Coincidence?
No way.
UPDATE: A much-appreciated reminder from Weck the Sec: The Wayniac is on Hot or Not.
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Los Angeles, California I'm a twentysomething white male with ambitions to be a professional film critic and generally spend my days getting paid to watch movies and write about it. I try not to think too hard about how I want to build my life around talking about other people's creations and not mine. A compulsive reader and stubborn cineaste, I take an often contrary stance to my more fundamentalist peers and upbringing by celebrating the pursuit of the good, and the Good, in life, love, art and film. If you watched enough episodes of a few TV shows ("The Hungry and the Hunted," "The Cut Man Cometh," "The Body," "Waiting in the Wings," "Out of Gas," "April is the Cruelest Month," "20 Hours in America," "Colonial Day" for starters), you would understand me completely, and you'd also realize that much of my worldview and philosophical insights are heavily influenced by fictional works/programs, and many of the good things I've said in my life are just a regurgitation of someone else's imaginings. I guess I was made to be a film critic. This Month
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Tuesday, March 7
Wait A Minute
by
Dan Carlson
on Tue 07 Mar 2006 04:09 PM PST
Coincidence? No way. UPDATE: A much-appreciated reminder from Weck the Sec: The Wayniac is on Hot or Not.
Pretty Obvious, But Still Worth Reading
by
Dan Carlson
on Tue 07 Mar 2006 03:04 PM PST
"Take this year's Best Picture nominations: Brokeback Mountain, Capote, Crash, Munich, and Good Night, and Good Luck. What all of these films have in common is that they have virtually nothing to do with the real business of the Hollywood studios. For Hollywood to choose them as a public display of its virtue is almost as absurd as international oil companies presenting awards to avant-garde artists who happen to paint in oil. Just as Exxon, Royal Dutch Shell, and British Petroleum do not make their living from oil paint (which, after all, is typically not made from crude), Hollywood studios do not make money from producing (or distributing) the occasional art or social-commentary movie."
Click here for the rest.
A Dumb Girl I'll Never See Again
by
Dan Carlson
on Tue 07 Mar 2006 02:08 PM PST
At my former place of employment, Amanda recently sent out a department-wide e-mail asking if anyone had seen an extra copy of the Chicago Manual of Style; the e-mail actually said it in the cutesy/mildly retarded prose to which many women seemed to gravitate in that office, saying that the style book had "sprouted legs and walked away," which I think we'll all agree is a pretty elementary way to address a group of working adults.
But the best part of her e-mail is her typo, one that, tragically and more than a little ironically, could have been prevented if she'd actually had said manual in the first place. She asked in her letter: "Has anyone seen an extra Chicago Manuel of Style"? I've never seen Manuel of Style, but I bet he's one smooth operator. I'll keep an eye out for him. [She's never going to find the style book, either, since it's currently sitting on my bookshelf. Suck on that, nameless academic publishing company in Thousand Oaks.]
Time To Get Going
by
Dan Carlson
on Tue 07 Mar 2006 01:48 PM PST
I know I Nothing's happening. Sure, on the surface there seems to be plenty going on, especially compared to most other shows on network TV. But creator J.J. Abrams sets the bar high, and the show's not living up to it. The first season of Abrams' Alias was a phenomenal display of action, mystery, and emotional conflict; except for the random clip show episode where Sydney is interrogated by the FBI (repped by Terry O'Quinn), the entire season is tight, and almost flawlessly paced. Lost took the same mix of soap and sci-fi to epic new heights in its groundbreaking first season, a year that may prove impossible to top. Maybe it's because Abrams' energies have been focused elsewhere of late, but Lost is definitely suffering from a sophmore slump. The best evidence of this? Nothing's happening. The show's myriad plot lines, once so tightly interwoven, have become almost helplessly unraveled. Michael's been off in the woods looking for Walt for who knows how long, and except to make a few cameos to welcome Shannon to an apparently pretty Twin Peaks-ish afterlife, Walt hasn't been seen all year. Sawyer finally went bad again and swiped the island's stockpile of guns, an arc which was summarily dropped the next episode when Sawyer spent his time chasing a tree frog. We're 14 episodes along in season two. At this time last year, Locke and Boone had already found and begun to excavate the hatch; it was revealed that Sawyer knew Jack's father; Claire had been kidnapped; the anagrammatically evil Ethan Rom had made his presence known; Sayid had already been captured by Rousseau and escaped; Charlie had already kicked the monkey off his back; and, of course, Walt was psychically manifesting giant polar bears, and possibly the daily rainfall. Last season was packed with drama, while this season has slowed to a crawl. Maybe it was impossible for the show to continue on the stellar trajectory it charted its first year. But rather than continue to push the characters forward, to have them grow, the writing this season (again, with the exception of "The Long Con") has been stuck in neutral. The best dramas are ones whose characters show marked change over time, which Lost pulled off in its first year: The characters weren't the same at the end as they were when they started. But this entire season has felt like one long, turgid answer to the question posed in last year's finale of just what's down the hatch. The answer, it seems, is less than we hoped. |
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Remembering speechlessly we seek the great forgotten language, the lost lane-end into heaven, a stone, a leaf, an unfound door. Where? When?
O lost, and by the wind grieved, ghost, come back again. — Look Homeward, Angel, Thomas Wolfe Conservatives are not necessarily stupid, but most stupid people are conservatives. — John Stuart Mill We are all under the same mental calamity; we have all forgotten our names. We have all forgotten what we really are. All that we call common sense and rationality and practicality and positivism only means that for certain dead levels of our life we forget that we have forgotten. All that we call spirit and art and ecstasy only means that for one awful instant we remember that we forget. — G.K. Chesterton We were, for the briefest of moments, something greater than the sum of our uncertain parts; we were youth itself, in all its painful glory and sharp joy. — August Van Zorn There is a time in the lives of most writers when they are vulnerable, when the vivid dreams and ambitions of childhood seem to pale in the harsh sunlight of what we call the real world. In short, there's a time when things can go either way. — Stephen King Los Angeles, give me some of you! Los Angeles come to me the way I came to you, my feet over your streets, you pretty town I loved you so much, you sad flower in the sand, you pretty town. — Ask the Dust, John Fante |
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