truefoes: He wrote me that in the suburbs of Tokyo there is a temple consecrated to cats. I wish I could convey you the simplicity—the lack of affectation of this couple who had come to place an inscribed wooden slat in the cat cemetery so their cat Tora would be protected. No she wasn’t dead, only run away. But on the day of her death no one would know how to pray for her, how to intercede with death so that he would call her by her right name. So they had to come there, both of them, under the rain, to perform the rite that would repair the web of time where it had been broken. Sans Soleil (dir. Chris Marker — 1983) Bloody hell, it was only yesterday, Chris Marker’s 91st birthday, that I read a few words on him by Resnais and thought of revisiting Sans Soleil because it’s one of those films for me which demarcates time and bears witness to my life. I instead reread his text on Vertigo which remains as ever present in my mind as Rivette’s text on Kapo. Marker is a rare director whose vivid imagination has never oppressed me; the images and words (and what words, like Magritte’s) were always a source of liberation. It’s no surprise then that his work has been an imaginative catalyst for other filmmakers, writers, musicians, and photographers. It always seemed so easy to read Marker’s autobiography in his work so I find it quite amusing (but still fucking sad) that his final film is set to screen soon at Locarno - in Marker’s case, the work goes on even when the biography ends. I’m still a bit disoriented by the news and the following remembrances make me feel even more anchor-less but that’s how I want to remember this man today.  Roundup of links at Keyframe Daily and Film Studies for Free Lee Rourke at The Guardian Roger Tailleur at Rouge  Marker’s YouTube channel Letters from Siberia, maintained by JAFB Marker’s Slon Tango Marker’s photographs of the Paris Metro Craig Keller’s translation of Marker’s essay accompanying Leila Attacks Emilie Bickerton at LARB Agnes Varda’s visit to Marker’s studio J.G. Ballard on La Jetée A few texts from Marker’s films

truefoes:

He wrote me that in the suburbs of Tokyo there is a temple consecrated to cats. I wish I could convey you the simplicity—the lack of affectation of this couple who had come to place an inscribed wooden slat in the cat cemetery so their cat Tora would be protected. No she wasn’t dead, only run away. But on the day of her death no one would know how to pray for her, how to intercede with death so that he would call her by her right name. So they had to come there, both of them, under the rain, to perform the rite that would repair the web of time where it had been broken.

Sans Soleil (dir. Chris Marker — 1983)

Bloody hell, it was only yesterday, Chris Marker’s 91st birthday, that I read a few words on him by Resnais and thought of revisiting Sans Soleil because it’s one of those films for me which demarcates time and bears witness to my life. I instead reread his text on Vertigo which remains as ever present in my mind as Rivette’s text on Kapo. Marker is a rare director whose vivid imagination has never oppressed me; the images and words (and what words, like Magritte’s) were always a source of liberation. It’s no surprise then that his work has been an imaginative catalyst for other filmmakers, writers, musicians, and photographers. It always seemed so easy to read Marker’s autobiography in his work so I find it quite amusing (but still fucking sad) that his final film is set to screen soon at Locarno - in Marker’s case, the work goes on even when the biography ends. I’m still a bit disoriented by the news and the following remembrances make me feel even more anchor-less but that’s how I want to remember this man today. 

(via keyframedaily)

Notes

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