I'm fascinated by documentaries, to begin with. Because of the nature of television, as opposed to theatrical, documentaries can be in this long form and take you on a journey.
The action comes at us through a buzz of nattering remarks.
Trivial details have been summoned, in part, to make a satirical point about upper-middle-class marriage-that the whole thing can slip away between the white wine and the arugula salad.
Never throw fruit at someone who understands the theatrics of the situation better than you do.
Art talk is punk. Let the movie do your speaking for you.
Mi-yammi! The extraordinary city, with its Judeo-Cubano population, its mix of surgical-appliance and sex-fetishist obsessions, takes the American melting pot past the boil. It represents pretty much everything Patrick J. Buchanan hates.
Corporate irony not only ridicules the thing it is selling but the very act of selling it. In the process it disarms critics by making anyone who goes against the flow of commerce seem clueless.
Modeling isn't all that tough.
I didn't think that wave was going to offer a ton,. . . But the wave just held form, and I was able to get a lot out of it.
It is as acceptable now to love the wives of others as it is to smoke their cigars and read their books.
The existence of a world without God seems to me less absurd than the presence of a God, existing in all of his perfection, creating imperfect man in order to make him run the risk of Hell.