Saturday, April 29, 2006
Go Ask Alice When She's 10 Feet Tall
Ok, so 29:00 into "Broken Flowers," when Bill Murray's lonely character was sitting in a dark room with a glass of wine and the bottle sitting idle on a coffee table mimicked the real-life scene in the luxury apartment here in the M-to the-K-to the-E, I thought the flick was going to be good.
And for an hour and a half or so, it was. Then the ending came and it mortally wounded the movie. It's a shame. It was a 4 1/2 star flick until the shite ending. Now, if you want to get terribly pseudo-intellectual on the existential triangle of despair at the end, so be it. But that, PHIL 101, two quarters and a cup of coffee gets you 50 cents and might wake you up in the morning.
I felt like it was a kick in the balls. Which, if that was Jim Jarmusch's plan all along, he should win the Oscar for testicular pain. Don't waste my time building plot, character, and the stream of life's foibles and coincedences that seem to make up reality, then force an ending.
Not on a Friday when I'm shacked up watching a DVD.
Especially not on a Friday when the Sox have painfully coughed up another one.
Eventually this blog is going to have a baseball feel to it. But that can only be achieved with a few W's. I know it's only April, but I'm close to becoming concerned. I'm just mildly annoyed right now.
Ah, curse you sweet Tintara. And my friends and companions who formed a Black Velvet Band.
Apres moi, le deluge. One.
And for an hour and a half or so, it was. Then the ending came and it mortally wounded the movie. It's a shame. It was a 4 1/2 star flick until the shite ending. Now, if you want to get terribly pseudo-intellectual on the existential triangle of despair at the end, so be it. But that, PHIL 101, two quarters and a cup of coffee gets you 50 cents and might wake you up in the morning.
I felt like it was a kick in the balls. Which, if that was Jim Jarmusch's plan all along, he should win the Oscar for testicular pain. Don't waste my time building plot, character, and the stream of life's foibles and coincedences that seem to make up reality, then force an ending.
Not on a Friday when I'm shacked up watching a DVD.
Especially not on a Friday when the Sox have painfully coughed up another one.
Eventually this blog is going to have a baseball feel to it. But that can only be achieved with a few W's. I know it's only April, but I'm close to becoming concerned. I'm just mildly annoyed right now.
Ah, curse you sweet Tintara. And my friends and companions who formed a Black Velvet Band.
Apres moi, le deluge. One.
