I’ve just found some notes I apparently wrote while watching Catching Fire, which include something about the Capitol looking like San Francisco as seen from Alcatraz, which you can sort of see in this screencap. There would be a sad appropriateness, anyway, in casting San Francisco as the capital of a dystopian surveillance-entertainment state. One of my favourite things about the film was the change, from the first film, in the way it presented the trains. In the first film, the trains show us the gaudy steampunk luxury of the Capitol; in the second film, we peek behind the curtain, and the trains become the laid-down tracks of an ordered, regulated, carceral system.
My notes also reminded me of my absolute favourite moment in the film, when Effie Trinket is leading Katniss and Peeta out to some PR engagement. Striding in front of them she says “Smiles on”, then, without stopping to turn around she adds, “I’m talking to you, Katniss.”
JMW Turner, “Barge on the River, Sunset” (c. 1806-7).
Thinking of climate change and giant robots reminded me of the tenderness towards human fragility and insignificance in Turner’s paintings, a pathos of distance born from the attempt to imaginatively occupy the position of nature’s own vast remorselessness.
My love of images - mesquite flowering, the wind, Ehécatl, whispering its secret knowledge - and words, my passion for the daily struggle to render them concrete in the world and on paper, to render them flesh, keeps me alive.
― Anzaldúa, Borderlands / La Frontera
By means of the breach of philosophical identity, a breach that amounts to addressing the truth to itself in an envelope, to hearing itself speak without opening its mouth or showing its teeth, the bloodiness of a disseminated writing comes to separate the lips, to violate the embouchure of philosophy, putting its tongue into movement, finally bringing it into contact with some other code, of an entirely other kind. A necessarily unique event, nonreproducible, hence illegible as such and, when it happens, inaudible in the conch, between earth and sea, without signature.
― Derrida, “Tympan”