Movie Plankton ll
January 14, 2012 § 87 Comments
Duty dictates that I take the children to see War Horse – we’re going this afternoon – but according to the Guardian it’s pap. Its treacly, Spielbergian view of the world was an opportunity missed, apparently. But I dare say I’ll manage to enjoy it at some level because I’ll be seeing it through the children’s eyes and they will like it, which means I will too, for them.
Shame is more my bag. Haven’t seen it yet but definitely will. I know some people like to go to horror movies to be made to feel scared. That is not me at all. I loathe horror films every bit as much as I loathe sci-fi/fantasy/magical realism. Bored rigid by all that shit. I like to go to grown-up films in which reality features, none of that supernatural bollocks; in which adults sit around in cafes or offices or apartments talking and being anxious and talking more and brooding – French films, obviously, are the past masters at this. The aim is to be made to feel depressed, but also to feel one is not the only person feeling it, as well as to raise the odd wry smile despite the bleakness, and to wind up with the sort of happy ending which just about stops you from wanting to slit your wrists in the foyer on the hushed way out. The kind of arthouse films I like are usually too arsey to go in for obvious happy endings, but they frequently manage to pull off a happy ending lite, or a happy ending that’s so subtle it makes you feel kind of sophisticated and superior for getting it and knowing you are above sinking in to the full-on, wallowing saccahrine schmaltz of lesser, more popular films, if you get my meaning. It’s the difference between a bucket of sugared popcorn at the Odeon and a (dark, cherry) bar of Green & Blacks at the Gate.
Sometimes, I come out of my kind of movie feeling marginally better off than the characters. Often, I come out feeling more than marginally worse.
I’ll let you know how I feel I fare compared to Joey (the protagonist horse) who changes hands all the time, is shot at, shelled, loses friends, gets tetanus, and nearly dies on countless different occasions and in several different ways, but escapes it in the end, I think, just; and Brandon, the New York sex addict whose life is spiraling completely out of control and is miserable as sin.
I’ll give you a clue. Resounding silence – wholly predictably – from Long Shot.
Perhaps it’s time I invested in the DVD of Bridesmaids.