He adored cinema. He romanticised it all out of proportion, as he was with much of life. To him, no matter the time of year, there always existed a small theatre where strangers gazed at shadows dancing to the hypnotic notes of a John Williams score."
No, that's not it. Let's try that again...
He was too romantic about film. He loved the predictability almost as much as he loved the unexpected. To him, the movies meant femme fatales and hard-boiled private dicks who seemed to know all the tricks."
Ach, too cliché – not for my taste, but everyone else for sure. How about something more profound...
He adored cinema. To him it was a battleground of our consciousness and a metaphor for our schizophrenic soul. The same lack of integrity that caused so many people to become apathetic was turning the cinema of his dreams..."
Woah, lighten up will ya. I still want people to read this thing.
He adored cinema, although to him it was a metaphor for the schizophrenia of our soul and the downfall of our dreams. How hard it was to watch films corrupted by advertising, celebrity, executive power, censorship, Tom Cruise..."
Too angry, I don't want to be angry.
He was as torn and romantic as the movies he loved.
Behind his carefully arranged desk was the coiled insight of a malcontent critic. Cinema was his art; and it always would be."
[Oh, and welcome to Dark Habits – a new project from Just Another Clumsy Romantic]
Wednesday, February 27, 2008