P.S.

I admit, that last diatribe was slightly under the influence. I'm a violent drunk only in terms of my criticism of film. (And of Dave Eggers, apparently.)
The last shot of the movie was of the real Christopher Candless. I can't imagine what the real-life Candlesses think of the cinematic version of his last two years and his death.

Do Not Go See Into The Wild

I wasted $10.75 for 2.5 hours of an episodic, begging-for-parody string of platitudes featuring a brat of a kid, Emile Hirsch (Alpha Dog, Sabrina the Teenage Witch) who probably has never, in real life, had to cook for himself.
It is possible that Sean Penn, in the making of this movie, was like Saddam Hussein, in that no one was brave enough to challenge his directorial decisions. Lots of unanswered questions (Why does Vince Vaugh, a South Dakota wheat farmer, get hauled away suddenly by the FBI?) and lots of scenes where it appeared that the only direction that Hirsch received was "Go scavange in the berries." "Be really, really hungry."
Lots of heavy-handed symbolism ("God is light," says the old man, and then the clouds part and there's a burst of blinding sunlight) and lots of spotty makeup jobs (you can see the makeup in his pores when they zoomed in on the Poisoned/Dying Face of Alexander Supertramp, nee Christopher Candless.*)
Lots of archetypes for characters (Marcia Gay Harden is the first lady-esque uptight mother; the skinny Tracy, a hippy community's own Joni Mitchell, is Supertramp's last chance for sex (and she looks perpetually wan and sex-starved), but the ascetic abstains).
I was most disappointed because, going into the movie, I confused the book, on which the movie was based, with Hatchet, by Gary Paulsen.



*Warning: Plot Spoiler.**
**Whoops too late.***
***Guess you're not going to see the movie now.****
****Good. Best to spend that $10.75 on a block and a half of cheese.

R is for Robot

I've learned something about myself, and that is I have a proclivity for theories about things. Self-generated theories, preferably.
Okay, this is an obvious statement, because that's what people do, they come up with theories and explanations to make sense out of things. Everyone, I assume, has a proclivity for theories about things.
(Is life a continual amassing of theories to make one giant oevure? One huge collection of theories of everything? On one hand I sort of hope not. Because it would suck to feel like you have pretty much everything figured out.)
Observation/Generalization: No one expresses any sign of emotion when on the subway.
Theory: Physical privacy isn't an option, so hiding your thoughts by withholding expression is the last stronghold on "personal space."
I had a terrible day at work not too long ago--one of those days where you feel hot and trapped and find yourself in the bathroom for not the traditional reasons. I, being a novice, was really trying hard to keep the tears balanced just at the rims of my eyelids as I was riding the train back home to the BK, the beloved R train. Just two stops into the journey, I was treated to a medly of songs, including gems such as "If you like my body, and you think I'm sexy..." and "I'm too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt, so sexy yeah," performed soulfully by a small, toothless blind man with an underbite. He swung his can back and forth with abandon as he progressed down the length of the train, collecting coins for his services.
I was facing a girl who must also be a rookie in this whole "We are robots" game too. She used her book to cover her face, because she was laughing (silently, so it was more like shaking). I had no book readily available to hide my face, which broke into a cry-laugh spasm. (That little man is funny.) Everyone saw that I was sad-amused.
I admit, I felt a little violated.