When reading nonfiction, of course, the primary consideration is the subject, along with the author's knowledge and presentation of that subject. It is for this reason that one sometimes finds oneself reading something which offends their literary sensibilties yet which cannot be discarded because the subject matter is of interest. Such is the case with Fiasco, a poorly-written, overdone examination of Hollywood's mistakes. The movies covered (including Cleopatra, Popeye, Last Action Hero, Showgirls, and Ishtar) are interesting stories of ego and greed gone completely insane and will make you hate everyone ever involved in movie-making. Stars, execs and directors alike emerge as children without even the sense to surround themselves with people with sense. It is instructive, for example, to learn that eight people wrote Last Action Hero at various times, and that this sort of patching-together of scripts is commonplace in an industry that hires a new writer to “add more comedy” or “tone down the violence” rather than send it back to the original scripter. Although I always kind of liked Last Action Hero. Hmm.

But the depth never gets above simple expose, and Parish's writing is the worst kind of workmanlike prose. Take this section from page 18, where I nearly stopped reading:
In 1958 the erudite Walter Wanger was 64 years old and suffered from a heart problem. The longtime film executive had served as chief of production at Paramount in the late 1920s and early 1930s... Back in 1940 the well-bred Walter had married his second wife, screen beauty Joan bennett. The couple had two daughters. In 1952 the dapper Wanger was sent to prison briefly for having shot and wounded talent agent Jennings Land the previous year.
Nothing's actually happening here, so Parish feels the need to spice it up with his adjectives, not to mention alternating first and last names to refer to the same person. He avoids repetition of names or pronouns at all costs, and therefore comes up with increasingly ridiculous ways to introduce his characters. Everyone's “exotic” or “musclebound” or “Buddhist.” Or whatever. Was he being paid by the word?

Maybe this bothers you less than it does me. If so, and you're interested in learning why Showgirls sucks (other than what you learn from watching it), this book's for you. Otherwise, there are a lot better books about contemporary film, successful and otherwise.

Michel Gondry has finally made a movie that integrates music video with feature film. I don't mean that negatively; only that up until now, Gondry has wedged the absurdist, dream-like sensibilities he explored on MTV into films that had absurdist plots and were written by Charlie Kaufman to include strange, dream-like alternate realities. With Science of Sleep, the dream merges with reality without the clumsy explanation of some metaphysical breakdown required. I'm not entirely certain, by the end, what we're supposed to take away from the film, but it's a lovely exploration of a certain kind of love affair that exists too much, perhaps, in dreams.
( Mmm, Gael Garcia Bernal... )

I've been watching Deadwood. And loving it. I love the coarseness of the cruel world portrayed in not-yet-American South Dakota. I love Ian McShane and Timothy Olyphant and Trixie the whore and Calamity Jane. I love the non-conformity to episodic storytelling, in that events happen as they do rather than craming a single message into a single hour of film.

But my husband won't watch it.

We all have different threshholds for the coarseness of the entertainment we partake of. Some people can't stand blood, or needles, or dismemberment, or (if you're me) teeth or eyes being smashed. For some, it's based on realism of the violence portrayed. For others, it's perceived intent. Does the violence serve some storytelling or philosophical purpose? Are we shown something to titillate us or to demonstrate that death isn't clean and instant—it is grotesque and barbarous and not like a video game. Is someone “getting off” on this? Then, of course, you have to judge what the intent of the makers might be, if that's important to you.

There's one scene in particular, in the middle of season 1 of Deadwood, that brought this into focus for me. ( cut for spoilers )I knew I'd have to keep my husband from the room should he emerge from the study while it was on. I was repulsed and horrified. But here's the difference; I'm not going to stop watching. Because I love the show, and I love the characters, and I'm invested in them enough not to particularly care what the director wanted out of that scene. Whatever it was, it was done really well in the sense that it was realistic. However, it didn't have to be like that. Same point could have been gotten across any number of ways. On the one hand, it's refreshing (in a sense) to see death dealt with as something other than a comic book. But do we need it forced in our faces?

Mostly what I'm wondering if what the moral element is, here. Granted, there isn't just one. My husband won't watch this show because from the episode he did see, the first one, he guessed that it was the sort of program that did not shy away from graphic violence and, in his estimation, embarked upon that course for the titillation/shock/what have you of its viewers rather than some thematic purpose. As he argues the violence of many David Lynch productions does. Part of him, sure, doesn't want those images burned into his brain, but another part is reacting morally.

So my question for you is this: What will make you stop watching something that offends/disgusts you? Is the point, if there is one, one of squeamishness or moral outrage? I'm curious about the process by which you make your decisions about violence in entertainment; what are they based on? If you don't have any “limits,” why? Do you have a philosophy about it, or just a strong stomach? This isn't so much about me and my husband and our Deadwood experience but about what that experience has prompted. What's your take?