I won't say that Jacques Cluzaud, Michel Debats and Jacques Perrin's Winged Migration is one of my favorite documentaries, and I won't say that it's terribly groundbreaking. I won't even say it's really a documentary, as it feels and behaves more like a poem. About birds.
But I still rather liked it, when I saw it. It's sort of like March of the Penguins with mercifully less Morgan Freeman. And I won't lie, I thought I was reasonably hip for having seen it (I was in college, we ambled over to the art theater and "caught a flick", whatever).
Well, that world has come crashing down.
I was watching Weeds* last night, and one of the characters insinuated that he was out of pot because Winged Migration was playing at "The Plex"** that week and that STONERS JUST LOVE THIS MOVIE.
I'm all for recontextualizing art, I really am. I just want art to be recontextualized in a way that I can participate in it. For now, I can't enjoy:
And, apparently, I also am not fully experiencing The Big Lebowski.
Wait. Listen to me. I've just wasted thirty minutes of my life complaining--on the internet--about something that doesn't need to be complained about. I'm miffed because it's one more club that I'm left out of, and this time it's a club that I didn't even know existed.
I'm just cranky because I'm tired and my crankiness is enhancing my natural uptightness.
In conclusion, it's my birthday and you can go ahead and skip Weeds.
*Kind of shitty and boring. Just a quirky suburban farce in which people smoke pot. Yawn. Also, Kevin Nealon is not funny in this show. Not even a little bit.