I see my neighbor of 8-plus years only on Halloween. In fact, the first time I met her she was dressed in a furry white bunny suit so encompassing it could have passed for a team mascot. She -- as you have likely not guessed -- is Angelina Jolie, who, for the record, introduces herself as "Angie."
Dare to show even the tiniest spark of interest in royal babies or movie star divorces or Olympic decathlete gender identity and you're likely to be scorned for engaging in "celebrity worship." This is wrong. It isn't worship. Got that, you high-minded righteous pious scoffers?
The true genius of Gyllenhaal's character is the way that his dialog -- his narration -- is relentlessly constructed around the language of American boosterism. It is the language of Dale Carnegie, of Benjamin Franklin.
If the paparazzi exist to alert us when Kim Kardashian passes through LAX, we are indeed a troubled civilization that can only be saved with the passage of meaningful anti-paparazzi laws that have killer-whale teeth.
It's been about a month since I moved to L.A. As a filmmaker, I finally caved and weathered the migration, leaving behind my family, friends, and everything that's remotely familiar, for a chance at fully realizing a dream.
A strange and strangely provocative spring exhibit on the century long history of Star Photography and photographers -- or Paparazzi as Frederico Fellinni named them -- has taken over the Pompidou Museum of Modern Art's Metz branch an hour and a quarter east of Paris.