I hope and trust my own inadequacies of opinion don't bias the thread. What are you supposed to like, but dear lord it doesn't work. Be honest.

   Saw Gangs of New York a minute ago. What was that thing? Why was it lord of the rings for the first 20 minutes? Who was that vampire lestat edward scissorhands thing? And, like Jesus the pervert bowler in big lebowski, why didn't we see more of it? What was this movie? Scorcese has done some big things, and also, cape fear. The guy misses. Good for him, that shows he's real--but what was this frigging thing supposed to be, aside from the obvious?

   I saw The Hours last week. Perfect title. And I love Glass music. But you know, a sillouette of a person filled in with headlight-blinding depression doesn't automatically run deep for me. Sure, I love depression. Death has been as sexy for me as for anyone who is still alive, I'll stand anyone on that. I'm gleefully poisoning myself right now. But while I'm still alive I'd just as soon while away my excruciating time actually getting to know real breathing human beings, instead of looking at cartoons of trumped-up existential depth. I prefer Doonesbury to Bloomsbury, I'm afraid. I'm not afraid of Virginia Wolfe, I just don't give a rat's ass fried in butter, with a dash of lemon basil.

   It's kind of like Traffic. The Benicio Del Torro mexican cop was the only person I cared about in the least, the rest could be abruptly shot in the face, anytime. So what? Except also the kids--sure, you have to care, and you do care: it doesn't count. And I hate baseball, I've had to sit through more baseball than should be legal to subject a moderately innocent child to, but still, his trust that evrybody likes basebal. That was still berry berry good to me.

   I tried again to get with Bladerunner. What? Help! What is this supposed to mean to me? The fake person you love turns out to be real enough for all practical intents and purposes, and Sean Young is cute enough, cute as anybody needs to be--as I typically say of the vast majority of women anyway--and what? It's supposed to take me all that long to get it? Like Henry James's Beast In The Jungle (originally published in the literary magazine DUH!). Why on earth does this silly-ass movie matter to all the intelligent people who seem to like it?

   And a good counterpoint would be junk you like. I thought Broadcast News was much much better than a neat romantic comedy. John Updike didn't like it, because he's a doofus, but he thought Overboard with Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell was surprisingly good. And it was.