Monday, August 20, 2001
An excerpt from Sleep With Me
Quentin Tarantino deconstructs the ultimate guy film.
t reminded me of the rushed judgment this job entails: Most of the time you see something just once before passing judgment on it, and often that judgment must be passed faster than a spacepod through a timewarp. Opportunities to reflect and ruminate, processes which are elementary to good criticism, are rare as white buffalo. Even the opportunity to think clearly and intently about a movie is constantly threatened by the intellectual gridlock that typically occurs: Any given week your head may have anywhere from three to six movies competing for quick judgment, and at a time of your lifeor mine anywaywhen remembering your keys is challenge enough.
Geoff Pevere, "Okay, I admit it, I went ape too soon," The Toronto Star (August 17, 2001)
t isn’t a picture of real war or the real people there, but a peerless evocation of the war as filtered through technology, the mass media, and the ruins of dead mythologies. In Coppola’s ‘Nam, what’s inescapable isn’t the VC so much as the TV, old movies, show business, and the buzzing feedback of rock’n'roll. Apocalypse Now isn’t about how we invaded Vietnam so much as how the war invaded our psyches, how it permeated pop culture and came to be the sight-and-soundtrack to a new, bad American dream. In that idyll of apocalypse, defeat takes on a perfect, preordained inevitabilitywhen you’ve got nothing left to lose, on some level the war really does become Disneyland with live ammunition, at least until your ticket’s punchedand it develops its own downward-spiral momentum and exhilaration.
Howard Hampton, "Jungle Boogie," Film Comment (May/June 2001)
ust as Pink Flamingos was a better movie about the counterculture than Easy Rider, Freddy Got Fingered is a better movie about suburban squalor than American Beauty. Not least because its Americana both rings truer and is more affectionate. Joe Dirt is a better movie about native pluck than The Patriot. For that matter, Spike Lee’s Bamboozled, which is his version of a gross-out farce, gets deeper into America’s racial pathologies than a dignified film could. And, oh, yeah: Josie and the Pussycats is a better movie about media manipulation than The Truman Show, too. So there.
Tom Carson, "In Praise of Stoopidity," Esquire (August 2001)
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