You expect children’s animated films to be a little sad don’t you? A little salt to balance out the sugar, enough melancholy to allow our spirits to be lifted later on. Nobody expects the death of Anna and Elsa’s parents to be the entire trade of Frozen, they’re just another dash of something in the stock before it’s reduced down to the actual plot.
I’m telling you, I knew that Alden Ehrenreich would be a great Han Solo from the start. Maybe I was more confident on the performance that he would turn out under the originally slated directorial duo; but I was certain that there could be no level of charm that the man who brought us Hobie Doyle wouldn’t be able to achieve. I’ll just take a moment here to luxuriate in the feel of a shot well called, even if it weren’t my shot to call in the first place. The dude is bloody amazing in this joint.
This week has been a disaster, or at least the latter half of it has. Ever since Friday when I climbed full boar onto the bad decision bus and rode that fucker right off a cliff. I planned to go the city to catch some movies, so far so good. The train was delayed and I rushed and managed to get there just about in time.
I’ve been struggling on the how of criticising Deadpool 2 (what no witty subtitle?) for just about a week now. Not because there’s loads to criticise, or even that I really disliked it. No, the problem lies in its relationship to itself, or more accurately Deadpool’s relationship to the entire construct that surrounds him.
It’s a question that we don’t really got to think about too much anymore. What if your idol turned out to be a big old shit? Like, not just gross in the egregious ways that have sprung wild into our consciousness this past year but just an all round shit. A pretentious, self-important, uncommunicative asshole. They’re probably very intelligent too but struggle to apply it when divorced outside their comfort zone.
This movie is a mess.
Seriously. It is an ugly looking, confusingly paced, poorly acted thing that follows a script which lurches drunkenly between the incomprehensible and the banal. It is confused and focusless, any scene with more than a couple of characters turns into an exercise in geographic confusion, something of an achievement considering how small and empty so many of these locations are. It has the worst budget CGI sequences, which usually are excusable in indie films (the folks don’t have much money) but here they are disasterously conceived and feel so unneccessary. And, while I appreciate its intention in being a tonally diverse genre mashup, it does not have a strong enough control of either tone or genre to ever feel like a cohesive whole.
I haven’t written at all this week. I’m trash, I know. I got that review of Beast published but that was a product of sheer laziness over the four days the document sat gathering dust on my desktop. It’s not like I’ve even been doing anything near productive with my time. I haven’t been liking myself too much, been being unhealthy, listening to music that helps me feel sorry for myself, getting pissed and reading Shakespeare monologues at midnight.
You know when you’ve spent a couple of hours writing something and you’re pretty pleased with how it’s going and then your computer crashes and you lost the 800 or so words worth of work that you just spent your time on? Yeah, that happened when I was writing my review of Beast. I know, I should write in wordpress directly or at least some program with autosave but I like writing in notepad. It’s free of distractions and versatile when you wanna shift your thoughts around a blank page.
It’s not Mothers’ Day over here in the UK, we get that outta the way back in March. It’s always a notable time of year here because all of a sudden all of the podcast hosts turn to hawking flowers and chocolates and I always turn to the calendar paranoid. Hell, at least in the run up they might actually be advertising something that could be useful to somebody.
So, the first time we see Marx and Engels meet in The Young Karl Marx, Raoul Peck has to two of them sitting at far ends of this elaborate drawing room. Marx is trying to demand payment for his last two essays from his publisher, Engels is arrived to the man’s house as his patrician guest. The publisher blusters between the two of them trying to keep face with a friend while dismissing his employee. The two seated scholars don’t pay him all that much attention. They’ve only eyes for each other.