I just got out of Her: it was like foreplay — the beginning, the euphoric build-up — but no sex. Joaquin’s character was like an autistic-femme-indie-pussy man, jerking off to girls with lesbian hair who striptease to Elliot Smith songs — the kind of guy who laughs at cute cat videos on YouTube. A predictable “gentleman writer” LA douche (who made me homicidal every time he laughed to himself). I hated all the probiotic-popping characters (and Jonze should have just made Amy Adams a lesbian — I mean WTF was THAT?!?!) because they were knitted-cardigan wool-sweater indie gross: vapid and not real, more like ideas (I pray, satirical) of what retarded artsy people try to be and the morals they try to live up to: just manic pixie-gazing shit. I guess it opened some discussion about human attachment to “real” friends and lovers we meet online, and are often galaxies away, so they start to feel like artificial and lonely distractions. But it seems like everyone forgot that this has been happening since the late 90s. The movie looked like a Pitchfork-funded Arcade Fire Coca-Cola commercial, and at times, in its dystopian-infomercial way, it was beautiful, but the whole thing became exhausting. After awhile I found myself wishing Joaquin would kill himself with his OS — in like a hot Siri-euthansia way. I’m giving up on movies. I really wanted to like it.
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