Synopsis
It all started with the notorious Buñuelian sliced eyeball, that surprises us every time. The eye of an ox, but still it's the eye of a woman! The anxiety of the incision is transformed into a saccadic, uncontrolled anxiety precisely of the eye and of its pupil. When subjected to the stroboscopic rhythms of single frame animation—as in some archaic pre-animation—one's gaze at it is thrown off, going in search of a little dramatic action here and there in the face, through the quick cinematic nonsense of saucers and sclera. The eye of an ox, which degenerates in Buñuel's incision, is my own quaking ox eye.
