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The art of Randy Thom

 Sound designer (FW35)

Fuck Entertainment
Jo Minion
Fuck Entertainment
Part one: Fuck entertainment
We live in a time - The early 21st century - when, more than ever, documentary film is necessary because we’re going out of our minds with in-authenticity in every realm. That is not hyperbole - we are quite obviously going out of our minds, the world’s escalating Strangelevoian madness is mirroring the mass dementia, and whatever part of us that embraces the life instinct is on a road of looking for a cinematic Medicine Buddha to serve as a counterpoint to all the slick entertainment shoved down our throats like so many turkey basters. Documentaries - even mediocre ones - are an attempt to fulfill a need for a grounded-ness from which we can plant our feet and see naked human reality, unflinchingly. Because the world is too big and bloody and complicated for us to eyewitness the entire picture (this has, of course, always been the case, only it’s getting dangerous all over again) and we know it. We go to Hollywood movies and hate them - become stupider at them - because nowadays they rarely have any semblance of a connection to the texture of our unglamorously lived lives. Many of us still shell out ten dollars or more a hit and go to them out of some sort of masochistic Pavlovian momentum begun decades ago when they were lively, engaging and earned intelligent audiences’ attention - when there still seemed to be a dialogue between filmmaker and the world he or she was living in. Before movies had become what we can sense (if only subconsciously, and perhaps even more powerfully for this subconscious-ness,) products of the “art of the deal.”