Stalker
Numbed by the mythologised wonder of telekinesis. I'm depressed and enthralled by Stalker – Tarkovsky's poetry written in a petty, falsified altruism. Totally withdrawn from Roadside Picnic's genius use of spectacle to build a horrifying image of our comparable scale to that of an ant; Stalker is much more past that idea.
Much more front-facing to reality, focused on the poetry within the sickening first-person perspective of humanity and less on the grander image of our meaning.
Desiring machines desiring our masturbatory poetry of our desirousness. Nobody is capable of being the machine anymore, faced with new-age inadequacy found in an instilled desire to be and mean something more than something instilled to just desire.
A looping horror, a nightmare of ideals, never wanting anything but to unlearn it all and un-imagine all the possibilities.