Hollywood: land of poop.

I am sighing chronically over my poor little bunny. I miss him so very much. But I will not let that interfere with my blog entries of witty repartee... with myself.

Tonight I'm hoping to go see a movie. The two movies I'm most excited about (not counting ones I've seen) are Me and You and Everyone We Know and March of Penguins. Brian suggests Mr. and Mrs. Smith. I'm sorry, but unlike him, the true film enthusiast, I do not watch every whorish film.

The film industry is complaining about declining ticket sales at the box office. They suspect it's because this summer has provided no great blockbuster hits. Well, let's see. Maybe it's because the stuff they're churning out is pure, unadulterated shit. I swear, a cow must make better stuff come out of her butt. Most of the time, there's a pretty good fraction of quality films, but lately... well, even the "quality" films are turning out like poop.

Take for example Cinderella Man. I know I shouldn't knock it before I try it, but how can I not? It's a weepy boxing movie (been there, done that) starring Russel Crowe (real life psychopath) and Renee Zellweger (likes to think she is pretty but really is not). Yes... I really want to pay, or have my boyfriend pay, almost ten dollars to watch some crummy actor earn millions and millions of dollars by robbing me of my time.

Which reminds me. Why the hell did Million Dollar Baby win an Oscar? Boxing movies... and Hillary Swank's big, manly face. I couldn't help but grimace when I watched that huge, masculine mug beam at the camera when they won a bunch of stuff.

I want Hollywood to die. I want it to die so hard. Ah, Hollywood, land of the brainless, shallow, desperate, materialistic, and, most importantly, sell-out. It is the place where the art of film began and gave it the opportunity to become art. But now it is forsaking itself and turning movies into another medium to make people big, giant dumbasses. The star machine is evil. Celebrities feed on our souls. How many trees have to die just so they can print stupid news on what they're doing? Gracious, I feel like John Waters circa Cecil B. Demented. Big-budget films have lost all meaning. They are nothing but big explosions of violence, sex, and bad humor. Worse, some of them are just cheesy, feeble attempts to portray humanity.

Praise independent filmmakers. A lot of them suck, I'll give you that, but a lot of them are also brilliant beyond the boundaries of Hollywood and its producers. This summer, make your way to an arthouse theater near you and see something original, meaningful, and maybe even good.