After Robin Williams' (probable yet unconfirmed at the time of writing) suicide at the age of just 63, the question is once more in the air - are comedians more prone to depression than, say, plumbers, gamekeepers or human resources managers? Does the iconic 'tears of a clown' cultural trope have any basis in fact? My instinct is to say no, it doesn't - but it is just that, instinct, for I have no data. It is a difficult case to prove, for the evidence to the contrary seems so overwhelming. When a comedian like Robin Williams or Tony Hancock takes their own life, with all the consequent publicity engendered by those tragedies, it is definitely tempting to conclude 'there goes another one.'
When we were little girls we listened to fairy tales like Rapunzel and Sleeping Beauty. As we grew up, we watched movies like Pretty Woman. All contribute to fairy-tale brainwash, the belief that the right man or woman will just show up in our life at the right place and right time, without us having to do anything to make it happen.
With the glitz and the glamour of the entertainment business, the awards ceremonies and A- Lister hangouts, it is no wonder Los Angeles has adopted the nickname 'La-La-Land'. By definition, being 'la-la' means you are out of touch with reality but in this case is it just an obvious pun due to Los Angeles' initials?
The worst thing is not the fact Hill said the word - we have all told loved ones to go blow themselves or die in a fire - but his refusal to think about why that was his go-to insult, the thought processes that took him there, that is the biggest concern. When his celebrity status is in silent mode, and he doesn't have a sequel to flog or a chat show chair to perch on, what is Jonah Hill really thinking?
Inside our cars, we stop valuing human life and simultaneously overvalue our own time and importance. And because many people who work in the city drive back to the suburbs where they spend all of their money (becoming agents of urban sprawl), cars have become the standard accessory of urban economic divestment.
The question is, where has he gone? These words don't come easy, but Martin Scorsese, at this current juncture in cinematic history, has disappeared. Once a maestro film-maker who advocated anarchy of the soul - see De Niro's Johnny Boy in Mean Streets or Joe Pesci in GoodFellas - Scorsese delighted in holding up a mirror to America's underbelly, and he did so with that most subversive of narrative tools: humour.
It's not hard to see how affairs can happen between actors - in many ways it's the same setting as an office romance only with the glitz and glam of Hollywood. Both people have a lot in common from the start: the same career, ambitions and motivations, coupled with playing intense and sometimes sexual roles - it's like a volcano waiting to explode!