Descent Film Quotes

PLAINVILLE WAS A QUAINT picturesque town. Northern California’s version of Andy Griffith’s Mayberry. Bucolic enough to provide cinematic contrast for any low-budget stalk-and-slash film. Juxtaposition played just as important a role in still photography as it did in cinematography. Maybe that’s why Natalie Jones had picked Plainville for her final descent into darkness. The climactic scene in a comedic tragedy. Cast of one. Audience of one. Curtain closed.

I picture myself at the surface of an ocean: the course of my life is played out as a descent to the sea bed. As I drop down I clutch at and try to reach blurred but alluring images representing the vocation of writer, actor, comedian, film director, politician or academic, but they all writhe and ripple flirtatiously out of reach, or rather it would be truer to say that I am afraid to leap forward and hug one of them to me. By being afraid to commit to one I commit to none and arrive at the bottom empty and unfulfilled. This is a self-aggrandizing, pitiful and absurd fantasy of regret, I know, but it is a frequent one. I close whatever book I have been reading in bed, and that same film plays out again and again in my mind before I sleep.

I picture myself at the surface of an ocean: the course of my life is played out as a descent to the sea bed. As I drop down I clutch at and try to reach blurred but alluring images representing the vocation of writer, actor, comedian, film director, politician or academic, but they all writhe and ripple flirtatiously out of reach, or rather it would be truer to say that I am afraid to leap forward and hug one of them to me. By being afraid to commit to one I commit to none and arrive at the bottom empty and unfulfilled. This is a self-aggrandizing, pitiful and absurd fantasy of regret, I know, but it is a frequent one. I close whatever book I have been reading in bed, and that same film plays out again and again in my mind before I sleep.

She stares at it for several moments before taking it out from underneath the plastic film that covers it. Then she holds it with the affection of a mother for her new-born child, tender and loving; Preeti’s eyes soften briefly just for that moment. The lava of hurt makes way into her throat, setting ablaze all that she has held within. As memories meet sentience, the apartment echoes with her muffled cries. The photograph, a silent spectator, drenches in her grief as the tears start their descent.

On pense toujours que le plus difficile dans une ascension, c'est de se hisser jusqu'au sommet, les livres ou les films ne parlent que de ça, parce que c'est le temps de la conquête et de l'exploit, la métaphore du progrès humain et de la domination de la nature, alors que tous les alpinistes vous diront que c'est de loin la descente qui représente le plus grand danger. Climax

And so the clumsy human spaceship finally entered Europa’s atmosphere. Patel and Bingleking silently monitored their screens as the ship’s engines rumbled. Bingleking’s euphoria was tempered by Patel’s weariness, though neither of the scientists turn astronauts paid much attention to affect. Cameras filmed the small craft’s descent. Filmed Patel and Bingleking’s anxious silence. Billions of people watched this voyage to Europa on tiny screens. This technological feat was made possible by the Bingleking Drive. By the NBA and by Starbucks and by the National Space Society and by this sponsor and by that donor and Whatever. “Who knows what you’re capable of? The owner of the Los Angeles Lakers asked as his face gave way to an image of Europa which gave way to a Nike swoosh. Jupiter’s moon was a pleasant distraction from thickening smog and drier coughs.

The top film was The Descent, a terrifying movie about a group of women who go caving.

DC at night had a particular savage gleam, red taillights piercing through gloom, dingy alleys bookending martini-lounge hustle-bustle. And yet another realm hovered above in an angelic glow, the eye called to uplit white marble monuments, to rounded domes and thrusting peaks, to glowing penthouses floating above streets as dark as puddles. Everything that rose seemed to be mirrored in descent, the reflecting pool and the cool Potomac like portals to an underworld. Wetzel had read somewhere that Hollywood directors liked to hose down streets to make the asphalt sparkle on film. Washington was like that naturally, a black-ice kind of town – lose focus and you’d slip and break your neck.