I'm back in town after a week in the wilds of western Nebraska, my homeland, for Thanksgiving. I'll spare you the details except to mention that my five-year-old cousin Dylan came home from school a few weeks ago, walked into the house, and calmly announced to his parents, "George Bush has lied to the American people." Excellent. He also unwittingly coined a fantastic new phrase, to be uttered when you are stunned by someone's unexpected behavior (in this case, my aunt squirting canned whipped cream into people's mouths after sprucing up the pumpkin pie): "Man, I can't even talk to that!"
I saw a wonderful movie tonight, and if you live in the Austin area, you have one more chance to see it at the Alamo Drafthouse downtown on Tuesday night. It's called Los Angeles Plays Itself (Thom Andersen), and it's a three-hour essay film about the city Andersen grew up in and how it has been portrayed on film. For those of you who are turned off by the phrase "three-hour essay film," let me mention that it flies by, is accessible, engaging, and funny, is filled with clips from nearly 200 movies set in Los Angeles, and, if you've spent any time thinking about film, architecture, Los Angeles, Hollywood, memory and nostalgia, a city's gradually changing landscape, and the disparity of wealth between classes in the United States and the effect of your class status on the way you observe art, this movie can change the way you think and the way you watch movies. I'm serious. This is a phenomenal achievement, and one of the greatest pieces of film criticism this country has produced. If you're interested in any of this stuff, see this movie. See it, see it, see it. Tuesday night. I'm not being paid. It's just really fucking good. Alamo Drafthouse downtown. Come on. See it. 9:30 p.m. I know that's kind of late for a three-hour movie, but take your diaper off and go see it. It's not on video or DVD, and so far there are no plans for a DVD release. What the hell happens on a Tuesday anyway? Nothing.
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