Tuesday, April 08, 2008


I love In the Mouth of Madness. I love it. I take note of its every stumble, its every clumsy expositional infodump, its every groaner... and I love it. Love it. Love it. It's shabby as hell, but it has that lovability common to all of Carpenter's best work.

Watching it now for the first time in 7 years or more, I can see how it fed and/or created so many of my current storytelling obsessions: the hold that art has over both audience and artist, the breach of the divide between story and reality, and the postmodern notion that something does not have to be factual to be true. Hell, those notions seem to have a hold over John Carpenter, too; it's something he revisited for his contribution to the Masters of Horror series.

Reality is what you and the people around you make of it. (And fuck if it's not a bad scene when someone seriously bent gets a disproportionate amount of control over "what we make of it.") Five years ago I would've thought a statement like that was Flake Central, or worse, a pretentious broadcast from Philosophy 101 as interpreted by 18 year-olds who listen to Pavement. But I think I get it now.

No, I can't explain it. I don't think it's something to be explained. Sorry.

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