Some Next Level Snobbery
Whit Stillman's film, "Metropolitan" stirs my thinking...
I didn’t hate it. Interesting to think some people live and talk that way. It’s a lot of pretentious talk. There’s dancing, drinking, interpersonal drama, strip poker and arguments solved with menace and a measure of violence (But not all that much. It’s no Godfather) On a weird level, it’s like a tame version of The Hangover if you transplanted it from Las Vegas to The Hamptons and New York City.
Their scenes of talking about literature got me wondering: Is that the gold standard of being a writer—to get rich debutantes commenting to each other the merits and sins of your work?
Do I need to aspire toward Jane Austen, F Scott Fitzgerald, or Hemingway? It seems any other aspiration falls short of becoming a household name, right?
I guess it has me rethinking some things. You know—writing-wise. (and life-wise) Part of me is still disoriented by the way that the very rich kids of 1989 seem to have lived much simpler lives than myself and people in my strata of society. (at least according to one point of view.) If Whit Stillman set it in San Fransisco instead, how would it be different? Probably a lot different.
Technology has many of us behaving as if we’re rich preppies on a debutante season. Ain’t that funny?
It wasn’t too long ago that I happened into a similar film “The Longest Week” where I recognized the situations and textures of the characters. The immaturity and emotional frailty and flakiness of wealthy aging-babies. So if you’re up for another dose of snobbery, check it out. It’s pretty entertaining.
If you end up with a bitter taste on your pallet from these or a knotty notion that you can’t shake, there’s the John Wick films to cue up.
