The Story of Droning by Mark 'Despair' Cousins

Just tried to make it through the first two episodes of The Story of Film by Mark Cousins and gave up. The man is one of the most pretentious, humourless, mumbling, egotistical, pompous and downright bizarre men to have ever existed. While Hollywood in the 20s you imagine to be glamourous, exciting, vibrant and innovative he makes them dour, tedious and monochrome all the while disparaging fantasy, effects, romance, performance, urgency and story telling in favour of long drawn out Danish films in which people weep in a still black n white shot for 40 minutes.
I knew it was all utter nonsense when Cousins interviews other pretentious arse head Lars Von Trier about Dryer and Von Trier stammers and dribbles through an utterly pointless and horribly shot interview segment saying 'I don't know why he's great but he is'. Oh well that's ok then Cousins.
At one point, while randomly and casually discussing the birth of documentaries, Cousins actually says "Seemingly they were only co-directors, the other director being life... itself"

Lastly the documentary is so utterly horrible to look at. Amazing clips are presented with no life to them, the interviews are unlit and discoloured giving them the look of 3 day old dried sick and the footage he took from around the world is bleak, too slow, shot on cheap video and unimaginative making the world a cold and ugly place to look at. The whole thing is accompanied by the dreariest music Cousins could find (probably from his own personal collection of Latvian dirges) that makes it have the feel of a 'help you quit smoking' hypnotic video from 1989.
How can you take an art form so full of innovation, creativity, life, excitement, message, propaganda and importance and reduce it to this droning, creaking, plodding, monotonous, opinionated and slanted 15 hours of tedium?!?

Some review on imdb described it like he was trying to hypnotise an otter. I can't beat that.

I imagine that a dinner round Cousins house takes place in a cold grey room, on a bare, rough table (because, you know, poverty and despair are "REAL"), while Russian funeral marches play on a small wind up, war time gramophone and the 7hr Eric Von Stroheim film Greed plays on a loop, projected on a blood stained sheet next to a bare window, while his wife sobs uncontrollably into the mash potatoes and Cousins drones on saying "These are the worst mashed potatoes so far in the story of Cousins, there's no cream, no butter, no taste and yet think again, look closer, the preparer has left the skins on, the skins are red. Maybe the red potato symbolises hope amongst this futile dinner time. Maybe it's just a potato. The server leaves it ambiguous and who am I to ask?"

It all makes you want to scream and say cheer up you miserable bastard!
If I manage to wade through any more I will let you know.

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