Considering all the glowing reviews, considering my natural favorable leanings toward sci-fi, animation, the unusual and innovative in general, considering that my friend Theresa e-mailed me to be sure I didn't miss this gem, I sat back in my comfy $5 (senior and first-showing rate at my local Kent Triplex) theater seat fully expecting an experience of perfection in cinema.
I was not disappointed. And then I was. And then I wasn't. Testament to the power of "Wall-e" I noted that not a single patron in my line of sight got up to leave once the credits started rolling. Personally, I always stay through the credits, if only out of respect for all the unsung folks who make our movie experiences possible, but most people rush out the moment the first one starts a-rolling. (And even here most folks left about halfway through them.)
The film is a work of art. Unequivocally. It has its innovations, most notably the lack of dialogue for much of the film. Nevertheless ... I thought the plot was sorely lacking with the portrayal of our future selves pitifully pandering (to the political left) and simplistic. Actually it's that unremitting reduction to an absurdly blissfully unaware future brought on by a blissfully unaware present -- and an overbearing big, bad megacorporate consumerist culture -- that really gnaws at me. Such treatment brings to mind WWII-era films in which the hero glares at the enemy and snarls "You dirty Jap" or some such, as if that explains all Evil in every guise everywhere. Well, what is a cartoon but caricature anyway. Sure. But it doesn't have to rule out all nuance, does it? Couldn't the heavy hand be lightened a bit? Can we have some innovation in outlook as well as artwork please?
Still, the larger story ... of heart and hope over comfort and complacency and even in the face of unremitting hard work ahead ... draws me in. The true experience of this movie is, I suppose, visceral. It will speak to your core. And it's gorgeous.
Perfect? No. But mighty mighty close.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Funny Story
Magazine junkie that I am, I could not resist, on one of my recent long walks in Manhattan, checking out the month-old Magazine Cafe on West 37th Street.
The sign outside had promised 3,500+ magazines, and the shelves inside certainly kept that promise. I passed up all the usual suspects (The New Yorker, Harper's, The Atlantic, and so on) to thumb through various zines I'd never seen before, finally picking up a Canadian feminist mag -- obviously operating on a shoestring but not of the thinnest variety -- titled "Shameless." Then I delved into the craft mags, picking up "Handwoven" and "Embroidery & Cross Stitch," neither of which I'd seen before, one published in New South Wales, the other in Colorado.
Then I went in search of "Poetry," a magazine I try to remember to get whenever I'm in a place full of periodicals, but I was unable to locate it.
Giving up fairly quickly (I was starting to feel overwhelmed), I brought my choices to the register, paid, then decided to ask about "Poetry."
"Oh, yes, we have that! Do you want? I will get it for you!" "Sure," I agreed and followed the clerk to a shelf I hadn't searched throughly. He reached in, pulled out a magazine that looked surely too large for the small-format "Poetry," and handed it to me.
The name of the magazine was "Poultry." The cover illustration was of a rather magnificent rooster.
I burst out laughing. "No, no, 'Poetry,'" I said and spelled it out for him. "Oh, yes! That's down here!" He pulled out the correct mag, I paid, we chatted about the newness of the store and the mind-boggling completeness of the stock. I promised I'd be back.
Oh, yeah. ** Wonderful ** place. You couldn't keep me away if you tried!
The sign outside had promised 3,500+ magazines, and the shelves inside certainly kept that promise. I passed up all the usual suspects (The New Yorker, Harper's, The Atlantic, and so on) to thumb through various zines I'd never seen before, finally picking up a Canadian feminist mag -- obviously operating on a shoestring but not of the thinnest variety -- titled "Shameless." Then I delved into the craft mags, picking up "Handwoven" and "Embroidery & Cross Stitch," neither of which I'd seen before, one published in New South Wales, the other in Colorado.
Then I went in search of "Poetry," a magazine I try to remember to get whenever I'm in a place full of periodicals, but I was unable to locate it.
Giving up fairly quickly (I was starting to feel overwhelmed), I brought my choices to the register, paid, then decided to ask about "Poetry."
"Oh, yes, we have that! Do you want? I will get it for you!" "Sure," I agreed and followed the clerk to a shelf I hadn't searched throughly. He reached in, pulled out a magazine that looked surely too large for the small-format "Poetry," and handed it to me.
The name of the magazine was "Poultry." The cover illustration was of a rather magnificent rooster.
I burst out laughing. "No, no, 'Poetry,'" I said and spelled it out for him. "Oh, yes! That's down here!" He pulled out the correct mag, I paid, we chatted about the newness of the store and the mind-boggling completeness of the stock. I promised I'd be back.
Oh, yeah. ** Wonderful ** place. You couldn't keep me away if you tried!
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