“24 Frames” – That One Film That Will Be Your Experiment

What – “What? What could this photograph be saying? What could its story be? What sounds were being heard when they clicked the shutter? Maybe the sky went cloudier for a moment or the traces of an animal passing through were showing in the snow. Maybe the breeze blew a bit harder, thus inviting the hunter to pull the trigger.”

A still frame from the film “24 Frames” by Abbas Kiarostami

Imagine thinking this through over and over throughout the 24 cinematic frames for each of the 24 photographs that make up the movie “24 Frames”.

How long?- How long do they last? – How long have you got?

No, for real, each of the 24 frames is only 4 and a half minutes long; a time long enough to develop the humblest mini-theatre (starring nature itself as all the setting, hero, and villain); and short enough not to bore.

How – How to not get bored by a movie made up solely of steady images? – Well, what do you know! They’re animated!

And, voila! That makes it one way to take us through the anecdote of what happened before and after the clicking sound of the shutter.

You may catch yourself cracking a smile, frowning, helplessly biting your nails, leaping for joy– all this by the daily lives of some dumb – barking, clucking, and cock-a-doodle-dooing – livestock.

What a reality TV!

As busy as Keeping Up With ameba coming to life.

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A meme hinting at the Kardashians

Where – In places where you would like to quietly rest and sites you hope to someday reach, such as daylight-saving seashores, midwinter mountain chains, springtime chirping doorways, man even birds flying around as if birds ever really existed…

Why – Why does a photographer choose a moment to capture? How come they want to embody these impressions and not those right after that?

Who – We know what you’re thinking, and we thought so too, but it was no struggling artist, no ma’am. The guy who made this movie possible was veteran Iranian multi talent-cum-director Abbas Kiarostami, that is, the artsy guy who wrote the following poem:

The full moon

reflected in water,

the water      

contained in the bowl,

and the thirsty man

deep in sleep.                     – Abbas Kiarostami

And boy did he mean every word.

Take note of the structure inspired by haiku (the syllable count).

Abbas Kiarostami is the brains behind Persian alternative cinema and photography;

He is the guy who makes it his business to get you straight to sleep with his filmography. Yea, you read that correctly;

The director who chose the wholehearted digital filmmaking with all the exploi… all the Hollywood pioneers out there never getting the vibe they’ve said enough about the golden age of the celluloid film.

When – At the beautiful age of 76, directing with what must have been his dying breath …

Whom – His (we’re guessing, too lazy to check) firstborn Ahmad was left in charge of the final editing following the death of great Abbas – the man whose last film “24 Frames” was the intended final au revoir (he died in Paris) to his fans and gracious Mother Earth whom he admired.

What if you end up bored by the movie?

But, oh my darling, what if you end up entertained?

Johnny Boogieman

About Johnny Boogieman (né Johnathan Boogiemanovich Goode) is an American comedy reviewer and a self-proclaimed cinema connoisseur, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist. … Johnny grew up on a farm in Louisiana, as the only child of a Louisiana-based field worker, dressmaker, dog hairstylist, dog collar jewelry designer, dog walker for the elderly (dogs and owners), disabled and elderly dog walking aids creator-in-attempt, and homemaker, Dutch single mother. As large a clientele as dogs were for the barely-gasping-for-air family business, they were the proud owners of a single tabby cat alone, a streetwise and self-dependent hunter known by either of the street names Stringer Bell and El Capo (sometimes referred to as El Cato). … Having been amazed by the crazy wild early readings of Jules Verne, Johnny’s school days were spent dreaming he’d someday make for a good storyteller. Hence, as early as fourth grade, eager to prove himself to the world, he went for it and constructed a well-balanced heartbeat-skipping thrilling essay, pointing out to some well-reasoned critique of society and solid character arcs, committing to his talents to the fullest and diving right into that pool of majestic phrasing and complexity of thought, confident he’d soon get bejeweled with a spotless A and a pretty clap by the teacher, with gradually having the whole class join in looking up to him as he emerges from his seat to receive his essay evaluation. When results day came, though, little Johnny not only got a D, but he was mocked by the teacher and class for the gullible overexposure of his fragile overambitious mutating childish writing skills of questionable taste and poor poor quality. It was the “you’re tearing me apart, Lisa” equivalent of a child’s essay. He was rather massacred. He never got that brave ever again. … Anyway, Johnny mainly spent his summers field-working on a sunflower field with his uncle Berry under the widespread wings of the storks and the chesty white doves and clever black crows who all flew right under the neighbor’s umbrella caps patio ceiling installation thingy as soon as the first raindrop was godshed over the one-eyed monsters battalion that the sunflower sea was to Johnny. It drove the unwilling bird host nuts, and he’d storm right out yelling and cursing at the birds, “we’re going, we’re going” they went, and flew a semi-circle over the umbrella caps as to fool him and came right back the other way around pretending to be some fresh arrivals of clueless law-abiding American birds not yet acquainted with the police system of the patio. The guy wouldn’t take it out as it took ages to plant and he and his wife thought it made them look like fancy DIY people who had some ideas worthy of admiration. Oh, the bird manure, though, oh the bird manure. “Work your time, boy” – staring Johnny’s uncle frowned, his eye twinkled. … Cinema was to Johnny what he made plans for, what he made time for, what he looked up to all his life, and as he became a young adult, what he fancied himself to have a special talent to understand. It was the sort of a sixth sense, an intuition, a gut sense. He was the squad movie buff and a film whisperer. “No”, it whispered, “Fight Club ain’t no bueno. Mark my words and don’t ask why ‘cos you ain’t schooled enough to know why, boy.” He tried, though, he debated and disputed over a glass of scotch-on-the-rocks and under the jibe of a saxophone jazz, but it was as fruitless and dull as the poetry he wrote - unclean, uneven, and too abstract - as if he hadn’t found a voice to speak in yet. He did his part for years to come, reading as all writers ought to, writing and not publishing until he found out what he had to say with the peculiar piece of work. As for cinema, it happened one evening as he discussed legs-up-a-recliner their plans for the future with his lover-cum-best friend in their rented one-bedroom living space in New Jersey, that his lover casually contributed: “And then I thought we could start a film blog and you could do the content writing” – words that sunflower field Johnny with his gangster cat and his dewy eyes staring at the rainy-day con birds thought he’d never hear.

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