Yesterday afternoon we went to the movies to escape the heat and saw Terrence Malick's The Tree of Life, the most sorry piece of pretentious claptrap I have yet to encounter.
|a bus under the scaffolding on London Terrace with art reflected in the windows|
Gosh, Malick tells us: childhood is magical, our youths are endowed with a roseate glow.....everything inspires awe (swelling symphonic/operatic music!) Throw in the Book of Job....and a National Geographic special about dinosaurs, some retro furniture, various kitchen sinks...
|the sky captured in buildings on 57th Street|
Not to mention Sean Penn looking miserable and pensive amidst tall buildings with reflections. Oh my!
|mural 21st Street,Chelsea|
(This lovely has a teapot balanced on her head, I think.) Anyway, what was most depressing about the Malick movie was the waste of it all. Such talented designers, photographers. Such un-engaging characters. In short: it was dreadfully dull. See Anthony Lane's perceptive New Yorker review here
|musicians at Columbus Circle|
My thesis for this little rant is that we are much more interested in people than artsy intellectual posturing. 'Nuff said.