A consolotary poem for James Cameron.

Oh, James Cameron.
Look at the world you’re the king of now.
It’s not our world – the good world full of talented and interesting people.
It’s not even a real world, is it?
You’re the king of a world you made up in your head.
And your head’s not even very good at making up worlds anymore, is it?
You’re not even the king of Terminatorworld or The Abyssworld.
You’re the king of ‘Pandora’.

In your robes of blue and your spaghetti tree crown, you sit upon a headache-inducing 3D throne of gimmickery and bluster.
‘I may not be the king of Best Directorworld, Best Pictureworld or Best Screenplayworld’ you sneer – you weren’t even nominated for Best Screenplay – ‘but my world broke all box office records!’
But in the back of your spiritual yet war-loving mind you know that those figures were never adjusted for inflation and Gone With The Wind, ET and probably even Forrest Gump shit all over you. And the tickets for those were way cheaper and they didn’t need to be in 3D.

‘I was just trying to save the world by teaching the world a lesson about destroying itself’ you haughtily sigh as you survey your computer-generated domain.
But they already learned that lesson, at the exact same time you did – when they saw Dances With Wolves and Pocahontas. Which were the same as your film. But better.
Instead, they decided they wanted to learn a lesson from your ex-wife.
She was telling us about war and stuff. But, like, real war – the war that’s going on in the real world, which you are not king of. Where we all live. And she is the Best Director.

Published in: on March 8, 2010 at 10:09 am  Leave a Comment  

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