Complaining that a Miranda July film is too quirky is like complaining that the Saw franchise is too violent. Anyone who ever dabbled in performance art from an early age has had that eccentric, overzealous, slightly creepy teacher: a dance instructor in a way-too-tight leotard, jiggling to New Age music, a drama teacher overemphasizing inflections of gibberish words—Miranda July is that performance artist. Frizzy-haired, pale, and willowy, looking like a cross between ...

[jwplayer config=”Default-Post-Player” mediaid=”6342″]

[jwplayer config=”Default-Post-Player” mediaid=”6326″]

[jwplayer config=”Default-Post-Player” mediaid=”6290″]

We've reached the point that a significant portion of the English-speaking world--that bankrupt, riot-helmeted, penalty-kick-blowing island named England—has reduced acting to one thing: the ability to perfect the British accent.

The land of Olivier has ceased caring about things like sympathy, emotion, delivery, comic timing. They are only interested in an American's ability to speak

[jwplayer config=”Default-Post-Player” mediaid=”6280″]

[jwplayer config=”Default-Post-Player” mediaid=”6275″]