This is from Iain Sinclair’s London Orbital:

“I spent Saturday afternoon, in the rain, observing a pair of middle-aged mudlarks, up to the elbows in liquid sewage. One of them dragged an old tin bath out into the river, at low tide. The other worked with a sieve like a grizzled prospector, Walter Huston in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. They spent hours laboriously shifting shit, hoping for the odd ring or coin. And I stuck with them, watching. This was about as far as you could travel from John Prescott. He couldn’t, even it it were explained to him, find anywhere to place such humans. Demographically, they had pulled it off. They didn’t register.”

Monkee’s Teeth

It’s by René Laloux

Cinematic stories have nothing to do with images. Cinematic stories are to do with silence. In silence, the images unpack themselves. Cinematic stories cannot be mediated. They cannot be told. Tell them, and you hide them. Tell them, and you convey nothing. Worse, you make a fetish of your own presence. Shame on you.

Cinematic stories are lunatic. Their selves have come unhinged.