George Bernard Shaw once wrote that youth is wasted on the young.
It’s not their fault, really. Most of us did the very same thing and acted the very same way once upon a time. Personally, I’m quite impressed with most of the young people I come across. I dig their angst, the cool economy of their ever changing lexicon and most of all . . their smart phone cases. So I’m willing to give them a hall pass on their whiny bitching about early mornings and their curious addiction to those Godawful energy drinks.
The cynicism of a young person is a mostly fabricated tempest seeing as how they do not yet possess the jaded inlay which provides the fuel that stokes the fire that makes for a legitimately pissed off human being- otherwise known as middle age. Put another way; if your wick is still smooth and waxy then you best acquaint yourself with old George’s opine. And quit your bitching.
I spend half my time around people who are much younger than me and I spend the other half of my time around people who pay very close attention to any and all bright lights. As the middle man in this spectrum, I can say with all honesty that bitching transcends a birth certificate. Young people bitch about having to wake up early, while old people bitch about having to be thankful for such a thing.
Alright, this feels like the middle of my post (pun intended) so here’s my movie review. If you have an issue with the totally unprofessional nature of this review, contact Sean Spicer.
Cayman’s Review on Split:
To those peeps who say M. Night is back, I say the dude never left. Listen, there is a ton of lazy writing out there that gets rewarded with big box office numbers. Any criticism of Shyamalan for his less than stellar performances at the ticket window since his big winner Sixth Sense ignores the ambitious quality of his works. I’m a huge fan who was quick to forgive Lady in the Water, because I know one thing. The dude can write stories. When he comes out to play, it’s gonna be fantastic, be it The Village or The Visit. Both. The former was unfairly panned and the latter put M. back in the good graces of the mainstream movie going public, but rest assured that his fans never left.
Split isn’t about a big twist ending, but man does it have the fingerprints of Hitchcock everywhere you look. See, there’s this guy named Kevin who is playing host to twenty three different people. And oh by the way, they’re inside of him. Hell, I haven’t seen this many people inside one person since Jenna Jamison was still, ahem . . doing movies. James McAvoy as Kevin is, in a word . . . fucking brilliant. I know, that’s two words. And believe me when I tell you he deserves the double down praise. He moves from one person, place and crazy thing to the next at a furious yet diabolically methodical pace. I’m pretty certain his teenage captives (played by Haley Lu Richardson, Jessica Sula and Anya Taylor-Joy) weren’t acting. They seriously were scared shit. I didn’t prepare any sneak treats for this one. The story was the thing.
Anyways . . . being in the middle of these two crazy sides of the same full moon makes me realize how lucky I am to have such a vantage point. I have arrived at a glorious age. On the one hand, I feel much younger than I am (most days), and yet? I can still bitch about, basically . . anything, and it’s expected!
Like, a couple weeks ago I got into a conversation about running with a young (punk) co-worker. I told him about a three mile run I had taken. It was a beautiful run to which I didn’t possess a time stamp because I’m all about the Zen involvement (i.e.-I run slowly, okay?), and I was painting the kind of picture LeRoy Neiman used to rally the guts out of a paintbrush to. And then he proceeded to tell me that he ran a six minute mile the day before. So I ended the conversation with a simple Fuck You. I really did. And he was plenty alright with it . . . downright happy about it, in fact.
Conversely, I found myself in negotiations with a fellow recently who was born in the year of the stock market crash, which resulted in the great depression. It was really kind of frustrating because I had a million Zoloft jokes at the ready and nowhere to go with them.
So this cranky as all get out character gets to talking up this positively righteous piece of furniture. An antique oak chest of drawers, complete with beveled mirror and curlicue accented spins and dovetail work, which is the signature of a craftsman who knew his shit. The old bastard wanted more than I was willing to pay, but he knew I wanted the piece so he was aiming high. What he didn’t know was that I had a buyer in mind who happened to be younger than his entire wardrobe.
You don’t always have to buy low to win the day. And I ended up winning this one, while at the same time making both sides happy. Young. And old. It’s why the middle is a pretty cool place to find myself in. Because I no longer have to be the fastest, and I don’t yet have to drive the hardest bargain. I can be practical with my magic and still come out smiling.
I’d like to think old George would approve.