Andrew Leslie Hooker
The Sin King
DVD (E203)

 

Belgium £13 (including postage)

Europe £15 (including postage)

Rest of world £17 (including postage)

 

Edition of 200 copies


Trailer [Vimeo]

— Screenplay, direction and original
paintings by Andrew Leslie Hooker

— Photography and editing by
Stuart Mabey

— Original soundtrack by Philip Jeck
(Published by Touch Music [MCPS])

Deconstructed and reinterpreted
(with additional material) by
Giuseppe Ielasi

— Sound design by Giuseppe Ielasi
and Andrew Leslie Hooker

— Produced By Andrew Leslie Hooker
and Stuart Mabey (The Mutant Love
Dolls), 2004–2014

 

The Sin King: Director’s notes [PDF]
 

See also

Andrew Leslie Hooker (E153)

Theoretically blasphemous, his behaviours dictated by an innate in-

ability to comprehend. The monarch 

of evil-doing, perhaps a former innocent creature descending into despair, 

entirely aware of having chosen a wrong route but incapable of a decisive move
towards resurgence. Consequences that must remain unchallenged, otherwise it’s hell — way before the real hell is finally reached.

 

An ear-deceiving poker-faced orchestra keeps gesturing, leaving the disconsolate congregations totally clueless. The last to perish, they’ll die as blessed performers to the very end: brave substitute officers of a vessel that was not conceived for reposeful cruises, but still floats in a vibrating ocean of vigilance.

 

Life is an oasis of fraudulence for feckless noise-makers in the desert of susurrant timelessness; the false attempt of un-housing an ego can transform a once-noble aspiration into a dreadful incubus. Black and white fluidity turning into scathing combustion. Frothy waters contaminated by parasites changing the attitude of the unfortunates who drink. 

A stupor whose rules correspond to 

a single dogma: remove the truth. Those who believed themselves geniuses reveal their crack-brained side to get mentally and morally obliterated. The multitudes who used to conform to the swayer’s
unwiseness will soon collide with an unforgiving verity. 

 

The rudimentary ugliness of humankind: no gods or semi-gods to save someone from drowning in the quicksand of ordinariness. Flaccid flesh, idiotic jokes, convulsive eating, laughter for no apparent reason. The smell of uncouth desperation emerging from the saddening scene. HAZE OF THE FACULTIES, veiling the significance of 

a presumed balance that is not there 

and never will be. 

 

Having merely won a battle, one thinks 

of ruling in the war of nerves. But the ungenerous soul of acceptance is not going to allow more than that fleeting glimpse of illusion. Changes of perceptive depth bash hard on individual security; hidden behind the fictitious place’s hypothesis, you’re suddenly awakened by the arsonist handling the frequencies and the colours you had refused to hear and behold at the outset. 

 

A disfigured face comprising hundreds 

of little replicas of that incongruous expression. Personification of the incapability of keeping a promise — born unclouded, transformed into receptacles of tensions, vicious entities deprived 

of any feeling whatsoever. Deluded by 

the hope of personal meaningfulness, addressees of something that cannot 

be taught. 

 

Trying to achieve a simultaneousness of intuition, resonance and controlled fear.

 

Words mean nothing, paintings are overly difficult to complete: the ever-present malfunctioning mind of the self-loving herdsman kills the artlessness of what’s always been there from the beginning.
There is a filter between instant under-standing and creative act — the maggoty brain wants to win every time.

 

The spirit’s motility corrupted by private contortion. We can’t even scream in anger for the worst type of crime.

 

Decaying thoughts, disintegrating borders. The lone realisation — that of our own ignorance. Choirs mutating 

tones to adapt to a new harmonic condition where there’s no resolution, 

just endlessness of emotional disruption in sempiternal tears. Joy or sorrow — 

it’s exactly the same. Inexplicably fallen 

to Earth with no role, irrecoverably
oblivious to the PURPOSE, destroying our own BEINGNESS, forsaken by the AEONIAN HUM. Unequivocally conscious of what we have managed 

to dilapidate, we’re left contemplating madness. Too late for the U-turn.

Massimo Ricci