I chew on pieces of meat, which I then spit back out into an ice bucket, last scene of The Eclipse: dawn, close-up on the reflector of a lamppost, a halo of light, music by Giovanni Fusco, fade to black. In Paris, groups of supporters known as the “ultras” spoil the party, or rather the parade, organized by Qatar, the Paris Saint-Germain, Nike, the Professional Soccer League, the Police Prefecture, and the city of Paris, at la place du Trocadéro for the Hexagoal Awards Ceremony, of which Paris Saint-German has won first place. Pushing and shoving, confrontations with the CRS, assaults on journalists, smashed windows and urban property, a hectic moment. A thick fog of red smoke hides the stand on the parvis, which has been aligned with the Eiffel Tower, it fills the screens. The extinction of the postcard, altered perceptions. Something of Caspar David Friedrich and Sunn O))) coming together, or that moment the official show goes up in smoke. The authorities cancel the barge ride on the Seine scheduled for that night, the players lock themselves away at Parc des Princes and order pizzas. A few hours later only the city remains, bare and stripped of its soul, I’m quoting Antonioni. Gradual erasure of the real, lay down now. No, not like that. Head flat on the floor, legs together. Your arms lie along your body, and you close your eyes. There you go. A silence different from all the others, just listen.
Pourquoi Tom Cruise, News Ticker Tale, book 2, extract, page 181