Hoping to retrieve my laptop from the spelling-challenged casual misogynists ["I suspect the mystery peice was part of a hair clip or something similar that accidentally fell into the laptop."]* at the campus IT dept. in a bit. Meanwhile, four criticism-related items that made me smirk while trying to whittle down several day's worth of RSS feeds.
Jonathan Rosenbaum on "Two Kinds of Criticism in Godard's Work":
These next two involve Rashōmon-stizz takes on Trier's Anti-Christ.** First up, the Globe's Wesley Morris:
Rimshot! Next, Roger Ebert, tattletale:
[What Ebs fails to mention comes up at the end of Wesley's post, where he coyly notes, "On the street, a friend*** and I ran into Roger Ebert. We asked if he'd just been inside, and he squeezed my hand hard in affirmation. (Roger's cancer has made speaking impossible, for the time being.) He looked like the rest of us, as if he'd survived the movie, and when my friend started singing "That's Entertainment," he did a little dance, complete with cancan kick and jazz hands."]
And, finally, this is why I don't watch television: