Posted 3:57 PM by Gene

Every year at this time, in a rite as familiar as the passing of seasons, where instead of leaves turning red and gold the old bird-cage liner turns brown, a mechanical scribbler of the sort that used to byline himself Steven X. Rea will gas (remembering that his calling is the real-estate columnist's, and if it's real estate it's GOTTA BE GOOD) that we're in for a veritable FEAST of movies, and he must inevitably and especially belch of FOOD. Only he forgets the story of the day Sam Goldwyn married the silent-screen stars Vilma Banky and Rod LaRocque. (To think they were famous once!) Everything was going smoothly and quotably until the huge wedding feast, when one of the invited flacks bit into the food and found it tasted of papier mache. All the food was fake, but what to expect in a world of make believe? (Happily the marriage worked in real life.)

Of course for our time this is an imperfect metaphor. Let us liken the box-office hits to fast food -- mass-produced, barely edible and forgettable -- and the news hack favorites, the arthouse flicks, to an elaborate dish prepared tableside by a master chef, full of flame and gesticulation, and maybe with a violinist getting the food in the mood, and all you're served is a very beautiful plate with a very tiny serving of very expensive viands that are very heavily and disagreeably spiced.

And for nearly every meal, MOVIE AD-BLURB COPYWRITERS LIKE STEVEN X. REA AWARD THREE STARS IN MICHELIN.