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2002 ... In Closing
Ah, yes, another year older. Another year of movie-watching, sniper-watching and American Idol loathing. Who has the better voice? Who has kinkier hair? Who gives a royal fuck? The American Life is as empty as ever, and now we're on the Verge of a Nuclear Holocaust. But there are constants: We'll always have the two Stevens, Soder and Spiel, to make multiple films a year. Tom Cruise will continue to make demands that people stop looking him in the eye (either he has reached the Peak of Vanity or there are some serious psychological issues at play). There will always be earnest film fans everywhere, with genuine 'critics' few and far between (I'm just an ungrammatical chump here in my little corner). We will never be rid of Pepsi Blue, which tastes like a watered down 7-11 Blue Raspberry Slurpee. The average intelligence will continue to slide into the tar pits. And the celebrities and shamelessly rich on MTV's Cribs will keep rubbing in your face the gold-plated trinkets your hard-earned money gave them.
I'd personally like to thank everyone that e-mailed me this year to say "Hi" or complain or argue or get me to watch their student films or read their unpublished books and articles. Your messages were interesting and tended to break up the monotony of my everyday living. Sorry, local filmmakers, for declining to see your picture at the nearby theater, but I fear walking out or looking bored will discourage you from your celluloid dreams. If you have the next great independent film on your hands, all the power to you - and please send me a poster. To my students who suggested I watch Withnail & I, I applaud your taste. To those who gave me a copy of Boondock Saints on VCD, you must be joking. And special thanks to D.W. for the timeless J.R. story: what a world we live in.
In non-movie praise, go read Sacco's Palestine, Hitchens' Why Orwell Matters and Rakoff's ingenious Fraud. And listen to the Interpol disc, Turn On the Bright Lights, which makes me want to cry (runners-up: Coldplay's A Rush of Blood to the Head and, of course, the Flaming Lips). And read the essay by Joe Queenan in the new Best American Essays. It took Matisse 'til he was 40 to find his path. To the unemployed: keep on with the resumes. The void awaits!
My Top Ten List, along with explanations, ignorance and trash-talk.
John's Best & Worst of the Year.
© Copyright 2010 Matthew Lotti.
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