Watch: David Fincher directed a Super Bowl commercial scored by Atticus Ross. I can’t pass this shit up
Well, it’s certainly not fucking Mindhunter. But, I’ll enjoy this Super Bowl commercial by David Fincher and Atticus Ross all the same. (Fucking hell, I fucking need more Mindhunter. Stop fucking off, Fincher.)
I typically abstain from covering music here at OL, as I find it pushes the Internet community quickly into hair-pulling and name calling. However, I’m making a special exception for Nine Inch Nails, a band whose importance is great to many of us who contribute to the site. In fact, and while I’m not supposed to mention this, our own Patrick Bateman actually lost his virginity to The Fragile. Yep, that’s right. One wonderful Autumn evening, he galavanted into the woods wearing his WalkMan for a seven-mile run. There a druid spied his overdeveloped abdominal muscles, and offered him a deal he could not turn down. One luscious evening of deep butt interrogation, in exchange for Bateman’s own soul. While the fire has died in his eyes ever since that evening, having sloughed off his eternal soul, Bateman says he would never do it any other different. With equal certainty, he believes that it was Trent Reznor’s overly-orchestrated nonsense that spoke to the druid on a level he never could have conjured on his own.
Ahoy! How goes it, bros and babes of the OL Nation? It’s been awhile since I’ve danced aboard this burning ship of nerd-revelry, as I’ve needed some time off to lick the wounds inflicted during my stint as the OCTOBERFEAST emcee. But alas, I’ve returned to the command center, eager to help Caffeine Powered steer this conflagration-barge right into the hearts of the willing.
Whether its pounding in your chest or blackened by loss or fluttering amorously, we want you to open your hearts to the Omega Level. So come on, don’t just stand there! Hop aboard! ALL HANDS ON DECK!
This here’s the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE, the weekly salvation-via-distraction show and tell feature. The fact of the matter is that the workweek sucks – we kill ourselves at jobs that date rape our spirits and then can’t even be bothered to drive `em home in the morning.
To thwart forty-hours’ worth of ruin, we’ll take turns showcasing the bits of entertainment we use to ensure our souls’ chastity. I’ll go first, then ya’ll can hit up the comments sections and follow suit.
All together now.