Film

 

Film. Soon to be extinct as concept, after all the digitization that’s spreading.

Happened to hear Rhymin’ Simon sing his everlasting Kodachrome again.

Forgetting the obvious Fuji-fingering advertisement value in the lyrics, I still believe it has its obvious moments. Going against my usual grubbiness, I enjoy the childish enthusiasm with which he expresses a snap-shot or two out of his youth. Lovely, actually.

- - -

I cannot say the same about a tv-presented summary of a cinemative alderman’s life and achievements, I’m afraid.

Jimmy Stewart! they said.

I’d never speak about him as anything but James S., but that’s the usual trick they use to embed an impression of familiarity before we actually realize that the people that made this summary description of a life too complex to be described in forty-two minutes flat, never even met him.

I get sad when I’m approached with such horse hockey.

To say that I respect his work enough to never wanting to know too much about his personal life, would be like explaining to a complete illiterate that rhythm contains more than two h:es.

Personally, I’d rather try to get a grip on How and Who Alec Guinness actually was.

Rather than A. Baldwin, who undeservedly got a life-time special before he even got middle-aged or half-forgotten.

His time will come.