They’re just doing what they seen someone else do.
My aunt does impressions. Everybody acts.
Anyone can set up a camera and show us this beautiful Irish island,
this old man’s handsome face, a donkey.
Any artist can DJ detached tunes for an art film soundtrack.
And those big budget films—video games with smarmy friendships.
Hey, Jimmy Stewart. “It’s A Wonderful Life.” Come back!
Was there a time when great actors were just great men?
Socialism will sweep us up again.
The sentimental will make us sacrifice again.
Movies are like politics: Again, Again, Again.
Best actor is really the dumbest category
because a film is more than the sum of its parts
and those parts, the ones we have already seen a million times,
we now see again, in what a moron
calls an Oscar worthy movie—which overshadows
in the public’s mind the films which are really good
but don’t have the money and the big producers
who sexually take control.
You cannot isolate a movie role
and judge an actor apart from its movie
but the ignorant love their celebrities
who star in bio-pics of bio-pic celebrities,
bio-pic another word for a lie-writ-large.
Oh sickening the half-truth worship of celebrities.
The macabre of the scientist we kill, Edgar Allan Poe,
is the only thing we know.
The celebrity of a celebrity puts on a show.
And we all collect them.
That’s how we bring them back to earth again.
Fans of celebrities are in a collection, too—
locked in a box under a bed. In the dark
we perish with every collection we cherish.
You watch movies and you aren’t you.
You are too smart to think of yourself as a star.
No one wants to collect you. (Except when you’re dead)
Yet you’re a stupid movie fan, (even you) that’s what you are.