It's been a while since I've discussed the joys of reading Anthony Lane, film reviewer of The New Yorker, but having suffered painfully through the Spew and the City movie the other night (It was that or walk through the rain - I should have walked through the rain) I cannot recommend him highly enough. Here he is: Lane Review. Enjoy.
Anthony Lane on the Transformers movie: oh yes.
Also, I note with interest and a certain degree of horror that The New Yorker now has fiction podcasts, where you can listen to stories being read while you're supposed to be writing them yourself. Go here if you need to lose even more time than the internet already demands of you.
Favourite bits from Anthony Lane so far:
"There are two types of Transformers: the Autobots, who are fine, upstanding citizens in pretty colors, and the Decepticons, most of whom are mean, vengeful, and beige."
... because I very much enjoy the use of beige as an insult.
And also:
As a passerby exclaims in the midst of the film, “This is easily a hundred times cooler than ‘Armageddon’!†To be proud of your achievement is one thing, but to plant film critics inside your movie and review it favorably as you go along: that takes genius.
... almost makes me want to see the film. Almost.
And he links Transformers to Werner Hertzog, which is no mean feat, just quietly.
Not that, and I hasten to add this before someone else does, I have seen either film or have a right to an opinion about them. Still. Never stopped me yet.
We got our film festival tickets today (last day to get the early bird tickets, so hurry up kids)...
Last year, I saw about four films a day.
This year, I intend to beat my previous record. How I am going to afford this, given it will require me to take time off my already infrequent day job, is one of those "play-it-by-ear" kind of scenarios.
I realise this means that most of my year has so far been taken up with festivals. April and May were the comedy festival, June was the Sydney Writers' Festival, and July and August are the Melbourne Film Festival. How on earth I get anything else done is beyond me. Probably because getting anything done is also beyond me. I can feel The Guilt creeping sneakily back into the cracks between my debt and my lack of time to do anything productive on account of my debt.
The circle, the circle of life, as The Lion King would say.
Speaking of wasting time you don' t have enough of, here is an exciting opportunity in this excellent area of study:
Looks like our friend Dave Eggers is writing about films for The New Yorker. With Anthony Lane! Oh to be a fly on that wall. Read this.
I know I am.
Just as a precaution, if you see me in the street, here is the kind of question I am getting tired of:
"You lost your entire hard drive? What, everything? Don't you back your stuff up? I always back my stuff up. I back it up nine times a day in three different languages and keep copies in four different buildings across five continents and then I send it to myself in a time machine and store it in a vacuum pack in the future."
And, to save time, here is my answer:
NO I DID NOT BACK MY STUFF UP OKAY YOU SMUG PRICK? I WAS BUSY. I HAD THINGS TO DO. I WAS "PLANNING" TO BACK MY STUFF UP. I WAS UNDER INSTRUCTIONS FROM RITA TO BACK MY STUFF UP. I DID NOT BACK MY STUFF UP. AND YOU KNOW WHAT? I HAVEN'T DONATED BLOOD FOR MONTHS EITHER. AND SOMETIMES I SWEAR AND QUITE OFTEN I FORGET PEOPLE'S NAMES AND ONE TIME I PLAYED A TRICK ON MY SCIENCE TEACHER BECAUSE I KNEW SHE WAS DEAF IN ONE EAR. I AM IN IMPERFECT PERSON IN MANY WAYS. BUGGER OFF, FOR INSTANCE.
That is all.
(Except this. Anthony Lane on Zellweger. Oh yes).
As part of the show I am writing, I'm researching Paris Hilton. Paris is already the most googled person in the world, so I'm doing our global reputation no good, not to mention the filters I've had to install in my search options (yeesh!).
Anyhoo, check out this mistake in a newspaper article about Paris. A nice little twist.
Also, just so Anthony Lane doesn't think he's the only New Yorker film reviewer I like (because obviously he is a big fan of the Standing There Diary), here is an article about film production and distribution, by David Denby. As with all New Yorker articles, it's probably a good idea to print it out and take it with you everywhere you go. Then one day, maybe three years from now, a train will break down when you're two hours from anywhere and you'll thank me for the David Denby article. There are still several unwrapped New Yorkers next to my bed. They span a very busy period in my life known as 2004, and I still haven't got around to reading them. One day I will. I might be a grandmother by then, but I'll be grateful for something excellent to read.
Do you think anyone would find it cool if I started an Anthony Lane fan site? Is there any way in which that's socially acceptable? Could I do it with irony? Under a false name? Under his name?
Probably I should go back to googling Paris Hilton.
It has now reached the stage where I have received a fake email from a friend of mine pretending to be Anthony Lane wanting to meet me for coffee.
People know about my weakness for the film pages of The New Yorker and they are starting to exploit me for it.
Very funny, people. You tease me now, but read this. If I'm going to fall in love with writing, I may as well fall in love with someone who uses the word "scumbled" as though it's the sort of thing people say at the breakfast table.
Meanwhile, I went to the physiotherapist today to check up on my (previously broken) wrist. She said it would be fine for work. No worries, she said. Writing and typing and working? Fine. Gym? Brilliant. Not a worry. Manual labour? Ace.
Frisbee? At least a month. Six weeks, maybe more. No frisbee. Ever. Scouts Honor.
Stupid dumb broken wrist. How is that fair?
Whenever I log into The New Yorker website, my heart does skip a beat when Anthony Lane's name appears under "Current Cinema". Here he is on Bond. I don't care what he's writing about. He can take a seat around my fantasy dinner party table any time he likes.
Another: Caryl Churchill. Check out her CV and ask yourself what the hell you've been doing with your time. I bet she doesn't get distracted by articles in the weekend paper or driven crazy by sudokus.
And the two troublemakers Alan Bennett and Tom Stoppard are up there too, as is our Mister Winton. I am declaring my writing crushes now because they have been there for me during my broken wrist debacle. I therefore also extend my thanks to the writer of Press Gang and to Aaron Sorkin. As Rita says: "wind beneath wings etc".