“I have to admit…things are really looking up for me since my life turned to shit.” If only. The consolation? This is a perfect film. There’s no use in denying that any longer.
Back in the watershed year of 2001, this film hit me like a bolt out of the blue. Just how I ended up in that movie theater in Austin, Texas I’m not entirely sure. The important thing is that this film stood my world on its head. There was a new tilt to the cosmos after seeing Thora Birch personify everything I was looking for in a girl…everything which I couldn’t articulate.
Brice Parain puts it so simply in Vivre sa vie: thought cannot be separated from language. And if we say “goodbye” to language? That still involves a word. Perhaps we can simply gesture?
“Waving goodbye…I’m not saying hello.” Just three years earlier an album had put my world on edge. I was studying music composition as an undergrad when a rock and roll record called into question everything for which I was striving. That record was Deserter’s Songs by Mercury Rev. As I slipped the virgin vinyl onto the turntable in my vacated music lit classroom, I was astounded to hear a noise rock band coming back through the speakers as an autumnal, symphonic opus. Opus 40…
And so three years later at that little arthouse cinema in north Austin I clamored into an open seat with a couple of friends… Friends… It seems so long ago since I had friends. Some statements are infinitely sad, but others are like old faded pictures. I don’t really recognize myself anymore. I’m too young to be old, but…
Ghost World. It is the world I live in. Terry Zwigoff made a perfect film. He learned the nuances from R. Crumb…and then applied the secrets to Daniel Clowes. The secret is in the power lines…the sprawl…the daydream nation which American Beauty tried to capture but failed in comparison to Ghost World. If the Palme d’Or was fair, Terry Zwigoff would have one sitting on his mantle. So would Jean-Luc Godard. So would Thora Birch.
It’s kinda like the Nobel Prize in Literature. Where’s Joyce? Where’s Pynchon?
Enid Coleslaw. There’s no I in end. End. I…is someone else. So says Nana Kleinfrankenheim. Thora Birch. Anna Karina. The Louise Brooks wig. Brigitte Bardot. Initials B.B. Bertolt Brecht. B.B. King. Devil got my woman…
“…since my life turned to shit.” I’d rather be the devil. Me and the devil. Nick Tosches. Emmett Miller. Henry “Ragtime” Thomas.
Skip James. Gossamer-perfect. Thora stands in a daze…perhaps after a long day of shooting. We get The Buzzcocks, but then we get D-A-D-F-A-D…that deep, hollow sound from 1931. Like the high, lonesome Hank Williams. Somebody’s in a world of hurt. “Nothin’ but thee devil/change my baby’s mind.”
She is the girl we can’t have. And you can’t have me either, world. Not for free. Few artists got this. Alex Chilton got it. Affonso Beato captured its fleeting presence at twilight in his cinematography. A bus. Bus stop. Joshua Logan. No, Thora Birch. Yes. That route was cancelled in 1956. Cancelled in 1962. Mensan I.Q. Cancelled in 1967. And still, Thora boards the bus and does the impossible in a magic realism which takes her back over the Mississippi at Baton Rouge…back to Appleton, WI…back to Los Angeles. The nighttime bores the daylights out of me. We’re in exile with the Radio Shack and the Allstate and the Chevron and the Shell… R.I.P. Brad Renfro.