Not surprisingly, this film has been getting good reviews. It's not surprising because film critics are almost all big-time losers.
The last thing I want to do when I go to the movies is reflect on my own life in any way, shape, or form. If anything, I want to live vicariously through others: I want to smoke cigarettes and not have my skin turn into pale sludge, I want to have sex with models who not only think I'm great in bed but also love me for who I am, I never want to have the urge to fart during inappropriate situations, I want to be able to run fifty miles and smell like I just walked out of a candy shop, I want every kiss to seem like the world just stopped.
What I do not want is to be reminded that most of my life is spent thriving on the disappointments and failures of others, which apparently means that I am somehow petty. First of all, I am not petty. I AM NOT. Secondly, it is not my fault that there are so many stupid people on this planet. If somebody backs over their own child with their new SUV, that's one less genetic mishap on the planet, as far as I'm concerned. And keep this in mind: if my happiness is based solely on the failures and disappointments of others, I'm bound to be pretty damn happy.
You see, this is Enid's (Thora Birch) view of the world. Director Terry ("Crumb") Zwigoff makes this seem like a bad thing. Enid derives all her self-esteem from annoying her best friend, Rebecca (Scarlett Johansson), terrorizing a clerk, Josh (Brad Renfro), ignoring her father (Bob Balaban), and following around a 40-year-old loser, Seymour (Steve Buscemi). Enid is one of these people who wants what she doesn't have and doesn't want what she has.
Not surprisingly, this film has been getting good reviews. It's not surprising because film critics are almost all big-time losers, made up of people who perform an unnecessary job and way overvalue their contribution to culture. They provide not one iota of artistic or social value to the world, yet they present themselves as arbiters of culture. Collectively, they have about as much creative energy as a piece of rat poo. Most of them are furious because their creative endeavors are thwarted at every turn, and they've adopted a lifestyle that exists solely to destroy the work of others. Except for me, of course.
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