Friday, July 08, 2005

Subcutaneous



I love foreigners and the movies they make. At the very least, I'm infatuated with their alternate approach. Anything that takes me out of the formulaic, American Dream, puppet show--is welcome.

Something that gives us characters with a deep end, rather than a wading pool that barely floats the "one-more-heist-can-give-me-the-loot-to-start-a-new-life-based-on-family-values" bullshit.

And to resuscitate such floating turds, we're now forced to endure the many "unexpected" multiple twists that give your brain the Indian Rope Burn. If we all stagger out of the theater asking wha-fuck? in five-part harmony, then it must have been a very clever and intricate plot.

That's why I don't mind putting up with subtitles. I take them gladly.

So, when I ask a girl out, to catch a foreign flick, I can understand if I only get an "uh-huh....," "never heard of it," or even, "whatever." But, I have to suffer, "Oh--does it have subtitles?...I don't like movies that I have to work at..."

I get a little disappointed. No--I get hauled in front of the judge for aggravated disappointment. It would've been easier to stomach if she'd said, "You wanna read, we'll go to a book store."

Instead, I'm forced out of my corner: "No. There's no sub-titles...no titles under the title...just the main one...the headline, OK ? Can you stand to read that?...on the marquee?...as we walk in? Is that too much work?"

It's gotten under my skin--this subcutaneous thing. I submit, that if the irritation caused by this subtitle subject would only subside, I could substitute movies of lesser substance. Submissively, I could submerge the urge for depth, subtracting my subversive reacting.

However, I would never subscribe to this subhuman subsistence, for my subconcious, refusing to be subdued, would revolt at the subterfuge.

Subsequently, I remain, in search of the sublime...the subtle...