just me, watching oppenheimer teaser for the 347th time
TEИƎT by @peytonswhiteboard
The guy already blew up a hospital. Rest assured he’s going for the nuke.
What Tarantino could express, more explicitly than any of his peers, was the intensity of his own perspective. He became the most important filmmaker of the nineties by making movies exclusively designed for his own idiosyncratic pleasure. [...]
For a fleeting moment in time, this attitude was everywhere. The nineties were a fertile period for the self-indulgent genius and an amazing decade for high-gloss unconventional film, saturated with anti-cliche, self-contained projects defined by the interiority of their creators: Danny Boyle's drug exploration Trainspotting. P.T. Anderson's fictional porn biopic Boogie Nights. The discomfiting atmospheres of Jane Campion's The Piano and Vincent Gallo's Buffalo '66. Spike Jonze and Charlie Kaufman's brainfuck Being John Malkovich. Sofia Coppola's essayistic The Virgin Suicides, Darren Aronofsky's mathematically obsessed Pi, and Christopher Nolan's memory-inverted Memento. Spike Lee's prescient Bamboozled, overlooked during its initial 2000 release. Wes Anderson's esoteric character studies. Even directors with more formal aesthetics—the Kubrickian perfectionist David Fincher and the interpersonal realist Noah Baumbach—did not make rote, familiar-feeling movies. Their manufactured realities were life-like, but not transposable with life itself. They demanded to be seen (and considered) as isolated and nontransferable. Time and again, the movie was about the movie.
But this, as it turns out, was an impermanent condition. What came from the nineties stayed in the nineties: By 2015, the notion of seeing a film (or any art) as separate from real-life morality and present-day politics had become increasingly unpopular. By 2020, it was verboten.
The Nineties: A Book by Chuck Klosterman (New York: Penguin Press, 2022)