Remember Crispin Glover?
Sure you do. The dad from Back to the Future -- George McFly! Ayyyy childhood. Well, did you know that currently, in between sporadic acting jobs, he makes films? Oh yeah. And he tours them, okay, he brings them to university libraries and bars for your viewing pleasure. Cool, right?
Okay so my sister and I, a few weeks ago, went to one of these viewings. Very exciting; we always liked Crispy G. We sat down, vaguely noting that the audience was about one part female, seventeen parts white Gen X dude, 100% university educated and likely in the arts. No problem. We settle in.
And to introduce the movie, Crispin Glover stepped out from the curtains on the side of the stage, behind which he'd been quietly hiding for at least half an hour. We laughed. He didn't.
Guys if I could explain what happened that evening...I mean let me try because this review hinges on it....soooo:
The movie itself is titled "What Is It?", and if you Google it, the description is "A young man journeys through a bizarre land inhabited by mentally impaired people, and snails." Verbatim. Which I mean sets you up pretty well maybe. Like I guess it discounts the massively offensive racism and misogyny and ableism that is intentionally gaslighted, as well as Fairuza Balk's piercing snail screams. We didn't have a description going in though so our experience was more like:
"What...the fuck? Why are so many snails being brutally murdered on camera? Why are there so many swastikas? Why does every actor have Down's syndrome except Crispin Glover? Is he...wait, is he trying to SAY something with this?! Is this hodgepodge of complete shock-value nonsense supposed to have some kind of message?? Oh god it is isn't it. Oh no."
When it finished, thus began one of the absolute strangest Q&A experiences I've witnessed in my life. Essentially, Glover was arguing that "corporate cinema" has destroyed everything possible in art. Please set aside that this was a relevant concern back in the year 1999 and that now, in 2017, both media and film schools are implicitly aware of this issue. That doesn't matter because Crispin Glover is clearly stuck in the rich white LA boy issues of the end of the 20th century. "You can't know my genius," he cried, not in so many words, to an audience that was half-drooling, half-baffled. You're right, buddy -- cause it ain't genius. It's just you thinking, "How can I most SHOCK my audience?" and passing it off as "I just want people to question things!"
Things derailed. Glover spent about half an hour asking one woman to define her terms: "But listen to what I'm saying. I didn't say 'fetishizing.' What do you mean by that? Is it just that you're uncomfortable?" No, dickwad. We got what you were doing. Doesn't make it intelligent. Other highlights included a twenty-minute rambling lecture on surrealism, Glover repeating that he'd written 400 pages of a book, and that horrible feeling you get when you're surrounded by a bunch of pedantic assholes who blindly agree with whatever bullshit's being spouted by the guy at the front of the room.
It was a train wreck.
No one learned anything.
The balding Gen X film-studies white guys chortled and snortled at Glover's crap. The people with the audacity to criticize any aspect were belittled & told they couldn't understand his very deep purpose of, you know, calling out those studios that were mean to him. Everyone left irritated except Crispin Glover, who was full of self-important pride as he retreated, again, behind the curtains.
Long story short:
Reading Absence made me feel like Crispin Glover's army was trying, and failing, to be smart and funny, and when I didn't "get it," well, that wasn't their fault.
Hard pass.