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“The art of interpretation is virtually one of translation,”[1] wrote Susan Sontag in 1964. But there is an impulse to resist interpreting that which is accidental and momentary, to take its singularity for granted. For a film like Leslie Stevens’ Incubus, one that swings between genres like a pendulum, such an impulse is enough to erase it from common memory. But suppose the value of such a curiosity is not translated via style and tone.
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