Point two: not all addicts are junkies. Take Paul Giamatti’s character in Sideways. He’s a classic failed-writer-with-an-addictive-personality. Unlike heroin users, however, all of his habits are legal, socially acceptable, and even expected from a single, middle-aged man whose life has fallen apart. There’s nothing a junkie can say to someone that justifies his/her addiction to heroin, no explanation beyond the main one: that heroin is their lifeblood. But what makes Miles so brilliant is his literary ability to justify his addictions and paint them not as outgrowths of his failure as a writer but as minor, even poetic, indulgences of the intellectual class. He deflects questions about his alcoholism by assuming the role of the pompous wine connoisseur; he justifies his self-obsession by painting himself as a grand, tragic figure in the Hemingway mold (even going so far as to crib Hemingway’s words when describing himself); he sees his romantic failures not as a manifestation of his fear and self-loathing but as cruel punishment administered by fickle Gods out to destroy him.

Dear Kim, These one-month intervals are killing me. Raised from a pup to be contentious, I never know what to do with myself when you and I aren’t fighting online. Actually, I do: fight with you offline. If any readers out there are skeptical that the Film Fight format is just a gimmick – an artificial disputatious environment between two otherwise agreeable souls – you’ll be happy to know that Kim and I spent a good chunk of last week railing at each other at birthday parties and other social functions. I don’t know if we were just getting ourselves back into the holiday spirit, or if we actually disagree that strongly about the value of a clean house or the relative virtues of my romantic philosophy, but few punches were pulled and fewer apologies were offered. (Though I have to say that Kim, in the spirit of Yom Kippur, the just-passed Jewish day of atonement, did offer one. Being Jewish myself, and having suffered through endless hours reciting the Kol Nidre over the course of my life, I know that asking for forgiveness during the High Holidays gets you precisely nowhere, so I didn’t take the bait. Still I thought it was a sweet gesture. And one she’ll regret very soon.) No, you can rest easy knowing that we don’t just play Film Fighters on TV. Witness, for example how quickly Kim went for the jugular this time around. No pleasantries, no niceties, no build-up. Just straight to Permanent Midnight. What kind of friend would force a friend to defend Ben Stiller first thing in the morning? No friend at all. And I won’t do it.

In addition to the spectacularly blocked Bart, Barton Fink also features an addict writer who can't write, John Mahoney's Bill Mayhew (a composite of Fitzgerald and Faulkner). Here Barton is arguing with Tony Shalhoub's producer character, Ben Geisler, about Mayhew. It's a funny exchange, but also, I think goes to the heart of my argument – that block can be creatively freeing (à la "I'm going to write myself into the script I'm adapting!"), while addiction is a creative dead-end – the writer as defined by addiction alone. Ben: I thought you were going to consult another writer on this.
Barton: I've talked with Bill Mayhew.
Ben: Bill Mayhew? Some help. He's a souse!
Barton: He's a great writer.
Ben: A great souse.
Barton: You don't understand–
Ben: Souse!
Barton: –his pain because he can't write–
Ben: Souse! Souse!

A good – if not entirely sporting – place to start a discussion about being pro-writers’ block is with the anti-addiction argument. So… why do I hate junkie-writer movies so? (And I do – I really, really hate junkie movies.) Because junkies are joyless and, even worse, one-note. Yes, writers with block have a certain sameness to them, too – mostly a lot of staring glumly at the blank page, the monitor, the typewriter – but the fun stuff happens when the writer gets up from the page, the monitor, the typewriter, and does some living instead. When the junkie writer gets up from the page, he goes straight to the nearest dealer. Injects drug of choice. Spectacularly fouls up career, health, hygiene regimen, relations with family and family. Rinse and repeat.

Greetings all, and welcome to another Film Fight. If you’re new to the Fight, then I’ll direct you here to read all about the rules of engagement. Rules might be a misleading word, though – honestly, Josh and I are sort of making this thing up as we go along, which is why our topics grow more amorphous and ungainly every month. Hence… Writers in the Movies! (dunh-dunh-dunh) What do we mean by this? It’s a good question. A couple of weeks ago, when we were scratching heads over what we were going to brawl over next, it occurred to us that the Austin Film Festival will be kicking off this week. AFF is unique in that it was one of the first (if not the first?) conference in the country dedicated to the art of screenwriting. And I suppose I should preemptively put it out there – because I suspect Josh will use it against me anyway and I’d rather cut him off at the pass – that I have a half-dozen scripts gathering dust in a drawer, which is why the topic is especially near and dear to me, and also why I will no doubt casually, annoyingly drop screenwriterly words willy-nilly in an attempt to intimidate Josh.

Josh Rosenblatt and I have just a couple more days to cram for the next Film Fight throwdown – Film Fight III: Writers in the Movies lands Monday! – but if you're hankering to show us a little love rightthisverysecond, then mosey on over to our myspace page and make us a friend, eh? See you on Monday.

Damn you, Alamo Drafthouse. Every time I think I've finally loosed your death grip on my attentions and my affections, you go and program another typically awesome show. Wait, make that two typically awesome shows.

Sunday noon at the Ritz marks the marriage of two undeniable forces of good in this world – brunch and West Side Story. I've already rhapsodized about WSS in this space before, so let's instead praise chef John Bullington's ingenious-sounding menu, including last course "Officer Crumpet: Crumpets torn between two rivals, guava-lime jam and strawberry jelly." Altogether now: mmm.

But before Sunday morning comes Saturday night and the two-shows-only showcase of Don Hertzfeldt's animation, including the regional premiere of his newest short, "I Am So Proud of You," and Hertzfeldt in attendance for a post-screening chat. If you've never seen his stuff before, watch his Oscar-nominated short "Rejected" below. It's bloody brilliant. Well, and also just plain bloody, but this is stick-figure gore, which is pretty much the only kind I can get behind.

REJECTED

Got plans for Halloween night? Cancel 'em. You're going to Hell! No, not that Hell. This Hell! You know, the one with the wonky elevators and Scatman Crothers. Fantastic Fest, purveyors of terror, and Nike Sportswear, purveyors of pricey footwear, have officially announced their "Come Play With Us Halloween Party," billed as "a celebration of The Shining at The Timberline Lodge." From the press release: "In 1980 Stanley Kubrick came to the Timberline Lodge to film one of the all-time great horror classics, The Shining. In the film, Jack Nicholson slowly loses his grasp on reality and loses himself in a hallucination of a 1920s era ball. Twenty-eight years later, Nike Sportswear and Fantastic Fest have joined forces to recreate the very same ball at the very same lodge." Whoa, nelly. How cool-scary is that? Cooler than anything you had planned for this Halloween, we'd wager, and scarier than The Bucket List for certain. Several types of packages (VIP, Gold Room Ticket, Dead Kids in the Dumb Waiter Special) are available, apart from the latter, which we just made up but think would be pretty cool nonetheless, from the official site, so go get 'em right now, before they sell out and you're left trolling Sixth Street with a plastic scythe in your hand come All Hallow's Eve (again).

Apparently the smarty-pants engineers at Google are as human as the rest of us – meaning they've engaged in the e-mail equivalent of drunk dialing. And they aim to put a stop to it, by way of new software, called Mail Goggles, that red flags late night, potentially problematic e-mails to the ex and forces you to answer a series of timed math questions prior to sending. (Already I see a hitch: Does it have to be math? How about French New Wave trivia, or a name-the-sexual-dysfunction series of Philip Roth multiple choices?) Excerpt from the Guardian UK's article "Google Mail Goggles aims to end drunken email embarrassment" after the jump: