The American Scream // Rebecca Gransden


The American Scream dream-light plays and flickers over abandoned space, where long walkways fade. Looped screenings overlap, projected onto the crumbling interior walls of the last dead mall standing in the States, a construction scheduled for demolition on a prophesied future date. Kids of skateboarders sit with their backs propped up against certain inner walls, their mouths slacked open, as the overlayed and out of sync projections run. There is no obvious source of origin for the film, no projector—only projectees, imbibing the images as a sunken parade. Circumfused score and dialogue clang into an atonal echo, while badly overdubbed undercarriages numb into a collective hymn to discordance.

In a pan-textually nonexistent booth between planes, a pity party projectionist sells his soul to a screen demon and fuses with the machine, his life force propelling the unit’s motion in a perpetual spasm of winding muscle.

Silent Disco Reverse Screaming Sucks

The kids grope for an unearned nostalgia analgesic, tanked as blank receptacles, their souls clawing out amygdala residuum. Gormless rhesus shrieks break out and fuse with the film noise, dimmed consciousness behind vocalisations in syncopated cutthroat singing. A stridulant chorus of reconstituted transhumanist dogma reabsorbs its own unspooling spiel, in an hellacious upwelling of klazomania.

David Lynch’s Family Evacuation

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