let the rehydration and surliness begin.
So Mark and I started watching a movie from Figueiredo’s Video (on the computer…because of course the 17-year-old working there couldn’t be bothered to check to see that the dvd was not scratched all to hell and wouldn’t play in the dvd player,) called Fears of the Dark. It’s an animated French film described by whatculture.com: “The five part movie has been put together by six graphic artists and cartoonists (they all worked on their own segment) whose inter-connecting stories touch on our deepest fears, phobias and nightmares for an intense and raw filmic experience.”
First there was a story about bugs. I’ve had a nightmare or two about creepy crawly insects, spiders, those 7-foot-long potato bugs and the like.
But I can tell you one thing I’ve never been afraid of: a dog attacking me by sniffing under my skirt and killing me by ripping apart my vagina.
I liked this movie about as much as I like motherfucking French misogynists. And that ain’t much. And really, is filmic even a word used by anyone but a bunch of pretentious fake-artist assholes?