I don’t care about me anymore.

Vertigo (Alfred Hitchcock, 1958)

Several years ago—over a decade ago, I guess—I had the opportunity to see Vertigo on 35mm¹ at a theater in Los Angeles. I declined in favor of staying in and writing a paper. Ever since then I have felt vaguely that I did not really deserve to watch Vertigo—but I had this feeling? premonition? that it might be relevant to watch before I get around to Priscilla²—so, last night, I finally watched it.

And it was good and I was quite glad to have done so and then I toddled off to bed and a few minutes after lying down I realized I was incredibly upset, even sort of frightened. I really did feel like I was on the verge of falling off something very high, except it was something inside of myself, or inside of the movie.