While I consider myself an avid film fan, I have to admit my
penchant for Broadway musicals has sullied my DVD collection over the years. I
don’t own anything that doesn’t include at least one song and dance number. I’ve
seen subsequently next to no “boy films”. No all-time greats. The classics are
lost on me.
Pacino and De Niro draw near-blanks; Scorsese, Tarantino, De Palma,
Kubrick – they’re like another world. I am loathed to spend nearly £18 a pop at
the cinema, and yet I hate to watch a movie for the first time with other
people, in my living room (I talk too much); so just make everyone rewatch Mean
Girls and Dreamgirls and those girls from Sex & the City over and over.
I
am far too computer illiterate to fathom the World of Illegal Downloads and Bit
Torrents and am therefore a slave to Netflix, LoveFilm and OnDemand services –
often just re-renting films I have seen before that I’d lost over the years due
to lendings, house moves, break-ups, the VHS to DVD switch-up, and my tendency
to prefer to binge on a new TV show instead of watching a movie (or 2) on a
Sunday afternoon.
But now, dear reader, the time has come to embrace those
movies of yesteryear and share with you all my witty and irreverent,
spoiler-filled reviews. Oh SURE I’ll still watch Bridget Jones’s Diary
near-weekly and SURE I’ll still talk about that here, too; but this is my
Martine McCutcheon. Behold as I transform and break free from my
serious-movie-watching hiatus. Take that, Winkleman. This is Film 2004-or-thereabouts,
and we’re watching the greats.
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