Monday, June 23, 2014

Sonnet 32, by NY Shakespeare Exchange


If thou survive my well-contented day,
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,
Compare them with the bett'ring of the time,
And though they be outstripped by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
O! then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:
'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
To march in ranks of better equipage:
     But since he died and poets better prove,
     Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love'.
Sonnet 32, from The Sonnet Project, by the New York Shakespeare Exchange.

A rotary phone, a typewriter, and a videocassette for a video camera, all in a boxy luggage, are easily markers for the past.  Even the address book, photo album, and fax transmission all point to the past.  But the filmmaker takes a more complex view on time.  The lady seems to live in the present, and perhaps she never quite let go of outdated tools and devices.  But when she videotapes herself, it's as though we slid into the past.  The light, the color, the composition of the Red Cube in the background (rf. Instagram) suggest that she had somehow videotaped a message from the past.  

Now, the sonnet suggests that the speaker meant for her lover to hear her message ("These poor rude lines") after she had died.  But the creepy thing, if I've understood correctly, is that her lover ("my friend") apparently had died already.  At first I thought the Muse was she herself, but the Muse must've simply been his inspiration, who of course died along with him.  He was a poet, while she will (continue to) read other poets, it is more of an academic reading ("for their style"), whereas she will (continue to) read him for the love they had together.  So, you see, it is deft artistry from both Shakespeare and the filmmaker to roll past, present and future into one little sonnet and film.

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