Particles of Truth (2005)No man is an island. Freud (Totem and Taboo 1913) said that. Maybe not. Simon and Garfunkel (Sounds of Silence 1966) said the opposite. At least no one can remain an island for ever lest be driven mad by loneliness and unsympathetic despair. Most men understand this at some level. The sex drive is the most primal expression of this. Women, or at least the most he’s encountered of late, Frank thinks, try to deny this as long as possible. Men and women often “settle” with a mate because of this. Love the one you’re with. Stephen Stills (Self-titled 1970) said this. Others put up wall of introspection, distractions and self- amusement.
But enough of who said what, the point is moot when sitting at the “Center of the [continental] United States" in Lebanon, Kansas. Here, with its lonely rolling prairies
as far as the eye can see, 19 miles south of the Nebraska border, is by extraction, politics, religion, socio-economics, and cultural bravado possibly the center of the universe itself. It even has a USA-approved chapel and creepy wooden crucifix.
His cohort on this recent expedition across America’s vast middle, surveying for archaeological sites and hitting every tourist trap is Angry Jamie who now clambers up atop the American flag marking the spot to smoke while Frank sits at the cross-roads contemplating life and the expanse of grassland all around. He calls over his shoulder to ask Angry Jamie if they should erect a similar roadside attraction at the center of all the US, Alaska and Hawaii included. Angry Jamie believes that the spot might be in Mexico. He may be right. But whether to also include, Puerto Rico, parts of Antarctica, Iraq and the moon are another issue. Instead they agree to start up a local baseball team and call it them the Lebanon Centrists.
Angry Jamie, now scribbling away on his sketch pad, is not all that angry, just young, outspoken and away from his girl, and his home. A temporary island unto himself.
Another island, filmmaker Jennifer Elster, is a prime example of the folly of self-isolation. Her film Particles of Truth (Hart Sharp Video 2005) which she wrote, directed, produced, and stars in is not only a study in isolation, but is also ironically crippled by her monopoly over it. Film-making, good film-making is a collaborative art. Particles of Truth is myopic at best. It is monolithic shite. She is no Kubrick (Lolita 1962), no Orson Welles (Citizen Kane 1941).
It is, in short, Particles of Truth is the story of a troubled artist, Lilli, who has closed herself off from other because of a rocky childhood; she meets a cute, hermit writer, Morrison. They fall in love but both must come out of their protective shells, etc. etc. Go watch As Good As It Gets (Brooks 1997). Same story, more or less, but more entertaining.
Particles of Truth knocks you over the head with blatant, elementary symbolism. Lilli is represented by a butterfly. Yes, we can see her character bust blossom out of its cocoon. Her father is stretched out on a cross-shaped bed. This was old hack when Paul Newman splays out on a table, Jesus-like after the hard-boiled egg scene in Cool Hand Luke (Rosenberg 1967).
Ironic graffiti and signs also abound. Oh, yes; things are “Out of Order” for the characters. Elster probably found this delicious as she blocked scenes. Frank had enough after the “Watch Your Head” sign in Reservoir Dogs (Tarantino 1992)
Elster doesn’t even seem to have given herself a continuity checker. Lilli’s joint gets longer as she puffs it. Morrison’s beard comes and goes in is thickness. Her character’s parents never even seem to age from flashbacks.
It’s a shame; the acting and photography aren’t too bad. This isn’t a case of no talent. It’s a case of a single vision, gone unchecked.
In short, it has a terrible script with all too convenient dialogue and unnatural plot points. Lilli’s father has AIDS, not cancer, etc. So what? People just don’t act like this. Morrison is an agoraphobic or a germophobe. Or maybe OCD? It is not clear, but he easily seems to pretty easily forget this when pursuing Lilli. It is an insult to the mentally ill. People with these conditions should write her a scathing letter for her casualness, if they would leave their homes to hop down to the Blockbuster in order to be insulted, that is.
But enough of who said what, the point is moot when sitting at the “Center of the [continental] United States" in Lebanon, Kansas. Here, with its lonely rolling prairies
as far as the eye can see, 19 miles south of the Nebraska border, is by extraction, politics, religion, socio-economics, and cultural bravado possibly the center of the universe itself. It even has a USA-approved chapel and creepy wooden crucifix.His cohort on this recent expedition across America’s vast middle, surveying for archaeological sites and hitting every tourist trap is Angry Jamie who now clambers up atop the American flag marking the spot to smoke while Frank sits at the cross-roads contemplating life and the expanse of grassland all around. He calls over his shoulder to ask Angry Jamie if they should erect a similar roadside attraction at the center of all the US, Alaska and Hawaii included. Angry Jamie believes that the spot might be in Mexico. He may be right. But whether to also include, Puerto Rico, parts of Antarctica, Iraq and the moon are another issue. Instead they agree to start up a local baseball team and call it them the Lebanon Centrists.
Angry Jamie, now scribbling away on his sketch pad, is not all that angry, just young, outspoken and away from his girl, and his home. A temporary island unto himself.
Another island, filmmaker Jennifer Elster, is a prime example of the folly of self-isolation. Her film Particles of Truth (Hart Sharp Video 2005) which she wrote, directed, produced, and stars in is not only a study in isolation, but is also ironically crippled by her monopoly over it. Film-making, good film-making is a collaborative art. Particles of Truth is myopic at best. It is monolithic shite. She is no Kubrick (Lolita 1962), no Orson Welles (Citizen Kane 1941).
It is, in short, Particles of Truth is the story of a troubled artist, Lilli, who has closed herself off from other because of a rocky childhood; she meets a cute, hermit writer, Morrison. They fall in love but both must come out of their protective shells, etc. etc. Go watch As Good As It Gets (Brooks 1997). Same story, more or less, but more entertaining.Particles of Truth knocks you over the head with blatant, elementary symbolism. Lilli is represented by a butterfly. Yes, we can see her character bust blossom out of its cocoon. Her father is stretched out on a cross-shaped bed. This was old hack when Paul Newman splays out on a table, Jesus-like after the hard-boiled egg scene in Cool Hand Luke (Rosenberg 1967).
Ironic graffiti and signs also abound. Oh, yes; things are “Out of Order” for the characters. Elster probably found this delicious as she blocked scenes. Frank had enough after the “Watch Your Head” sign in Reservoir Dogs (Tarantino 1992)Elster doesn’t even seem to have given herself a continuity checker. Lilli’s joint gets longer as she puffs it. Morrison’s beard comes and goes in is thickness. Her character’s parents never even seem to age from flashbacks.
It’s a shame; the acting and photography aren’t too bad. This isn’t a case of no talent. It’s a case of a single vision, gone unchecked.
In short, it has a terrible script with all too convenient dialogue and unnatural plot points. Lilli’s father has AIDS, not cancer, etc. So what? People just don’t act like this. Morrison is an agoraphobic or a germophobe. Or maybe OCD? It is not clear, but he easily seems to pretty easily forget this when pursuing Lilli. It is an insult to the mentally ill. People with these conditions should write her a scathing letter for her casualness, if they would leave their homes to hop down to the Blockbuster in order to be insulted, that is.
Still if you like this sort of pretentious artsy tripe, go rent it. Shit, even the title is pretentious. Grab Waking Life (Linklater 2001) and Pi (Aronofsky 1998) while you’re at it. But Frank won’t join you. He’d rather be popping Deliverance (Boorman 1972) or even the Danish masterpiece of sock puppetry Reptilicus (Bang and Pink 1961) into his DVD-player.
But for now, Frank fires up a cigarette, a bad habit which is a comfort driving through endless Kansas. It is a bad habit he plans to abruptly stop when he gets back home. Frank is no island any more. His love is a jetty to the fertile mainland of Sugarloaf Jones. He can still feel this rocky crag, his arm, reaching out to the warm coastal plain, her waist, thighs, breasts. Miss you, Princess.
posted by Graveyard Frank at 11:20 PM
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