Hotel Monterey

Hotel Monterey ★★★★

Although due to external noise, I kind of spoiled this for myself by adding music to the viewing (Deathprod's Morals & Dogma); however, if you're familiar with that album, its incredibly moribund character might have added something to this that otherwise I may have not considered, that when we come into contact, whether through estate sales or attending to the estate of our own loved ones, with dead people's things, we feel a grave tension between the absence of meaning bestowed on these things by the person we can no longer ask for the meaning of these things, & our own inscription of meaning on these objects as relating to our own lives in the absence of that person, & so, in Akerman's film, we see static shots of the hotel's lobby, long takes of renters sitting in rooms, staring right into the camera, Ozu-like partitions between the bedroom the camera is in & the medicine cabinet mirror, the object of the camera's focus the room over, we see long, long shots of hallways that last so long they start to resemble subway stations more than the half-seen interiors of the transient, & rooms seen at a distance holding or not holding people, set on both sides by ceruleans & chartreuses, & through it all, we have no idea of Akerman's attitude or esteem toward these images, these place-settings, these people she may or may not know -- in watching South a couple weeks ago I thought that the film may have been her take on Wiseman's sort of disembodied authorial voice, how objectivity may be attempted through the absence of that voice, but still the impossibility of abnegating our own involvement in the creation of these images persists -- just as we do not know the meaning of the personal belongings once so beloved by the dead, but what we are left with is the irrevocable loss time leaves us with, that however perceived, felt, lived-thru, & taken with us it may be, whether at age 22, Akerman's age, remarkably, at the time of filming this, or our own age in viewing the film as yet more material in the life lived of one we wish was still with us, we all will somehow come to know in due time, & make our way out of by going directly thru it to where all art tends, the realm of the dead, & wherefrom it returns with its knowledge of the inapparent having been made apparent, actual.