Yesterday I briefly attended a peninsula film festival, watching three local documentaries. Imagine seeing a cinematic version of letters to the editor, and you've got a good handle on how self-absorbed and ill-executed the films were. The ode to bicycling made me want to open my door into a few self-promoting cyclists, and in a rhetorical miracle, the expose on overzealous development made me want to tongue-kiss a developer. To say the latter film was over the top is to understate the altitude it achieved. We're talking low orbit, here.
In fact, it was that film's maudlin excesses that compel me to write this morning, just so I can craft the description "Weeping hippies screaming at Mickey Rooney to the haunting strains of the Benedictine Monks."
No exaggeration.