The other day I equated Jon Watts‘ Wolfs with a warm plate of waffles, served in a friendly roadside diner. A thin slice or two of melted butter and a light pouring of Maple Syrup. Maybe a pinch or two of cinnamon. It may be pleasurable to eat or, heh-heh, wolf down — I would be hugely surprised if it doesn’t satisfy the usual expectations — but at the end of the meal it’s still waffles.
Dale Launer replied on Facebook: “I’m not sure what you mean because I fucking love waffles. I could eat them three times a day. Pancakes too. Especially the crispy ones at Chez Ma Tante in Brooklyn. Tio which I replied, “Yeah, Dale, but they’re still waffles.”
This led me to equate The Friends of Eddie Coyle to a plate of corned-beef hash with a raw egg on top, and a beer-shot on the side.
And that opened the floodgates.
William Wyler‘s The Best Years of Our Lives is a plate of piping hot meat loaf, mashed potatoes and steamed green beans, followed by a hunk of apple pie and maybe a cuppa joe.
The Departed is a serving of fried, heavily battered shrimp, greasy french fries and a glass of cranberry juice, no ice.
The Shape of Water…sorry but I don’t want to associate that film with food. It kills my appetite. No offense to Guillermo.
Everything Everywhere All At Once is a plate of lukewarm seaweed dumplings, little or no flavor. Feed it to the dog.
Parasite is a bowl of Korean Gochujang stir-fried vegetables.
The Last Picture Show is a full plate of chicken-fried steak and grits. No vegetables.
Quentin Tarantino‘s Pulp Fiction is a Buddy Holly burger, bloody, with a vanilla milk shake.
North by Northwest is a serving of brook trout and wild rice, best savored with a Gibson.
Full Metal Jacket ie a tin of C-rations….no bananas, no vegetables, just cans of human dog food.
Beetlejuice ie a plate of chocolate-covered insects.
Ordinary People is a breakfast of cold French toast, quickly shoved into the garbage disposal.
The Treasure of the Sierra Madre is a heap of baked beans on a tin plate.
