Other day, I was forwarded a long email from a film studies professional, objecting in what I can only describe as vivid and (it seemed to me) marginally unhinged terms to something I had written in one paragraph of a DVD review published over two years ago. I'd like to respond to it, and since I have some reason to suspect that the contents of the email were originally intended for more eyes than mine own (there was talk of an aborted public posting before it was sent to me) I would like to do so here before the multitudes.
But ultimately is was not made public, and I fear I would cause this individual some embarrassment if I raised the curtain on this tantrum, even before an audience as small as this. That said, I think some of the issues raised in the email . . . the vision that segments of the cinephile community thoughtlessly devote themselves to . . . are worthy of exposure.
As David Mamet would put it, d'you see?
One voice I trust says don't make it any more public than it is; another (trusted equally) tells me I have a gold mine on my hands and to run up and down the épater le bourgeois countryside with it. What does I do?
"You put some chords together, and you like the way it sounds. It means something to you. It's always therapy, but it doesn't solve anything. It's making wishes. It's like hoping the world's flat, hoping there's a heaven. You got your vest on, you're walking up to the crowd, you're getting ready to blow yourself up." -- Emitt Rhodes