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Originally posted by mun chien andalusia

Fahrenheit 451 is merely the minimum temperature to set paper on fire. You can't copyright a physics constant.

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join the cult of errol\and you can have a beer\without having to quit smoking

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Originally posted by broken part

Moore is God! All rest are shit! Don't even gaze upon him with your naked eyes!

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But it won the Palme d'Or in Cannes?

- So what? I have won prizes in different places and they are mostly meaningless. The people there hate us, which is why they gave him the d'Or. It's a meaningless prize.

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Originally posted by floop

ps. darwin - titles aren't copyrightable. you can make a movie called "The Godfather" if you want, just like you can make a shitty movie called "Crime And Punishment" which someone did.

i'm not sure if MM's movie will make Bradbury's novel look bad or not. but that is lame if Moore ignored his requests..

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Originally posted by ProverbialCereal

Moore's title is an obvious spin off of Bradbury's book, so I don't think saying that it's "just a physics constant" is a good argument. I'm pretty sure no one would know it's the temperature at which books burn if not for the book. Except for nerds, chemists, and physicists, etc.

I mean, is Fareinheit 911 the temperature at which anything starts to burn? Moore's is not a physics constant because it's a blatant rip off of the book title.

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Just quit a cult / going through withdrawal

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Originally posted by Dave Noisy

Seriously tho, he sounds like raving lunatic in that interview..sad.

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But it won the Palme d'Or in Cannes?

- So what? I have won prizes in different places and they are mostly meaningless. The people there hate us, which is why they gave him the d'Or. It's a meaningless prize.
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Yes, everyone knows that here in France we hate the Americans. We hate them so much that we give them prizes.

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"Kersuzon," I say, "We're in the Ardennes now... Do you see anything in the distance? I don't see a damn thing..." "It's as black as an asshole," Kersuzon says. That was enough... "But," I suggest, "haven't you heard anyone mention Barbigny in the course of the idea? Give you and idea where it is? "No." That was that. Kerzuzon always gave the same answer when I questioned him at night, as if I'd pressed a button, it kind of tickled me. Two or three times more he said the same thing about the asshole darkness and a while after that he was killed, on his way out of some village we'd mistaken for some other village by some French soldiers who'd mistaken us for somebody else.

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As if I knew where I was going, I put on an air of choosing and hanged my direction, taking a different street on my right, one that was better lit. "Broadway" it was called. I read the name on a sign. High up, far above the uppermost stories, there was still a bit of daylight, with sea gulls and patches of sky. We moved in the lower light, a sick sort of jungle light, so gray that the street seemed to be full of grimy cotton waste.

That street was like a dismal gash, endless, with us at the bottom of it filling it from side to side, advancing from sorrow to sorrow, toward an end that is never in sight, the end of all the streets in the world.

There were no cars or carriages, only people and more people.

This was the priceless district, I was told later, the gold district : Manhattan.You can enter it only on foot, like a church. It's the banking heart and center of the present-day world. Yet some of those people spit on the sidewalk as they pass. You've got to have your nerve with you.

It's a district filled with gold, a miracle, and through the doors you can actually hear the miracle, the sound of dollars being crumpled, for the Dollar is always too light, a genuine Holy Ghost, more precious than blood.

I found time to go and see them, I even went in and spoke to the employees who guard the cash. They're sad and underpaid.

When the faithful enter their bank, don't go thinking they can help themselves as they please. Far from it. In speaking to Dollar, they mumble words through a little grill; that's their confessional. Not much sound, dim light, a tiny wicket between high arches, that's all. They don't swallow the Host, they put it on their hearts. I couldn't stay there long admiring them. I had to follow the crowd in the street, between those walls of smooth shadow.

Suddenly our street widened, like a crevasse opening out into a bright clearing. Up ahead of us we saw a great pool of sea-green light, wedged between hordes of monstrous buildings. And in the middle of the clearing stood a rather countrified-looking house, surrounded by woebegone lawns.

I asked several people in the crowd what this edifice was, but most of them pretended not to hear me. They couldn't spare the time. But one young fellow right next to me was kind enough to tell me it was City Hall, adding that it was an ancient monument dating back to colonial times, ever so historical... so they'd left it there... The fringes of this oasis formed a kind of park with benches, where you could sit comfortably enough and look at the building. When I got there, there was hardly anything else to see.

I waited more than an hour in the same place, and then toward noon, from the half-light, from the shuffling, discontinuous, dismal crowd, there erupted a sudden avalanche of absolutely and undeniably beautiful women.

What a discovery! What an America! What ecstasy! I thought of Lola... Her promises had not deceived me! It was true.

I had come to the heart of my pilgrimage. And if my appetite hadn't kept calling itself to my attention, that would have struck me as one of those moments of supernatural aesthetic revelation. If I'd been a little more comfortable and confident, the incessant beauties I was discovering might have ravished me from my base human condition. In short, all I needed was a sandwich to make me believe in miracles. But how I needed that sandwich!

And yet, what supple grace! What incredible delicacy of form and feature! What inspired harmonies! What perilous nuances! Triumphant where the danger is greatest! Every conceivable promise of face and figure fulfilled! Those blondes! Those brunettes! Those Titian redheads! And more and more kept coming! Maybe, I thought, this is Greece starting all over again. Looks like I got here just in time.

What made those apparitions all the more divine in my eyes was that they seemed totally unaware of my existence as I sat on a bench close by, slap-happy, drooling with erotico-mystical admiration and quinine, but also, I have to admit, with hunger. If it were possible for a man to jump out of his skin, I'd have done it then, once and for all. There was nothing to hold me back.

Those unlikely midinettes could have wafted me away, sublimated me; a gesture, a word would have sufficed, and in that moment I'd have been transported, all of me, into the world of dreams. But I suppose they had other fish to fry.

I sat there for an hour, two hours, in that state of stupefaction. I had nothing more in the world to hope for.

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