, and I’m suddenly part of those pages. It’s a meditation, to sit in silence with a book in your hands, read one word after the other. You are so much in you that ‘you’ drifts away and leaves space for the everything. Written psilocybine.
If we expect the same from movies, the most overstimulating form of art, we are clearly misguided. A movie tells you what, who, how, when, why. Within those confines there’s still so much to interpret and imagine, especially if you’re into movies that are not plot driven, but the experience is supported by senses. And you don’t get much agency over those. I have covered my eyes during Sirat, but I was still hearing everything.
I went to Flora earlier this week. Flora is my go-to movie theater. Spring takes a toll on me, because my energy is even higher than usual but my body stays the same. So I use my Cineville pass to go watch anything without much reflection beforehand, hoping the randomness will shake me the right way. I picked Wasteman, and Tom Blyth had some influence on the choice. It’s a prison drama, very well acted and tension dense. Many tattoos, drugs, inaudible English dialogue, and Jamie xx in the soundtrack. When I pick movies, as well as books, I’ll look for some relatability. I am not one who seeks knowledge about other worlds in forms of art. Thankfully though, if I pick a movie randomly, or just based on that nice-to-look-at actor, it can happen that there is not much I can relate to in what I’m watching.
I mean, anything can be brought to an abstract level: feeling trapped, being a misfit, class struggle, race, being the cooler friend, having a lot to lose, being exposed. But if we stick to plot and themes, this was a movie that granted me some distance. Yet, I gave it 4 stars on Letterboxd. Yet, I felt my fidgeting and moving on the chair (already limited compared to my everyday life) reduced to the minimum.
I had the pervasive experience of entering another reality, however claustrophobic and depressing, and someone else’s body, even if bent by addiction. My body left that room with a big sigh, like something had been released, like my mind had gained space.
Since everything nicely comes together in my research paper on life, it fits that yesterday a colleague resuscitated a song from her past, and it was also my past. The song goes like this:
“Just a perfect day
problems are left to know.
Weekenders all night long
it’s such fun.
Just a perfect day
you make me forget myself
I thought I was someone else
someone good“
Do yourself a favor: go listen to it, and forget yourself a bit.
Empatherapy 