I am not artistic. I do not have a creative bone in my body. I am not woken up in the middle of the night by inspirational visions that propel me to craft incredible works that will uplift all who hear them. (Unless, of course, lucid dreams in which I’m having interesting conversations with P. Diddy at his home in the Hamptons count as inspirational.) I do not have an artist’s temperment or mindset.

In my (extremely) general (read: probably wrong) experience, artists are flighty people. I have a difficult time having conversations with many of them, because they do not appear connected to anything remotely reality-based. I cannot tell if that affectation of spaciness is their true personality or if they think they have to act like Andy Warhol in order to be considered “artistic,” or if they are under the influence of drugs or if they are suffering from a mental disease, but whatever the cause, it is difficult for me to relate to them. I find most of them to be vainglorious, narcissitic idiots.

I am such a practical, grounded, realistic thinker that it borders on stern frigidity. It is highly important to me that things make sense. Illogic disturbs me. Terrifies me, to be more precise. The scariest movie I can think of, one that I am still, to this day, incapable of watching, is Disney’s version of Alice in Wonderland. Things HAVE to make sense to me, or I lose my motherfucking mind. I do not necessarily have to agree with the logic of the presenter. But I have to be able to discern a pattern, a point, a line of reasoning that makes sense on some level. Whether or not I agree with that reasoning, as long as I can detect it, I am not turned into a quivering, gelantinous, intellectual mess.

Knowing that’s how I view the world, the fact that I cannot relate to many artists isn’t that surprising at all, when you think about it. If they have a grounded approach to life and an approach to their art that makes sense (to me), I’m fine. If they’re wandering around the world acting as if at any moment they’re going to start flinging their feces on the wall, (I’m looking at you, Joaquin Phoenix), I recoil from them. (Although, really, who wouldn’t?)

All of that jibber-jabber aside…I love movies. I love to be told a great story.

Story-telling is as woven into the fabric of human history as is our love of pets. As is our desire for sex. (Sounds like a helpful guide: Pets & Sex–The History of Us.) Stories allow us to bond through shared emotion. Stories educate us about the human condition. Or, in the case of The March of the Penguins, they educate us about the penguin condition, which, surprisingly, has turned into one of the more popular subsets of conditions that movies attempt to document. (I’m looking at you, Happy Feet 2.) Stories allow us to feel pain without actually having to experience actual tragedy. They allow us to laugh which, I hear, is the best medicine. Stories are very medicinal.

Stories told well enough can actually alter the human condition. The stories in the Bible, for example, are so popular, powerful, and well-known that they have actually influenced the way that human beings create their societies. The stories in the Bible are so powerful, in fact, that billions of people actually think that they are real. A great story can BECOME reality.

Stories can be told by artists through many mediums. Songs tell stories. As do paintings. Dance. Photography. Sculpture. I mean, okay. It’s safe to theorize that ALL art is attempting in some way to convey a message, to evoke a feeling, to tell a story.

But, movies are my go to story-telling device. And I LOVE a good story.

So. Those are the factors inside of me that shape my reviews of movies. 1)I am not artistic. 2)Nonsensical, illogical artistry drives me, quite literally, insane. 3)I loves me a good story! Everyone with me so far?

I explain this to you as a way of trying to warn you, in advance, that I tend to rip into movies that do not live up to my standards. Okay, basically, all of this was written as a way to let you know that I plan on shredding the new James Bond movie in my next blogpost. Assuming I get around to writing it. Extremely critical, judgmental writing does not recharge my batteries. If I become too self-righteous and indigant, I start to feel depressed. It can be tedious and exhausting. But, this shiny new 007 movie is such a steaming pile of crap that it has to be done. I have to do it. For you.

There will be spoilers. There will be mockery. There will be so many points of contention that I am confident that anyone who reads it will want to respond with “Fuck, Laurie, relax. It’s only a movie.”

I bet you just can’t wait to read it.

I guess I better get started on writing it.

I simply wanted to warn you first.