One, never trust anything an agent says about writing. Their job is to sell manuscripts, which makes them inherently partial.
Two, agents have seen it all—all types of manuscripts, in all conditions, from all sorts of writers. This has made most agents jaded (not to mention perfunctory). They have a habit of talking down to writers the same way elementary school teachers have a way of talking down to people. It’s not necessarily on purpose or even conscious. It’s social conditioning run amok.
One bit of advice someone taught me is that to be successful you do what successful people do. A variation on that chord, at least in my mind, is Eliot’s retort, “Immature artists imitate; Mature artists steal.” So, I’ve looked to successful artists—both creatively and financially—as much to study which attributes set them apart not just from society as a whole but from other artists as I have to take from them something I can apply to my own work. What sets Picasso apart from, say, any of the upstart talents in early twentieth century Montmartre? Kubrick from the legion of 60s Hollywood directors? Or, in general, one writer from another?
So, here it is, the cursed abomination that is the pinnacle of Hollywood indulgence and decadence and moral depravity. Not only has some asshole remade a definitive masterpiece of in the annals of film history, but he’s butchered it, cut up its face with a razorblade, forcibly sodomized it, and repackaged it as a musical. I hate it. Fellini’s 8 ½ is one of my favorite films. And they’re butchering it. Fuck you, Rob Marshal.
Since I don’t have the energy to deconstruct what is ultimately a positive review of Apatow’s new film, Funny People, I’m going to post a link to Esquire’s review and then go mainline caffeine before going to my real job (i.e., the one that pays me money). I’m eager to see the film, liking all of Apatow’s past films. All of them. But maybe, given the early morning, my lethargy and curmudgeony mood, or that the sun isn’t even up yet and it’s already 100+ degrees outside, I want nothing more than to destroy this post and everyone now talking, breathing, infecting me while I’m trying to write this. And maybe, just maybe…one of these days I’ll actually post some original content. Until then, blah.
I don’t always like being the one last to a thread, but I’m mostly glad that I had never heard of Sasha Grey before Steven Soderbergh chose her for the lead in his new film, The Girlfriend Experience. I guess since Godard is the trendy name, it’s the one they drop. But aren’t curious, you who do not yet know Sasha Grey??
The zealots are out for both sides. More on Creationism v. Science. Though, in the end, I’m pretty sure the Science model will triumph…or at least I hope it wins over Creationism. Having said that, however, I’m as disturbed by fanaticism in science as I am in religion. Maybe Angels and Demons isn’t such a crock of shit, after all. Okay, it is. But my point being: this scares the shit out of me as much I’m sure it does you and the rest of the educated, intelligent, rational majority.
Grown-ups really don’t get it…. They try, but in that ignorant, superficial way of someone uncool trying to be cool. The redhead speech and debate kid who shows up at the popular kids’ end-of-the-year bonfire orgy. The pot dealer who treads among the cool kids but will never belong. Posers. Wannabes. There’s a whole subculture. Only right now we call it the Republican party: middle-aged wealthy whites who are no better at sympathizing with their own children than connecting on any level with today’s youth culture. And each attempt is more pathetic than the last. Twitter, guys? Seriously? At twenty-eight, with some disposable income, I’m the Republican party’s target audience—I watch the news, am informed, politically moderate, and voted for Obama in the last election—and even I don’t Twitter. It’s like watching a three-legged dog trying to paddle in a straight line.
