We watch him writhe and tear at his clothes from a distance, literalizing the gap between what is visible to us - a seemingly healthy, strong, unblemished male body - and the cataclysm unfolding beneath his skin. His pain and terror seem especially raw in the context of this living room, a beige nest of chintz, tchotchkes, and crocheted afghans. “JESUS CHRIST!” Screaming, thrashing, he falls to his knees. Without warning, he drops his book and buries his hands in his hair, his face now a mask of agony.
The wistful strains of Sam Cooke’s “Blue Moon” are for us alone and do not disturb him. He’s reading a novel - and enjoying it, judging from the twitches of pleasure at the corners of his mouth.
A young man in an NYU T-shirt sits on an apartment couch. It starts with a fragile moment of repose.
