Brando @$$ Fat
09-16-2006, 05:24 PM
Ok, first of all let me just say that I don't hate The New Yorker the way the thread title might imply. I think the magazine itself is perfectly fine. The film critics, however, are all uptight yuppie pieces of shit who for the life of them cannot learn to enjoy anything.
I know, it seems ridiculous that I would rant about The New Yorker critics when we have post-Siskel era Roger Ebert giving absolutely every single fucking movie he sees a rave review. However, at least with Ebert there's some logical insight. Whenever I read The New Yorker, and a critic is bashing a particular film (which is always the case) it seems like they're making up shit to hold against the film. Take a look at what critic David Denb says about James Ellroy in the review for The Black Dahlia.
"In 1947, a young woman named Elizabeth Short, drawn to the city by the hope of a career in the movies, was murdered in a particularly horrible way—first tortured, then killed, then mutilated, her body sliced in two. The crime has found its way into many books, including “The Black Dahlia” (1987), by James Ellroy, who brought his own cargo-hold of L.A. baggage to the subject. In 1958, when Ellroy was ten, his mother, Geneva Hilliker, was raped and murdered. The boy understandably became obsessed with her death, but then the adult Ellroy, not so understandably—that is, operating as only a writer of crime fiction would—channelled the emotions generated by his mother’s murder into a retelling of the Betty Short story"
What the fuck? Apparently, there's something wrong with writing about something that hits close to home....fucking prick.
I wonder if these people have ever taken their heads out of their asses for one second, put their pen and pad down, sat down, and let the movie do as it pleases without their narcissism or egomania getting the best of them. What's wrong with just sitting down, watching the movie, and seeing how well everything falls into place in the end? Granted, there's always the risk of pulling a Roger Ebert and giving a shit film like Cheaper by the Dozen 2 a good review, but every once in a while it might not hurt.
I know, it seems ridiculous that I would rant about The New Yorker critics when we have post-Siskel era Roger Ebert giving absolutely every single fucking movie he sees a rave review. However, at least with Ebert there's some logical insight. Whenever I read The New Yorker, and a critic is bashing a particular film (which is always the case) it seems like they're making up shit to hold against the film. Take a look at what critic David Denb says about James Ellroy in the review for The Black Dahlia.
"In 1947, a young woman named Elizabeth Short, drawn to the city by the hope of a career in the movies, was murdered in a particularly horrible way—first tortured, then killed, then mutilated, her body sliced in two. The crime has found its way into many books, including “The Black Dahlia” (1987), by James Ellroy, who brought his own cargo-hold of L.A. baggage to the subject. In 1958, when Ellroy was ten, his mother, Geneva Hilliker, was raped and murdered. The boy understandably became obsessed with her death, but then the adult Ellroy, not so understandably—that is, operating as only a writer of crime fiction would—channelled the emotions generated by his mother’s murder into a retelling of the Betty Short story"
What the fuck? Apparently, there's something wrong with writing about something that hits close to home....fucking prick.
I wonder if these people have ever taken their heads out of their asses for one second, put their pen and pad down, sat down, and let the movie do as it pleases without their narcissism or egomania getting the best of them. What's wrong with just sitting down, watching the movie, and seeing how well everything falls into place in the end? Granted, there's always the risk of pulling a Roger Ebert and giving a shit film like Cheaper by the Dozen 2 a good review, but every once in a while it might not hurt.