The FT recites the commonplace observation that curvaceous, minimalist 1960s commercial designs look “space-age”, as if inspired by 1960s SF films, principally 2001: A Space Odyssey:
which might indeed stand comparison with, say, Maurice Calka’s PDG Desk:
The writer, Josh Sims, says there’s a similar “stripped back, wipe-down, germ-free” vision of the future in Andrei Tarkovsky’s Solaris. I think he might want to refresh his memory of this film:
But more generally I think he’s missing the point I made rather eloquently in my last post. Isn’t it more likely that, rather than furniture designers looking at film designers, they were all looking at the slightly older generation of modernist sculptors?
I’ve met a few people who think that the films of Andrei Tarkovsky are boring. I understand. These films are slow. Most don’t have much of a story. There’s not much sex or violence or snappy dialogue. I was bored myself the first few times I watched Tarkovsky films. I loved the beautiful, enigmatic imagery, the evocation of dream logic, but it was an effort to pay attention. Then something happened. Continue reading Tarkovsky and boredom
Modesty is one of his defining traits. Rowan Williams, whom both critics and allies agree is marked by a rare humility – and even that most elusive of qualities, “holiness” – is said by those who know him to be something of a reluctant Archbishop of Canterbury, called to service by faith, not ambition. … This would be the first of several conversations I had with this private man, whom one friend has described as “a recluse with a social conscience”.
James Macintrye seems to have fallen in love with his subject in his rather clumsy article. About the matter at hand, though, all we get is “His favourite films are Andrei Tarkovsky’s Andrei Rublev and The Muppet Christmas Carol.” I’m not sure I believe that.
Andrei Rublev is one of Rowan Williams’ favourite films. Not too surprising – it’s about God and it’s “intellectual”, as is the archbishop. Does he also identify with Tarkovsky‘s magnificently narcissistic self-portrait of the artist as a spiritually refined, disastrously unworldly pilgrim through life, ineffectual in his time but redeemed by his own helpless sincerity and the adulation of posterity? When I’ve read the interview I’ll let you know. Thanks to infinite thought for the tip.
I’m thinking of the novel, not the Tarkovsky film, and certainly not the cloying, pointless Soderbergh/Clooney version.