The quality's grainy enough, and you can barely make sense of who's speaking and who's just there to get a word in edgewise after thoroughly condemning whatever's just been proven wrong; typical is the appeal to emotion that sends ripples through the audience of housewives who've nothing better to watch.
The Auteur sits comfortably in a leather chair across from some faggot with a suit so tight that you'd swear it was a second skin. Interviewer, we'd call him. The kind of man who uses the word 'jejune' at least twice a day, and still comes no closer to knowing what it actually means. The Auteur, on the other hand, has sandalled feet up on the glass table, with unclipped toenails hanging like yellowed scimitars over the soft rubber. He scratches his crotch through the blue jeans and complacently states: "Yes, I'd love to respond to my critics who think my work is derivative. Of course it is, shitwits [this latter word is bleeped half-way through the first syllable; gasps from the audience, who are now fully distracted from folding their laundry]. My publication is the complete realization that art is simply the masturbation of culture. I've written a piece that will be forever remembered as literary smegma- you can say it's bothersome and it stinks, but fuck [this too is belatedly bleeped], it's fun as all hell to make excuses about 'washing it off'. What's produced? Again: Art."
Interviewer leans forward in his chair, and unlike the Auteur, you can almost make out his face from the grainy picture quality. He sniffs daintily at the crass mouthings of his guest, and picks an invisible hair from his suit.
"How very post-modern." he sneers. The Auteur un-ironically lights a bedraggled-looking cigarette with a disposable lighter, and is met with a visible face-wrinkling from the Interviewer. Plumes of smoke waft around the studio, and the Auteur's features are further masked (not that you'd be able to get much from his appearance apart from his gender).
"Post-post-modern." jokes the Auteur, flicking ash. "It's a turn-around on all those dumbasses who think that art is whatever crap [unbleeped, surprisingly] you can jam into a square foot of canvas. Art is meant to be not just an idea that falls into your lap when you're getting high on the paint fumes- it's meant to convey something sublimely infectious about it: provocative imagery, emotion, experience. We didn't get real art by putting sunglasses on the Michaelangelo's David. We got it from appreciating some more exquisite level of beauty: the human form, the perfect aesthetics of a so-called 'divine' sculptor with Michaelangelo as his proxy, even some of us just enjoy the piece because poor Davy-Boy is pathetically endowed."
The interviewer shifts in his chair, uncomfortable both by the direction the conversation is going in, and by the constant outpouring of nicotine cloud.
The Auteur begins jabbing motions with his cigarette for punctuation. "And so, I've created the ultimate in viralcy: the art that isn't merely personalized in its impact, but rather that it is self-adjusting, self-replicating, and extensively designed towards creating exactly that level of appreciation from each and every person. It's Rick Astley meets Escher meets Turing meets Van Gogh."
"Well-- We've certainly seen something here today, ladies and gentlemen." The Interviewer turns to the camera, unsubtly mouthing 'cut the feed'.
The rest is unwatchable.