Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Wow. Formatting that was more arduous than standing in line for three hours and waiting for Bill Clinton to show up.
Anyway, I am always the first to know about anything that concerns Bill and Heath. When Heath died (and though I didn't know him, I was sad because I felt like I was getting old, you know? Because I actually am familiar with his work, not like when my parents are like, "Ramana Panaluke died today, how sad, such a valued member of the Purple Eggs." Or whatever. It makes me feel old, you get the point.) I was the first to spread the news. "Did you hear that Jen cheated on Max?" the girls in the industrial bathroom would flit. "Did you hear that Heath Ledger DIED?!?!?" I'd reply, thinking that I would become the official source of gossip.
"Who's Heath Ledger?"
If you don't know who he is, look him up. I'm not that much of an anti-pop culture nerd not to have heard of this dude. And some of his films were excellent.
There went my gossip dreams. But I like to imagine that my face, flushed yet apporpriately solemn as the occasion demanded, is (to them) inexplicably tied with the birth of Heath in their impoverished minds. I am Heath Ledger.
More on Bill later. I'm going to watch my friends play video games and comment on how artificial and pseudo-hipster they all are.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Or, as my dad mistakenly termed it, No Room for Old Men. Which captures the literal meaning, of course, but really skimps on the poetics. Unless it's a eccentric allusion to the birth of Jesus.
Also known as No Country for Cold Men.
Finally, No Tree for Old Men.
Okay. I'll shut up on the doppelgangers now. Promise.
My dad pointed out that the film had gotten only the best reviews from the nation's top critics. Which are, of course, men, but that's obviously beside the point.
Then I found out that No Country for Old Men is a visual representation of a Cormac McCarthy novel. Since most of All the Pretty Horses was comprised of a baffilingly post-modernist lack of quotation marks, untranslated Spanish, and landscape descriptions that each contained the phrase "And the grass, and the trees, and the horses...", I wasn't expecting much.
I watched the trailer.
I watched the trailer and read one of the [male] reviews, which describe it as "bleak, scary, and violent." I have come to terms with the fact that I can only face one of those three ghouls at a time, so I decided not to go. I did appreciate the author's description of Javier Bardem, something along the lines of a Beatle gone wrong.
My fanatically intelligent film professor says that The Diving Bell and the Butterfly really got snubbed. I totally agree.