Tuesday, 4 April 2017

Alternative Career: Terrible Film Critic...

Please find to follow a rather shabby review of the film, Arrival. You have been warned.

Serving suggestion:
What do you mean, these are reserved for bland food displays slapped on the side of corned beef cans? What a load of old pony. I can do what I like, thank you please. Ahem. In order to enjoy this film to its fullest extent, I suggest watching this film at 9am on a Monday when everyone else is at work. Pull a sickie, take a day’s holiday. Whatever. Wear nothing but pants (like I did), but feel free to wrap yourself in a fleece blanket if you’re feeling a bit nippy. Or shy. The film is best viewed with toast, coffee, a mild hangover and the imminent promise of getting your leg over. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.

Who's in it?
I don’t know. A-list actors of the world: unless you’re Tom Hanks, Tom Hardy, Tom Cruise or Tom Foolery (tee hee, etc), I probably don’t know who you are. As I get older, the less interested I am in celebrity and I wasn’t that fussed in the first place. I mean, I sat and watched it and all that but I couldn’t tell you the names of the actors. Oh that’s a lie. Him with the wonky eye. Forest Whitaker. My friend Google assures me that the lead actress is called Amy Adams. Never heard of her. She was very good though.

Sci-Fi. The cinematic weapon of choice for the geeky virgin. Maybe hang-fire on the imminent promise of getting your leg over in that case. Maybe a cheeky wank will have to suffice. Bless you. Don’t feel bad.

What happened?
Not a lot, thinking about it. In a nutshell: some aliens come to Earth and park up in their space ships that look like rather massive chocolate Pringles. Unsurprisingly everyone the world over goes mental. Meanwhile, our Amy - who, as it turns out, is quite good at decoding shizzle - is roped in by wonky-eyed Whitaker to work out what the fuck the aliens are blathering on about. She ‘ums and ‘ars a bit but then works their language out. Phew. They basically tell her that they want to help. And how do they do this? By telling us to stop fighting amongst ourselves. Yeah, that’s it. Then they tell Amy that they’ll be needing our help in three thousand years and with that, they’re off. And we all live happily ever after. For the first half of the film, you get the impression that the aliens might be evil and could blow us all up any second. At this point, you'd be forgiven for getting wistful as you reminisced about ET dragging up and getting hammered with the perennially-irritating Elliot. But then the aliens turn out to be disappointingly lovely. I do like a baddie.

Is that it?
Erm, yeah, I think so. There was a subplot about a dead kid that our Amy kept having flashbacks about. Oh yeah, it turns out that she was some kind of psychic and could predict stuff but then she would forget that she’d predicted it until the Chinese president reminded her that she saved the world at the end of the film. Yes, really. Another thing: the scientist she worked with during the decoding process turned out to be her ex-husband and father of dead child. Hurrah! I say hurrah because they got back together at the end, not because they split up after the kid slipped off the dish. If I'm completely honest, I'm not I sure I got it. It was a bit confusing. There were times that I felt a bit thick, much like I do when watching Countdown and can only make a half a swear word or 'it' or 'cat' or even 'a' out of the stingy jumble of letters they offer. Rubbish.

Any good?
Actually, yeah. I’d give it six out of ten, which means it’s perfect for day-old pants viewing on the sofa. I’m pleased I didn’t go to the cinema to see it though, not least because I can hardly stand going in the first place. I mean, firstly you have to sell an internal organ in order to be able to afford the pick and mix and then you have the horror of having to deal with the general public eating noisy food. Popcorn. Nachos. The dregs of a flat coke being sucked through a straw. There’s just no need, is there? The last time I went to the flicks I almost took out a fatwa on a silly pissed-up mare who thought it would be appropriate to comment on every scene as though she was doing the ‘director commentary’ on the DVD. Actually, I hope she wasn’t - otherwise on the extras of Bridget Jones’s Baby you’ll hear me threaten to cut a bitch using an empty packet of revels that cost me eight thousand pounds and my left kidney.


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