I am sitting in class with my hair limp down my back. It does not curve and it does not layer and it does not flutter. It sees my scalp for the chair that it is and sits there, unfashionably, without appeal. I have lost my claw clip.
In homage to the vignette-laden construction of a film I do not feel particularly inspired to pay homage to, what follows is a hodgepodge collection of reflections on watching Wes Anderson’s mass market art house movies, and why his latest stands unfortunately apart from the rest.
It began with a flocking to the hideous. The days were getting long, and the sun was getting strong. We were donning jean shorts and flowing skirts, sipping Del’s lemonade while stretching our legs on tie-dyed picnic blankets spread over the grass, when “Large Concretized Monument to the Twentieth ...