The better than you'd think flick Playing by Heart was originally called "Dancing about Architecture." As in "Talking about love is like dancing about architecture." The cinetrix sometimes feels the same inadequacy when it comes to writing about film.
That said, here's some recommended reading for you.
First off, the Boston Globe's cultural studies maven James Parker takes a look at the ongoing "Is there a crisis in film criticism?" kerfuffle. Here's my vote for the nut graf:
[But] Harry Knowles is not Carl Sandburg. In the Ain't It Cool world, the
fact of a movie, just its presence on the screen, almost automatically
annuls criticism--to quote Steve Martin in "Dirty Rotten Scoundrels": "Wow! Wow! All I can say is Wow!" The pulling-down of the critical ego
and its pronouncements from on high is an attractive prospect, no
doubt. But as the blurby, slangy, barely-considered Ain't It Cool style
becomes the lingua franca of film criticism, we should cherish the last
of our old-school film writers. The curmudgeon confronting the screen,
perched hawkishly in his seat, his pen over his notepad like a cocked
talon, represents a high principle: He expresses the vigilance of
civilization against inanity.
Well, yes. Including the "he," she concedes with a sigh.
Then, Hilton Als gets it mostly right in the June 19 issue of the New Yorker [sadly, not online] in his profile of ace cinematographer Gregg Toland. It's a definite clip-and-save. Here's an excerpt from the letter Samuel Goldwyn's secretary sent to Toland's father after his death:
Your son was, to the best of my knowledge, in no pain and no fear of anything happening to him at any time. I hope it won't seem gratuitous from a stranger but he was a son to be proud of.... I have never known people in this industry to be so profoundly moved.... I have never before known Mr. Goldwyn to cry. He said at the time--and to many people--that he had never had an association he valued more highly; he not only respected Gregg but had a deep affection for him, in which there had been no rift during the twenty-two years of their working together.
Search your dentist's office if you must, but do read it.
Incidentally, there's nothing more soothing than sitting in an out-of-the-way bar in the daytime with the World Cup on the television. Reminds me of the day I quit smoking--in Santa Cruz--and spent an incredibly surreal afternoon conscientously not smoking in a beach-side bowling alley straight out of Lebowski. The ambient sounds of the alley--the gentle collisions and squeaking soles--and the serene concentration of the adult Downs syndrome bowlers holding down the lanes in front of me... it all made perfect sense. I wish you all similar stolen moments of bliss, cinematic or otherwise.
