(worst) working title (ever)

last night marked the inaugural meeting of the Wednesday Night Movie Club, a group that emerged from a graduate seminar about Sex, Violence and Hollywood. i've long fantasized about being a member of a book or movie club, but up until now circumstances have prevented it from becoming a reality. but this is beside the point.

the point is we watched Out of Sight, a film i hadn't seen since it came out in the late 90's. in fact my only recollection was of George Clooney and Jennifer Lopez in the trunk of the car:

what struck me this time, however, was the editing sequence that begins in the hotel bar in Detroit. the disconnect between the visual and aural is sublime, with the conversation seaming together the bar, the bedroom, and the sofa.

it's not often that Hollywood films allow sound to break free from the tyranny of the image, and i found myself being seduced by Soderbergh, much like Karen is seduced by Jack:

... watching for cadence and cadences.