I have finally forgotten enough of the movie Diva to watch it again. I remember the aria from La Wally—it was the first time I had heard it. I remember the black apartment with the white bathtub in the center of the room and the Vietnamese girl circling the room on roller-skates. I remember the white car driving through the countryside. I remember the motor scooter chase.
I had completely forgotten the drugs and prostitution plot, but I remembered the ecstasy precisely, the sense of completely giving oneself to the pleasure of great singing. They couldn’t get a real diva to play in their movie, but the singer in the film (Wilhelmenia Wiggins) is very good. She has the usual American singer flaw—she does not understand how to phrase an Italian aria, would be famous for something besides this movie if she did. It’s a great film, full of ambiguity.
My next ghost needs no introduction
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