Tonight I watched a stupid movie. It was foreign. One of those foreign films. The kind where even the extras have their black belts in smoking as an art form and everyone is casually, ruggedly, poignantly beautiful. Ugly people in tattered scarves smolder with not-from-the-US sexiness, and even the dogs seem deep. Makes me want to put on a heavy wool sweater, not comb my hair and stare pensively in my shabby kitchen with excellent coffee -- smoking. Unfortunately, the movie was crap. And as I am learning, even one class in screenwriting can forever alter one's perception of what makes a good story.
Is it a bad thing that I adored the movie The Break-Up? Do I have pedestrian tastes or am I right in thinking that Jennifer Anniston is a fine comedic actress? And Vince Vaughn? I think I have dated about three different incarnations of that guy. (The one on coke was the funniest.) So, it's fair to say that I have a bias toward razor sharp humor. But people either love or hate that movie. There is no in-between, as I found out when I realized that both my sister and a good friend haven't quite forgiven me for recommending that movie to them. Others swear loyal allegiance to my flick picks, in part because of that one film. And if you've seen it, you know that that movie is worth seeing solely for Michael Higgins singing Owner of a Lonely Heart at the dinner table. And Judy Davis is a freaking goddess. I would watch her on QVC.
Still, last week I made friends with the Criterion Collection. The name alone suggests that everything in the collection has the potential to make me smarter (or at least up the chances of getting slapped at the next party I attend.) Brain Viagra? Well, I guess that depends on who you hang out with. Most of my friends couldn't care less about Ingmar Bergman. And as of this writing, I am the only person I know who watches the DVD commentary for every film she watches. Sometimes twice. And you know you got it bad when you watch both the actors' commentary and the director's commentary for a film like How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days. (Kate Hudson is actually very good at turning crap into crepes, for the record.) Listening to a director or writer discuss what she intended to convey scene by scene fascinates me even if I didn't enjoy the movie. And when the actors talk they reminisce about who gave the performance of her life with walking pneumonia. You also get to find out who is really stupid in real life. GED on the set, my ass.
Tonight's cinematic selection was lovingly suggested to me by Netflix. They want to give me the impression that they follow my film preferences so carefully that they feel confident in picking them out for me. Reminds me of when well-meaning friends try to fix me up with dates, forgetting that I don't date men whose necks are wider than my thighs and that I don't actually consider Vicodin a hobby. Occasionally, I get a nice cup of tea out of it, but usually I am left resenting an evening away from whatever book I'm reading. At least this time I didn't have to leave the house or shave my legs. Still, it was a pretentious film with a boring story full of characters I didn't care about, no matter how cool they looked at the bar being vague and intense about going to Rome. And thanks to a beginner level class in screenwriting I heard my teacher's disapproval in my head the entire time. "Nope. That's not story. Doesn't tell us anything at all except you didn't do your job as a writer so you threw in a montage and a voiceover." And damn if he isn't totally right.
The film was so bad that I wouldn't have watched the commentary even if there had been one. My attempt to gain insight through watching an interview with the lead actress only turned me off further, so I turned her off after a minute of her existential propaganda. Of course, it is possible that the great meaning of this film simply sailed far above my vapid little head. I won't tell you the name of it because maybe you've seen it and you loved it. Maybe you'd write to me and tell me what a superficial mosquito I am. But I don't think so. I'm the kind of dork who takes two subways in freezing rain on my day off to see The Trials of Henry Kissinger -- on the big screen. Seeing that in print makes me realize that I am a sick person. And now I am a sick person with just enough film knowledge to make me a little dangerous. Like a sultry smoking ingenue who walks the streets of Stockholm in fine boots with great purpose and very messy hair.
Is it a bad thing that I adored the movie The Break-Up? Do I have pedestrian tastes or am I right in thinking that Jennifer Anniston is a fine comedic actress? And Vince Vaughn? I think I have dated about three different incarnations of that guy. (The one on coke was the funniest.) So, it's fair to say that I have a bias toward razor sharp humor. But people either love or hate that movie. There is no in-between, as I found out when I realized that both my sister and a good friend haven't quite forgiven me for recommending that movie to them. Others swear loyal allegiance to my flick picks, in part because of that one film. And if you've seen it, you know that that movie is worth seeing solely for Michael Higgins singing Owner of a Lonely Heart at the dinner table. And Judy Davis is a freaking goddess. I would watch her on QVC.
Still, last week I made friends with the Criterion Collection. The name alone suggests that everything in the collection has the potential to make me smarter (or at least up the chances of getting slapped at the next party I attend.) Brain Viagra? Well, I guess that depends on who you hang out with. Most of my friends couldn't care less about Ingmar Bergman. And as of this writing, I am the only person I know who watches the DVD commentary for every film she watches. Sometimes twice. And you know you got it bad when you watch both the actors' commentary and the director's commentary for a film like How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days. (Kate Hudson is actually very good at turning crap into crepes, for the record.) Listening to a director or writer discuss what she intended to convey scene by scene fascinates me even if I didn't enjoy the movie. And when the actors talk they reminisce about who gave the performance of her life with walking pneumonia. You also get to find out who is really stupid in real life. GED on the set, my ass.
Tonight's cinematic selection was lovingly suggested to me by Netflix. They want to give me the impression that they follow my film preferences so carefully that they feel confident in picking them out for me. Reminds me of when well-meaning friends try to fix me up with dates, forgetting that I don't date men whose necks are wider than my thighs and that I don't actually consider Vicodin a hobby. Occasionally, I get a nice cup of tea out of it, but usually I am left resenting an evening away from whatever book I'm reading. At least this time I didn't have to leave the house or shave my legs. Still, it was a pretentious film with a boring story full of characters I didn't care about, no matter how cool they looked at the bar being vague and intense about going to Rome. And thanks to a beginner level class in screenwriting I heard my teacher's disapproval in my head the entire time. "Nope. That's not story. Doesn't tell us anything at all except you didn't do your job as a writer so you threw in a montage and a voiceover." And damn if he isn't totally right.
The film was so bad that I wouldn't have watched the commentary even if there had been one. My attempt to gain insight through watching an interview with the lead actress only turned me off further, so I turned her off after a minute of her existential propaganda. Of course, it is possible that the great meaning of this film simply sailed far above my vapid little head. I won't tell you the name of it because maybe you've seen it and you loved it. Maybe you'd write to me and tell me what a superficial mosquito I am. But I don't think so. I'm the kind of dork who takes two subways in freezing rain on my day off to see The Trials of Henry Kissinger -- on the big screen. Seeing that in print makes me realize that I am a sick person. And now I am a sick person with just enough film knowledge to make me a little dangerous. Like a sultry smoking ingenue who walks the streets of Stockholm in fine boots with great purpose and very messy hair.
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