There is a moment in Citizen Kane where I actually turned into a rosebud. Yes, I began to grow petals in the most awkward of places, and just for irritation, pollen began to manifest itself near my scrotum – an awkward place considering that bees would buzz near me and gently nibble near my rather large appendages.
Oh, Citizen Kane. Magnum opic satire of society, an exploration of voyeurism, a prediction of the 9/11 disasters, a cure for HIV. Alas, Citizen Kane is many things, but great is certainly the most definite compliment one can apply to it. It is a jewel of cinema, a diamond of the lens, a ruby of the framed image, a platinum disc of mise-en-scene, a golden ball of intricately placed memories – yes, when viewing this grandiose masterpiece, the spectator isn’t merely viewing a filming, but watching a dream, watching life and the inner working of the subconscious unfold, specifically that of a bee nibbling on pollen that is dangerously close to my testacles.
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