Folks, you know you're in trouble when an indie director introduces his film by invoking "magical realism." It means you're in for a long night of leaps in logic and logy pronouncements made by characters who tend to disapparate. Also, there might be portentous cuts to snow owls. I am not, as a certain Miami-based scribe might say, making this up.
Here's the difficulty. Much as I would like to launch into a full-blown rant, naming names and pointing fingers, some schoolyard sense of honor is holding me back. See, I am involved with the program that brought said Fellini-and Bunuel-dropping faux-teur to town, and, as a rule, I believe in its mission and enjoy spending time with the majority of the filmmakers I meet.
Not this one, however. The 'Fesser and I dined with the guy, then he skedaddled before the screening [later texting me a message that used the word "sebaceous"]. It was quite a meal. First the cinetrix watched with amusement as the guy ordered a meal, then asked to substitute vast constituent elements of it. Then she foolishly steered him toward the subject of film critics. There were students at the dinner and the film we were screening had been in limited release [and even reviewed in the Times], so I was curious to hear what this guy thought about how reviews affected the fortunes of flicks like his. Hoo-boy. Let's just say that never was I happier to be a stealth blogger as this guy launched into a rant about how the Internets have ruined everything. And so on. He was quite a talker, that one.
And in a first, we didn't repair to our local after the screening to continue conversations in an informal, congenial setting. Well, we did, but only after first dropping off the filmmaker at his hotel. Oh, it was bad.
Help the cinetrix feel better. Dish about your worst/most disappointing cinematic encounter in the comments. Use of clever pseudonyms and other masking devices to protect the guilty is understandable, though not encouraged.
