Skippy-san finds McMegan hating all the demon rum in the Atlas Shrugged movie.
I know that some Rand fans who like the movie are going to accuse me of sucking up to my liberal cocktail-party attending friends by unfairly slamming a damn fine film. The sad truth is that I don’t attend that many cocktail parties–certainly not as many as the people in this film. Ayn Rand’s characters are already so understated as to be nearly wooden–her sensibility was heavily influenced by the “strong but silent” aesthetic of the penny adventure serials of her youth. And in the hands of these actors, they’re practically petrified. In lieu of emotions, the entire cast seems to have turned to drink. Half the action takes place over a glass of wine or a tumbler of whiskey. I suppose this is what you have to expect from a roomful of rigid, controlling people who have difficulty speaking about any emotions that don’t involve metallurgical studies.
I don’t really have a point here, except that only McMegan could botch a review of a shitty movie this badly and that Skippy-san (and others) should be rewarded for reading McMegan so that I don’t have to, apres Sully.