Somehow I find myself on a film criticism microrant of late. Eh, it happens. But I did want to laud Dana Stevens [herself once Liz Penn] for taking full advantage of the web-biness of her gig as Slate's film critic to review Catfish, the insert-your-own-mitigating-prefix "documentary" [forgive the scare quotes, I've been teaching the children Lowell], which, astonishingly, was one of the movies trailer-ed before The American [along w. Devil] in my distinctly not major-metropolis multiplex*. Having only heard about this flick from Sundance coverage, I was more than a little taken aback to have it touted in the buckle of the mainstream belt, as I attempted to explain to the 'Fesser in whispers designed not to disturb the other six civilians in our theatre.
*Cheek by jowl [if you'll pardon the carnality of the image] with supermarkets where catfish is cheap and easy to find, as it is "poor people's food" like a picnic shoulder might be in markets catering to Latin shoppers in the northeast.
