Of late I have truly neglected one area of my life that brings more joy that I can ever express, in words or even via the medium of Dance.
Going to watch shit movies and slagging them off loudly to whoever has the pleasure of sitting next to me throughout.
Not since Death Race have I had so much fun of this nature.
And believe me, there have been many missed opportunities of late.
Sure, Ghost Town served in an crap-movie emergency, but it feels wrong to criticise Ricky Gervais when he’s so bloody English (read: funny) in an otherwise white-washed American (read: politically correct) movie.
And there are flashes of that gimpish little smile he does, right before he cracks up in some scenes, which make me love him every time – so I can’t be mad at him and thus can’t conceive of sitting there shouting at the screen, which is what I like to do.
What I should of done is got to the cinema when I intended to see Bangkok Dangerous, whose title alone suggests many opportunities to get smart-arsed at the sheer cheek of it.
But, alas, Nicholas Cage was destined to plod on (as a ‘deadly assassin’ with bad hair, in Bangkok, funnily enough) without my input and genuine feedback on his performance, which leads me to think, going off on a tangent slightly: If there’s nobody around to see a Nicholas Cage movie, does he still overact?
In other words, if there’s a Nic Cage picture showing to an empty theatre do you think he keeps going, or does he just give up on-screen and go sit in an armchair with the paper?
(Theory also goes for Keanu Reeves, though how would you tell the difference?)
(*Much Chin Strokery*).
There has been a real shower of shit raining down on our screens this summer but a lot of it has been too much of the shit-shit variety and not what I call brilliantly-shit.
Swing Vote /The Women / that excruciating one with Richard Gere in it about the house and Diana Lane that makes me want to weep for having ovaries every time I see the trailer – these are SHIT-shit, not so-shit-they’ve-swung-back-round-to-brilliant-shit.
That is just not what I’m getting at, although I must admit that the point I’ve been trying to make is almost starting to elude me too.
I’m saying: I like shit movies, I think we should embrace them and hold them dear to our hearts.
(The fact that White Chicks is a movie I hold in this way to my bosom should not deter you from listening to my point. It is a bone of contention between me and some of my closest friends, but I have been known to LOL when recalling a particular scene from it.)
I am not an idiot. I watch foreign films, like. I read. I can discuss stuff. But I like shit movies too – and am willing to stump up twelve bucks just for the privilege of sitting there shouting at the screen. (In fact, I insist upon it).
I guess what I am trying to say is this: there haven’t been enough heart-stoppingly bad movies to get my bum to the flicks this summer, even though the year started well with the horrific The Happening and the gloriously unbearable The Strangers.
How I loved the Strangers. In fact, Lightle and I made some Mexican friends for the duration of the show, who joined our sniggers every time Liv Tyler opened her fabulous gob to pot out a line.
“What are you thinking?” she utters, moments after her boyfriend has accidently shot his best friend in the face. “About my excessive dry cleaning bill, darling – you?”
The worst/best movie this year, in terms of the pleasure it brought me.
Except anything with Statham in it, of course.