The Lighthouse
Landlubber Ephraim Winslow and old sea wolf Thomas Wake heave their belongings to the rock, eagerly waitin’ for the two fortnights of their shift. Two man in, how many men out? The sea. Sums. Dichotomy between good and evil.
By Neptune’s prick, does cabin fever gets a hold of them, on account of ‘em drinking and singing and dancing and jerking off, imagining the soft and tender skin of a siren, ready to pleasure all of a man’s wishes, until ye’ hands rub against the fish bits and ye’ recoil in horror, reckoning her foul shrieks and manic laughing, strangled with an octopus’ tentacle, as if Proteus himself was casting his scornful gaze upon thee, his body pockmarked with shells, his breath agog with a salty brine, reminding you of the storm battering the rocks, seeping into the cod and provisions, leading to a desperate dig for previous groggy liquor, and after the booze is gone, whale oil mixed with clockwork grease for a maddening mindfuck, leading to more a-singing and a-dancing, and homoerotic subtext eagerly nipped in the bud, with a sadness that betrays the true wants of a lonesome wickie, after which a spilling of the beans is in order, confessing dereliction of duty to rescue a fellow timberman amongst a logjam, and reveling on the evil, bringing about shameful acts of violence, and humiliation and digging up dirt to bury the object of wrath in a shallow grave of rotten dirt, not killing him and allowing him to render the flesh from one arm, provoking a final thrashing and giblets gushing from professional axe swing, allowing the final opening of the light-bearing device for the final scream, Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.
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The best 4x3 black and white film since Seven Samurai (maybe The Artist, but I haven’t seen that yet)…
This is my place for ramblings about sequences of images that exploit the human visual limitation know as persistence of vision.