I don’t have much to say about The Artist, probably because my ride to the theater was much more interesting than the film itself.
Warned by my aunt not to take my bike into the city, due to predictions of rain, I nevertheless did it anyway, and got caught in the storm that descended over New York just as I was departing for the movie. From the depths of Little Italy, where I was visiting with Shark in his apartment, I rode over the Manhattan bridge to BAM in Brooklyn, buffeted by wind and rain.
I braved two storms at once. The first meterological, and the second a swarm of tourists who have flocked to the worst Italian restaurants in all of New York, to eat chicken parmigiana made out of rubbery cheese and cannoli’s de-frosting in glass cases on the sidewalks of Mulberry Street. They believe they are getting a real taste of the city. Of course, they are not, but if I were a tourist visiting New York for the first time, I have been right there with them.