Diary of a Bushwick Bedbug, 4: There Will Be Blood?

Hey Folks,

How’s things? I got out again this weekend. This time I hitched a ride on Minnesota to the movies. She went to the Brooklyn Academy of Music to see "There Will Be Blood."

SPOILER ALERT: I gotta be honest: I thought there would be more blood.

I mean, after all, I’m a blood feeder, so I was hoping for more food porno for Bedbugs. Like watching the Food Network, you know? But there just wasn’t that much.

So I thought these alternate titles might work better:

--There Will Be Acting
--There Will Be Bad Midwestern Accents By an Irishman
--There Will Be Moustaches
--There Will Be No Female Characters
--There Will Be Death By Drill Bit, Pistol and Bowling Pin

Or maybe "There Will Be Ample Time For A Bed Bug To Scamper Around And Bite Every Single Moviegoer In The 5th Row." I got a little bored with the flick so I crawled across the whole row, sampling the flavors. It was like a buffet! A 10 course meal, even!

It’s amazing how fast that rich, real butter flavor makes its way from the popcorn into human blood! And mmm, that’s good butter! And Junior Mints really are refreshing, aren’t they? The Japanese girl on the end of the isle was scarfing them down, so her blood tasted choco-minty! Awesome! But I can tell--coffee at B.A.M. isn’t so good. I think Minnesota makes a better pot back at her place. Hey, maybe those free-range, fair trade coffee beans really do taste better.

Anyway, the movie was directed by P.T. Barnum’s great grandson—P.T. Anderson. It stars Daniel Day Lewis and a whole bunch of other no-name-nobodies who aren’t worth mentioning, except maybe the kid who played "the kid".

That Daniel Day Lewis is a real fucking ham. Minnesota was watching "Gangs of New York" a few nights ago on cable in her Bushwick loft, so I creeped out of the baseboard and took a look. I’ll be damned if Daniel Day Lewis doesn’t cop some dumb accent for every role he takes. I mean, come on. Who, anywhere, ever spoke like he does in this movie? A Dubliner trying to cop a dust-bowl accent, that’s who. Method acting? You want a method? How’s this: Let the words speak for themselves and stop glowering at the camera.

There were some other actors too, but I don’t really remember any of them, except the kid. That kid is the next Haley Joel Osment! Which means he better save his earnings from this turkey. I think Osment is doing dinner theater in Canton. Or maybe he’s the actual Haley Joel Osment! Wait, does Osment have the same disease as Gary Coleman, Emmanuel Lewis and Joe C from Kid Rock’s band? Shit. That’s sad.


Okay, so here’s a question about the movie: Where the hell were the women? Was the main character gay? Was he asexual? Or was Daniel Day Lewis some kind of mine pervert? Maybe he gets off on basalt and gabbro. I don’t know. But there was hardly a woman in sight in this flick. Maybe there was a little homo-Oedipus going on? The whole thing was pretty creepy.

So, crawling around in Minnesota’s papers the next night, I saw that the critics are lining up to fondle Paul Thomas Anderson scrotum, telling you it’s a grand American Film Masterpiece, but don’t be fooled. The score by Johnny Greenwood from Radiohead is pretty cool, the photography's nice and it’s got some funny moments, but otherwise, this one’s a hollow stinker.

So long for now,

Curtis