{.abort.}

by devourslowly

It was not until I read Neil Gaiman’s introduction in Stories when I realised that books do not always have to be read from cover to cover.  Makes sense, I am not at school anymore.  There will be no gentle scowling, no detention and definitely no nagging sense of failure at the end of that little rainbow.  Over the years I really had read some of the most extraordinary rubbish and insisted on finishing them just because I happened to cast my eyes over their first sentences.

No matter.  I now know better had moved on.

A similar revelation dawned on me yesterday evening – I am under no obligation to sit through a whole movie.  We hired out 44 Inch Chest for a mini date-night.  The cover looked promising – Ray Winstone, John Hurt, Tom Wilkinson and Ian McShane – what could possibly go wrong?

Many, many things apparently.

It was a struggle just getting through the first 30 minutes or so without wanting to shake Ray Winstone and slap Tom Wilkinson on the face to wake him up.  Incidentally I do nor imagine many people would ever contemplate shaking Ray Winstone or slapping Tom Wilkinson.

I felt deceived.  The cover promised tempestuous kangaroo court, we got 19th century chamber drama featuring a modern day Greek chorus.  The script sounded more play-like than film-like; even more so than the film version of The History Boy (which actually WAS a play).  There is something rather disturbing about Ray Winstone playing a soppy drippy gentle-giant.  A bit like blue coloured jelly beans.

About 45 agonising minutes into the movie we were both eager to do some late night chores around the flat.  Bye bye Ray…

I had never turned my back on movies before.  I sat through Resident Evil when all I could think of was to ditch my date by moving to Canada…  To turn my back on some of my favourite actors… I am feeling rather disrespectful at the moment.

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