His shoes are shining and they are black, the tuxedo is black. And yet he is not a man, despite those hands. He is a bird, he is turning. Near him there has been a dead bird already.
Follow-up to a previous proposal that was not forgotten:
See above for source material. Text in progress.
[Brief note: the specific prose of cinema, or at least its time signature, must turn on the has been. At least insofar as we are talking of cameras that can track or pan, and especially of the moves that came to be called decoupage: the dissection and plotting of spaces already present and not constructed from scratch, not a montage of disparate elements. That white bird has been there. It turns out to be still.
Where cinema hits us bodily, uneases the guts, is the fact that it was here in front of us, triangulated somewhere between where we look and the eyes of the bird mask, and we could not see it. Even if one were to protest and say, yes, but we didn't see the full field first, that close framing on those shoes means that the appearance of both the mask and then the white bird are of the order of different shots, such that camera movement performs the same work of splicing, one would protest back: who ever said that any shot could ever establish the full field? As if there weren't always things off to the side, waiting in the wings, or, lest we forget, directly behind us.
And what's wrong is to think this has much of anything to do with realism.]