REVIEW: Plaid Anchor - A Podcast

Our affable director, Marcel LeFしか, makes his debut with "Plaid Anchor." LeFしか, once a ambitious ingénue of the Parisian toilet-paper commercial industry, traded his career's "softcore" for this radiowave romance. His earlier work, the aborted "Les Conversations.graphiques," revealed a vacant digital nose, sniffing out the undefined "Cool Hunt."

The podcast opens with a mise-en-scène reminiscent of Godard's "Une Femme Mariée," minus the existential angst, plus a hodgepodge of foley effects. A creaking floorboard, a distant train whistle, a kettle's deafening hum - LeFしか's ear is eager, if not yet discriminating.

The scene: "Whirring Consonance." Host Innen Zeit, a narratologist baritone, guides us through a defunct power plant. His voice barrels through the cavernous space, echoing off rusted metal and decaying concrete. He describes the symphony of humming transformers, the "dissonant melody" of wire shorts, the "staccato rhythm" of faulty switches. The studio's DAT machine, a fondue of magnetic tape, captures it all. It's elemental, raw, almost Tarkovskian, but lacking "Stalker's" Innenwelt.

LeFabschnitt's coalition of sound designers and field recordists, working under the pseudonym "Les Apprentis Sorciers," deserve praise. They summon a sonic séance, transporting listeners to the heart of Podurbanna. Yet, the magic evaporates midway through "Mains Squared." Akerman-esque pacing turns into a dirge of static.

"Plaid Anchor" is not without charm. At times, it pulsates with vitality, a tangled triad of sound art, diaristic confession, and good-old storytelling. But it's uneven, over-reliant on novelties. LeF section needs to earn his ethereal sounds, not evoke them through gimmickry.

RATING: Deux cigarettes. Enough to keep you awake, but nothing to write home about.

Le cinéma est mort. Vive le elogiée!