Showing 1-20 of 51 results tagged “Self-Involvement”

With its last episode airing Sunday, I revisited my 2005 piece about Lost and was pleased that nothing in it embarrassed me — even though what the show has become would be incomprehensible to somebody who stopped watching way back then. Written a quarter the way through the second season, the essay is — in retrospect — too enthusiastic, but it’s also correctly cautious and (to be boastful) pretty perceptive.

I won’t be coy: I’m writing this almost exclusively to get more people to read my old essay. But in return, I’ll let you mock me. Toward that end, I offer some predictions on the Lost finale.

(A warning: If you’re bothered by spoilers, images of fellatio, or discussions of fellatio, avert your eyes.)

The Brown Bunny gave Roger Ebert cancer, and it features a real blowjob. And the girlfriend is dead.

In 18 words, I’ve summarized the hullabaloo surrounding (and the post-climactic revelation of) Vincent Gallo’s shockingly vain vanity project from 2003. I can even spare you from the “boring” parts of the movie — basically the first 80 of its 93 minutes — and help you indulge whatever prurient curiosity you might have by pointing to an in-depth description/analysis and video of the oral-sex scene.

But the film as a whole is actually oddly fascinating, especially in the context of its initial critical drubbing and the filmmaker’s reaction to that reception.

Ibetolis, the man behind Film for the Soul, has undertaken a massive project called “Counting Down the Zeroes,” in which he devotes a month to the movies of one year in the current decade.

I don’t understand the mechanics of his bending of space and time, but apparently 2000 ends on April 19, after which 2001 begins.

One goal is to offer “as many differing voices as possible to commentate on a decade of film.” To that end, he has accepted a 2004 essay I wrote on Requiem for a Dream into the project.

To see all the entries, you can visit Film for the Soul or the new Counting Down the Zeroes blog.

Squish created what he called the “Favorite Film Characters Meme,” and he was unkind enough to tag me. And while I’m skeptical that anything can be called a “meme” at the outset, I’m game. Slow, but game.

As somebody who generally connects with movies on the structural, story, and thematic levels, this task is quite the challenge. It’s not that I don’t pay attention to characterization, but I fall in love with a work as a whole rather than a particular aspect of it. Hence, this list overlaps significantly with my favorite movies.

Roger Ebert, in his December 17 “Answer Man” column, quoted this essay on Magnolia.

Thanks to Colin Marshall for pointing out the mention.

Also: Ebert’s November 27 “Great Movies” essay on Magnolia.

For the first time since fall 2006, I updated the 100 Favorite Movies feature of Culture Snob. Thirteen movies were added, and 29 went away. Yes, “100 Favorite Movies” for two years listed 116 movies. I could explain and justify this mathematical conflict, but I’ll spare you; just call me an idjit instead.

Two films joined the list in the top 20: No Country for Old Men (Coens, 2007) and Pan’s Labyrinth (Del Toro, 2006).

Two others moved into the top 20: Before the Rain (Manchevski, 1994) and Picnic at Hanging Rock (Weir, 1975). Making room for those four (but still on the list) were American Movie (Smith, 1999), Intacto (Fresnadillo, 2001), JFK (Stone, 1991), and Rushmore (Anderson, 1998).

The dropouts that had previously been rated the highest were in the middle section, the equivalent of spots 41 to 60 now: The French Connection (Friedkin, 1971), One False Move (Franklin, 1991), Toy Story 2 (Lasseter, 1999), Tucker: The Man and His Dream (Coppola, 1988), and Welcome to the Dollhouse (Solondz, 1995). I am still fond of all these movies, but the test for me was whether I could see myself watching them to the exclusion of other things on the list. The answer was “no.” In other words, I’m not as interested in revisiting them.

The other additions: The Brood (Cronenberg, 1979), Clockers (Lee, 1995), Cronos (Del Toro, 1993), The Descent (Marshall, 2005), The Devil’s Backbone (Del Toro, 2001), Eastern Promises (Cronenberg, 2007), The Last Temptation of Christ (Scorsese, 1988), Perfume: The Story of a Murderer (Tykwer, 2006), The Prestige (Nolan, 2006), The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (Hooper, 1974), and Zodiac (Fincher, 2007).

The other subtractions: Blue Velvet (Lynch, 1986), Chasing Amy (Smith, 1997), The Cook, the Thief, HIs Wife, and Her Lover (Greenaway, 1990), The Crying Game (Jordan, 1992), Dancer in the Dark (Von Trier, 2000), Dolores Claiborne (Hackford, 1994), The Empire Strikes Back (Kershner, 1980), Family Viewing (Egoyan, 1987), Funny Games (Haneke, 1997), Gates of Heaven (Morris, 1978), Happiness (Solondz, 1998), House of Games (Mamet, 1987), Incident at Loch Ness (Penn, 2004), The Incredibles (Bird, 2004), L.A. Story (Jackson, 1991), The Limey (Soderbergh, 1999), The Lion King (Allers and Minkoff, 1994), Lost in Translation (Coppola, 2003), Murderball (Rubin and Shapiro, 2005), Rear Window (Hitchcock, 1954), A Simple Plan (Raimi, 1998), Stuart Saves His Family (Ramis, 1994), Suture (McGehee and Siegel, 1993), and Three Colors: Red (Kieslowski, 1994).

A common regret is watching blog-a-thons come and go with nary a contribution from Culture Snob. So I was overjoyed to see the announcement at He Shot Cyrus for the “My Best Post Blog-a-thon”:

“Everyone should participate because here’s the best part: You’ve already written your entry!”

Lucky for me, I’ve maintained a Best of Culture Snob category that provided me with 22 candidates.

What surprised me was how easy the decision was.

Some marriages come with two microwave ovens or two sets of dishes. Ours did, too, but it also came with two copies of Infinite Jest.

This speaks less to our reading habits than our book-buying habits. I do not believe that Bride of Culture Snob has read David Foster Wallace’s doorstop from 1996. I didn’t get far enough to invoke the 69-page rule, which dictates that I must finish a book once I’ve gotten to that point.

So I won’t tell you — now that he’s killed himself at age 46 — that I devoured every word he wrote, or that I’ve memorized favorite passages, or that I’ve ranked my favorite Wallace foot/end notes. I’ve probably read a few of his short stories and a dozen or so essays. My favorite was probably his report from the set of Lost Highway, which seemed a perfect match of author and subject. (Wallace’s writing and insight are far more interesting to me than the movie itself.)

I don’t feel the cultural loss, even though I know it’s significant. I claim no personal connection with Wallace. I simply feel vaguely sad, and a little ill.

I remember feeling this way when I heard about the death of Elliott Smith and the disappearance of Spalding Gray — something like the retrospectively inevitable fulfillment of dread, with no surprise and a sense of societal failure. Yeah, we shoulda seen that one coming.

So it was written, and I agreed.

On the other hand ... .

For what it’s worth, the following sentence made me stop taking seriously Lauren Wissot’s initial piece, and that puts me among the author’s detractors:

“For example, a few weeks back I had fantastic afternoon sex with a hot bodybuilder — the tryst ending badly afterwards when we got into a heated debate over John Barrymore and Marlene Dietrich (who he feels are both vastly overrated).”

The problem here is a simple one of construction: The emphasis is in the wrong place. The nature of the sex isn’t relevant — fantastic, afternoon, or the hotness of the bodybuilder — yet it dominates not just the sentence but the paragraph and the whole damned essay. What’s important is treated structurally as an afterthought and is consequently lost.

The sentence could have easily been made more effective, and more appropriate to the piece:

“A recent tryst with a bodybuilder ended badly when we got into a heated debate over John Barrymore and Marlene Dietrich (who he feels are both vastly overrated).”

We all write bum sentences (and pieces) now and again, but this one by Wissot is pretty egregiously (and unnecessarily) self-involved. And this comes from someone who would know.

We were in the play area of the department store — most likely building things with Legos — and two girls were taking great delight in excluding me. They were speaking a language I didn’t understand, and it wasn’t exactly a private conversation. They would glance my way during their exchange and occasionally laugh. I felt mocked, which was exactly what they wanted.

They were speaking Pig Latin, I figured out later.

Of course, Pig Latin is only effective as a private language through a certain age, but we update and upgrade our codes throughout our lives.

I start an essay for most every movie I see. Whether I actually finish the essay — or even make any headway on a thesis — is another matter entirely.

Today I’ll be the old man who runs out of candy at Halloween and starts handing out worthless crap that’s lying around the house. July was tiring, and the first weekend of August was exhausting, and in the absence of having something real to give you, you get this.

I’ll spare you the beginnings of an essay on George A. Romero’s Diary of the Dead, because the two paragraphs I wrote bear a striking resemblance to something written more than four years earlier, but everything else is fair game. Coherence, cogency, and complete sentences are neither promised nor implied.

Why bother?

For one thing, my Google Docs and hard drive are clogged with these fragments, and by publishing them I am freeing myself, turning my demons into angels.

Second, I think it’s really funny to see exactly how far I didn’t get in writing about Eastern Promises and Stranger Than Fiction, even though I have notes (with the former) and some recorded ramblings (with the latter) that would serve as ample raw material.

Third, maybe somebody wants an intimate look at my writing process. Not likely, but ... .

Fourth, maybe there’s an idea or reading that might interest somebody. The Memento piece is actually fairly substantial, although it’s missing context and connective tissue.

To break away from The Dark Knight, here’s a Culture Snob essay that’s been distilled by Wordle:

I love many of these random groupings, but I’m particularly fond of the proximity of “audience” to “want” to “understand.” Bride of Culture Snob noted “need Peña,” which I pointed out could actually be read as “writer need Peña.”

The Self-Involvement Blog-a-thon ended yesterday, and while participation was ... selective, I couldn’t be happier with the submissions. My own writing aside, the blog-a-thon generated 14 15 new essays (as of July 15) and gave new life to a handful of others. More importantly, the work was often searching, naked, funny, touching, real, and resonant.

Tardy submissions are welcome, although reader interest in any blog-a-thon seems to peak near the beginning and die quickly once it’s over. (Self-Involvement Central reads by day: 123, 81, 68, 53, 56.) Late contributions can be made in comments, through the Culture Snob e-mail form, or in an e-mail message to snob@culturesnob.net.

One of the unfortunate side effects of running this blog-a-thon (while having a full-time job, a marriage, and an infant child, at least) was that the curator so far has only skimmed the offerings. I plan to rectify that this week, and I hope to offer some awards by week’s end. No prizes, outside of the satisfaction of a job well done and perhaps some graphic based on the crappy blog-a-thon logo.

In a prefatory note to his contribution, Michael Peterson noted:

“Have you noticed, in your Internet travels, that when it comes to blogging, the film critics seem to have a greater sense of community than many of the other groups?”

So thanks first to the blog-a-thon’s contributors, who proved that they aren’t self-involved at all. Thanks also to the many people who linked to the blog-a-thon and sent readers who would have otherwise remained blissfully unaware of the self-involvement of others.

And with that, I am submitting my retirement papers for blog-a-thon hosting.

But as training camp approaches next summer, if I find myself with an unsoothable itch, I reserve the right to rescind my retirement and demand a trade.

These are things that just ain’t happening for the Self-Involvement Blog-a-thon, for reasons of time, energy, and tone. Feel free to steal an idea — the blog-a-thon runs until Sunday, and we’re not much for deadlines. Or beg me to complete one in particular.

My Movie Body. In which I reconstruct myself (Frankenstein’s monster style) using the parts of movie characters/actors. But probably with Ewan McGregor’s penis, because I get at least one upgrade, don’t I? Inspired by a certain resemblance to Aidan Quinn.

Dearest Emily,

Right now, your primary activities are eating, reaching, sleeping, pooping, laughing, peeing, bouncing, crying, sitting up, and spitting up, but before I know it you’ll be running around and saying all the nasty words you’ve learned from your parents.

And before we get too wrapped up in soccer practice and homework, I want to ask a favor: Each year on my birthday, I want my present from you to be sitting with me and your mother and watching a movie, and talking about it afterward.

I’ve chosen a movie for each year through 2029 — when you’ll be 21 and I’ll be 58. I plan to be around, but if I’m not, please watch these with your mother on April 29. She’ll be able explain a lot.

A documentary short by Jeff Ignatius. Starring Emily. And the voice of Pamela.

When I said “self-involvement,” I meant it.

To mark the fifth birthday of Culture Snob (and the second day of the Self-Involvement Blog-a-thon), some raw data and some calculations:

In five years, Culture Snob has produced 514 entries, 36 polls, and 17 commentary tracks — nine full-movie commentaries and eight of the five-minute variety. I have written roughly 450,000 words for the site — an average of about 250 a day, or enough to fill 1,800 double-spaced typed pages over the site’s life.

For many years, I’ve said honestly that I have no idea what trigger pushed me from being an ardent consumer of movies to a film lover. Alternatively (and ultimately less truthfully), I’ve said that there was no specific movie/incident, instead placing the transformation some time in the early 1990s. Occasionally, I’ve credited seeing Fearless in fall 1993, and the connection between Peter Weir’s movie and my father’s death.

The vagueness of my answers has long bothered me, but I didn’t do much about it. Watching the new Criterion release of Before the Rain was epiphanic, though: I recognized that the movie was a critical event for me.

So I decided to piece together my movie history in a way less random than previous efforts; I wanted to construct something coherent and meaningful.

It was a summer in the early 1980s. We were on a family vacation. Perhaps to Disney World. It seemed that at every stop on our journey, Under the Rainbow was in a constant loop on HBO on our hotel television. We must have seen parts of it a dozen times. Memory is a fickle thing, but I remember that the PG-rated farce had one bare breast that pops out when the little people are running through a communal dressing room, or somesuch.

I mention this because I can, as we have arrived at the Self-Involvement Blog-a-thon, running Wednesday, July 9, through Sunday, July 13. This is the official Culture Snob birthday party, with this little site celebrating its fifth birthday on July 10. So give me a present: Write something for my blog-a-thon!

I’ll collect submissions in this entry over the course of the blog-a-thon. Links to submissions are best made in the comments, as work and Emily responsibilities will likely prevent prompt posting. (Self-involvement alert: baby pictures!) You can also send links through the Culture Snob e-mail form, or to snob@culturesnob.net.

When I first announced this Self-Involvement Blog-a-thon, I inexactly framed my goals:

“The Self-Involvement Blog-a-thon is about the intersection of movies and life [...] .”“Of course, we bring baggage whenever we talk or write about movies, but this is meant to be more personal [...] .”

(Self-involvement alert: the quoting of oneself!)

One commenter on another site correctly noted:

“Isn’t that terribly redundant, though? What else is the blogosphere all about except intensely personal reactions — to the cinema and everything else?”

She prompted me to clarify my intent:

“Most film writing is movies filtered through the self; I want the self filtered through movies.”

So there it is. As with my previous blog-a-thons, my goal is to write something new for each day, just in case nobody else participates.

Continue reading to see the submissions. (Last update: 12:05 p.m. CDT, July 15.)

(Self-Involvement Central is here.)

To mark the fifth birthday of Culture Snob — born July 10, 2003 — I’ll be hosting the Self-Involvement Blog-a-thon from Wednesday, July 9, to Sunday, July 13. (Previously, I initiated the Misunderstood Blog-a-thon and latched on to Only the Cinema’s Short-Film Week Blog-a-thon.)

Put simply, the Self-Involvement Blog-a-thon is about the intersection of movies and life. My hope is that it will serve as a celebration of the power of the moving picture removed from the critical, cultural, and financial contexts in which it is typically considered.

Of course, we bring baggage whenever we talk or write about movies, but this is meant to be more personal — intensely idiosyncratic reactions and analyses, difficult times when movies became more than movies, brushes with movie stars, crushes on movie stars, memories from youthful encounters with film, embarrassing revelations, cinematic epiphanies, meticulous drawings of Darth Vader from your eight-year-old self, ... .

The only rule is that contributions have two central elements: movies and you.

Submissions (or promises of submissions) can be made in comments, through the Culture Snob e-mail form, or at snob@culturesnob.net. New work is encouraged, but moldy links are welcome, too.

And remember: For once, it is all about you.