On this very festive (and way too loud) of holidays, I decided to see Fahrenheit 9/11. Actually, I didn’t decide to. I was more so reverse-psychologized into it. Whatever it takes.
Going into the film, I had read an article by Christopher Hitchens called Unfairenheit 9/11: The lies of Michael Moore. Some may remember that Mr. Hitchens team-taught my writing class last fall with Melissa. I heard a lot of things about him before the class started, but despite all claims of his arrogant conservatism, I ended up liking him. The smoke breaks he insisted on helped, of course. And I even had the opportunity to discuss George Eliot with him over a clove at a swanky bar, atop an equally swanky hotel, that sold $8 beers.
The discussion was short, though, because that idiot I called Squeaky was unable to extract himself from Hitchens’ ass and felt compelled to enter the conversation with an Eliot question. Whatever, dude. I went back inside.
So this article is really long, unnecessarily long, and it’s a rather scathing criticism of the film, something suggested plainly by the title. He goes off on Moore’s ‘twisting’ of facts and claims the existence of irresponsible documentary filmmaking. I’m willing to admit that I believe all media is bad. We hear what we want to; and most defer to the outlets that will tell us what we want to hear.
And I’ll even admit that, as I was watching the film, I could see what Hitchens objected to so vehemently. Moore weaves the evidence he discovered into a package replete with comical uses of music and subtle vocal intonations in his commentary. But that’s what a filmmaker is supposed to do. It’s what a writer is supposed to do with words. A musician with music.
They have stories to tell, points to make. So if I was conservative, I’d be pissed, too. But I probably wouldn’t write such a verbose article that gets off topic a little too much. The bottom line is that the movie is good. Why people voted for this man, I don’t know. Why people are considering voting for him in November is beyond me.
As is my love affair with Henry Miller. Well, his writing. I was nearing the end of Freud (for now) and needed a new book. Of course there are plenty on my shelves that I haven’t read, but none interested me. So I went and picked up Miller’s Sexus. I think this Henry Miller thing is what’s going to get me off my ass to write. He was a good writer who was plagued with insecurity, something that, I hear, is woven into his texts. For that reason, it will be interesting to see how I react to it and where I go with it.
My three-day weekend is almost over; but I had a really good one. Taylor Mead was at the Bowery Poetry Club on Friday night. He was followed by an idiot “comic poet” who wish he “had my voice in bed.” The 105 minutes he was onstage was way too long and his pants were way too tight. Ginger’s is always good (in the right company). And well, hopefully tomorrow I’ll do some writing, now that I have found my software. I excavated my closet and finally found it, as well as every journal I’ve ever kept. Have you ever gone back to read what you wrote in high school. I highly suggest it. It makes you thankful you’re almost 31.
