I Dig Movies… I’m On Drugs

We spend an awful lot of time in life searching for the right words. First words, last words, opening statements, closing remarks, job interviews, thesis proposals, spitting game, excuses excuses. All we have to do is say the right thing and success, fame, wealth, prime sexual partners and singles in Hamilton are obviously assured. There’s a reason why in the beginning, there was the Word.

Why is the spider fermenting?

What you should be getting out of this pseudo-intellectual BS intro is a) yes, I did just drop a fairly incongruous Biblical quote, but please don’t run away, and b) I had absolutely no clue how to start off my first post here for shebomb. I signed on for this because I figured I had plenty to say – and no worries, opinions are not something I’m short on. But it’s all about getting off on the right foot; what do I talk about to impress you, dear readers (I assume there’s more than one of you out there)?

Russian home decorating.

How about the semester I just spent abroad in St. Petersburg? Sure I’ve got some good stories to tell (how many five-star Moscow hotel bars have you crashed?), but I hate trying to wrap up four and a half months of amazing into a couple sentences. I’ve been back in the States for three weeks now, and everywhere I go it’s the same: “How was Russia?!?!” Like I’ve got some handy one-word answer at the ready, the perfect word that will give you a complete sense of my experiences. OK, so “impaired” works on a lot of levels, but I can’t really use that one in church on Sundays, you know?

Would you live in a city founded by this guy?

How about Cleveland, that Midwestern metropolis where I find myself exiled yet again this summer? I would call it a ghost town, but I’m sure that on some molecular level, even a ghost town is fizzling with ectoplasmic energy. I’m nixing that topic right now before I get depressed.

How about movies? There we go. I consider film study to be a minor obsession of mine, though anyone who’s witnessed my behavior around Oscar season might disagree with my choice of adjective. What is it about Billy Wilder, Alfred Hitchcock, Humphrey Bogart and Katherine Hepburn that captures my fancy? Why will I be bringing she-bomb a dose of cinematic snobbery (amongst other snarky comments)?

The greatest movies are the ones that speak not just for themselves, but for us. If I really wanted to, I could probably walk around communicating in nothing but movie quotes, and remain a perfectly functional social being. No matter what I want to say, some screenwriter has already said it better than I ever could. When we can’t find the right words to express ourselves, film, like all great art, can lend us a voice. Or it can give us giant shiny CGI robots blowing shit up real good. Whatever you’re in the mood for, really.

Note the striking use of mise-en-scene.

Anyway, that’s why I’m letting writer/director Cameron Crowe and one of my all-time favorite movie scenes ultimately handle the introductions here. Just imagine I’m Billy Crudup (can I mention that “Crudup” is one of the all-time worst Hollywood names?). Nice to meet you, shebombers.