The unspoken fear of all deities is that the creation has the potential to engulf the creator, and so it goes that director Davis Guggenheim—his hand trembling as it considers the prospect of sculpting Justin Bieber’s image out of only 3D marble and some 16 years of biographical details, his mind reeling as he grapples with wringing form from nothingness, from an abyss that stares back deeply into Guggenheim’s soul only to find him wanting—has laid down chisel and rasp and conceded failure, announcing he will no longer be the one to scrawl Justin Bieber’s life story across the stars. As to his reasons, Guggenheim mewed pitifully of the need to properly promote his next film Waiting For Superman, which examines the ant-like scurrying of wretchedly mortal non-Biebers as they distract themselves from dying by fretting about public education. Or maybe it’s because all his director friends made fun of him. However he may whitewash his cowardice is immaterial; as the yawing of the earth on its axis surely indicates, the biopic is currently awaiting a new visionary whose command of size and scope is matched only by his valor, and unfortunately, Cecil B. DeMille is dead.
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