So strange to see him like this. I read 'Whatever' and I had a totally different idea of how he looked. He's so frail. I suppose if I was going to kidnap an intellectual, I'd probably kidnap Chomsky. But then it would have to be done very nicely, because he's old, and I wouldn't ask for money. Half the time he'd be telling me that the ends do not justify the means. Which I know. Gosh. That would be cool.
The unbearable Houllebecq in a parodic registry of himself, almost, almost, a Buster Keaton, not by his mechanical derision but by his facial erosion, his catastrophic inexpressiveness. The film itself is almost nonexistent: a missing camera, a hideous, wrong editing. But the parody survives the cataclysm.