Two nights ago, I was rooting through a tower of legal pads I have around the house. I mainly use them to memorialize notes (both random and purposeful), stray phrases, and sentences I intended to use in the composition of this piece or that one (this is, of course, back when I was still actively engaged in writing about film). As I say, I was going through the shapeless mass of these contents when I came across the following; written well over a year ago, and for a purpose I'm unable to recall:
Metropolis, that occult skyscraper of vision piled atop ever more crazed vision; of fairy tale narrative and futuristic nightmare; of half-buried eroticism and a mystic symbology lifted, with all the weightless ease of an empty bottle, from the Old Testament; all in service to a vaguely Socialist fever dream its director, Fritz Lang, had no real interest in. That tattered Metropolis, in all of its deranged willfulness and splendor, will almost certainly never be seen in its entirety again.
On this auspicious day . . . a day on which that blinkered observation is reduced to joyous ash with the discovery, at long last, of all that has been missing from Lang's half-sane masterwork . . . I feel chuffed enuff to go solo, as it were, and start the cine-blog you are reading now.