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The Million Dollar Hotel: Mocking art school dropouts for fun and profit

It was an unusual Friday afternoon. I’d been up since 5 and on the news twice…man seeks happiness through many avenues but rather finds it outside the company of those he frequently hates…A slow day really. In my somnolent state I was assaulted by a G-man with three arms and a retarded philosopher. The nuthouse noir rattled my senses…love is the water of the soul. It starts as a trickle and slowly erodes until nothing is left but a wide smooth current dragging down everything in its path…The puzzle box opened and the pieces tumbled out with no consideration for their future placement. The box art lost in a puddle of urine, I found myself struggling to cope with a story entered somewhere beyond the beginning.

In whispers and mumbles a murder mystery crumples like a dozen carnations in the hands of fools…man is separated from lesser beings by his ability to control his destiny and yet so few men find it within themselves to make the effort…The rambling art house drivel danced with my unconscious thoughts leading me down a winding path of confusion and sadness. The tangents and patterns corrupted my thought processes already crippled by hearing loss…death is a dangerous thing. a close encounter will awaken an all-consuming fire that flashes into existence and claims the soul with greater voracity than even death could muster…My bewilderment fueled by pretension quickly boiled into distaste that would pressurize my skull until just passed the midway.

I watched with incomprehension as the oddities and the rarities intermingled in the toe jam of the city of angels. Incomprehension slowly gave way to confusion while the underlying currents bubbled to the surface…ego is both the fuel of progress and the smotherer of dreams. Pride prevents the taking of risks by those who place others’ opinions above their own while fear limits the heights achieved by those unable to see beyond their leap….Lacking a basis for social understanding I found myself amused by the ever-changing dynamics and revelations of the slow man’s accidental machinations through the mercenary musings of his friends and enemies…the light tones of trumpets and twinkling lights bring to mind thoughts of glammer and glorious excess held in relief against the dilapidations of the Happiness Hotel…The chaos struggled against itself over the course of the evening until it faded to clarity and brought into focus the motivations and short comings of the players involved.

Short hair isn’t sexy. It just isn’t.

Suddenly I was no longer watching irrelevant snooty mush made incomprehensible for incomprehensibility’s sake. The plot came into focus and the philosophy began to make sense. Suddenly the murder was solvable and relevant. Milla Jovoich remained fully clothed despite her portrayal of a prostitute and Mel Gibson remained obtuse and overly aggressive. In the end the intriguing personalities portrayed by a who’s who of 90’s character actors which filled the hotel failed to reach their full potential while Jeremy Davies completely ran away with the show.

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