The car is sloshing through flooded roads, the water reaching halfway up the tires. There is fog, and old bridges. There are weeds, and tall stalks of dry grass, abandoned car tires and a handful of birds. I have been drawn to these places my entire life. Backwaters, forgotten industrial kingdoms. Old trains, empty parking lots and the phantoms of another time. The camera is heavy in my arms, a familiar weight. Favorite lenses, favorite compositions, the sound of distant traffic. The story to unearth and tell, with paintbrushes of gravel, grit and the sheen of cold rain. This is my kind of filmmaking, and has been for 30 years now.

Later, we are in a cemetery and it strikes me that all of the shots are graves of some kind. Something stopped breathing, and now rests here - a person, or a bridge, a car, a bicycle. They all eventually find their way back to the mud. There is something terribly graceful about that, not sad or depressing but elegant.


Popular Posts