Dear fellow anonymous losers of the inhibitions which normally keep lesser beings from writing film reviews.
I confess I like good movies.., but rather hate myself for it. With just a nudge in the right direction.. I could be Amish.
So you can imagine the additional self-loathing convoked each time I compound my sins by writing a review -- likely, a beautifully crafted piece of art, which virtually no one will appreciate, and to which I will add insult to my own indignity.. by forfeiting all (copy)rights.. the instant I post it. ....All of which gratuitous commentary I hereby justify.. by declaring that the symbiosis and subservience thus described.. is a perfect analogy for the relationship between Bernard and Doris.. and/or my relationship., except for the fact that never feels shame or drinks my sherry.
I merely want to say that Doris must have funded this dubious film enterprise, and that the running "story" of her plant life was an ingenious metaphor for the fragile progress of its making. Kudos to Bob Balaban for not destroying it completely.., although I could only gasp with horror, when Bernard (Fiennes) inexplicably appears near the end of the film.. dressed like a raging flamer with full makeup and impossibly pendulous earrings.
So yes.., it was doubtless necessary, given that it was a mainstream Hollywood movie ("made possible by a generous endowment from the Doris Duke Charitable Foundation").., and as such was obliged to champion the usual agenda of degeneracy, "self-fulfillment", and eastern religion ("Islamic art").., while, as always, making alcohol appear to be an essential ingredient of la vie flamboyante.
In short.., there was nothing to be gained from watching this movie.., unless you're over 90, with foggy memories of the Crystal Palace, and (like Bob Balaban) are easily ensnared by nostalgic music from the 40s. (30s?) The only other redeeming social merit badge I can think of.. might be that, in terms of inspirational value, the Horatio Alger story of Bernard Lafferty (not to be confused with Gerry Raferty, who I'm sure looks better than Fiennes in chiffon and lipstick) was a story which perpetuates the alluring myth of the desperate young man who, like folk hero Andrew Cunanan, is caught between poverty and an appetite for caviar.., and thus strives to ingratiate himself into the lives of The Very Rich.., who, like Doris Duke, may or may not be transgenders.
The highlight of the movie (for me) came.. when it was revealed that Sharon Stone had sent flowers to Bernard's funeral -- highly apropos, I thought, in that she too knows what It's like to be thought guilty of cinematic crimes.. suspected but never proven. cheers😇
So you can imagine the additional self-loathing convoked each time I compound my sins by writing a review -- likely, a beautifully crafted piece of art, which virtually no one will appreciate, and to which I will add insult to my own indignity.. by forfeiting all (copy)rights.. the instant I post it. ....All of which gratuitous commentary I hereby justify.. by declaring that the symbiosis and subservience thus described.. is a perfect analogy for the relationship between Bernard and Doris.. and/or my relationship., except for the fact that never feels shame or drinks my sherry.
I merely want to say that Doris must have funded this dubious film enterprise, and that the running "story" of her plant life was an ingenious metaphor for the fragile progress of its making. Kudos to Bob Balaban for not destroying it completely.., although I could only gasp with horror, when Bernard (Fiennes) inexplicably appears near the end of the film.. dressed like a raging flamer with full makeup and impossibly pendulous earrings.
So yes.., it was doubtless necessary, given that it was a mainstream Hollywood movie ("made possible by a generous endowment from the Doris Duke Charitable Foundation").., and as such was obliged to champion the usual agenda of degeneracy, "self-fulfillment", and eastern religion ("Islamic art").., while, as always, making alcohol appear to be an essential ingredient of la vie flamboyante.
In short.., there was nothing to be gained from watching this movie.., unless you're over 90, with foggy memories of the Crystal Palace, and (like Bob Balaban) are easily ensnared by nostalgic music from the 40s. (30s?) The only other redeeming social merit badge I can think of.. might be that, in terms of inspirational value, the Horatio Alger story of Bernard Lafferty (not to be confused with Gerry Raferty, who I'm sure looks better than Fiennes in chiffon and lipstick) was a story which perpetuates the alluring myth of the desperate young man who, like folk hero Andrew Cunanan, is caught between poverty and an appetite for caviar.., and thus strives to ingratiate himself into the lives of The Very Rich.., who, like Doris Duke, may or may not be transgenders.
The highlight of the movie (for me) came.. when it was revealed that Sharon Stone had sent flowers to Bernard's funeral -- highly apropos, I thought, in that she too knows what It's like to be thought guilty of cinematic crimes.. suspected but never proven. cheers😇