Just now, looking out at Berlin’s unseasonably chilly nightsky, I can see that namesake staring back at mine. As I while amidst this mercurial, island-like rainy season that’s been streaming in and out and about this entire month of the Roman God of Men, I don’t need to believe in god or man, or have faith in their fake exploits or the pipe dream of a bureaucratic bulwark against Worser Evilism, or a comfortable planet with a reliable weather forecast. From this amplitude, Mars seems breathtaking in a way that doesn’t suck my oxygen. The rest just drifts away, out of focus.
There’s a scene in Brian De Palma’s Mission to Mars (shot by Stephen Burum, who brought the sky to life in Francis Ford Coppola’s Rumble Fish) in which Tim Robbins’ character drifts away untethered and suffocates somewhere out of reach of the orbit of the sphere of the namesake of the God of War. In this otherwise unremarkable story, the cinematographer managed, with one shot, to make the agoraphobic suffocation reverberate in the lungs of my Image Nation.