I think my calling in life is to be a designer of ironic t-shirts. Up next: a “Let’s Get Bizet!” t-shirt.
22 Short Excerpts From My Internal Monologue During a Documentary Film on Johann Sebastian Bach.
I am so cultured and intellectual. Who spends their Saturday at a museum watching a documentary film about Bach? Me. I’m like a less pedophile-y Woody Allen.
I should start an all-male J.S. Bach-Tina Turner tribute orchestra and call it “Bach-Men Turner Overdrive.” I don’t see how this could possibly be a bad idea.
You know, Bach is a really funny name. Bach. Baaaaach. Bacccch. Hey, what do Baroque chickens say? Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach Bach. Wow, that was a terrible joke.
I think a good measure of one’s pretentiousness is the relish with which one spits out the name “Bach”. The way some of these classical music critics say it you practically need to construct a hurricane guard to protect yourself from the flying spittle.
Bach had 20 children. Wow. How did he find time for composing in between all that sex he was having with his wife? I feel dirty for thinking that. It just feels wrong to think about Bach having sex. Bach is like your lovable 18th century granddad.
Oh shit yes. A Glenn Gould performance. I love me some Glenn Gould. Remember that dream I had about making love to Leonard Bernstein on a big pile of Glenn Gould records? That was a good dream. Good job, brain.
I wonder if anyone has ever thought of making a porno version of 32 Short FIlms About Glenn Gould. Maybe it can be called 32 Short Fuck-FIlms About GlenDDDa Gould.
I should probably become a porn impresario. Clearly I have a God-given talent for remaking classic films as porn.
The Seventh Squeal can be my next feature after GlenDDDa Gould. Maybe Ron Jeremy can play death…
Fanny On Alexander. Moans and Whispers. Ok, brain, that’s enough. I need to stop dreaming up Ingmar Bergman porn titles and pay attention to this damn movie. I’m an intellectual. Intellectuals pay attention to films and don’t think stupid thoughts about remaking the Criterion Collection as pornos.
Through an Ass Darkly. Stop it, brain! If you stop thinking about Ingmar Bergman porn, I’ll feed you some complex carbohydrates later. I know brains like that stuff. Deal? Ok. Back to the movie.
For a film about a composer of very structured music, this film has absolutely no structure. Zing! I should be a critic.
God, I’m such a jackass. What the hell do I know about documentary filmmaking? I’m so pretentious. Next thing you know I’ll be spitting out the word “Bach” like a New Yorker critic with a phlegm ball in his throat.
Who am I kidding; I could totally make a better documentary than this. I should be a documentary filmmaker. Being a documentary filmmaker is very cool and indie, and I already have indie girl bangs. It’s a perfect fit!
Oooh they’re interviewing Philip Glass! Oh Philip Glass, you look like a sad, hairy Basset Hound. A Basset Hound. A Basset Hound. You look like a Basset Hound. Oh Philip Glass, you look like a sad, hairy Basset Hound. God, I love Philip Glass jokes.
Oh no! I accidentally thought of Philip Glass in a porno! It would just be the same sex scene over and over and over again.
This film is so painfully long and boring I’ll have to go into a “fugue” state to forget it! HA! Oh shit I just laughed aloud at my own joke.
What are you shushing me for, middle-aged lady? Don’t pretend like you’re interested in this film. Do you know how I know you’re not interested? Because you kept calling the film Amadeus “Mozart.” You said, “I love the movie “Mozart!” It’s my favorite!” I ask you, who on Earth doesn’t know the name of their favorite movie, and what classical music fan doesn’t know the film Amadeus? I therefore conclude that 1. You have never even seen the movie Amadeus, and 2. You wouldn’t know a Bach composition if all of its countermelodies came up and punched you in the face.
Oh my god, there are still 40 minutes left of the film. Maybe…maybe I should just leave now. I’m still an intellectual cineaste if I leave a film 40 minutes early; in fact, I’m probably MORE of one because I object to the filmmaker’s disregard of documentary narrative structure. The reasons for my departure are purely artistic and don’t at all stem from the boredom of a feeble, easily distracted mind. I’ll go to the gift shop, buy one of those stuffed Giacomo Puccini beanie babies, and get the fuck out of here.
Wow, that pianist being interviewed is ridiculously hot… Maybe I’ll stay just a bit longer. Hey, maybe he can play the virtuoso concert “penisist” in my porno magnum opus!
So, we’re back to porn again, brain? Figures. In the music of my brain, pornography is the tonic resolution.
That and Woody Allen references. I think my brain is structured like Annie Hall, always coming back to the same joke at the end. God, I’m such an intellectual asshole. Now where’s the exit?
