“No one does ‘existential dread’ as well as Philip Glass”

If there's one filmmaker I hate, to the point of wanting to beat him to a pulp, it's Errol Morris 

TR: What other documentary filmmakers do you admire?

EM: Certainly Fred Wiseman. We both live in Cambridge too, and he’s a friend of mine. I find this kind of universe he’s created, the Fred Wiseman universe, the Fred Wiseman cosmology, to be endlessly fascinating. I often am perplexed at how he is perceived as a kind of sociologist, as if he is going from one institution to another and chronicling it much as a sociologist might study organisations by examining each of them in turn. But I think his enterprise is very, very different from that, and that Fred has created a whole sort of deeply expressionistic, surreal films. Very much Samuel Becket-like in their essence. If you like, various theatres of the absurd. And he also strikes me as one of the most truly perverse filmmakers, maybe the most perverse filmmaker of all time.

TR: In what sense?

EM: Because he has created one nightmare after another. Man at his most dysfunctional. And insane.

TR: But surely he would say that he simply sits back and watches?

EM: Well, yes, he does. But the end result of his watching is something that is so much about Fred and about how Fred sees the world, which is a wonderful thing, not a bad thing. It seems like the enterprise and the essence of art. Fred has actually managed to create a kind of personal universe on film that I find compelling. I call him the king of misanthropic cinema.

TR: And his response is?

EM: I think he takes it, as well he should, as a compliment.

I followed the Morris/Kuhn fracas, probably through Leiter. I thought I must have written something here, but I didn't. I've mentioned him and my dislike twice. 

I hated The Thin Blue Line. I saw it when it came out, and I knew what it was. I already knew what Philip Glass had become. I probably saw it Chicago, when I was living with Graeber again, and sitting in with Babette Mangolte. I'd published my piece the year before, and I was already working on the megillah.

If the point is to get an innocent man out of prison, then everything else is irrelevant. If the point is the creation of "art", then the life of the man in front of the camera is secondary. Morris reduces art to illustration, but then indulges aestheticized artiness He believes in "truth", so art is emptiness. Then why even bother? It's the definition of scholastic decadence, Mannerism without irony.  He calls Wiseman "the king of misanthropic cinema" because Wiseman says his films are "fictional".  Morris, the condescending hypocrite and pedant, accuses Wiseman of nihilism. 

As has been said many times over the past year, every accusation is a confession.

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I found of video of Wiseman on a French TV, chatting in French. I've never seen him so comfortable in an interview. He's always been a sort of honest conservative classicist.

Godard on Leacock.

"There's no point in having sharp images if you've got fuzzy ideas. Leacock's lack of subjectivity leads him ultimately to a lack of objectivity. He doesn't even know he's a metteur-en-scene, that pure reportage doesn't exist."

A resonant encounter occurs at the point in Freedom, Merkel’s memoir, where the story passes from her first life into her second. At the beginning of November 1990, she had just been preselected as the Christian Democratic Union candidate for Stralsund-Rügen-Grimmen on the coast of the Baltic Sea. The GDR had ceased to exist a month before; the first elections of the newly unified Germany were a month away. As she toured her prospective constituency, she met with fishermen in a little town called Lobbe on the island of Rügen. She sat with them in their hut amid bottles, rubbish and equipment, making hesitant conversation but also enjoying their ‘sociable silence’. It was a complicated moment: the fishermen, hardy men of the Baltic coast, knew it was unlikely that their industry would survive the restructuring ahead. Most of them eventually went out of business. To them, Merkel writes, European fisheries policy seemed ‘a monstrous bureaucratic machine impervious to their concerns’. But at the heart of her recollection of this scene, we find the sentence: ‘It was the first time I had ever held a turbot in my hands and felt its distinctive stone-like bumps.’...

Putin struck her as a flawed individual, hypersensitive to slights yet always ready to dish them out to others. One could find all of this ‘childish and reprehensible’, she writes, ‘but there Russia was, still on the map.’

As these last words make clear, the problem of Putin and the question of Russia always remained separate in Merkel’s thinking. Merkel excelled in Russian at school and acquired a respect for Russian culture that has never left her. She represented her school in East Germany’s annual Russian language Olympiad, and by the age of fifteen she was the national champion in the language of the occupying power. Her youthful trips to Russia were moments of high excitement and expanding horizons. In 1969, she found that unlike in the GDR, you could get the Beatles on vinyl in Moscow (she promptly bought Yellow Submarine). She met young Russians with outspoken, dissenting opinions. She was astonished to be told by some members of the Komsomol (the Communist Youth League) in Moscow that the division of Germany was unnatural and that it was only a matter of time before the country would be unified again. She was ‘like a sponge’ on these journeys, she writes, ‘absorbing anything that could broaden my horizons beyond East Germany’. 

A Bulgarian I know went to Cuba on vacation. He ended up hanging out with one of Che Guevara's sons. But he also met a man who was happy to speak Bulgarian again; he'd studied there in the 60s. Merkel's conservatism isn't cold war Western. Her openness to immigrants is something from the conservatism of the communist east. Milanovic gets the joke. 

"...to scare enemies, and on occasion kill them."

Mariana Pérez Mora, Bank of America asks about DOGE:

Gizmodo, Palantir’s Billionaire CEO Just Can’t Stop Talking About Killing People

We are the hollow men

We are the stuffed men 

Leaning together

Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!

Our dried voices, when 

We whisper together 

Are quiet and meaningless

As wind in dry grass 

Or rats’ feet over broken glass

In our dry cellar

Someone grabbed some text from Yarvin's interview, so I did the obvious. I told Sam Moyn today that and he his peers are more responsible than anyone for the failure of the republic. Musk is a symptom. If I want to be the determinist I sometimes claim to be—If *I* want to be the determinist *I* sometimes claim to be—I shouldn't credit anyone as a cause, but I really hate liberals so fucking much. And I hate the pretensions of Oxbridge philosophy, the academic "left", and cosplay communists.  

Yarvin doesn't know what aristocracy is  any more than liberals do. I'm not going to repeat myself for the thousandth time.

In other countries most of the intellectual left admit if only tacitly, that they defend the ideals of the high bourgeois. Americans have no sense of irony. The country has been destroyed by sincerity.