One not to see
Woody Allen.
Skinny. Weird. Fucking his daughter. Goddammned ugly. Famous for... what? I never figured it out. Everyone who likes his films chortles to themselves and casts their eyes to the ceiling, shaking their head in a patronising fashion before saying, "It's a Jewish thing. It's Jewish humor." That's humor? 'Seinfeld' is humor. Woody Allen's talent rather seems to lie in that nebulous field, that tierra de nadie of pretention, The Arts. Comprising that bizarre group of A-listers who aren't famous for being pretty, stupid, rich or fucking someone pretty, stupid and rich, The Arts is home to those who have, against all odds, risen to supreme and eclectic fame. Those who ride above and beyond the laws dictating normal human convention, so that fucking one's small Vietnamese adopted daughter is perfectly normal, even applauded.
Because - it's Art.
There seems to be several prerequisites as entry to the elite world of 'The Arts'. One must be old. Talentless. One must prolong the periods between productivity so that each complete Work can be released upon the unsuspecting public in a blaze of sycophantic publicity. Judaism, in New York, is a plus, although not essential. And being weird, preferably devoid of personality, helps.
What annoys me is the hype accompanying certain films by members of 'The Arts'. Remember 'Lost in Translation'? "Oh you'll love it!" friends of mine declared. "It's all about the emptiness and isolation of being in transition, of travelling."
I should have known as soon as they used a clause in a sentence it was a bad idea.
But regardless, I figured Match Point was a safe bet. Hot actors. London. No Jewish jokes. 'His best film ever!' said Gawker. Those Jews are all in league.
The plot is entirely uninspired. Poor little Irish boy becomes a tennis coach, meets a rich boy, is adopted into the family, marries rich boy's sister and then fucks rich boy's ex girlfriend. He knocks her up, decides to shoot her before she tells rich boy's sister, and - doesn't get caught.
You see, Woody was really clever with this plot, because poor little Irish boy - doesn't get caught. Jonathan Rhys Meyers gets off scot free. Therefore Woody Allen has ingeniously twisted the normal conventions of Greek Tragedy and Divine Retribution and in a postmodern ironic twist, subverted it to disprove the existence of God, leaving the viewer with a somewhat bleak and yet sublimely humorous look at the very nature, the very futility of existence. Wow.
This is probably what he tells people - one needs to say pretentious crap like that in order to maintain one's position in the elite. What is evident is that this script is abysmal. Jonathan Rhys Meyers smoulders on screen with a strained look of constipation on his face, and the eyes of someone high on crack, never really providing us with any evidence of why, precisely, this incredibly rich upper class family would ever take a liking to such a boring and pathetic character. Emily Mortimer simpers around vacuously, while Scarlett Johansson pouts like the teenage brat she is on and off screen. At first I was convinced this was a farce. You know, one of this films so bad, it's ironically bad, in a really subversive clever parody. But no. As audience member number 12 left after ten minutes, it struck me that Woody Allen - was being serious. He really was the author of such abjectly horrendous lines as "Your lips are so sensual" and "I can sense you enjoy competition", precipitously leading up to the soft porn moment of animal lust between forbidden lovers Johanssen and Meyers as they roll around in the rain, conveniently locating a wheat field with long, golden sheafs which could be crushed beneath their painfully choreographed passion. Oh it's soooo Thomas Hardy.
Every aspect of this film was testimony to ill thought out and amateur execution. Uninspired cinematography. Cliched script. Patently wooden acting by all concerned. Complete lack of character development. Plot so old and tired it could be sharing a bed with Soon-Yi. I fail, entirely, to see how such a generic piece of crap could be given so much hype and universally applauded. Is the world of commercial cinema so devoid of talent that when we want to market something as 'Art', we have to rely on the ever finite stores of predictable crap provided by Woody Allen or Sofia Coppola? 'Art' to my mind, should not be a label to excuse a complete lack of talent.
I guess I've now increased the probability of my assassination by a 600 pound Jewish filmmaker, but on the upside, I did see Harry Potter yesterday, which I wholly recommend.
Does this make me a pleb? Probably. But as you can tell, I really don't give a fuck.
Skinny. Weird. Fucking his daughter. Goddammned ugly. Famous for... what? I never figured it out. Everyone who likes his films chortles to themselves and casts their eyes to the ceiling, shaking their head in a patronising fashion before saying, "It's a Jewish thing. It's Jewish humor." That's humor? 'Seinfeld' is humor. Woody Allen's talent rather seems to lie in that nebulous field, that tierra de nadie of pretention, The Arts. Comprising that bizarre group of A-listers who aren't famous for being pretty, stupid, rich or fucking someone pretty, stupid and rich, The Arts is home to those who have, against all odds, risen to supreme and eclectic fame. Those who ride above and beyond the laws dictating normal human convention, so that fucking one's small Vietnamese adopted daughter is perfectly normal, even applauded.
Because - it's Art.
There seems to be several prerequisites as entry to the elite world of 'The Arts'. One must be old. Talentless. One must prolong the periods between productivity so that each complete Work can be released upon the unsuspecting public in a blaze of sycophantic publicity. Judaism, in New York, is a plus, although not essential. And being weird, preferably devoid of personality, helps.
What annoys me is the hype accompanying certain films by members of 'The Arts'. Remember 'Lost in Translation'? "Oh you'll love it!" friends of mine declared. "It's all about the emptiness and isolation of being in transition, of travelling."
I should have known as soon as they used a clause in a sentence it was a bad idea.
But regardless, I figured Match Point was a safe bet. Hot actors. London. No Jewish jokes. 'His best film ever!' said Gawker. Those Jews are all in league.
The plot is entirely uninspired. Poor little Irish boy becomes a tennis coach, meets a rich boy, is adopted into the family, marries rich boy's sister and then fucks rich boy's ex girlfriend. He knocks her up, decides to shoot her before she tells rich boy's sister, and - doesn't get caught.
You see, Woody was really clever with this plot, because poor little Irish boy - doesn't get caught. Jonathan Rhys Meyers gets off scot free. Therefore Woody Allen has ingeniously twisted the normal conventions of Greek Tragedy and Divine Retribution and in a postmodern ironic twist, subverted it to disprove the existence of God, leaving the viewer with a somewhat bleak and yet sublimely humorous look at the very nature, the very futility of existence. Wow.
This is probably what he tells people - one needs to say pretentious crap like that in order to maintain one's position in the elite. What is evident is that this script is abysmal. Jonathan Rhys Meyers smoulders on screen with a strained look of constipation on his face, and the eyes of someone high on crack, never really providing us with any evidence of why, precisely, this incredibly rich upper class family would ever take a liking to such a boring and pathetic character. Emily Mortimer simpers around vacuously, while Scarlett Johansson pouts like the teenage brat she is on and off screen. At first I was convinced this was a farce. You know, one of this films so bad, it's ironically bad, in a really subversive clever parody. But no. As audience member number 12 left after ten minutes, it struck me that Woody Allen - was being serious. He really was the author of such abjectly horrendous lines as "Your lips are so sensual" and "I can sense you enjoy competition", precipitously leading up to the soft porn moment of animal lust between forbidden lovers Johanssen and Meyers as they roll around in the rain, conveniently locating a wheat field with long, golden sheafs which could be crushed beneath their painfully choreographed passion. Oh it's soooo Thomas Hardy.
Every aspect of this film was testimony to ill thought out and amateur execution. Uninspired cinematography. Cliched script. Patently wooden acting by all concerned. Complete lack of character development. Plot so old and tired it could be sharing a bed with Soon-Yi. I fail, entirely, to see how such a generic piece of crap could be given so much hype and universally applauded. Is the world of commercial cinema so devoid of talent that when we want to market something as 'Art', we have to rely on the ever finite stores of predictable crap provided by Woody Allen or Sofia Coppola? 'Art' to my mind, should not be a label to excuse a complete lack of talent.
I guess I've now increased the probability of my assassination by a 600 pound Jewish filmmaker, but on the upside, I did see Harry Potter yesterday, which I wholly recommend.
Does this make me a pleb? Probably. But as you can tell, I really don't give a fuck.
MIMI IN NY | 12:10 AM |
