By 1974, TITANPOINTE was complete.
Which brings us to Francis Ford Coppola for the first time.
Where AT&T is LITHIUM.
Briefly dominating Drudge Report.
And then gone.
“Up on the twenty-ninth floor
Up on the twenty-ninth floor”
Four locks. And an alarm. A bottle of wine.
No phone. Happy 44th birthday.
Not happy about this.
Gene Hackman in this masterpiece.
From Antonioni we got Blowup eight years previous.
But this time it is all about getting a fat sound.
It is a love for one’s work.
Like Gregg Popovich.
But scarier. Like 33 Thomas Street.
SMPTE for the devil…seems.
Must have a mix. Phasing.
Louder. In phase.
Knock. Out of phase.
Urgently. For young Teri Garr.
It doesn’t work.
It bleeds you of life electricity.
On the trolley.
Snapping synapse line. Electrical cable overhead.
And power down. Stuck. To think. In silhouette.
Producing hit intelligence.
But not really thinking too much about the consumers.
Until the cris de coeur.
Or crise cardiaque.
When you are the only one between groundbreaking intel and the world at large.
And you are hearing it (“getting” it) for the first time.
When your job becomes an obsession.
Because of a dedication to excellence.
His famous gray plastic raincoat.
We think Manfred Eicher. And François Musy.
Long nights going through the takes.
Whispering “conscience”…in that Swiss French we know so well.
Gently coated with cigars.
Shirley Feeney is here.
But no Laverne.
The opening take so slow.
New Orleans jazz in many reverbed permutations.
Slightly shifting like Debussy’s clouds.
Or the light on Monet’s haystacks.
In a sonic crosshairs.
Most satisfying is the breaking up.
The broken telegraph gibberish of the rhythmic signal skating on intelligibility.
As if he’s heading to 26 Federal Plaza.
But it’s more corporate espionage.
A masterpiece of sound film.
Which emphasizes that which is usually an afterthought.
We wait to decode the universe on our doorstep.