I have, by all indications, the dread swine flu. One week of fatigue, coupled with a low fever, hideous things leaking from my nose, and one of those dry, hacking coughs usually reserved for B-movie foreshadowing.
Are you feeling okay?
Yeah. I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.
You sure?
Just keep walking. If we don’t get to the ruins by nightfall…
Cut to a white handkerchief held to mouth and stained with blood.
No, it’s not that bad. It’s just annoying. And boring. My patient dog waits, longing for the days of yore when we played fetch. My wife continues to do everything. She’s cooked, and cleaned, and walked, and hooked up Netflix to our TV so we can watch Lost. I am spoiled. I confess.
I am also a recent convert to Tommy Wiseau’s The Room. We’ve discussed good-bad films before–R.O.T.O.R. being a bad film that’s fun to watch, The Hours being a “good film” that’s torture to watch–and yet The Room defies categorization. More than that; it reinvents cinema. Yes, Troll 2 was terrible and we all laughed at how terrible it was. Snarky satisfaction becomes tiresome, however. We stop laughing at terrible movies because it’s one-note humor.
But The Room is different. It’s so different, on so many levels, that it nearly devours it’s own existence. And yet, somehow, The Room transcends itself and becomes…well, I’ll just go ahead and say it. It becomes genius. It lays bare the skeleton of nearly every drama I’ve ever seen.
OMG, after that… I think I have future like director.