Adam Magyar shoots 50 FPS video of the people standing on the platform from the train as it makes its way into the station. He then slows it down, so that just a fraction of a second of real time becomes seconds. The tracking effect of the moving train is real, but the people seem frozen, stilled in time. The effect is ghostly and voyeuristic. See for yourself.
Adam Magyar – Stainless, 42 Street (excerpt) from Adam Magyar on Vimeo.
Last year I read Marisha Pessl’s “Special Topics in Calamity Physics,” which was an extremely weird story of special high school students (they made me think of Donna Tartt’s “The Secret History,” only younger) and a dark political conspiracy that binds them before it sends them asunder.
What was great about Calamity Physics and the reason I read to the end was Pessl’s aggressive and energetic use of language and metaphor, which were far more powerful than any characterization or storytelling. But they were enough.
“Night Film” is a similar story of paranoid secrets and clandestine uncovering, and suffers from similar astoundingly large lapses in credibility and continuity. But it is in large part saved again by Pessl’s abundantly generous prose.
It doesn’t hurt that the setup, an investigation into the secret life of a film director of dark intentions and hugely successful evocations of the dark arts, is colorfully rendered. In the course of the novel we get tantalizing plot summaries of most if not all of Stanislav Cordova’s 10 films, which are rather implausibly so successful that the latter of them can only be shown in clandestine exhibitions known only to aficionados in such venues as abandoned subway stations. Surprisingly, all of that works.
Less successful are the voices and motivations of the three main characters, who are implausibly thrown together, and then end up bound (at least as long as it is convenient) through thick and thin (though each conveniently exits when the story cannot sustain them). Certainly not enough happens between them to warrant much conversation, except exposition, and the de rigueur banter of any detective novel worth it’s stripes. And as such, their’s isn’t special.
So, this detective novel does not transcend. Instead of being tightly focussed, Pessl’s awesome writing overwhelms. Where the story might call for a sentence or two she piles on the observation and metaphor, all of it gloriously entertaining (that’s why I kept reading) but at some point even my energy was sapped by the lack of focus.
Night Film, like Calamity Physics, is filled with erudition and sharp writing and extended displays of metaphoric exhibitionism. But they both lack focused storytelling. I would recommend both for the fun they offer with words, but hope that she marries that with a resonant plot and compelling characters.