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At Christmas, Brits go telly bonkers.
I've been going telly and film bonkers. My dad and Bruce Willis are both excellent actors, but perhaps 'cause I have such affection for them, I can't accept them as Haig and Hartigan. A propos of the latter, I can't accept Clive Owen as anything at all beyond pigfood, or maybe a draught excluder.

And Lemony Snicket. I don't like Dickensian character names; and Nadsat and Seuss fill me with mild nausea, as did the name "Lemony Snicket"; although with typical contrariness of nature I can happily stomach Vogon.

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I enjoyed L.S. in the same way I enjoyed Pirates of the Caribbean: beautiful set pieces and self-indulgent star performances from I'm Andy Kaufman and Scary Doll Depp. Silly fillums, not clever like dear Isabelle Huppert. IRL I had a bit of a Hal Hartley moment last night. I practised it all in my mind, and indulgently wandered along themes of redemption, amnesia, self-reinvention and so on. But when it came down to it I didn't feel the need to forgive or forget. I hypocritically jeered when I heard "I've changed". I like to think I change - become cooler, mostly. Like starting smoking. But I haven't even changed my knickers in the last three days. He and I are just the same, but happier. He just switched bits of me off, and when I managed to let go of him they switched back on. Like Christmas lights. And that's a simile. And now I'm all like, "You have no power over me". What do I know? Budding psychologist, am I? Comparing my life to fillums like Amateur. Hitchcock once said of Charles Laughton, dismissively, that he was 'an amateur.' And when that got back to Laughton, Laughton just shrugged and said, 'Well. It means lover. I love my work.'

Posted by rosy at décembre 25, 2004 11:06 PM | TrackBack