His near stammering. With disconcerting promptness one word hid behind another. -- Maurice Blanchot, Le Dernier Homme Contact me: red3ad (at) yahoo (dot) com



Listening to an interview-commentary* with Claire Denis, and I'm taken with her ideas and way of expressing them; how her broken English seems to convey more to me than so much else. Is it due to the, let's say "charm," of her accent, of the hesitations, the fumbling for the right word, settling eventually on one that's not the right word -- admittedly, self-consciously so? Or simply that this is language made physical, made present; not caught up with the felicities of phrase, lulled into a sense of false meaning by the seeming assurances of eloquence. And why is it that my own ineloquence/incapacity utterly fails to give me any sense other than frustration?
It's simply the matter of the quality of her work, I think; the best of it, the wonder of it, being unsayable. Here I resort to italics to try to convey something I feel needs stressing. Seeing, thinking, wanting something a little more. Her work pushes at edges, escapes boundaries (I'm thinking especially of L'Intrus here) -- and after there's a sort of residual space opened up; yet a complete presence while the picture unfolds.
That it is better to speak not well, but mean it -- "it," what's behind, or in spite, of the words. To say it simply: "to believe in all the gestures, all the moments, without doubt."-- Claire Denis
[*I'm writing about the commentary on the Friday Night (Vendredi Soir) DVD; see aslo here.]

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