Tell
Everyone
 I saw two movies this weekend, each polar opposites of
one another. I'd like to tell you my reaction to each.
The first was Star Trek Into Darkness and oddly
enough, it was perfectly described by the Bard when he
said "Full of
sound and fury, signifying nothing." For two hours a
lot of noise and pretty colors flashed across the screen
but by the end none
of it made a lick of sense, especially
that
part
about,
well,
everything.
(Although special note must be made of Kirk's cell phone
call
to Scotty across half the known universe.) I suppose
audiences today prefer such total gibberish because
this insipid
treacle made a fuckload of money.
The second movie was a 2006 French film called Tell
No One (Ne le Dis à Personne).
It's a smart, gleefully intricate crime drama/murder
mystery with a female villain who will give you bad dreams.
Most importantly, not one single car chase. I sat in
satisfied
awe as the
credits rolled, digesting
the flood
of
plot twists
that
cascaded
over
me during
the final reel.
Star Trek Into Darkness is a big bowl of Pop
Rocks and Red Bulls rammed down your throat with a funnel
and a rolled-up Archie comic. I not only want my two
hours and my two dollars back I also want the heads of
the
three
writers
on
a pike,
planted in front
of Graumann's Chinese as a warning to anyone else who
dares to plunder, pillage, or otherwise despoil my childhood
for a few hundred measly million bucks.
Tell No One is a
medium-rare steak and a Waldorf salad, accompanied by
a vintage wine, all hand-fed to you by Helen
Mirren as Miss World blows you under the table. It's
available
on streaming
Netflix,
with
subtitles. Go watch.
=Lefty=
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