Blowhard, Esq. writes:
Let’s tick the boxes:
absent mothers, actors blubbering, adult ADHD, adultery, anxiety, Asperger’s, Barely Legal, “Before you gave me your sweater I didn’t realize I was cold,” betrayal, borderline personality disorder, child abuse, college professors, croquet, divorce, early admission to Harvard, estranged sisters, fainting, father-daughter relationships, the Hamptons, Harper’s, hints of incest, ironic mustaches, ironic t-shirts, jump cuts, “Just then I felt so much love for you,” Manhattan, masturbation, near drowning, neurotics, New Yorker short stories, New York writers, no plot, NYU, OCD, panic attack, pedophilia, pills, R.E.M.’s Murmur, redhead Lolita next door, secret pregnancy, sexual abuse, shitting your pants, sibling rivalry, slackers, Stanford, symbolism, underlit night scenes, Vermont, walks in the woods, wannabe musicians, white wine, Williamsburg, Woody Allen’s serious movies
This movie fucking sucks.
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- The New Yorker fellates writer-director Noah Baumbach. At least I’m assuming they do b/c there’s no way I’m reading that.
- In this interview, Baumbach does his Woody Allen impression and Greta Gerwig says “la di da.” I’m not joking.
Blowhard, Esq.
Callowman
Sherbrooke
Eddie Pensier
Enzo Nakamura
Epaminondas
Fabrizio del Wrongo
Fenster
Brundle Guy
Glynn Marshes
Paleo Retiree
Atypical Neurotic
Question Lady
Sax von Stroheim
Sir Barken Hyena
The Mistaken
Says it all, really.
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Hollywood: “Our work here is finished. On to the next project.”
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Nice summary, especially “shitting your pants.” That’s more or less what the movie felt like to me. Only less warm.
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“like taking a cold shit” = “Baumbachian”
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So it had a redhead Lolita next door, ironic mustaches, REM, and it STILL managed to suck? Boy, that takes some talent.
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Fuck all of this lurid neo-Victorian crap. Not since the Pre-Raphaelites has a woman’s face had such a phony and forced pensive expression. Really makes you want to slap the pixels right off the screen.
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What ever happened to genuine smiles and laughter in indie movies? Y’know, lighten up — it’s only a movie.
The more somber or depressing aspects of a narrative cannot succeed unless they’re contrasted with more cheerful and uplifting parts. Like, duhhh. When everything is so joyless and charmless, we don’t feel all the more depressed, introspective, or whatever else the dorky director was going for — the human brain just tunes that homogeneous junk out as flat and stale, like a clueless child chewing on cardboard packaging.
Have these guys ever gone fishing — non-ironically, I mean? You can’t pull the fish along wherever you want him to go without first hooking him, and you can’t do that without catching his attention with bait and hooking him. No meat, no zest = who cares about whatever that dangling thing is over there?
I get so angry at stuff like that because it’s disrespectful, like a slap in the face, not merely a lame attempt at art. Like you’re such a quirky indie god that no matter how low-cal, fat-free, and reduced-sodium you make your movie, you think we’re just so desperate and pathetic that we’ll lunge on it anyway. Fuck all of these lame, disrespectful indie faggots.
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