Yesterday afternoon we went to the movies to escape the heat and saw Terrence Malick's The Tree of Life, the most sorry piece of pretentious claptrap I have yet to encounter.
a bus under the scaffolding on London Terrace with art reflected in the windows
Gosh, Malick tells us: childhood is magical, our youths are endowed with a roseate glow.....everything inspires awe (swelling symphonic/operatic music!) Throw in the Book of Job....and a National Geographic special about dinosaurs, some retro furniture, various kitchen sinks...
the sky captured in buildings on 57th Street
Not to mention Sean Penn looking miserable and pensive amidst tall buildings with reflections. Oh my!
mural 21st Street,Chelsea
(This lovely has a teapot balanced on her head, I think.) Anyway, what was most depressing about the Malick movie was the waste of it all. Such talented designers, photographers. Such un-engaging characters. In short: it was dreadfully dull. See Anthony Lane's perceptive New Yorker review here
musicians at Columbus Circle
My thesis for this little rant is that we are much more interested in people than artsy intellectual posturing. 'Nuff said.
