We could drop theoretical bombs all day. Expect a piece lauding the genius of psychologically oriented formalist theorist Rudolf Arnheim, but until then try to let me use this blog as therapy.
The theater above, AMC Marple 10 in Springfield, PA is the one my single mother of 3 took her children for the before 5pm and early morning weekend matinees. She took me weekly to see everything and anything, which definitely lead to the angel (or monster) I am at this very moment. Today though didn't evoke images of a happy childhood escaping my "lets bring store brand popcorn to the theater instead of buying it so we can have Christmas this year" existence, but was terrible because I am emotionally unstable sometimes and normal at other times-diagnosis anyone? Anywho, I wanted the cinema equivalent of a speedball- I needed something to pep me up, but ultimately make me black out into the fantasmical wonderland of movie magic. So, through some leads, I returned to the place that spawned the cinematic warrior that writes truth for you right now. And my old dealer, my old friend, had a new drug: 30 Minutes Or Less.
The shit my dealer gave me was just nutrasweet mixed with pencil eraser dust spit on by my pallid inner-child. It only backed up the immensely cultivated heroic notion I came up with awhile ago that I should stop going to multiplexes. Want me to talk about the movie? Alright, two guys do goofy shit, movie goes on too long, everyone else is better in other movies. Comedy for me is different than other types of film, but this didn't even try. Where was the impact I get with good movies? What is that impact? If you would even ask that you probably just like things because they make you feel good, lower-animals do that too.
And I say this as most of you probably have the higher cognitive strength to not even think of going to a movie like 30 Minutes or Less. If you feel I have done wrong, I rather die by the hands of you then by someone who would even sit in a theater with a bunch of prepubescents barking at each other while I watched on trying to learn how to pick up women from 14 year olds in sleeveless jerseys advertising gyms they have never been too. In there middle there:
Not enough? Was it OK I was insulted with this right when I came in the door?
The original Shit Dogs lacked all merit. If you feel some connection to it you surely lack any semblance of meaningful film appreciation. You probably like that the actor in the movie usually isn't like that in other movies. Well. I usually don't give a shit. Peckinpah should of drank himself to death sooner.
I'm saying this as my insomnia-15 years now and still going-impelled me to take a sleeping pill. One that is now beckoning me to stop trying to mix intellectual irony with criticism. You probably are hoping we never mix those two together again like most music and/or post-modern hipster online outfits. We won't, if we do, we'll put the proverbial gun into my literal mouth. Should of done that instead of walking through the hollowed halls of my cinematic first fix. Cinema, my drug, used to be fun, but I feel sometimes I have taken it too far. And I'm now the guy at the party begging everyone to stay while they have to go home to their petty children or something. Yet, ultimately life is really dull, so why not get something stronger. Hence my appreciation of the cinematic equivalent of whatever annoying drug users who, by the way think I'm one of them, but get annoyed that I just stare at them as they destroy themselves, think is "the better stuff." You can't leave then, your kids will figure out how to find new parents.
The noose of modern cinema is strangling me to death as the chemicals in my brain tell me to literally fade to black. If you hate that I wrote this, go blow up a movie theater. I'm now going to stare at photos of Juliet Berto.