Dorothy, when a column of the Witch’s green-skinned sentinels, looking like Cossacks and singing their terrible dirge, marched into the scene. Here Max’s camera reversed angles to show the little girl reacting to these events: her jaw dropped, her face turned crimson, she covered her ears, staggered to her feet, and, gasping for breath, emitted a prolonged wail of fear and outrage.
Immediately Rachel scooped the child up in her arms, seizing the remote control from the floor to mute the sound. Max’s camera zoomed in until his subjects’ faces filled the screen. Light from the TV played over them kaleidoscopically, bouncing off the white wall behind, ringing Rachel and her sobbing charge in an unearthly phosphorescence. Rachel pressed her cheek against the top of the little girl’s head, and here Max froze the frame. After a short silence he said, “I could look at that for five seconds. Maybe more.”
Jacques nodded. “It’s good, Max. Verging on the numinous. How did you do it?”
“I don’t know.” He began to pace. “Maybe it’s her. Somehow she affects the look of things around her. I can’t put my finger on it.”
Since withdrawing from the Isabelle project, Max had videotaped Rachel on five occasions—informal, spontaneous shoots whose only common element was the woman herself: cleaning the
Nachtvlinder
’s bilge pumps, dancing solo in a nightclub in Oberkampf, being fitted by Odile for a birthday dress. And although Max had no plans for this footage and no investment in it, professional or otherwise, he was growing mildly possessive of her, as if she really were his project.
That afternoon, at a small Left Bank theater where
Der blaue Engel
had premiered almost seventy years ago, Max attended a screening of his ownfirst feature film, a tragicomic drama called
Fireflies
. It was being shown as part of a festival—a dozen debut films by independents who’d since made their names—and although Max disliked speaking in public about his work, he’d agreed to introduce the film and to take questions afterward. Sixteen years had passed since its release. He allowed himself to believe that there was something to be learned by revisiting it now, when he’d exhausted the vision that had made it possible.
Despite the rain, Max found the theater almost full when he arrived—the crowd a mix of film students, intellectuals, and others who he supposed just happened to be free at four o’clock in the afternoon. He’d sent Jacques ahead with the actual film cans, and when he spotted his assistant, waving to him from the balcony, he relaxed somewhat. Before him stood a short, bearded man in spectacles who had been addressing him continuously since his arrival.
“… less a film than a conflagration of images,” the man was saying. “What is seen is consumed, what is consumed is seen. In this way, one makes possible the new. A brilliant attack.”
“Thank you,” said Max. He stifled a sudden impulse to harm this man, who seemed to be the program director, and leave the theater, taking his film with him. Instead he said, “Let’s keep it informal today. No need to introduce. Just let me know when, I’ll say a few words, and we’ll roll the film. Okay?”
“As you like,” the man said. He looked unhappily at the speech he had prepared, then folded the pages lengthwise and put them in his jacket pocket. “You will take questions afterward? The audience—”
“Yes. I’ll take questions.”
“Thank you.” He nodded his head in relief. “Please begin whenever you’re ready.”
A podium and microphone had been set up at the front of the theater, and as Max took up position behind them the audience fell silent. He hadn’t prepared any remarks, thinking instead to take his inspiration from the moment. Apparently he would have to do without inspiration.
“Mesdames, messieurs,”
he began, leaning over the microphone.
“Bonjour. Je vous remercie d’avoir bravé la pluie pour venir voir
Immediately Rachel scooped the child up in her arms, seizing the remote control from the floor to mute the sound. Max’s camera zoomed in until his subjects’ faces filled the screen. Light from the TV played over them kaleidoscopically, bouncing off the white wall behind, ringing Rachel and her sobbing charge in an unearthly phosphorescence. Rachel pressed her cheek against the top of the little girl’s head, and here Max froze the frame. After a short silence he said, “I could look at that for five seconds. Maybe more.”
Jacques nodded. “It’s good, Max. Verging on the numinous. How did you do it?”
“I don’t know.” He began to pace. “Maybe it’s her. Somehow she affects the look of things around her. I can’t put my finger on it.”
Since withdrawing from the Isabelle project, Max had videotaped Rachel on five occasions—informal, spontaneous shoots whose only common element was the woman herself: cleaning the
Nachtvlinder
’s bilge pumps, dancing solo in a nightclub in Oberkampf, being fitted by Odile for a birthday dress. And although Max had no plans for this footage and no investment in it, professional or otherwise, he was growing mildly possessive of her, as if she really were his project.
That afternoon, at a small Left Bank theater where
Der blaue Engel
had premiered almost seventy years ago, Max attended a screening of his ownfirst feature film, a tragicomic drama called
Fireflies
. It was being shown as part of a festival—a dozen debut films by independents who’d since made their names—and although Max disliked speaking in public about his work, he’d agreed to introduce the film and to take questions afterward. Sixteen years had passed since its release. He allowed himself to believe that there was something to be learned by revisiting it now, when he’d exhausted the vision that had made it possible.
Despite the rain, Max found the theater almost full when he arrived—the crowd a mix of film students, intellectuals, and others who he supposed just happened to be free at four o’clock in the afternoon. He’d sent Jacques ahead with the actual film cans, and when he spotted his assistant, waving to him from the balcony, he relaxed somewhat. Before him stood a short, bearded man in spectacles who had been addressing him continuously since his arrival.
“… less a film than a conflagration of images,” the man was saying. “What is seen is consumed, what is consumed is seen. In this way, one makes possible the new. A brilliant attack.”
“Thank you,” said Max. He stifled a sudden impulse to harm this man, who seemed to be the program director, and leave the theater, taking his film with him. Instead he said, “Let’s keep it informal today. No need to introduce. Just let me know when, I’ll say a few words, and we’ll roll the film. Okay?”
“As you like,” the man said. He looked unhappily at the speech he had prepared, then folded the pages lengthwise and put them in his jacket pocket. “You will take questions afterward? The audience—”
“Yes. I’ll take questions.”
“Thank you.” He nodded his head in relief. “Please begin whenever you’re ready.”
A podium and microphone had been set up at the front of the theater, and as Max took up position behind them the audience fell silent. He hadn’t prepared any remarks, thinking instead to take his inspiration from the moment. Apparently he would have to do without inspiration.
“Mesdames, messieurs,”
he began, leaning over the microphone.
“Bonjour. Je vous remercie d’avoir bravé la pluie pour venir voir
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