Wes Anderson is one of the few remaining filmmakers whose work demands to be consumed on the big screen and a few days ago I was all prepared to sample his latest, The Phoenician Scheme, when the potential cost and the journey and the likelihood that half a dozen muppets or more would leave their phones on and the journey back home and the fact that his last couple of efforts have been a bit crap, frankly, conspired to keep me at home, waiting for it to reach the telly. Which wouldn’t be as good, obviously, or The Aesthetic Experience That Anderson Intended, but maybe, deep down, I’m not that bothered any more.
And I felt sad and a bit guilty and not a little middle-aged and tired. And then I turned to my current commute read, Paul Beatty’s Tuff, in which the eponymous 19-year-old, 320-pound cinéaste (he digs Truffaut) muses:
I go for the disappointment, I guess. I’m used to being disappointed, and I know I’ll find it in the movie theater.
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