To paraphrase: commentary in art is where you find it.
An older man, his mustache dark as molasses and the tip of his bald head shining like mine, drugging then raping a woman, was said to be a biting satire of the fascist government. To me it sounded like a kind of old/young rape fantasy realized on film-a vicarious satisfaction through voyeurism.
But when will we see the lackadasical mouth-breathing echo chamber of the online world on film? The opulence and collectivism of the recent Gatsby? The fantasy of oz, with the agreeing munchkins? The dread pull of the ring of power in the Hobitt films?
When will we see the earnest nuance-the uncommitted dabbling-of Barack Obama in film? In a Jennifer Aniston flick? Adam Sandler? Or both?
There is an instant gratification-a chance, digitally, to brush the face of a famous person, to avoid waiting-and waiting is a punishment in our modernity-the drag and lack of dignity of waiting in a line, smartphone turned off, or even turned on revealing its own lack of dignity that is so ever present in our modern discourse-our 140 character bleating, our memes that confound the text-oriented spider-eyes of the search engines.
I always argue that the art is more personal than critics say. I perhaps degrade college political educations, and how these encroach on art. The art is always personally meaningful to the artist, the writer, then to be captured, as something convivial by a director and a DP.
Personally meaningful to the artist. Don't doubt so for a moment.