Pynchon

I've just read my last post. I think that it was a tad incoherent and the kind of thing that a 14 year old boy would write, not a 43 year old man who should be using grown up language. I think that it is par for the course.

Maybe most people have the same problem as me. If I go to see a film, gig, play, football match, whatever, and it's an event that I have really enjoyed, I find it difficult to verbalise or explain what I liked, except in the most cliched terms. Great, fantastic, fucking fantastic, super dooper, wonderful, marvelous darling, mega, lovely. Language is so difficult and I don't think that I am very good at using it.

I suspect that very many critics don't actually like the stuff they critique. For years I've thought that Barry Norman (the ex-king of TV British film critics) never actually liked very many movies at all and that he was only interested in finding a clever and sarcastic phrase to throw at the punters. I know that he was completely aware of how little his opinion mattered.

Barry Norman used to tell a story about when he reviewed "Confessions Of A Window Cleaner" (a pretty dire early 70's sex comedy, with no redeeming features except that it featured the foxy Linda Hayden, who was in a few really interesting horror films in the 70's) and slated it. The next day Barry was out shopping and got talking to a guy.

"You're Barry Norman off the TV", said the guy.

"I am", said Barry.

"You saw 'Confessions Of A Window Cleaner'", said the guy.

"I did", said Barry.

"That looks like a good film", said the guy. "I might go and see that."

I'm not a critic. I could never be a critic. I find it difficult to say what I think of anything. Recently every post has been a struggle, but I go on...

(The martyr Pynchon nails himself to the cross in his back room. Ow!)

I don't think that I mentioned that I was as pissed as a fart at the Fratellis gig. I wasn't pissed when I arrived at the Carling Academy. I had precisely one bottle of Stella Artois when I met up with Graham. At the Carling Academy I had 3 pints (or was it 4?) I cannot remember. Things are hazy. Suffice to say, I shoved my way to just behind the mixing desk (perfect view), hung on the barrier, and had a great time. At least I didn't blackout or vomit, insult or fight anybody. I was standing next to a girl in Goth makeup who was really attractive. I was old enough to be her Dad.

What was that I wrote about not having to get pissed to enjoy myself? I forget. Actually, I don't. I remember it very well.

So, Wednesday morning I awoke feeling like death, but I took painkillers and went out anyway. I went to see "Blood Diamond".



I was hoping for another powerful African set film like "The Constant Gardener", but "Blood Diamond" is not as good as that, or as affecting or as emotionally resonant. I'll grant you that "Blood Diamond" does have it's moments. It looks wonderful (all burnt browns and oranges) and Djimon Hounsou is truly terrific and gives a very powerful and convincing performance. His Oscar nomination was well deserved. DiCaprio is OK, but I didn't really believe him as an ex mercenary and Jennifer Connolly, as gorgeous as she still is (hello Mr. Shallow), didn't have nearly enough to do.

I only went to see "Blood Diamond" because I thought that it would be gone before this weekend (it hadn't) and that I would be better occupied seeing something serious and not stupid. My other choice was "Hot Fuzz".

Today I saw "The Illusionist". (Sorry "Hot Fuzz".)


There might be some mild spoilers.

The reviews over here have been pretty much up and down on "The Illusionist" but I must confess I really enjoyed it.

Edward Norton is very serious (is he ever anything but serious?), Paul Giamatti is charming and ambiguous, Rufus Sewell is back to his hissable villain best and Jessica Biel gives a performance, rather than just being eye candy. (I never knew she had it in her.) They made the movie happen.

Labels: Block, Drinking, Movies