Fuck it we are boring. We are no fun. God is dead.
No, seriously, what has become of us? This year's Manhattan Short Film Festival was supposed to celebrate its 20th anniversary, yet what we got instead was a sea of mediocrity and one moment of Georgian magic. The one film in the entire programme which gave you art in its pristine, most powerful form.
The problem is, art is losing its purity (do not confuse it with innocence). These days, art has to go with a social issue. With a topical item on Euronews. With your fucking Facebook feed. So what you get in the end is an Italian entry which is technically brilliant and important but totally one-dimensional as a piece of art. Same with Syria.
No, thank you. I don't want my art to be important. I want my art to be art.
If Manhattan Short Film Festival is indicative (and I believe it is), then 2017 is flashy and vapid. American film was trite beyond words, with an idea that only a caveman could find inspired. As was the second Spanish entry (the first one was at least, well, scary). Latvia was not art, and neither, frankly, was New Zealand. Britain was tense and well-acted, but the explanation at the end was somehow diminishing. But important, yes.
It's ironic that Georgia was the one moment of light in those two long hours. Ironic, because the piece talks about the dying moments of the sun. It was heartfelt, and funny, and imaginative, and witty, and had more to say in those eight minutes than any boring, self-important director incapable of allegory and lacking that wonderful ability to make you surprised.
When you are far away and looking at the moon.
