About Time (Film)
We must all, at some point, make sacrifices. Mainly on Valentines day, when we (by which I mean "men") must bite our tongues, make no mention of "Hallmark Holidays", ignore anything our ladyfolk may say about "not making a fuss, it's just a silly day" and spend a small fortune on flowers, cuddly shit and chocolate. We must also, apparently, watch a Richard Curtis film.
You remember Richard Curtis? He wrote Blackadder, and not the slightly grubby first series either, no, the good ones. He was funny. He could write good dialogue. Why then, must he now inflict film after film, hour after hour of awful, awful, formulaic romantic comedies on us.
Four Weddings and a Funeral. That was OK, he lulled us into a false sense of security by starting with loads of swearing before introducing I, I, I, er, that is to say, I, Hugh, er, I, I, and, er, to a lesser degree, Grant on us. Hugh Grant was back in I, I, er, perhaps, I, I, I, that is to say, er, Notting Hill, in which we joked about people in wheelchairs, and then he was back again in Love bastarding Actually where he, er, by which I mean I, er, that is to say, Hugh Grant, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, er, played the Prime Minister and made fun of women with curves, orphaned children, foreigners, adulterers, drug addicts, and pretty much everyone who emptied their wallets to sit through 2 fucking hours of aimless fluff while desperately wishing for Lord Flashheart to jump out and murder everyone involved.
And then came About Time.
Hugh Grant isn't in About Time. Instead we have Domhnall Gleeson. Is that even a real name? Have you ever met anyone called Domhnall? Basically he's a young, ginger, Hugh Grant. It's uncanny. The film starts with a voiceover which, in terms of it's pace, rhythm and tone is EXACTLY the same as the voiceover at the start of Love Actually. If you didn't speak English, and frankly if it means accepting some responsibility for Richard Curtis I wouldn't admit to it, then you'd swear it was the same, dreary monologue.
The basic "story" and I use the term loosely, is that all of the men in this ginger prick's family have the ability to travel back in time. There are rules to this time travel however these may be discarded if the "plot", and I use the term loosely, demands it. Not once does this ginger Dr Who travel back and win the lottery. No, instead he uses his gift to get women to "fall in love" with him, though in the world of Richard Curtis "fall in love with" actually means the same as "talk to". The first time is relatively unsuccessful as, despite being able to travel in time, the lady in question realises that our antagonist is dull, shallow, desperate and has stupid hair. So the next time he tries it on with a fringe on a stick with more success as they bond over her stalker-like obsession with Kate Moss. No, really. Eventually they get married, it rains, they have some children, some stuff happens, I can't remember the end and there's a lesson for us all to learn. It's heart warming stuff. They play table-tennis. Bill Nighy is in it and is absolutely brilliant, every time he's on the screen you thing "great, I like this now", then he goes and we're left with these two absurd haircuts, talking and behaving in ways that only people in Richard Curtis films do and have no relation to actual real people in real life.
It made me angry.
If I could go back and change my past I'd travel back to HMV and buy Sunshine on Leith instead.
You remember Richard Curtis? He wrote Blackadder, and not the slightly grubby first series either, no, the good ones. He was funny. He could write good dialogue. Why then, must he now inflict film after film, hour after hour of awful, awful, formulaic romantic comedies on us.
Four Weddings and a Funeral. That was OK, he lulled us into a false sense of security by starting with loads of swearing before introducing I, I, I, er, that is to say, I, Hugh, er, I, I, and, er, to a lesser degree, Grant on us. Hugh Grant was back in I, I, er, perhaps, I, I, I, that is to say, er, Notting Hill, in which we joked about people in wheelchairs, and then he was back again in Love bastarding Actually where he, er, by which I mean I, er, that is to say, Hugh Grant, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, I, er, played the Prime Minister and made fun of women with curves, orphaned children, foreigners, adulterers, drug addicts, and pretty much everyone who emptied their wallets to sit through 2 fucking hours of aimless fluff while desperately wishing for Lord Flashheart to jump out and murder everyone involved.
And then came About Time.
Hugh Grant isn't in About Time. Instead we have Domhnall Gleeson. Is that even a real name? Have you ever met anyone called Domhnall? Basically he's a young, ginger, Hugh Grant. It's uncanny. The film starts with a voiceover which, in terms of it's pace, rhythm and tone is EXACTLY the same as the voiceover at the start of Love Actually. If you didn't speak English, and frankly if it means accepting some responsibility for Richard Curtis I wouldn't admit to it, then you'd swear it was the same, dreary monologue.
The basic "story" and I use the term loosely, is that all of the men in this ginger prick's family have the ability to travel back in time. There are rules to this time travel however these may be discarded if the "plot", and I use the term loosely, demands it. Not once does this ginger Dr Who travel back and win the lottery. No, instead he uses his gift to get women to "fall in love" with him, though in the world of Richard Curtis "fall in love with" actually means the same as "talk to". The first time is relatively unsuccessful as, despite being able to travel in time, the lady in question realises that our antagonist is dull, shallow, desperate and has stupid hair. So the next time he tries it on with a fringe on a stick with more success as they bond over her stalker-like obsession with Kate Moss. No, really. Eventually they get married, it rains, they have some children, some stuff happens, I can't remember the end and there's a lesson for us all to learn. It's heart warming stuff. They play table-tennis. Bill Nighy is in it and is absolutely brilliant, every time he's on the screen you thing "great, I like this now", then he goes and we're left with these two absurd haircuts, talking and behaving in ways that only people in Richard Curtis films do and have no relation to actual real people in real life.
It made me angry.
If I could go back and change my past I'd travel back to HMV and buy Sunshine on Leith instead.
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