Woody Allen's wet dream marks the end of CINEMATIC HISTORY.
Really, where can cinema go post-Scarlett-kisses-Penelope-on-screen? It makes sense to insert a cultural sploogetopia into heavenly descriptions of the afterlife (i.e. 72 virgins await your arrival in the clouds)-- that provides a goal, something to strive towards in life, like Michael Phelps' vision of the fifteen chocolate chip pancakes, five ham and cheese sandwiches, and vat of butter waiting for him at the end of his last lap. But to make it into a feature-length motion picture? UM, BAD IDEA. What can our eyes take solace in after voyeuristic pleasure has reached its unsurpassable climax? Francis Fukuyama may have been totally wrong about The End of History, but I am fully convinced (in the way only a neoconservative cinephile can be) that this heralds the demise of American cinema.
The End.
(seriously, THE END.)
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