There’s the Michael Winterbottom adaptation of Tristram Shandy, which falls somewhere in the middle, with the actors existing as fictional versions of themselves alongside actual fictional characters, ostensibly adapting an un-adaptable book. The Player ends with the characters falling into the roles of a bullshit hollywood movie, and if that works for you it works. The big difference is obviously execution. Both are movies with extremely long takes about idiot industry people who don’t know how to make a movie without being a piece of shit to the women in their lives. Like “movies about movies” describes all sorts of things, but movies about the movie industry? There’s a big difference between say The Player, which to me always felt masturbatory and self congratulatory and Contempt, which is ugly and fucked up and beautiful. There’s a certain kind of inside baseball type of writing that has an indefinable quality that determines whether it’s good or bad.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |