dying

That the process of showing movies was physical, controllable, and infinitely repeatable provided a definite sense of security: the strips of film wrapped around the reel, looped through the slot, guided by sprocket holes past the lightbeam. Dust glistened in the ray that bisected the room. The projector gave off a characteristic smell of heated metal which became the smell of resurrection, the odor of yards and bodies brought to life out of nothing.  The odor of mere blur: the shoulder hurtling beyond the camera range, the clump of red jacket blocking out light, the sloppily truncated grin, the unanticipitaed incursions of shadow and glare. The motion of the pictures was demonstrably organic by its jerkiness and chaos: an eerie alternate life form.

Geoffrey O'Brien, The Phantom Empire: Movies in the Mind of the 20th Century 

the phantom empire

read the first chapter last night, stunning, more thoughts upon completion... some excerpts from that chapter:

... The staging of the battle of Omdurman for The Four Feathers was as much a historical, certifiable event as the battle itself. You have proof before you, the actual footage of the faked battle: and that is all you have, or can ever have.

... A spectator can avoid certain movies, but not the Movies. You have been part of a captive audience all your life. Love it or leave it. But even if "they" permitted you to leave, there is no place to go. They own the airports. They own the telephones. They have seen to it that the pictures are everywhere. Swedish Hostage Syndrome begins to kick in. If you are to be strapped down and forced to watch these gigantic images, your survival odds improve drastically if you develop a fondness for them.