Woman in the Dunes

Went to the Princess to see Woman in the Dunes by Teshigahara. Madame wanted to see it too but thought it would be next week, so she left for a weekend at a cottage in the far north with women friends (as they are wont to do). And I would have missed it too out of solidarity, and inertia, but it was so hot that the idea of a couple of hours in air conditioning was very appealing. Had a glass of water before the five-minute walk to the Princess and an iced tea on arrival in a pronounced sweat. Sparse audience consisting mostly of lone men -- hoped the promise of eroticism hadn't attracted the wrong type -- hoped I didn't look the wrong type -- took consolation from the T-shirt I wore, Isabella's, which said "Festival of Art & Spirit" and "St. Jerome's University" on the other -- obviously I was there for the spiritual aspects of the film.
Not long into the film realized my mistake in watering myself so generously. But I will say this -- nothing makes you concentrate on plot points so much as the urgent need to piss -- it was an education, calculating how much it could reasonably go on, and with all those shots of sand blowing in the wind, collapsing, sifting, the answer was -- I just had to make a trip. And when I came back, I realized I'd just missing the third act turning point -- something had happened, the woman was in pain, the villagers were moving her -- anyway, that was it.
It made me think of Beckett's Act without Words I which I watched a few weeks ago -- sand, confinement, scarcity of water, false hopes, even the scissors. I wonder if there is a relation. Some fellow on Amazon dismisses the Kobe Abe novel that was the basis of the film as "derivative" of Kafka's The Castle. This is like saying I am derivative of my parents. Or that I look like somebody else. Of course I am. And I do. Everything has a genealogy, even if it is accidental.