Today, S writes for me a post titled "The Unbearable Lightness Of Being (devoid of artistic sensibilities)...":
I watched a very traumatic piece of cinema today. It was traumatic not in substance, but more so in intent, and the sheer smugness of the presentation (or so I say). Now, before I cast judgements, let me point out that I am quite guilty of embarking on flights of cinematic fancy whenever someone is foolhardy enough to trust me with their camera. But this is not about me. This is also not about the hundreds of thousands of other aspiring film-makers like me who will discover, over the course of their lives, that they are actually meant for higher things, like bagging groceries and tending graves. This is about the select few (hundreds of thousands) who pollute social media with their putrefaction day in and day out in the name of art, but dont know when to give up. Now, having experienced first hand the the inspiration for this antisocial behavior, Ladies and gentlemen - I present for your appreciation and criticism (I'd hate to live in a world where one trumped the other), one of the most highly acclaimed pieces of cinematic art out there - The Perfect Human, Part 1. And if you're still interested in why the perfect human picks his nose, has two ears and wears shoes: Part 2.
There are two kinds of people in this world. There's the first kind, like me, who look at that and go "What horseshit was that?!!" and then there is the second kind that wipe tears from their eyes and go "That was beautiful, visual poetry at its finest!". Now I agree that the world needs people who stay stuff like that, because they keep IFC running and make sure 'Ironman' doesn't get hailed as 'art' anytime soon, but not everyone can make a dancing bag look beautiful. Sam Mendes tried bravely, once. And yet, almost every other day I come across some deluded pothead trying their hand at recreating magic that was highly suspect to start with, via a peculiar brand of 'new-wave' film-making inspired by films like, uggghh, The Perfect Human. And almost every one of them looks more and more like like it emerged out of someone's hairy behind after a bad case of burrito-inspired food poisoning (Lets take a moment to let that image sink in).
Movies that try to imitate today's special presentation fall under the category of what I call 'Alternative Art' - the kind where the artist does crazy things like photographing himself peeing, or hanging a bunch of empty canvases on the wall and calling it "The Infant Remembers...". If YOU don't get it, there is something fundamentally wrong with YOU. The onus is on you to climb (or descend) to the same mental plane as the artist, even if that means that you start flinging fecal matter at innocent passersby and picking lice out of the artist's hair.
So I wondered, "How hard is it to express my inner turmoil and moral anguish through the medium of moving images?". About 5 minutes later, this fell out as I was picking my nose.
A long shot of someone walking down a decrepit alleyway.
VO (Voiceover): "Who am I? Where am I going? What lies around the corner?"
A dog licking itself in naughty places.
VO: "Why does my body crave these feelings that I cannot understand?"
A homeless man urinating on a street sign as it rains.
VO: "I can't hear myself think over the raindrops falling on the rooftop... the tears of a forgotten God."
A boy looking at himself in a cracked street window.
VO: "I used to be beautiful, but now I am just me."
A knife quivering in a drug-addled hand. Zoom in to reveal the punctured veins in all their sinewy, peacock-hued glory.
VO: "This must end."
Red (presumably bloody) water mixes with the water from a faucet.
VO: "I am beautiful again."
A black screen follows, and words form from a mist (usually a quote by some long dead poet/author, lets say Edgar Allan Poe because I don't read a lot of books) - "Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of to-day, or the agonies which are have their origin in the ecstasies which might have been".
If you liked the above script, I apologize for what clearly now looks to you like a fluff piece written with the sole intent of peddling my own deluded visions of cinematic genius after a charmingly disarming harangue against everyone but me. Oh well, an apology is more than most 'film makers' will give you. Live with it. If you hated the above script, you clearly don't have any taste, or smell or touch or sight for that matter. For your viewing pleasure, might I suggest, this.