Salty Custard · 27 April 2001
Ah, me. After a long and jittery day peppered with frustration, unresolved design outcomes and volcanic self-loathing, there’s nothing like plopping down in front of the television with a pizza ($15, all dressed) balanced on the midriff and a jeroboam of 7-11 Gatorade ($1.19, Double Gulp) at one’s side. Let’s see what the 10 o’clock movie is.
Oh, .
Can’t quite figure what it is that annoys me most about Greenaway movies. Is it the slapdash cartoon kitsch? Is it the hollow, sham-lavish art direction? Is it the de facto wrinkle-nosed intolerance of anything not called Art, and by a ludicrously narrow definition of the term at that? Is it the overfed, ubiquitous metaphors? Is it the sniggering, sexless eroticism? Is it the barnside caricatures of rich and powerful philistines who take and take and will never understand the significance of it all? Or is is just that watching one is approximately as illuminating and engaging as watching a dog in pearl earrings chase its own tail?
People, I want to know.
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