A late night trip to the cinema to see 3:10 to Yuma has apparently resulted in illness. Popcorn may be the culprit. Or the soda juice.
I heard a story earlier this year about a guy who wrote a screenplay which was picked up by a big movie studio. They met to read the thing with a group of actors, including some major stars. Upon hearing the reading, the writer knew immediately that he had over-written the script and needed to cut most of the dialogue. As he described it, he hadn't anticipated the "ruthless efficiency of their appearance." Too many words just clutter up and diminish the experience of gazing on the countenance of a movie star, and the limitless shades of meaning that such a thing can convey. Anyway, that certainly helps me understand why so many movies are little more than a combination of close-ups and silences.
Back to finding out how to get through the day without passing out.
