I wish this is how I'd spent the last week. My thinking ability could stand improvement.
I was absent last week, and I do apologize. I was distracted by a nifty new gig I just got—more on that in a week or two—and the continuing amazingness of the World Baseball Classic. (Which I'm writing about, not just watching obsessively, I swear.) But though I was too lazy—I mean busy!—to update the blog, I did do a bit of jabbering over at Bullett. Take a look:
First, I wondered whether or not a Trainspotting sequel would happen. If it does, would it be a terrible idea?
The ending of Trainspotting always seemed to be a bit of a cheat—a happy ending to a story that had no business ending well. But the sight of Ewan McGregor’s Rent Boy scurrying off into the dawn, his friends hard-fought drug money clutched in his fist, was so feverishly delightful that I didn’t mind. After all, what’s a heroin comedy with a cheery ending? I’d always wondered where Rent Boy ended up, but also not wanted to know—a recovering heroin addict with a sack full of stolen money is not a man you expect to live very long.
Next, I pondered the wildly successful Veronica Mars kickstarter. The kickstarter was definitely a good idea. Reviving the series, I think may prove a mistake. But hey, what do I know?
Which producer will be the next to cash in on his fanbase? Will Judd Apatow try to crowdsource Freaks & Geeks: The Movie? How about a kickstarter to revive My So Called Life, Crime Story, or Police Squad, starring a computer generated version of Leslie Nielson? Using digital technology to revive a beloved, cancelled-too-soon TV show is a tempting thing. When the new episodes of Arrested Development are released in May, we’ll see for the first time whether or not it’s a good idea. When the richest, dumbest man on Kickstarter gets a chance to say, “Your check, sir,” we’ll see it on the big screen. But my gut tells me that cancelled TV shows are like dead bodies. They shouldn’t be brought back to life.
And then, on Friday, I delved into Marilyn Monroe's reading collection.
Like a rather lovelier Rodney Dangerfield, Marilyn Monroe never got no respect. For one thing, she was funny, she knew it, and she hardly ever got a chance to show it off. We all know she could sing, but come on—she could really sing. And yet, she remains thought of as not much more than what Truman Capote called “a platinum sex-explosion.” (Of course, she was that too.) Capote thought a lot of Marilyn—there’s a beautiful scene with her in Music For Chameleons—but apparently Marilyn didn’t think much of him, because she didn’t own a thing he wrote.
Really, she didn't! There's this whole list of her books, and not an ounce of Capote among them. Consider that article my last word on Smash, which last week was officially moved to the TV graveyard that is Saturday nights. Smash and Marilyn...sad, sad, sad.