October 3, 2022

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Fides Records Himself Of Downsizing Is Woody Allen’s ‘Broken Harry’ In Instagram Time

The best film festival for my youth opened in Venice, twenty-five years ago, with Woody Allen’s funniest and most underrated film, Broken Harry. “Broken Harry” is full of great scenes, and I generally quote the scene where Judy Davis screws up Woody Allen for writing a novel that spoils a little bit of everyone (no one can go hysterical like Judy Davis directed by Woody Allen).

But since yesterday, I’ve been anxiously thinking about another scene. Woody Allen’s wife is a psychoanalyst, and discovers that her husband has been cheating on her. with one of his patients.

It’s a great fight where Woody Allen says hideous things like your fault, We never go out, I just see your patients (you receive them at home); And Kirstie Alley yells at him now, it’s my fault you don’t meet anyone else to have sex with, so you leave him and go away, then you remember more details of his ugliness and come back to make him new whores. The whole time, there’s a patient on the study couch.

Excuse me, keep talking, I hear you even from there, you say to Tabino who is complaining about his father-in-law and to whom the psychoanalyst shouts against her husband soon after. (If “Broken Harry” doesn’t drop the number of psychoanalytic believers, I don’t really know what might.)

I’ve been obsessed with Instagram psychologists lately. The person who puts the clothes under the diagnosis. The person who puts the diagnosis under the self-timer in a bikini. The one who makes memes about patients who pay them late. (There are men, too, but the more women come to mind, the more excitable they are worth paying for.) Every time I think: Aren’t these people throwing away the system? But who would people treat like this?

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A psychoanalyst who is also a television personality and tidy book author is said to be making more appointments than he can keep, which is why if your session is in the afternoon, you already know it’s never going to last an hour: what You say it in the fifth minute, he’ll tell you here, that’s exactly the point he has to think about until next time.

Is he a bastard? Probably; But what are you going to heal yourself from someone you saw on TV?

Since yesterday, I have been thinking only of patients. Ever since Ferragni’s husband has made a series of Instagram stories she says, “Today I don’t know why I decided to listen to the hearing the psychiatrist had on the day I found out I had pancreatic cancer.”

to listen again? ie it records the sessions? And then he uses them like bedtime stories? But does the psychologist know? Is there a minute in this kid’s day when there’s no clue left? I don’t ask if he’s at least had a moment inside the toilet because I already know the answer: One of his favorite formats is filming his son interrupting him while he’s sitting on the toilet (locking yourself must be a phobic thing).

Since yesterday, I’ve been thinking about my “broken Harry” patient: if he’s of a generation that naturally has Zapruder himself, do you know what great stuff he can resell next about the horned psychoanalyst’s hysteria?

But then: Is this generation true? Fortunately, I don’t know anyone in their thirties, but they live perpetually by recording every ferrignan pair or just a pair, and because of this subtlety he became a millionaire and most of his peers didn’t?

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Because he knows his chickens, the guy who if he’s got bullshit to tell the psychiatrist summons documentary film cameras – and if he has cancer to tell him instead, Instagram audios suffice (when the movie’s subject matter is strong, you can’t worry about Karelle) – microscopic audio clippings On Instagram he shares himself crying and the psychiatrist asks for things, leaving the explanation to us. “Want to be involved, character delusions, or narcissism for an end in itself”: We’re allowed to think about his worst causes, and a lot of craftsmanship anyway (but above all: Cancer fills him in too much anyway, and he’ll do some of what he thinks, communicative ).

Since yesterday, in addition to the “Broken Harry” story, I’ve been thinking about a story he told me and every self-economy show I plan to use, and then forget about it.

It is the story of a tour guide from Pompeii, a native man who arrived at a fresco of Narcissus, explaining the legend to tourists. The guide explains that Narcissus was reflected in the water, and found himself irresistible, yet irresistible, yet so irresistible that he ended up falling into the water, drowning and dying. In short, the guide concludes at least with the irresistible Campanian diphthong, a “complete swarm”. At least in the phone microphone does not drown, if not figuratively; And that you don’t die from metaphors is a very good fact.