Nine sentences, twenty-eight seconds of film. Huuuuuuge waste of time.
I TiVo’d The Fountainhead a few days ago. Well, you didn’t expect me to actually read Ayn Rand, did you? Good lord. Read that dialog.
I stopped watching. But then I decided to rubberneck (the only way to describe watching and listening to something like this). This scene dissolves to a friend telling him to compromise, then dissolves to an architectural firm where he gets put down, etc.
“Oh my God, Ayn!” God of Biscuits rages. “Could you be any less subtle?” (GoB has been known to channel Chandler Bing).
But seriously, Ms. Rand wrote the screenplay of her novel. Can’t you picture her salivating at the chance to push her religion of Faith in Existence—a tarted up philosophy of Everyone For Him/Herself—to the masses? To get everyone to think just like her?
I’ve written about her before (did I just masturblog in public?), but to see it up there on the silver screen (it’s a black and white movie from 1949)? Yeah, she’s just as tedious on film, as you can see by the opening dialog. But picture this: picture her sitting at a typewriter salivating and thinking “me! me! me! It’s all me! I’ve done everything myself and owe no one else my success! I’ll make millions from this film—and without anyone’s help! Because if anyone ever helped me, they’d be hurting me! My senses tell me what exists, as I clatter away at the keys, bringing my story into existence and—oh, wait, it existed before! It did! In my mind, which any one of the five only senses will confirm—oh, wait. Millions! I’ll make millions! And it will all be because of me and no one else. I’ll make more money than I can ever spend! The extra can go to feed the poor because—wait, no! I’d never be so cruel as to feed a man a meal he didn’t earn himself! …”
Blah blah blah. God, what a heartless bitch she was.