It’s official: I have no life. When successfully taking a shower becomes the main event of my weekend, it’s pretty clear that I need to do something, namely getting a brand new ankle and my ass out of this couch (paging the 3 Wise Men, you are still on time). In the meantime, I don’t think they’ll be writing a movie script about my thrilling story anytime soon.
Or maybe they will. If it’s a French movie. Or if the director is Danish. But then there will be a lot of hand held camera shots. No way, that makes me dizzy. Much better with the French. I can already see the ad in The Village Voice: “Ma cheville et moi: une histoire d’hiver”. For the first 45 minutes my character, played by Sergi López with a full beard, will be lying in bed looking at the ceiling, there will be a lot of gratuitous nudity and occasional masturbation and in the end somebody will be looking at the gray sea with an ominous soundtrack. FIN.
It will go on to win a special mention in Cannes, Manohla or one of her minions will argue that “the rich colors and deep sonorities somehow illuminate an unusually austere emotional terrain” and it will end up playing in front of a 15-strong crowd at the Quad. My life imitates art.