dear frownland,
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
DEAR FROWNLAND,
First off, I know what you’re going to say… well maybe not say, but… maybe think–maybe you’re going to think, “what an asshole, he wrote a film review of some underground art film that no one gives a fuck about to prove his credibility to a small, insignificant audience, and pretend to feel good about himself for a day.” Art pretension. Hipster masturbation. Yuppie poseur. Rotten, self-conscious piece of middle-class American egocentrism.
Fuck you. If I was going to write a self-indulgent piece about why this film is a work of art, a mastery of the filmic medium, a stunning representation of genius (that you will either pretend to understand or jerk yourself off to the extent of understanding), or even better–ironically feign ignorance–a kitschy mess of bourgeois diarrhea, I’d type this out on a typewriter on the kitchen floor in my loft, scribble it on napkins at a café on top of one of my Greenberg compilations, mail it to a university newspaper, a city publication, The New Yorker, and try to hide my hard-on when it gets published.
Here’s my review:
I wanted to throw up the entire time I watched this movie, and it changed my life.
End.
There, I told you how I feel about this film. I avoided any language that would be conveyed as “film-schooly”, “snobby”, and “pretentious”, I didn’t compare it to any other works you’ve never heard of before, I didn’t even say why I wanted to throw up. As of right now (unless you’ve already googled the title, you impatient, cheating reprobate!) you know nothing about this film, other than: I saw it, felt sick the whole time, and was somehow transformed by it.
“And why, now, should I give any more than a drunk fuck about this film?”
Did I say you should?
Man, I hope you hate this fucking movie…
LOVE,
ADDISON
PS.
http://www.frownlandinc.com
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