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Except it never comes. Not this time.
Instead, Orson Welles is impaled and falls off a clock tower as the hands near midnight. And the clocks keep spinning and we fall into other, alternate universes where more and more people pop up, some of them familiar, some of them strangers, all of them coming and going in what seems like a pattern, a pattern that it is impossible to make sense of unless you accept that the only rule that really applies is that the clock keeps moving forward.
One of the hardest things to come to terms with, when thinking about the world, when trying to shrink it down to human scale, is how incongruous all of the things are that are happening second by second, minute by minute. One person could be masturbating up against the grout in their shower, while another, somewhere across the street or across the city or across the world, is dying in a bed, choking on the fluid in their corrupted lungs. We are all living in alternate universes.
"The Clock" demonstrates that more clearly than any other art I've ever witnessed. It's like a cinematic fractal, folding in and out of itself, seemingly bending time while keeping rigidly to its constructs. Scenes from the same movies pop up, actors at different points in their careers, different points in their lives, sounds and music bleeding into and out of scenes.
The inherent relentlessness of a piece of art that is almost impossible to take in all at once, that exhausts its audience physically and emotionally, is only fully apparent when you leave the darkened room and step back onto the city streets. You've left "The Clock," but time, and all of its endless possibilities, keeps flying forward.
July 13—August 1
Tuesdays—Thursdays, 8:00 am—10:00 pm
Runs continuously from Fridays at 8:00 am through Sundays at 10:00 pm
David Rubenstein Atrium at Lincoln Center