My friend is always fantasising about the nineteen seventies; he goes on about the music and the style, and spends far too much time analysing Burt Reynolds films. I can’t help but agree with him; if he had a time machine I would happily travel back to 1974. He made an interesting comment about this period romance of his: “Perhaps people in the seventies were also fantasising about a previous age. They were probably dreaming about the fifties.”
“I love that idea,” I replied. “You have to see the Woody Allen film, ‘Midnight in Paris;’ he explores it so well.”
“That’d be right,” he moped, “I finally come up with my own idea, and it’s already been done.”
“Coming up with new concepts is impossible these days,” I said. “We’ve pretty much covered everything.”
“How about the father from ‘Family Ties’ falling in love with a half-eaten cheese pizza then moving to Central America in order to escape the cold Ohioan winter.”
He was right. That probably hadn’t been done.
“I love that idea,” I replied. “You have to see the Woody Allen film, ‘Midnight in Paris;’ he explores it so well.”
“That’d be right,” he moped, “I finally come up with my own idea, and it’s already been done.”
“Coming up with new concepts is impossible these days,” I said. “We’ve pretty much covered everything.”
“How about the father from ‘Family Ties’ falling in love with a half-eaten cheese pizza then moving to Central America in order to escape the cold Ohioan winter.”
He was right. That probably hadn’t been done.