All of the stories as a collection seem really random both in how they were arranged and how it all flowed together-it didn’t. The one with Natalie Portman-made very little sense. So, she’s a hassidic jewelry buyer that is sort of infatuated with the Indian guy (Irrfan Khan)? There’ s a wedding scene where she imagines marrying him and not her Mr. Orthodox. It was just weird-because he is like 50 and their relationship is playing like straight barter negotiation 10 seconds before.

The whole thing was full of marquee stars and they weren’t given very much to do and therefore pseudo meaning is forced in and they just do random things-whatever feels right but it all feels wrong. At times, the tone veers from shear frivolity-that plays like capriciousness to stream of consciousness with characters whose ‘consciousness’ couldn’t be less interesting to culture clashing where the characters seem truly unaware of their enculturated subtext-you know we’re just two human beings here without any of the struggle to get to that point of realization. The worst thing is no one is really listening to anyone else. People are just out for their own interests-sex, ego, money, looking ‘cool,’ sounding witty, seeming profound, mistaking sheer coincidence for a destiny without laughs.

There is a pick up scene with a con-man played by Hayden Christensen in a bar intermixed with a may-december romance between Rachel Bilson and Andy Garcia-for which a mailbox is the center-did they just throw darts at a wall for casting? Dredge up all bar cliches? Can anything be more flat, more off-putting less sexy than a middle-aged maybe gangster, a nymphette from the OC and a lost Star Wars guy in a love triangle? None of the considerable cast seem to rise above these carry-overs from their other, more well-known roles. I wanted to turn it off at a few points-but sheer morbid curiosity reigned to see how crappy it could get.

The camera constantly got in the way, edits happened for no reason and close-ups were pointless. The characters learned nothing from themselves or others-it had an aire of solipsism and isolation-that defies its title-Ny I love you, actually I just kind of like you, actually I just think you’re cool. I just think you’re hot and wanna do you, actually you’re just a stranger to me. What I mean is get the fuck away from me-That’s NY baby. It’s digression not progression.

The Ethan Hawke writer seeking free love with the pro played by Maggie Q was the crowning touch of chink sagacity that the whole think was trying to lift from Paris-and ends up cheapening. A handsome, emotionally challenged writer who only goes for prostitutes he can seduce without bills on the nightstand? Pure Shlock.

Even the best stuff here doesn’t come close to the least well done shorts in Paris. It really relies on dragging in the fans from before-and punishing them with this only semi-literate, half felt goulag of characters, not necessarily less diverse, but poured on thick-without subtlety or actual goals. Like they were almost saying-this is so cool, it’s so NY. If that had been up in type between each section it would have capsulated each scene. Watch how cool these characters are-they have such attitudes. They like sex more than other people that don’t live in NY. This smugness is the film’s ruling virtue.

It should have been warmer and more expansive-showcased the neighborhoods as a point of reference for characters, and individuated the stories more into their settings-and worked a little more in comedy.

Paris had this adult comedic tone buried in the levity that each character found-to love regardless of the hopelessness of love-to revel joyfully in its disappointment and misunderstanding. If you can’t love someone, accept it, if you can’t love yourself, laugh at it, if you can’t love this moment, love the place you’re having it in.

Have the first action connect somehow to the closing frame. Characters end up a little different from where they started. None of this happens in NY I love you. All the characters wonder around bumping into their circumstances and other characters instead of inhabiting the conflicts. Perhaps they should have begged Woody Allen to do one short to give rank and file to the thing. It was just a big mess. If they were going to reassemble the same concept from Paris into Ny, why not keep the things that worked? NY I love you is basically what not to do in a series of short films.

I worry about the state of American film when there are a lot of people just surface copying and repackaging European materials. And they do them much worse than the original and in a way that shows contempt for the people that have seen and enjoyed the former. It’s cocky and because they make money people don’t care that they lack erudition or honesty. How many things are getting adapted as I speak from England or France or even Sweden? So many. Let the right one in, Un Prophete, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, My Best Friend to name a few. All destined to be second rate reconstitutions. It’s the difference creatively between fresh squeezed orange juice or a frozen capsule of orange flavored corn syrup and tap water.

The studios have gotten very lazy. One has to wonder if the elites in the system still have in them to produce truly original storytelling not dragging on the Europeans’ coat tails. American culture needs film that stands on its own.

I haven’t spent anytime in NY-and this film doesn’t make me want to jump on a plane. It’s true drivel.

Uh, anyway.

My target audience changes a lot. Some times I write for myself. Sometimes I write for Raymond Carver. Other times I write for my friends or, ahem, my workshop class.

As to short form vs. long form…I guess that would depend on the individual. Speaking of Carver, apparently he tried writing a novel once and it was just terrible (I think it was Carver, unless I’m mistaking him for someone else). So, different strokes for different folks.