I would like to preface this post with a post from my favorite fug girls (from that link Go Fug Yourself, which if you have not already visited, this will show you how ingenious these girls are) http://gofugyourself.typepad.com/go_fug_yourself/2006/04/mission_infugga.html Its from last year, but I get so desperately bored at work sometimes that I go into the archives and see what celebs they were bashing a year ago.
With that intro, I would like to touch on craziness. Insanity. I had an epiphany last night. I got home from work, elated that my blockbuster online movie had yet to let me down, being oh so attentive of my need for a new movie each night, waiting patiently for me in my mialbox. Tonight was an independent film called “Secretary” with Maggie Gyllenhaal (whom I adore after seeing Mona Lisa(s) Smile(s) – no idea which one it is- the female version of Dead Poet’s Society, aside from her sometimes lack of bra-wearing and being totally unable to spell her last name without looking on imdb). I was excited because I had just seen her in Stranger than Fiction and rediscovered my adoration of her normality and spunk.
This movie fell, I did not realize, into the “crazy person” genre. This, about a girl that enjoys cutting herself and, after she gets out of the loony bin, falls in love with the lawyer she works for because he spanks her and realizes her love of “roughness” (we’ll leave it at that), along with a movie I had seen recently of a retrospect on the woman who shot Andy Warhol who happens to be a crazy feminist who believes she has a tracking device in her no-no and ends up in the loony bin.
After watching both of these movies, I started to question my own sanity. If Valerie (Andy Warhol attempted-murderess) was walk around NYC and hanging out in the Factory for years before being committed, and Lee (S&M; secretary) could be any number of receptionists in law offices across the US, how do I know I’m not crazy? Nobody knows what I do in my apartment. Suddenly, the little obsessions I get from fashion magazines, to pasta for dinner every night, from Andy Warhol, to searching for new music, from facebook, to the ever-growing collage on my wall all seemed like these uncontrollable, unexplainable actions in my head. I was driving myself mad. Then I realized that these were obviously very well done movies if they actually convinced their audience that they themselves are insane, relating to the main characters, getting inside their head. After breathing a sigh of relief for not having to call my parents from the psych ward of the Cleveland Clinic, I was in awe over these directors talent. I don’t know whether to love them or hate them.