Ah, so the writers are tired of writing formula plots?
Fuck 'em.
I have no sympathy for them. I understand the problem, but I am totally unsympathetic. Understand: the writers aren't writing formula parts for free. They're writing drek, handing that drek to awful audiences, and then being handed More Money Than Humans Should Have in return.
So: fuck 'em.
They think that their job is to make art. They're wrong. They're artists, to be sure. I don't always like the art they make, but they're artists.
The trick is, they are ALSO movie-creators. And movie-creators aren't always employed to make art. But, and this is key, when they don't make art, they make ungodly sums of money.
So harden the fuck up. If you don't want to deal with mouthbreathing twats panning your film because they are literally too self-indulgent to confront their own vices being mocked in a completely impersonal fashion, then, guess what? No eleventy-zillion dollars for you. That's the gig.
This doesn't mean Cabin In the Woods is bad, and I'm certainly not criticizing Sucker Punch. But celebrities of all stripes have no cause to claim Poor Little Me when their official job description is "Shit into my own hands, spin half of the aforementioned shit into gold, and hand the rest, still dripping, to the audience."
So, of course, the longer it plays out and the more gloriously strange things get, the more the subterranean Elder Gods shake the earth with their fury and disappointment. "I didn't know it was gonna be all weird like that!" raged one theatergoer to her partners at one of my (four, so far) viewings of the film. "That was stupid! Go get our money back!" grumbled another, evidently unaware of how perfectly they were making the film's point for it.
This is almost too perfect to have happened, but I'm going to take Bob at his word here -- it was his fourth showing, he says. And I agree that those people were terrible. But again, and here's the thing: the only way to get money from those people is to feed them shit. If you don't like it, stop with the film industry and join the rest of us in gutting our education system until we have something openly hostile to Madison Avenue and most U.S. cultural touchstones. But if you want to sit on millions of dollars, do what you gotta do, but don't use your medium to be a whiny titty-baby about it. The rest of us have to not only avoid the drek you produce, we have to live with the twats that MovieBob overheard above.
Don't pile on.
P.S. -- We'll make you a deal. Turn Michael Bay's innards into Christmas decorations and you get to do another pity-party movie where evil spirits are forcing everyone to act out romantic comedy troupes. That seems fair. But Bay has to be awake the whole damn time.
The whole time.
Fuck 'em.
I have no sympathy for them. I understand the problem, but I am totally unsympathetic. Understand: the writers aren't writing formula parts for free. They're writing drek, handing that drek to awful audiences, and then being handed More Money Than Humans Should Have in return.
So: fuck 'em.
They think that their job is to make art. They're wrong. They're artists, to be sure. I don't always like the art they make, but they're artists.
The trick is, they are ALSO movie-creators. And movie-creators aren't always employed to make art. But, and this is key, when they don't make art, they make ungodly sums of money.
So harden the fuck up. If you don't want to deal with mouthbreathing twats panning your film because they are literally too self-indulgent to confront their own vices being mocked in a completely impersonal fashion, then, guess what? No eleventy-zillion dollars for you. That's the gig.
This doesn't mean Cabin In the Woods is bad, and I'm certainly not criticizing Sucker Punch. But celebrities of all stripes have no cause to claim Poor Little Me when their official job description is "Shit into my own hands, spin half of the aforementioned shit into gold, and hand the rest, still dripping, to the audience."
So, of course, the longer it plays out and the more gloriously strange things get, the more the subterranean Elder Gods shake the earth with their fury and disappointment. "I didn't know it was gonna be all weird like that!" raged one theatergoer to her partners at one of my (four, so far) viewings of the film. "That was stupid! Go get our money back!" grumbled another, evidently unaware of how perfectly they were making the film's point for it.
This is almost too perfect to have happened, but I'm going to take Bob at his word here -- it was his fourth showing, he says. And I agree that those people were terrible. But again, and here's the thing: the only way to get money from those people is to feed them shit. If you don't like it, stop with the film industry and join the rest of us in gutting our education system until we have something openly hostile to Madison Avenue and most U.S. cultural touchstones. But if you want to sit on millions of dollars, do what you gotta do, but don't use your medium to be a whiny titty-baby about it. The rest of us have to not only avoid the drek you produce, we have to live with the twats that MovieBob overheard above.
Don't pile on.
P.S. -- We'll make you a deal. Turn Michael Bay's innards into Christmas decorations and you get to do another pity-party movie where evil spirits are forcing everyone to act out romantic comedy troupes. That seems fair. But Bay has to be awake the whole damn time.
The whole time.
either you misunderstood what i said or i'm misunderstanding what you said.
