Intermission

Let's all go to the lobby, let's all go to the lobby ...

Well, folks, we’re a year in. So I guess I owe you a post that isn’t me wanging on about an “old” movie. Don’t worry, I won’t make a habit of it.

One of the goals of this here ‘stack when I started it was to make it through the year. Maintain a weekly schedule. Keep the expectations low and the gratitude high. It was a way of being productive at a time when I was feeling useful to neither man nor beast and, for the most part, it worked. Sure, I’ve missed a couple of weeks here and there, but as a wise man (and my missus) kept telling me, “You know you don’t have to do every week, right?”

To which the only response was a Bronx cheer, because I kind of did. The discipline of writing up a film a week was an important one to cultivate at a time when every new movie I saw felt like empty calories, and every glowing review I read of said new movie made me feel like I was taking the proverbial crazy pills. This isn’t to say that this old man is yelling at all the clouds - never write off Soderbergh or the forthcoming PTA and Philippou Bros. - but I was beginning to feel like, well, maybe I just didn’t like the thing I used to love. This was a terrifying thing. Going back was the only way. And it’s been a valuable exercise. Turns out I still love the thing I used to love, which is a massive relief.

The problem is, it’s become something of a time-suck, especially considering I should have an eye on other work. And honestly, with Substack’s swerve into the kind of social media shit heap that attracts the noisiest and most bothersome of flies, I’m less inclined to spend time here, or at least on the godawful app. It’s a shame, because for the most part I enjoy Notes, as broken as it is. But everything in moderation. Now excuse me for a moment while I go post a bunch of notes about Murder, She Wrote.

(Briefly jots down something about Jessica Fletcher being a man-magnet.)

Okay, I’m back.

So as that incredibly handsome fella once said: “What do we do now?”

The reply from another incredibly handsome fella: “A man’s got to know his limitations.”

And so we’re going a little more occasional, perhaps even longer at some points, depending on what comes across the old transom and demands my fervent opinionating. I may even write about television, who knows? Whatever it takes to keep this thing from feeling glum and dusty.

So it’s not the end, just a change of pace. More of an au revoir than an adieu. Because I know you’d miss me like Juliet Stephenson missed Alan Rickman.

To those of you who have pledged actual hard-earned moolah to the Under the Influence kitty, I say to you: I owe you a nice wet lickery kiss, but your money’s safe. This was never a profit-making enterprise and there ain’t gonna be no paid subscriptions to this thing. I do appreciate the support, though. You’re diamonds, each and every one of you. And probably sexy bastards to boot.

Now, don’t forget to pick up a sparkling drink. I hear they’re just dandy.