My (so it seemed then) Antonioni-esque view of an unpopulated tennis court somewhere in the Deep South on a long-ago, forgotten summer day.
Let us go then, you and I…
and I don’t believe Dylan Farrow. No victim of abuse could be as gleefully antagonistic as she is, as pleased with herself and so disingenuously proud of her own violence. She exploits the all-too-easily exploitable “Me,Too” to her dubious advantage.
To Hell with Dylan Farrow’s stage-managed lies, and to Hell with the mob hysteria she cultivates. Chalamet, Sorvino, Gerwig, the equine Rebecca Hall, et al. should live to be rightfully embarrassed by their PC absurdities.
Why aren’t these counterfeit liberals protesting America’s Kremlin-owned “president” and the Russian agent’s enablers within a complicit Republican Congress? Is it less of a risk for young (or middle-aged) white hipsters to attack an octogenarian Jewish man whose aesthetic doesn’t compute with the social media on their smartphones? It isn’t much of a stretch to see Woody Allen’s detractors for what they are: racists.
from Endlessly Repeating Twentieth-Century Modernism (2007), by Josiah McElheny
“Where are you going, and what do you wish?”
Originally posted in 2009.
Originally posted March 4, 2012
Originally posted December 31, 2010