I met up with a friend for some post-work drinks last night (it was two-for-one choco-tini night at our favorite spot!). He told me that, on his way to the bar, he saw Jim Jarmusch “on the sidewalk” in the Tribeca.
First, I asked if he was okay. The phrase “on the sidewalk” implied that maybe he was passed out drunk, or injured, or down on his luck and begging for change.
But once it was established that the man was okay, I asked if he was being approached by strangers and critiqued. Much like the mighty buffalo once roamed the plains of this great land, so is Manhattan overrun by uber-hip cineastes. The type of people who, despite a professed love of movies, have a dismissive opinion of every single film and director that’s ever been.
So I had the mental image of the famous indie director being mobbed by effete artsy types who couldn’t wait to tell him how little they thought of his work. People literally lining up to prove how sophisticated they are by giving him faint praise and back-handed compliments.
“Mr. Jarmusch, wow, really great to meet you! I just want to say, I love Down By Law even though it’s completely overrated!”
“Hi, Mr. Jarmusch. I’ve always wanted to ask you this: What was the deal with Coffee and Cigarettes? I mean, the RZA/Bill Murray sequence was funny and all, but is this type of fluff the best use of your talents?”
“Wow, Jim Jarmusch! You know, when I was in college, Mystery Train and Stranger than Paradise were, like, my two favorite movies. Of course, my tastes have progressed far beyond that point by now…”
Yes, these are the little playlets my brain devises to amuse itself. If you don’t like it, you’ll have to take it up with the brain.