Word: voyeurism
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...subject was private life, its coziness and order, its covert gestures, its moments of deep-rooted habit and occasionally fragile intimacy, in which the artist is both agent and voyeur. He took this domestic introversion to an extreme--the world of work, for instance, is so thoroughly excluded from his paintings that he didn't even depict his own studio. His world was bounded by the bathroom, the breakfast room, the bedroom and the overgrown garden, its disorder of jasmine, honeysuckle and wisteria as exotically suffused with color as Fiji, though glimpsed through French windows...
...Piesiewicz, knew that drama begins with the human face; it is a sponge for the viewer's emotional complicity. So the camera takes closeup mug shots of faces in love or anxiety. Or it crouches furtively, behind a tree, in a closet like a fretful nephew or an avid voyeur. It watches ordinary people (including some of the most beautiful actresses in Europe) tangling with moral demons, holding on to what they were taught to believe or--this being real life in Poland just after martial law--what they have learned to settle...
Luckily, you're just a voyeur at Segarra's experience, sitting safely in a stadium-style seat at the Sony IMAX Theatre on Manhattan's Upper West Side. Your nose seemingly pressed against an eight-story-high screen, you're living that perilous moment through the IMAX film Everest. Shakun Lakhani, a New Jersey homemaker, was so awed by the film that she went back a second time. "It is beyond your imagination," she said. "You are experiencing Mount Everest as if you're climbing it yourself." That's because David Breashears and Steve Judson went to the Himalayas...
Based, like the 1970 The Honeymoon Killers, on the case of lonely-hearts murderers Raymond Fernandez and Martha Beck, this poisonous, beautifully acted tragicomedy exerts a cold fascination. Virtually every scene is a single shot (no intercutting to cue emotion); the camera prowls like a smooth, stealthy voyeur. Yet the film is true to the ferocity of mad love. There is a deep crimson in the couple's passion that, in the end, can only fade to noir...
...hand and said, "Hullo, I'm Winston Churchill." For he resembled his grandfather's pictures taken when that young Winston covered the Boer War at the turn of the century--boyish and freckled, greedy for trouble. Now, behind the police lines, Churchill and I chatted with a guilty, voyeur's air, as if awaiting some illegal sporting event--a cockfight or a sloppily organized human sacrifice...