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Tableau VIII

Yada yada yada cinema.

Yada yada…

Few intellectuals can get away with liking sports 🙂

Oasis like Man City.

But no one’s ever accused Oasis of being intellectuals.

And yet, they are two fucking smart blokes (and a handful of out-of-focus guys).

Robin Williams liked baseball in Good Will Hunting.

And he was a psycholochiatrist (?).

But that was a fictional character.

Robin Williams never treated anyone.  Except with laughter.

[the best medicine]

But isn’t chess a sport?

Oh, I see.  It’s a game.

And soccer (or “football”)…  Is it a game?  Or a sport?

Chess is a game of skill, right?

And basketball…a game of chance?

Me getting to a point really takes the fun out of this.

Napoleon was bad at chess.

From what I’ve heard.

A reliable source.

But he was good-to-great at strategy, right?

Beethoven wrote his 3rd Symphony and dedicated it to Napoleon.

Then he scratched out the dedication.

When Napoleon declared himself Emperor.

Good old Beethoven…

After Beethoven shook the musical world with his Eroica Symphony (#3), he went back to the Haydn/Mozart model with his 4th.

But he had gained something…in going SO FAR out on a limb with the third:


And so the 4th only has the superstructure of a Haydn or Mozart symphony.

But it is undeniably Beethovenian.

It’s like Ludwig needed a break.

#3 was so revolutionary.

And so he retreated (strategy) into the comfort of classicism.

But his romantic heart still beat.

And he wasn’t quiet for long.

Duh duh duh duuuuuuuuuuh….

Duh duh duh duuuuuuuuuuuh…

[hmmm, I guess I have more options than I realized]


but still no Turkish i (sans dot).

It bears mentioning.

[rest] duh duh duh duuuuuuuuuh….

[rest] duh duh duh duuuuuuuuuh…

A rest is unheard.

And to start a work with a rest means the rest is infinitely more silent.

It’s on the page.

But you’d have to see the page.

To know it’s there.

What does any of this have to do with cinema?

Not much.

Except it lets us know how the stream of consciousness has invaded film through such artists as Jean-Luc Godard.

You know, in France…post-WWII…they taught music theory by a rather ingenious method.

[and I think it had been going on far longer than that]

Nadia Boulanger, who taught the likes of Bernstein/Copland/etc., taught by practice.

Wanna write a barcarole like Chopin?


Write one.

Wanna write a string quartet like Shostakovich?


Write one.

Wanna understand Bach’s Two-Part Inventions?

Write one.

Wanna understand Scriabin?

Write like him.

You get the picture.

Which brings us back to Elmyr d’Hory…the great art forger.

If you can fool a major curator with your Modigliani, then you understand the man’s art.

You understand the lines of Matisse.

You understand what distinguishes one master from another.

And in so doing…in such imitative practice, you find what is yours.

You create your own personality.

Like a mosaic.

You paste bits and pieces of past masters to your own edifice.

You create your self.

At least, the self everybody sees.

But we are also that which is uncontrollable.

Which is beautiful.  And scary.


Let us step outside of reality.

Lets our brains decompress.

From the pressures of the real world.



And word play leads us right to the heart of not only psychotherapy, but also the Surrealists.


It is no accident.

That James Joyce and Alfred Hitchcock both so adored the pun.

And these veins of history will take us back through the dialect writing of Joel Chandler Harris and others.

Back to the Middle English of Chaucer.

Back to a cave man clacking two stones together.






[clack clack]







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