I did a new, rather saucy page of Doll Merchant.
I wonder if it says something about me? I hope I'm not derailing the plot with this sex scene. But, as with every page, I'm not really planning things in advance, so this is just where it seems to be going. I look at it, and I guess it works with the whole underlying scheme that seems to be going--especially as the Merchant seems to be examining Eyeball Pale like she was a doll . . . Why am I trying to interpret it? Shouldn't I know?
Again, I wonder what this says about me.
Well. Spent most of the day with Trisa. We went and saw The Pianist, which I thought was okay. It made me realise how very jaded I am. I think. Or maybe it's how Roman Polanski had meant it to feel--which would be genius in a way.
Unlike in Schindler's List (a film which I was constantly, compulsively comparing The Pianist to), where every instance of a Nazi killing a Jew was devastatingly heartbreakingly horrific, in The Pianist, it got so it was regular. Horrible, but regular. People were dying in the streets, lying in pools of blood and filth. The dead were begged to awaken by their children . . . and it was all trees in the forest.
Adrian Brody's character, who we experience the movie through almost as if we were reading a novel written in first person, has a life to get on with and he often just has to adjust to Hell itself to try and get along. I unmistakably got the sensation of, "If I was there, this is probably how I would have reacted,"
A very, very good film.