Pedolo had seen and forgotten more movies in an average six month span than most of us will watch in our lifetimes—of the “adult” variety and otherwise. In fact, he wrote highbrow, slightly pretentious essays for Cinemateste (cinemateste.com) a website that was a direct, bizarro rival of Evan Mariachi’s, Movies, Fuck Yeah (moviesfuckyeah.com). Well, Pedolo didn’t purposely write highbrow, slightly pretentious essays for Cinemasteste. Really, he (or perhaps the Sentient Head Wound at the top of his skull) was just writing 15,000 word rants in a language he only half understood, but the overly-educated editors and readers of the website looked upon those discursive, blathering, chaotic, only semi-coherent screeds as if Pedolo were the heir apparent to such theorists as Foucault or Derrida.
Pedolo had cultivated such a following, though, that the New York Circle of Unified Intellegentisia Legions (NYCUIL) awarded him Film Critic of the Year sometime during the early 2010s.
Pedolo could not afford to travel to New York for the ceremony, as he had spent the majority of his monthly government-supplied stipend of $1012 on cases of Dr. Pepper and bags of Russet potatoes, both of which he stacked haphazardly and sloppily in his kitchen pantry. The sheer amount of Dr. Pepper and potatoes staggered the visiting nurse that checked on him twice per week to ensure he was cleaning himself and eating in such a way that didn’t aggravate his Condition.
“Jesus Christ, Pedolo,” the nurse would complain during every visit. She was sincere in her incredulity every time. She was a youngish thing, blonde, pretty in an unobtrusive, non-aggressive way. She had taken the gig thinking that going to people’s homes and telling them what to eat and how to clean was preferable to wiping shit and piss and bile from the elderly patients at the nursing home she had worked prior. She was mostly right, except the two times per week she was to waste her time trying to talk Pedolo into trying to stay alive by, at the very least, eating less potatoes. “You can’t be eating this shit. No potatoes. No soda. You don’t want to eat a salad, fine, but you keep eating this shit and you’ll open another hole in your body that’s going to sing or something next time.”
“Hey,” the Head Wound protested. “Why do you make that sound like such a bad thing?”
The fact that Pedolo couldn’t make it out to New York was probably a good thing. He didn’t own even a single piece of wardrobe that didn’t feature prominently/intrusively some combination of anime characters in the midst of a fisticuffs. Hell, he probably didn’t own a single piece of wardrobe that was less than a decade old and which had been washed within the eight months prior to the award ceremony. But who knows, perhaps he would’ve somehow fit in in his own spooky way with the bohemian hordes that malinger in New York’s cinematic social circles, and if not, perhaps they would’ve attributed such peccadilloes as the attributes and mostly harmless eccentricities of a genius. There is a “thin line” after all….
Anyhow, since he couldn’t be at the ceremony in the flesh, he scribbled down an acceptance speech and delivered it to the NYCUIL. And on the evening of the ceremony, the President of NYCUIL, one, Garcie Mainer, a graduate of NYU Film School and, at the time, social media manager for Megawatt Lassi, read the text aloud (without Pedolo’s Belarussian mew, of course).
Like all of his writings, it was overlong, over-wordy, vague, obscure and possibly accidentally brilliant. The tone, tenor, timbre and essence of the speech (and of Pedolo’s writing style) can perhaps best be summed up in its opening paragraphs, which were, as follows:
Good Evening Movie Friends and Fiends,
It is a pleasure to accept this NYCUIL award for best cinematic criticism poet. That word might not be in the title of the award, but it should be, as all critics are poets.
Critics are poets because it is the critic’s job to elevate-elucidate what is only tangentially discoursed upon or hinted at by the cinema. Such a dynamic may seem to be contra-oppositional to the poet, as poets are generally regarded as being great hinters. Poets are the hinters not the extrapolators. This is verified. However, poets are really attempting to annotate, say, the flower they are writing about. Just the same, the cinematic critic explicates a film, or group of films. Films are the flower, the critic is the poet.
So poets insinuate about flowers, and critics intimate about movies.
Intimate it is the proper word-choice there. In that witnessing a movie is an intimate act that must be intimated to be understood. It is sexual, really. The cinematic literature must thrust-penetrate the mindframe of the viewer. The art must enter the inside of the witness, and inject its ideas into the mindspace. Inside the mindspace of the viewer is an egg of philosophy. This egg holds all of the ideas and associate-images of those ideas already present in the ego-essence of the viewer. This egg is waiting for outside stimulation and ideas. It is fucking. Watching movies is a form of fucking. And when the cinema sperm of ideas enters the viewers egg of philosophy, a new child is conceived. This child is a new perspective created in the world. The ego is an illusion. There is no “I”, there is only “perspective.”
This is what art does. This is what literature does. It creates new perspectives. In cinema, it is a synthetization between the perspective of the movie with the perspective of the witness to create something new in the world. Like a baby, this baby was once absent from the world, and when the cinematic fucking happens, this perspective suddenly appears. Out of seemingly nothing. It’s crazy dude.
And on and on. I will spare you the remaining 6,000 words of the essay, but you get the gist. This kind of pontification is preposterous and nigh unintelligible nonsense, but it was reported (and confirmed) that when Ms. Mainer finished reading the speech, a large contingent of the NYCUIL audience was reduced to tears, and a room-wide toast was given in honor of this great critic-poet.