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Watched “To Rome with Love” the other day (Wednesday, mid-day, to be exact) and I’m still not sure what I think about it. Woody Allen is just strange, and the characters and situations are, often, outright confusing and, in my opinion, dumb.
I thoroughly disagree with their morals (quite frequently), but all the same, it is an interesting commentary on fame and love (a subject Mr. Allen and I don’t exactly see eye-to-eye with). The arbitrariness of fame, its life-span, the privileges allotted the famous, the idea of “selling out” a dream or vision for fame - to someone who wants to be a writer, albeit not a famous one, it is an interesting field for musings.
My Creative Writing [ENGL 80] professor commented that writers have a predilection for addiction, and that writers of our age find inspiration in alcohol, although our generational vice is narcissism, in that our time is so filled with professions whose reward is the adoration of fans. When we lose fame, we lose ourselves, who we are.
The recent shootings at The Dark Knight Rises premiere make me shudder to think what individuals might do for fame or notoriety, or perhaps simply the individuals we record, the ones we find noteworthy.
Why are we so obsessed with gaining attention? Why do we envy the stars, though they lead such tragic lives? So often, those who live simpler are happier.
If there is one thing I do agree with Allen on though, it is that a city is filled with stories. If I must have any addiction, I suppose it is to those, to tales of life, to moments lived and relived, the plots that thread people together and thrust them apart. It’s quite a beautiful tapestry, though not a famous one.
