Dear Whit

Dear Whit,

You made three movies, beginning with Metropolitan, twenty years ago. Then you made Barcelona, which was about as good a follow up as we could have asked for. Then you made The Last Days of Disco, which wasn’t. But we didn’t care.

In those days, before Wes Anderson, we, the young and smart and frisky, thought you were going to take us out of the hands of Woody Allen and into the next phase of urban-literate moviegoing. We counted on you.

Now you’ve disappeared. You’ve gone Salinger. You wrote a novel, you escaped to France. You’ve directed commercials, written screenplays (one about a war in China, right?). But why? What happened to movies?

Was it the bad reviews? If so, don’t worry about that; it happens to everyone. Was it the times? Did you feel, as we made our way into the 2000s, that your brand of nostalgia was getting stale? Well, if that was the case, let me assure you, with the current eighties revival, you’d be more prescient than ever. Or did you just get tired of movies? I can understand that. It’s a tough road, I know. Maybe the hardest. But if you need a guy to hold the boom, call me. I’m here.

We’re all here.

Come back, Whit. You can do it. Just pick up a camera (it needn’t be film), find a few tipsy party girls, and throw Chris Eigeman at them. Don’t even worry about the East Side Apartment. I know people. I’ll make the calls. All you have to do is show up.

Love,

Sam

P.S. Hurry. The Avatars are gaining.

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