Not only does Matthew Wilder cater to my distaste for Bright Eyes, he also yearns for the days when artist and pussy weren't synonymous. The degree to which Norman Mailer and Ernest Hemingway would have kicked Jonathan Safran Foer's ass is just absurd.
[Wes] Anderson has much in common with the 28-year-old novelist Jonathan Safran Foer: a fondness for lovable winking proletarians who help the Little Lord Fauntleroy hero; a fascination for the photos seen in an adolescent's Time-Life Library circa 1981 (anguished tennis players, Jacques Cousteau boats, strolling cavemen); and above all, an almost sexual obsession with the awestruck reactions of an advanced child to the big, bad world. But where Anderson's Cornell-box compositions have a painstaking, madcap charm, Foer's greeting-cards-to-self remind me of critic A.O. Scott's memorably withering words about Tenenbaums: "Yes, yes, you're charming, you're brilliant. Now say good night and go to bed."
By the way, I'm well aware that I seem to be lamenting the death of masculinity while personally not doing much for the cause. So I want to reiterate yesterday's threat to fight David Remnick. I know it's not much. But better than nothing? Baby steps.
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