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Except it’s not about “need” and never really has been. More a matter of desire, since sometimes it just feels good to rev up and spew—or rev up and trickle if the words don’t come, which is all too frequently the case. Yet somehow there’s always an excuse to blabber on—sound, rhythm, free association, archaism, all manner of performative indulgence, none of which has anything to do with raw necessity or use. “Do you really have to say it that way?” Well, no, given that I don’t “have to” say anything at all, no more so than anyone else. But if “ornament is crime,” as the modernists have insisted since the days of Adolf Loos, then somebody’d better arrest me quick: composing these hyperventilating (or are they just overbearing?) screeds is turning me into a criminal, maybe the worst kind of ornamental/discursive felon. Move over John Garfield, it’s too damn hard to go straight anymore.
Anyway, here’s a sampling from the deep, dark past of films I’ve encapsulated in 50 words or less. All with obligatory links, wherever available, but why even bother to click? Except for the credit summaries, everything’s in front of you right now:
A friend of mine still thinks it’s the best thing I ever wrote. Thanks for the vote of confidence, pal.
