I finally saw Midnight in Paris. What a scrumptious treat! It’s a profiterole in movie form, a fluffy little puff pastry filled with magical realism and drizzled with inside jokes for lit and art history majors.
Owen Wilson plays a Hollywood screenwriter who at one point hops into a time-travelling Peugeot with T.S. Elliot and says, “Where I come from, we measure our lives with coke spoons.”
I mean, come on. How am I not supposed to fall madly in love with this movie?
Now I wanna go back to Paris, this time for at least a month. I’m looking up apartments in the 6th and 7th arrondissements at this very moment. It’s total vacation porn.
I’m thinking this little gem could be the perfect place to invite a young Hemingway up for a late night balcony fuck session. Afterwards, we’ll talk shit about Zelda Fitzgerald and drink champagne straight from the bottle.
I remember all those years in the blind pursuit of perfection. I remember being driven, mechanical, and passionless even as I excelled at what I thought was my life’s purpose. I wonder sometimes how I did it, and how it was possible that I never stopped to ask why.
When I think back on who I was then, who I almost became, and that other kind of life where I could never have known what I do now, I am so thankful for that part of myself that I had to lose.
I am so grateful that it all nearly killed me.
Black Swan resonated at a level that I wasn’t expecting, because I know what it’s like to make that metamorphosis. I didn’t show up to the theater expecting to stare so deeply into the duality of my own life, and I certainly wasn’t expecting to connect so emotionally with such a symbolic, allegorical journey.
It’s a testament to his skill, but Aronofsky made it impossible for me to disassociate from his archetypes — White Swan, Black Swan, Dying Swan — they were so much more than just chess pieces moved about for the sake of a predictable object lesson. I empathized with each of them. I felt that shit.
Natalie, Mila, and Winona were fucking flawless, by the way. They each deserve the academy award that Natalie will eventually win. Maybe they should split it. They are a trinity, after all, each performance representing a part of a tragically beautiful, romanticized feminine ideal.
Still, the ballet isn’t for everyone. There are those who will find this movie as clichéd and boring as any wind-up ballerina music box. Visual metaphors aside, all they’ll see is a highbrow version of Showgirls meets The Shining.
That’s fine. My reaction to the film was very personal, and I feel no need to argue with those it didn’t reach. I don’t have to justify its brilliance, because any work of art that inspires this many deep thoughts while I’m sober is a fucking masterpiece as far as I’m concerned.
It’s been two days now, and I’m still pondering. I’ve done nothing but reflect on my life, my choices, and the things I never got to choose. I haven’t been able to get it out of my head.
I am so fucking grateful to be alive.
Okay, so I just finished watching 500 Days of Summer on cable. I’d seen it before and liked it, if but for no other reason than I got to watch Joseph Gordon-Levitt walk around in about a dozen different suits.
The storytelling is a bit non-linear and has a dreamlike quality, so of course, my mind instantly went to Inception. I couldn’t help myself. I ended up gunning the entire narrative of 500 Days of Summer through the prism of Christopher Nolan’s mythology.
It was fucking awesome.
All you have to do is pretend that Joseph Gordon-Levitt is still playing the character of Arthur from Inception, and that 500 Days of Summer is just his version of limbo. It makes the movie so much more interesting.
As it turns out, Zooey Deschanel’s character Summer is just a hipster version of Mal, which totally explains her single minded bitchiness. She’s a projection of Arthur’s subconscious the whole time.
And come on, he wants to be an architect? That couldn’t be more deliberately part of the Inception universe.
I like to think that the greeting cards were JGL’s totem, and his card that read “Roses are red, Violets are blue… Fuck you whore!” was the one that indicated he was dreaming.
The kick comes at the end, when he hears that the name of the new girl is Autumn. She’s the extractor who’s come in after him to help wake up.
Seriously. Go try this yourselves. It probably works with any movie featuring a cast member of Inception.
I wonder if Juno will be funnier?
Wouldn’t it be great if I could spend millions of other people’s dollars shitting out a meandering cinematic therapy session about my daddy issues?
What if it took place at the Chateau Marmont? That way, I could direct an entire movie without ever having to leave the hotel pool.
Maybe my rock star baby daddy could play some of his music on the soundtrack. If he lets me use everyone’s favorite song in the trailer, it’ll make it seem like I’m tapping into a deep well of emotion instead of regurgitating yet another self-centered story about the emotional immaturity that comes with a life of privilege and excess.
Oh wait, what am I thinking? I’m not Hollywood royalty. No one in their right mind would let me do that.
I guess I’ll just go write something snarky on my blog instead.