The Artist

Jack says silent movies are old, almost ancient, that he’s unsure what the exact parameters are for singling something out and saying it’s over, that it’s in another category, it’s another rung up the family tree which most likely means it’s dead. I tell him that’s sort of the point, that rejuvenating something old, that’s over, that’s been over for decades and years now, well, there’s merit in it. The Globes definitely think so.

“I don’t see,” Jack says, “how replicating something we’ve seen over, that we’re so bored of seeing it now, and hearing is believing, I think that’s what’s said, well you get what I’m saying, right?” But the last time I understood, or we agreed, was that when Steve Carell left The Office it was over for us, and even cameos by famous people who are better at drama but renowned for comedy couldn’t save it, or keep it interesting. And that’s not the fault of anyone. Knowing when to stop something is difficult like leaving uni is – we’re unprepared for it. Even the ones that end up in jobs straight off aren’t prepped for work, for what life is. And choosing what you’ll be in your twenties isn’t something you can do all that adequately when you’re sixteen.

I chose wrong. Jack thinks that I did. That’s why, when we watch films, his eyes are two-tone like nail varnish is, mostly, in 2010, or 11, or whatever point we’ve spun into since the New Year’s Eve we fell asleep before our parents did. The New Year isn’t different. Death Cab were right. And the hopes that we had when the millennium turned weren’t reassured and won’t be. We should be using everything we’ve got now, everything we’ve found out since the silence stopped. Because filling the quiet’s a talent I’m always in awe of. Or almost. Depending on who’s doing it.

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