I struggle to remember a film that affected me so instantly and profoundly as Béla Tarr’s The Turin Horse. More than that, there have been few times in my life where I’ve walked away from any artistic experience and been so moved by a complete understanding of what creative expression is at its most sublime; Godspeed You! Black Emperor playing under the stars in Big Sur; Gerhard Richter’s October 18, 1977 series in a room; lying under Olafur Eliasson’s sun at the Tate Modern.

Next week, American Cinemateque is hosting Tarr for five nights of film screenings here in LA and I couldn’t be more excited. (I’ve even got tickets for the theatrical showing of the seven-plus-hour Sátántangó.) It’s one of the genuine treats of living in Los Angeles—there are always so many cultural offerings that incredibly rare and substantial ones come about with some regularity.

I rarely let myself get too hyped for something before it happens, but I can’t imagine any of this will disappoint.

I am making some new things to expel some pandemic-era demons. This is an outline of one such project. It’s getting there.