I wish I could go to Redwoods and engrave on the trees Oscar Wilde's aphorism so that everybody could marvel on the splendor of the insight.
For at least one more thousand years, oh Oscar, stay with us, for I go Wilde with this, this thing, for this is a symptom of our current predicament, not a film:
Suffocating cheap chords of piano and wind mark our downfall to letting cheap soundtracks describe our intimacy; no I do not want any more bad music describe my, or anybody's intimate moments. They make their own f***ing music.
Mediocre writers-cum-directors feeding primly on previous films, not as films, but as hits, and they miserably miss, dragging us with them.
(The actors in their two bed scenes were somehow let to be, and these are the only almost redeeming moments in the film - along with Brendan Bradley's bland expression playing the harmonica towards the close, that achieves something of pathos - , but, oh, so bereft when then one remembers the pap surrounding them.)
No I do not want any badly informed directors turning the unlived life into one more self-indulgence!
(And why is it that Matthew Montgomery is involved with creepily mediocre gay films ("Socket", "Gone but not forgotten")?)
But let's start at the beginning: Dear trees, fade out then fade in, then fade out then fade in, then fade out then fade in, then fade out then fade in - did you get the headache spin;
No, cut it to the middle: slow mo so oh slow mo cut with mom and dad pensive so; slow mo and tears aboard this is really worstward ho; scenes with me and my lover so, wait, no, this is mom and dad again, this editing is so -
FIVE YEARS LATER
Now this what can it mean?...Are we to marvel that the protagonist has not aged a day, that the film comes five years after "Brokeback", or that five years from now that we are going to have more of this kind of film?
One starts to get the feeling we need more of the punk sensibility that informed Derek Jarman's films; one yearns for films with spunk.
For at least one more thousand years, oh Oscar, stay with us, for I go Wilde with this, this thing, for this is a symptom of our current predicament, not a film:
Suffocating cheap chords of piano and wind mark our downfall to letting cheap soundtracks describe our intimacy; no I do not want any more bad music describe my, or anybody's intimate moments. They make their own f***ing music.
Mediocre writers-cum-directors feeding primly on previous films, not as films, but as hits, and they miserably miss, dragging us with them.
(The actors in their two bed scenes were somehow let to be, and these are the only almost redeeming moments in the film - along with Brendan Bradley's bland expression playing the harmonica towards the close, that achieves something of pathos - , but, oh, so bereft when then one remembers the pap surrounding them.)
No I do not want any badly informed directors turning the unlived life into one more self-indulgence!
(And why is it that Matthew Montgomery is involved with creepily mediocre gay films ("Socket", "Gone but not forgotten")?)
But let's start at the beginning: Dear trees, fade out then fade in, then fade out then fade in, then fade out then fade in, then fade out then fade in - did you get the headache spin;
No, cut it to the middle: slow mo so oh slow mo cut with mom and dad pensive so; slow mo and tears aboard this is really worstward ho; scenes with me and my lover so, wait, no, this is mom and dad again, this editing is so -
FIVE YEARS LATER
Now this what can it mean?...Are we to marvel that the protagonist has not aged a day, that the film comes five years after "Brokeback", or that five years from now that we are going to have more of this kind of film?
One starts to get the feeling we need more of the punk sensibility that informed Derek Jarman's films; one yearns for films with spunk.