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This evening I had a stunning revelation. I realized that, without notice or fanfare, I had crossed over the line. Any hope for normality I once possessed has been shattered and left forgotten like an empty popcorn bucket, rolling around under the theatre seats amidst the adhesive goo deposited by thousands of cinematic philistines.
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Movie snobbery started out harmless enough. One evening watching Eraserhead while on acid, another bragging about loving Tarantino before he made Pulp Fiction - it was a game meant only to impress the easily impressed. A sad (and usually failed) attempt to get laid by that way-trendy chick with the ironic, horn rimmed glasses and faded Velvet Underground concert shirt.
But no longer. Today I received my imported DVD copy of Wong Kar-Wai's Days of Being Wild. This almost completes my Kar-Wai collection, and brings it to par (at least in quantity) with the Peter Greenaway side of the shelf. I bring it over to a friend's house - he has a big screen TV and a tolerance for these sorts of movies - and watch closely, absorbing as much detail as I can. We later sit smoking cigarettes, seriously discussing things like pacing in Jim Jarmusch films and debating which of Darren Aronofsky's two movies was the better. There is no one else around, and no one else cares. We are doing it because we enjoy it. Nobody is impressed. This caused me to mentally review which films I'd recently seen, and the results were a bit surprising. Of the past dozen, 7 were foreign, 4 were subtitled, and none were what one would call mainstream. Worse, it dawned on me that I had absolutely no desire what-so-ever to see anything that I, as a good US citizen, was supposed to be watching, and had lacked this desire for years. I had crossed a line. Permanently. Irrevocably. This enlightenment is in and of itself frightening enough, but worse lies just over the horizon. First is the dreaded historical angle: What if I come to appreciate something previously loathed like Citizen Cane? I already have a Fritz Lang fetish, but could a deep understanding of Fellini be lying in wait as well? And after a history of film, then what? The dreaded term experimental threatens to rear its ugly head, and has in fact already made overtures upon my psyche. I have been witness to an unfinished "work" that involved live performance by the artist enacted in front of two screens whilst her partner scored the avant garde films in real time. And yes, god forgive me, I enjoyed it!
I am lost upon this most slippery of slopes, and I greatly fear what will greet me at the bottom. |