Oipus, playful, hallucinat, sensual, terrifi by his own desires, behaves unprictably as if fac with a story with deadly stakes which, despite his refusal to know, inexorably catches up with him Oedipus complex.
a life, a destiny that he painfully understands in dazzling moments of lucidity, of cruelty too, thus progressively dislodg from the innocence of maternal fusion Oipus complex . Oipus here seems more driven by action than by thought, thus distinguishing himself from that of Sophocles. His path is not the great straight line but is made of zigzags, chicanes, stops and starts in this blind investigation into his own identity. These very particular choices mark the Pasolinian adaptation, give it its carnal, almost erotic specificity.
as a correlate of the law of the Father, writes Fabrice Bourlez in Pulsions Pasoliniennes, has long been a machine for constructing the subject according to the three categories of Freudian diagnoses, neurosis, psychosis and perversion, thus determining three types of visions, three types of attachment to language and to the world .
The first Oipus Oedipus complex complex movement of this film
a silent prologue, presents some episodes from Pier Paolo Pasolini’s early childhood in the 1920s: the father, a young officer jealous of his wife’s love accurate clean numbers list from frist database for their son, one evening squeezes the child’s feet until he cries .
If the character of the mother has a large place in Pasolini’s journey, the fight against the father seems to trace the destiny of his Oipus. Moreover, the the human team behind an incentive plan hatr of the father is inscrib in the body, the swollen feet, but it also comes to be inscrib in the very material of his work.
Patrick Le Chanu recall that the question
remains of the representation of the body from the 20th century, a century cross by wars where the technicality of weapons l to the mass grave, which of bodies made “unspeakable heaps” [4] and where even worse was invent “death without a body” [5] with the Shoah… Which brings us .
Beyond the technicality, it is the hindi directory tension of the body that is captur, subtly, in the film. And even more so the moment when the painter “decides to go for it”, to throw his paint, to let it drip, to catch it with the paintbrush. Moment when the painter’s body “will come up against not surface, but depth”.
To struggle, to vibrate the canvas, to dig furrows, to scratch, to rub, to make it creak, to stamp with the palm, to “get inside” such is Velickovic’s commitment in his painting, admirably captur by François Catonné’s camera.
