Well, we’ll always have Garfield . . .
Given the drift of civilization, I’m sure a day will come when we’ll look back on this weekend’s cornucopia of culture as an embarrassment of riches. But at the moment, it’s hard to imagine how or why. Or it getting much worse, while still sustaining cinematic life.
The strike excuse . . . there must be a German word for when something that is the opposite of itself is used for the very purpose that it negates. Saying “but the strikes—” is akin to explaining, “I didn’t do my homework because I skipped school and went to the beach! How am I supposed to do my homework on the beach, when I don’t even know what the assignment is?!”
Had this mattered they could have . . . avoided a strike. Or prepared for it. Or not waited six months to reach an agreement. To name a few possibilities.
Sorting out last week’s box-office implosion — which today looks like the good ol’ days — I concluded that doom was not inevitable, but that you could make it inevitable if you did nothing to avoid it.
This week, if I follow that train of thought a little further, into some darker recesses of my conspiratorially-bent mind . . . I’m asking myself: What if Hollywood’s leaders are actively steering into the twister?
