Wherever it has been shown, Christian Marclay's The Clock has been met with a rare combination of critical approval and public affection — love, even. The idea was audacious in its simplicity and herculean in execution: take moments in films when people are interacting with time — looking at their watches, hurrying to intercept the 3:10 to Yuma or hanging on to the hands of Big Ben — and splice them together in such a way that they unfold in real time over 24 hours, so that the whole thing becomes an accurate (to the minute) timepiece. During the film's opening run in London, I had intended to stay long enough to get the gag — 10 minutes? — before hurrying on to a lunch date. It was so hypnotic, so thrilling, that I ended up watching 20 hours over a month, arranging life and appointments (for which I was invariably late) in such a way as to catch previously unseen segments of that celluloid epic called a day.
Dyer's books include Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi and Zona