There are films that make you want to run to the bookstore or, in reality, Amazon.com. Any Jane Austen or Dickens adaptation. Atonement. Requiem for a Dream perhaps. Then there is Paul Thomas Anderson's adaptation of Thomas Pynchon's Inherent Vice.
If Cinemacon was an essay, I was a measly comma. The fourth day of Cinemacon was my new beginning, a rebirth for the sassiest party-crasher on the strip. I hoped to wiggle into VIP areas with my usual poise and brashness, but I was unsure whether I could succeed.
There are, I am increasingly convinced, but two kinds of people in this world: People who hate Wes Anderson films and human beings. At the Hotel Andersonia, art trumps evil every time, that's why we keep coming back every year.
It is 10am. The private coach is waiting exactly where it's supposed to be, in front of the grand main entrance of the Musée d'Orsay. I climb inside and claim a seat alongside my fellow American travelers, of which there are fourteen.
The script is also to blame for the failure of this film. For an animated movie to be successful these days it has to attract an adult audience just as much as a kids' one. This usually means having some one liners that are sharp and clever and that go over the kids' heads.
For the first time in my life I can do whatever I want to do, yet I sometimes find myself wishing the hours of the day would move faster. I am filled with self-doubt about my ability to do something meaningful. I do not think I am alone in thinking these things.