another bad film
I wonder if central London cinema-goers are the rudest in the world? I’ve never seen a film at Leicester Square without at least one mobile phone ringing during the show, and there’s always a select group of audience members who consider it quite acceptable to talk as loudly as the actors on screen. It’s relative rudeness of course. d_sameboy and I saw Meet The Parents while holidaying in California, and sweetie wrapper rustling, ambling up and down the aisle, and constant giggling seemed the order of the day. But we were the silent outsiders, and it felt inappropriate to shush the people next to us; everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves because of the atmosphere. Whereas back in Olde England, where it’s traditional to pay more attention to the film than to your friends, talkers seem ruder, as they must realise that they’re behaving in an antisocial manner yet chat anyway.
During Troy on Saturday, the man next to me kept up a constant banter on events both in Sparta and Muswell Hill. His date slurped her coffee loudly and ate sweets wrapped in the loudest, most crinkly substance in known science. I would have complained about his talking, had it spoiled my enjoyment of the film, but as the director and scriptwriter had done that already, there was no loss.
I walked out of Human Traffic after nine minutes. Objectively speaking, this must make it the worst film I’ve ever seen. The Beach kept me in my seat for 119 minutes, but only because I was asleep for most of those. I saw more than I slept through of Troy, but it’s the only other film I’ve lost enough interest in to ignore while at the cinema.
The opening scenes were jam packed with potential. Brian Cox gurning as power-hungry Eurovillain Agamemnon. ("No Mister Hector, I expect you to die! Ah, ha ha ha ha haaaa.") A grumpy Achilles taking out an eight foot tall wall of muscle in one balletic jump and stomping back to bed. The speedy cuts that moved the action on confidently, and with the sensible assumption that the audience would be able to keep up.
And then it went wrong. Horribly wrong. I wondered if I was watching a real time documentary about the sacking of Troy, with the characters being given all the charm and wit of the usual suspects you see on docusoaps. (“We need to get in the boats”… “Look, they’re in their boats”… “I think the boats have arrived.”) Yes, but what of it?
I know the film-makers worried about how a modern audience would take to ancient concepts of heroism. I’d have thought the best way round this would be to add a little human interest, and set the bigger picture around the detail; such as in Gladiator, which I can’t help but compare Troy unfavourably to. Perhaps the romance between Paris and Helen is meant to be this detail. But sadly, despite my adoration for his physical form, I have to say Orlando Bloom beats the horse as biggest wooden character in the film. A better romance would have been that between Achilles and Boxofchocolates Patroclus, who is relegated to “cousin” here.
Sadly, I didn’t care what side won, who lived, who died, whose name went down in eternity.
Cher, on the other hand, was very good.
During Troy on Saturday, the man next to me kept up a constant banter on events both in Sparta and Muswell Hill. His date slurped her coffee loudly and ate sweets wrapped in the loudest, most crinkly substance in known science. I would have complained about his talking, had it spoiled my enjoyment of the film, but as the director and scriptwriter had done that already, there was no loss.
I walked out of Human Traffic after nine minutes. Objectively speaking, this must make it the worst film I’ve ever seen. The Beach kept me in my seat for 119 minutes, but only because I was asleep for most of those. I saw more than I slept through of Troy, but it’s the only other film I’ve lost enough interest in to ignore while at the cinema.
The opening scenes were jam packed with potential. Brian Cox gurning as power-hungry Eurovillain Agamemnon. ("No Mister Hector, I expect you to die! Ah, ha ha ha ha haaaa.") A grumpy Achilles taking out an eight foot tall wall of muscle in one balletic jump and stomping back to bed. The speedy cuts that moved the action on confidently, and with the sensible assumption that the audience would be able to keep up.
And then it went wrong. Horribly wrong. I wondered if I was watching a real time documentary about the sacking of Troy, with the characters being given all the charm and wit of the usual suspects you see on docusoaps. (“We need to get in the boats”… “Look, they’re in their boats”… “I think the boats have arrived.”) Yes, but what of it?
I know the film-makers worried about how a modern audience would take to ancient concepts of heroism. I’d have thought the best way round this would be to add a little human interest, and set the bigger picture around the detail; such as in Gladiator, which I can’t help but compare Troy unfavourably to. Perhaps the romance between Paris and Helen is meant to be this detail. But sadly, despite my adoration for his physical form, I have to say Orlando Bloom beats the horse as biggest wooden character in the film. A better romance would have been that between Achilles and Boxofchocolates Patroclus, who is relegated to “cousin” here.
Sadly, I didn’t care what side won, who lived, who died, whose name went down in eternity.
Cher, on the other hand, was very good.