A teenaged girl’s probing of her own body is dangerously close to sexual curiosity, anatomically such a survey is bound expose her to the as yet hidden but definitely not lacking in number, erotogenic zones of her body.
This is how things are revealed.
The Loneliness of the Wild Pear Tree has no English translations. When the movie begins, there is the sound of a vehicle coming to a stop. It is a vehicle with a really old pair of springs. It creaks a little from all those rusty and weak springs, a staccato of bearing balls falling on to one another till separated by a very tiny span of time, the separation growing bit by bit until there is a final ’tik’ that falls and comes to an end. But this happens when the camera is trained on the protagonist, his torso overlaid with a flashing pattern of waves. There is also the dog who is a hunting dog. Unfortunately, he does not go hunting with the dog, or even hunting alone. But he is attached to the dog very much and “would refuse to sell him for millions”, as Sinan says. And the father is difficult to contact. He is bad with the phone—because what the phone does, which is to contact people. So, it is a tautology, almost, when we say that phones are related to contact. Then the movie playing in the living room when the father comes in; it says that he is avoiding reality by burying his head in the sand, and that is a perfect way of introducing a character. Making use of an item (an object, which is in this case a movie) to tell the audience that (literally tell) that he is fleeing reality. What matters are the dialogues themselves because they tell us what we need to know, in that the artifice of the film is made clear, which makes it even better as a piece of art. If artifice was absent in a work of art, that would be really disappointing. If a person is alone in a frame, then there is a high chance that the person is—probably—a lonely person.
For days he had ants coming out of his nose. This is in itself a story, mythical.
The best view of reality is found in the breaking of a square of brownie at the cafe. The brownie is solidified fermented batter, which gives the brownie a partly hollow but greatly open texture. Lowering the blunt edge of the disquietingly heavy spoon onto this surface, the holes shrink with the pressure of the spoon and moist liquid rises from the brownie and bubbles around the edge of the spoon. It bubbles up the steel surface and sticks to it, always bearing the memory that the cake existed.
There is a woman here, sitting next to me. She is in a green-blue dress, a churidar which is probably a Persian influence. She did not stand out from the rest of the place except in her rather dated and luxurious outfit. She entered the cafe, paused for a really tiny amount of time which nevertheless established her as a undeniable presence, took a few unhurried steps towards the table, sat down, and then committed an act that changed my reading. She pulled out her phone and took a few selfies, extending her hand all the way till her elbow was straight. At that moment, all the excess possibilities that adorned her and helped her fill more space than she had to, all that could not be read, left her arms and they resembled nothing more than a purely functional selfie-stick. She was totally in love with the guy who later joined her, because I could overhear her suggest that he wear the shirt with blue stripess, which made her important only in that moment, in his presence, only for a little while. When he took off, probably to the washroom or to carry to her a tray dangerously close to yielding to gravity, she held on to his hand, making a show of not letting go of his hand, which the guy seemed to think was nothing more than what it looked like: a few more seconds of holding his hand.