At 7 a.m., Marty McFly’s Rube Goldbergian alarm clock goes off. Suddenly people in scene after scene are awakening to alarms, hearing radios, throwing clocks across rooms, rolling over back to sleep. Marlon Brando puts on cold cream; Willem Dafoe already looks haunted. The young Paul Newman curls up. I hear bells and watched people peeping into their new lovers’ medicine cabinets. At 7:09 a.m., Brando again, staggeringly bloodied and battered, victoriously goes to work at the end of On the Waterfront. Just then, James Bond looks over Pussy Galore; Johnny Cash stakes out a suburban home; a woman and man have morning sex. People soon start catching trains and buses. Coffee rituals begin — scooping beans, boiling water, adding sugar — all over dozens of movies, every single one with a clock in the background. A woman turns from a lover and puts on her bra.
At 7:23 a.m., Tom Hanks, in The Terminal, shaves in an airport bathroom as another man asks, “Ever feel like you’re living in an airport?”. Prisoners start going into prison yards; convicts plan breakouts; someone waits on death row; a woman prepares to go to the gas chamber. At 7:30 a.m. Michael Douglas gets home to a phone message in Fatal Attraction& (it’s Glenn Close who tells him she’ll “call back soon”). Tracy and Hepburn wake up and have breakfast in bed. There’s tooth-brushing, vitamin-taking, curtain-opening. Single dads pack kids off to school, and when the children ask, “Where’s mommy?” the fathers go silent. At 7:48 a.m. a woman says she wants to have “twelve-second sex.” A few minutes later, Woody Allen wakes up with Diane Keaton and says, “I have not slept that long in ages. What time is it?” She says, “7:58 a.m.”
At 8 a.m., more alarms go off; more scenes of the gas chamber; a man says to a woman, “It’s 8:05 a.m. I’m going to fuck you by 10 a.m.” Then Robert Duvall, a.k.a. Lieutenant Kilgore in Apocalypse Now,looks at the carnage all around him, and says, “I love the smell of napalm in the morning.” You’ve heard it a thousand times, but here, when the camera pulls back, you notice that his watch says 8:09 a.m. Alex, the ultraviolent protagonist of A Clockwork Orange, appears as he’s awakened by his feckless mum — and then we get John Travolta and Samuel L. Jackson, covered in blood, having coffee as Quentin Tarantino lectures them about the potential peril of “a Bonnie situation.” At 8:20 a.m. John Candy and Steve Martin wake up in bed together; Candy kisses Martin’s ear. Martin asks Candy where his hands are; Candy says, “Between two pillows.” Martin shrieks, “Those aren’t pillows!” and they both leap out of bed in homosexual panic.
Non so, ma a me ‘sto film sembra una figata unica.
Christian Marclay ha realizzato un film che dura 24 ore e viene proiettato sincrono con il tempo reale del posto in cui avviene lo spettacolo.
Il film, ma essendo Marclay un artista visivo forse si dovrebbe parlare di installazione, di performance?, è composto da una infinita serie di brevissimi spezzoni di film in cui, in un modo o nell’altro, viene fatto riferimento all’ora in quel momento della narrazione.
Per dire, avete mai fatto caso che in Apocalypse Now quando si sente l’odore del napalm l’orologio di Robert Duvall segna le 8:09 del mattino?
E via così per 24 ore filate.
Un meraviglioso omaggio al cinema.
Qualcuno ha già proposto di caricare il film su un mini-schermo e farne un orologio da casa.
Sarei disposto a pagare parecchio.