That line from The Haunting Of M refers to a late Victorian photograph. So used to the stiff, Stoic, frozen pictures are we that the smear of a rapid-turned figure amidst a tableau of posed bourgeoisie catches notice at once.
Spirits, spirits of the dead. A photo that weighs heavy with Victorian propriety erected when aristocrats, gone, have given way to the newly-rich. A tight-collared, corseted morality whose driving fire -- like all ours -- licks restless even when contained, even more when contained.
Then the scene, the scene, filmed in almost no light, where a barely distinct chair near the foot of the bed seats an even less distinct occupant. Or has it done so? The chair, a small rocker, is left rocking. Or has it been?
There is so much restlessness. Move yourself now. So that you don't come back. Later.
The Burned House
2 days ago