{"id":129126,"date":"2018-09-07T13:21:11","date_gmt":"2018-09-07T17:21:11","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=129126"},"modified":"2018-09-07T13:43:52","modified_gmt":"2018-09-07T17:43:52","slug":"staff-picks-dubbing-and-pill-popping","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/09\/07\/staff-picks-dubbing-and-pill-popping\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Dubbing and Pill Popping"},"content":{"rendered":"

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While watching Dario Argento\u2019s engrossingly decadent, nonsensical, phantasmagoric ballet-school horror film Suspiria <\/em>at the IFC Center<\/a>, the scales fell from my eyes. I had previously come to accept as an unfortunate but unavoidable fact that the great Italian films produced in the forty years after the Second World War\u2014films by Rossellini, Fellini, Pasolini, Antonioni, De Sica, and Argento\u2014had all their dialogue dubbed in post-production, with no concern for fidelity to the acoustical environment or the movement of the actors\u2019 mouths. Whispers are deafening; sentences careen blithely on after an actor\u2019s face has gone still; an actor\u2019s mouth plainly repeats the same word over and over as the soundtrack magically produces the most varied eloquence. I assumed it a national quirk, like the French and their reverence for Jerry Lewis, and the price of admission to these masterpieces\u2014to their sensuousness, their mixture of pitiless realism and old Hollywood glamour, their feel for the physicality of actors. Then, with Suspiria<\/em>\u2014in which these qualities are raised to the nth degree, in which pure style is predominant over any narrative coherence\u2014I realized the atrocious dubbing, the flagrant lack of concern for dialogue, is inextricable from the very things that make these movies uniquely great. In essence, the Italians continued to make silent films deep into the sound era, with all the lost qualities inherent to silent film. The decoupling of dialogue from filming seemed to unchain the camera of the Italian filmmakers, free to roam at will, free to hold and hold on faces, waiting for the slightest barometric shift. In Antonioni\u2019s L\u2019Eclisse<\/em>, far more information is conveyed by the choreography of two characters following each other through an apartment than by dialogue. The Italian film stars of the era\u2014Marcello Mastroianni, Monica Vitti, Sophia Loren, etc.\u2014 are so vivid in memory precisely because their voices are indistinct. Compare them to a star like Humphrey Bogart, whose voice is so famous, and whose iconic moments\u2014\u201cHere\u2019s looking at you, kid\u201d\u2014are so often bound up with dialogue. The aura of the Italian stars is visual, a silent luminosity adhering to them like the saintly halos in an icon. As the faded silent film star Norma Desmond says, contemptuously, in Sunset Boulevard<\/em>: \u201cWe <\/em>didn\u2019t need dialogue\u2014we had faces!\u201d \u2014Matt Levin<\/strong><\/p>\n

As Alicia Keys once so sagely sang, \u201cSome people need three dozen roses, and that\u2019s the only way to prove you love them.\u201d All I need is a few poems sent to my inbox. This week my beau obliged me with three poems by Shira Erlichman<\/a>, published in the Rumpus. Erlichman\u2019s poems are equal part thorn and flower. I love a poet who knows what to do with a title, and Erlichman\u2019s are as spare and spritely as the rest of her text. \u201cAlice in a White Towel at the Top of the Banister, Dripping\u201d delivers on its budding promise, working through the complex relationship a child has to her babysitter, a hydra of feeling: one head mother, one head sister, one head older self, one head foundational sexual fantasy. Another poem, \u201cHow to Become a Forest Fire,\u201d is full of conceits which shouldn\u2019t work and do. \u201cThe teacher has never studied the topic. \u2018I\u2019ve been\/many things, but a forest fire, not yet.\u2019\u201d And then: \u201cTomorrow is our final exam. No pens, no paper, no gasoline.\u201d The final poem in the trio, \u201cThe Deer,\u201d is the hardest to write about but no less fine. The speaker sees herself in skinned deer unloaded from a truck. Against the oddity, I thought, \u201cOh yes. I, too, have been a skinned deer on Flatbush Avenue.\u201d For Freud the uncanny was \u201cthat class of the terrifying which leads back to something long known to us, once very familiar.\u201d Erlichman\u2019s poems are superlatively uncanny. You recognize the language, the images, the feeling, but the terror and the power is all new. \u2014Julia Berick<\/strong><\/p>\n

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Dizziness, drowsiness, dry mouth, sneezing, sore throat, increased urination, decreased sexual desire, nausea, numbing, problems with memory, and inability to orgasm. These are just some of the possible side effects of Celexa, an antidepressant that Sarah Fawn Montgomery\u2019s family has been taking for generations to combat various anxiety disorders. Montgomery\u2019s journalistic memoir,\u00a0Quite Mad<\/em><\/a>, is a story of a woman diagnosed with debilitating anxiety, OCD, and PTSD. She envelops her readers in the turbulence of her every-day existence, plagued with panic attacks, persistent fears, and self-doubts. Time and time again, Montgomery is shocked when people tell her that drugs will help her feel \u201cnormal,\u201d that another diagnosis or a new pill is the answer. But this toxic perception of mental illness\u2014what it is, how to cure it\u2014doesn\u2019t come from the pills. Montgomery reveals that it\u2019s perpetuated by American culture itself. In recent years, depression and anxiety have become fashionable topics, diagnosed individuals are often forced to hide in stigmatized silence.\u00a0Montgomery puts American denial on display, describing why we label mental illness so paradoxically: \u201cto talk of disease without cure is problematic for a country concerned with triumph.\u201d\u00a0As a country we choose to pop pills instead of accepting the difficult aspects of human existence, medicating ourselves into oblivion.\u00a0Quite Mad\u00a0<\/em>is the wake-up call that we need. \u2014Madeline Day <\/strong><\/p>\n

The first time I watched the movie\u00a0Eraserhead<\/i>, I sat through the credits, stunned silent and head spinning. I had never in my life seen anything like that before, and while it is a large claim to say a film has changed you, it undoubtedly changed\u2014expanded\u2014my understanding of what filmmaking can do. It isn\u2019t just the pioneering foray into the genre of horror (\u201cOh, you\u00a0are<\/i>\u00a0sick!\u201d), but the creation of an aesthetic world that felt so fully realized. To this day I have yet to find a movie with sound design as atmospheric and subtly unsettling.\u00a0Room to Dream<\/i><\/a>, a memoir\/biography hybrid by Lynch and Kristine McKenna, is a hefty hardcover that immediately states its eschewal of critical analysis in favor of offering the reader insight into the man himself. Lynch\u2019s work, however, is everywhere in it. One quote strikes right at the heart of Lynch: \u201cI think that people feel fear even when they don\u2019t understand the reason for it. Sometimes you walk into a room and you can sense that something\u2019s wrong.\u201d This has always been Lynch\u2019s particular gift: the ability to invoke on-screen a fear that comes from some place beyond our immediate reality. Room to Dream<\/i>\u2019s method is bifurcated: McKenna writes one chapter of straight biography based on research and interviews, which is then followed by a chapter of memories and reactions written by Lynch. The result is episodic and detail-oriented, a truly absorbing portrait of a man. While\u00a0Eraserhead<\/i>\u00a0is a singular note in Lynch\u2019s ouevre, being stylistically very different than his work on\u00a0Mulhullond Drive<\/i>,\u00a0Blue Velvet<\/i>, or\u00a0Twin Peaks<\/i>, it is still true that collectively Lynch is an artist who offers a vision of American life that strikes at the fear we can\u2019t name, who portrays the strangeness that can only exist outside fiction.\u00a0Room to Dream<\/i>\u00a0is a key into that vision.\u00a0\u2014Lauren Kane<\/strong><\/p>\n

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 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

While watching Dario Argento\u2019s engrossingly decadent, nonsensical, phantasmagoric ballet-school horror film Suspiria at the IFC Center, the scales fell from my eyes. I had previously come to accept as an unfortunate but unavoidable fact that the great Italian films produced in the forty years after the Second World War\u2014films by Rossellini, Fellini, Pasolini, Antonioni, De […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[438],"tags":[36850,36848,2633,13747,36854,36851,36853,36852,34605,36849,7811],"class_list":["post-129126","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading","tag-alicia-keys","tag-daria-argento","tag-david-lynch","tag-eraserhead","tag-kristine-mckenna","tag-quite-mad","tag-room-to-dream","tag-sarah-fawn-montgomery","tag-shira-erlichman","tag-suspira","tag-the-rumpus"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Dubbing and Pill Popping by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"This week, the staff of 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