Tanya and I went to see The Dreamers at Fox this past weekend. Like I said before, it was gratuitously masturbatory, and I’m not even talking about all the gratuitous masturbation.
It made me think. You know what this industry needs? More films about films. We could also use more screenplays about screenwriters and more paintings about painting as well as some more photographs about photography and songs about sonwriting.
Now, I have to come clean here. I did make a movie in college about theatre majors, but I like to think that it crossed some kind of genre, so it doesn’t count.
I know, I know, write what you know…but you can’t tell me that the only thing that filmmakers know about is making films, or that the only thing writers can write about is writing.
It’s like planning a party to celebrate the party that you’re planning.
Like some kind of self-congratulatory palindrome.
Like waxing philosophical on a stupid blog.
Okay, given, filmmaking and writing, if done well, can be a thankless job. But does that mean that we have to thank ourselves so damned much? Isn’t the money enough (for professionals only)? Can’t anyone just be happy with a job half-done?
The Grammys were on last night. I didn’t watch them. It should be enough that, those musicians in particular, make a few million on their albums? Do they really need a little statue to prove that they made a good album? Are they deaf? Or do they just not dig their own music all that much? They should really trust their songwriters and mixers and producers and distributors and managers and studio musicians a little more.
I want to rock your body…please stay…
Sorry, I was just channeling the spirit of Justin Timberlake for a moment there.
Which reminds me; dude sure did throw Janet under the bus real quick, didn’t he? He’s just a victim, though. I understand, Justin. But here’s something that you need to understand. We American people just aren’t ready for our songs about casual animal sex to have so much casual animal sex associated with them. Life is a family show. Continue to keep your sexual innuendo so heavily hidden within your songs. Let us try and try to figure out what you meant by “rock your body.” It’s like a fun and dirty little puzzle for us. Maybe we’ll never know the answer to such a witty conundrum.
If you want to apologize for something, Justin, apologize for the crap-tastic fantasia that you call an album.
How I got here: The Dreamers > Films about films > Self congratulation > The Grammys > Justin Timberlake > The Superbowl > Sex in the industry.
To come full circle. The Dreamers just isn’t a good movie, no matter how many genitals are in it.
Fun Fact: Kevin just returned two movies from me that he borrowed four and a half years ago. Keep the faith that your Wham cassette will turn up someday.
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