another day of nothing, though miraculously it hasn’t gotten old yet. i accompanied (really, that word looks like it should have a ‘g’ squeezed in there somewhere) my little brother to a midday showing of insomnia. like jonah, i was impressed but not over-so. the unfortunate part of going mainstream is that so often one’s films no longer have real impact. my favorite example of this phenomenon is tim burton who in his indie days produced damn clever memorable flicks: beetlejuice, edward scissorhands, nightmare before christmas. then he got glossy and big-budget and has lately produced nothing but forgettable fluff. planet of the apes for god’s sake.
not that i want to draw an equivalency. just, as interesting and as gripping as insomnia is, it’s a far cry from how original memento was. i left the theater thrilled after memento. memento doesn’t bother with morals; if there’s a lesson to be drawn from it, you have do that drawing yourself — it isn’t coughed up to you from the throat of a contritely dying man. i liked insomnia but i don’t expect it to stick with me. a more apt comparison actually might be to aronofsky whose first pi left me ecstatic and whose second requiem for a dream was good, more generally palatable, far less unique, and burdened with a lesson. what is it with hollywood and morals? ironic, don’t you think, that the moviegoing public has to be lectured by the pious preachers of that desert of depravity?
in response to tinka’s recent declaration, i’ve been compiling a list of Non-Boring american authors. simply from scanning my bookshelves, so far i’ve come up with: steinbeck, salinger, miller, poe, vonnegut, morrisson, marrion zimmer bradley, ntozake shange, mark twain, ken kesey, sylvia plath, and michael cunningham.
must be well enough for indigo girls tonite. mild relapse last nite convinced my mother i have a parasite. if i name it, is it more likely to stay or leave? liz once said you only name the things that die. maybe i should name it henry james — two birds with one stone, init.