In commemoration of the Jewish New Year, the one that really matters in Hollywood, I would like to make a few resolutions for the future of my film review column:
Nobody else appreciates my clever wordplay nearly as much as I do. Thusly, achieving puns, no matter the degree of difficulty, will no longer be the crux of my intentions. I will, however, retain the right to use sweet vocab. And call myself Big Pun.
When I do counter my parsimonious ways and dig deep into my own starving college boy pockets to pay my own Destinta entrance fee, I will deliver a thoughtful evaluation of the film. My thoughts may operate on a different wavelength than most, but my column will be chockfull of them. And probably some puns. I see it this way: Wesleyan faces do not want a bombastic, didactic me-type jizzing his personal film doctrine or manifesto all over the pristine pages of the Argus. Egalitarian is the bling word I’m looking for (filmies included). Straight up: should one plunk down one’s cash money and go see this movie out in the cold, cruel world when it’s so much easier to stay hermetic here? While persons read the Critical Ass column, breezy, bombastic entertainment will be the maraschino cherry on the proceedings. Is the film good or not? You will just have to read the lines. This is my agenda. If, by kismet, I have startling insight into the film and can situate it properly in its micro and macro worth in modern society, then so be it.
I will take a more humanistic approach at times. This may involve my brother Eric (E-Flash to those in the know). He is 13, comes from good stock, a shining beacon in the young adult nebula. He’s such a good boy. And relevant to my purposes in that he took a month-long filmmaking workshop this past summer. The budding young Lynches and Cassaveteses were left to their own devices, the sort of freedom few in the biz are afforded. Abetted by a guerilla screening held at the end of the workshop, my brother has assisted me in developing a theory for how young males understand thematic structure.
Inciting Incident: a farting sound
Rising Action: maniacal laughter, either joined in by or, observed by bemused onlookers.
Climax: light saber fight with pens
Denouement: chase scene. When participants stop to catch breath, they drool on themselves.
Resolution: complete reversal into mutual declarations of love and sloppy hugs among all involved. Everybody falls down and rolls around. Fade to black.
(Films directed by young females inevitably depict dolls hanging themselves)
I would like to share cinematic moments from my daily existence. Today I was operating my motor vehicle, the Road Warrior, my plush, pimpin’, dual shotgun ’89 Chevy Celebrity. Naturally, a tire blew, sending the hubcap careening off of the vehicle, rolling down the side of the road, gleaming in the sunlight, making its final resting place next to an immaculately arranged foliage. Pulchritude, baby.
I will phase out my use of the first person and the suffocating ubiquity of self in my columns.
I will give in and admit the rumors are true. I am the inspiration for Napoleon Dynamite.
I will never write a column like this again in which I explain stuff. I do not think that I am wrong to believe that qualifying myself in this manner lessens the expressive power of my diction.
SKY CAPTAIN AND THE WORLD OF TOMORROW opens today at Destinta: 2:15 pm 4:30 6:45 9:00 11:15 are the times through this weekend.
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