Sean Gardner.
New blogger.
Film obsessed. Music obsessed. Food obsessed. Obsessive.
Originally from a suburb outside of Boston best known for alcoholism and discontent, Albuquerque (Devin loves us! As much sarcasm as possible here, please.) and Santa Fe, New Mexico are the closest approximation to home. But after sinking 14 sloth-like years into the Land of Entrapment, my tiny, equally nerdy better half and I have dropped out of life and are in the process of living the version of it that we want. Next week begins a summer on Cape Cod, making sandwiches for minimal pay, eating lots of seafood, working on the tan I’ve neglected for the past six years (I glow in the dark. Literally.) and visiting the drive-in movie theater in Wellfleet several times a month.
And that brings me to nostalgia. Which I have. In spades. And explains why I have a huge vinyl record collection that’s an equally huge pain in the ass to move, a typewriter that weighs at minimum forty pounds and more games for my NES than any other system in my possession.
Also, Wes Anderson is my favorite filmmaker. If you know me, you understand why this gets its own paragraph.
If you put the previous two paragraphs together and the equation came out: HIPSTER, you would be correct. But I’m not that bad. I swear. I don’t live in Williamsburg, my pants have breathing room and I shower daily. But I do enjoy me a Pabst Blue Ribbon from time to time, so I plead guilty in advance, which means you have no card to play when I praise the new TV on the Radio album. Or talk about how kick-ass Brian Eno is. Or tell you that Bottle Rocket may just be my favorite film if I had to name one. “I’m a risk-taker. I’m growing an entire crop of marijuana plants in my parents’ backyard.” All I have to say on that.
Yesterday I watched Son of Rambow and Deep Blue Sea. I’d say this just about sums up my taste in films. While watching the latter with the aforementioned tiny person last night, I recalled a trip to the movies during my teen years (you’re figuring my age right now, aren’t you?) where my family went to see the Renny Harlin masterpiece and I chose instead to catch Eyes Wide Shut. Let’s just say I had no idea what I was missing. Kubrick just rolled.
My favorite film last year was Juno. Yes, even with the backlash. And the twee soundtrack. And the endlessly self promoting ex-stripper. It worked for me, simple as that. Plus, as I said earlier, I’m a little twee myself. Or are hipsters not twee? Have they ever been? See, this is why I’m not that bad, I don’t even know my own stereotype well enough!
The year before that, The Fountain stole my twee heart (I now hate the word twee), a film that I have argued for over many a beer, be it a nutty and delicious Newcastle or that crisp, cool, mildly chemical delight that we know as PBR, claiming that it will be the most revered film from our current decade which shows either little faith in the films to come or a stubborn confidence in the masterpiece Aronofsky gave us. Either way, I’m cool with this.
And like any film I love, I will fight for it. For instance, in order to try and expand the audience for The Fountain, I’ve gone so far as to inform whatever misguided individual I’m speaking with that the film features a scene in which Rachel Weisz’s cancer ridden love cave is filled with bath water by Wolverine. I mean, you can’t always go with the whole transcendent experience argument, though I’ll admit it does help to counter balance the resounding wretch that comes from the table after I attempt the vaginal bath water pitch. And then again, maybe the Thanksgiving table wasn’t the best audience for such an aggressive sell.
And that should be where I end it. Because either you stopped reading after the soggy vagina reference or I have left you wanting more. Though I seriously doubt the latter, I appreciate your pretending. And if you were serious, I guess I’ll see you next time.