So I'm watching The Girl in The Café, we're only about fifteen minutes in, and I'm already thinking what kind of Curtisverse (multiverse, geddit) does Richard C inhabit? His crass gags, his one dimensional characters, the over-studied awkwardness of Bill Nighy. The chummy horribleness of Saint Bob getting Sir Curtis (as I'm sure he will one day be, for his disservice to the romantic comedy genre) to write a film about his hobby-horse, and we're all supposed to get really excited about making poverty history. Not that I'm not: I am and we should. I just object to some overpaid past-it writer mucking up a good gig because his ego got the better of him again.
Sheesh.
I feel better, though.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment