I woke up this morning quite (un)accountably depressed. I'm sure it's not entirely down to watching Jeremy Clarkson ride an enormous fucking truck to the North Pole last night, or the chore-like feel of catching up with this year's Dr Who Christmas special*, or the state (moderate, moving to chaotic, mitigated slightly by fairy lights) of the house. Whence the ennui? Am I not blonde enough for new year?
New year's TV scheduling seems to have gone 80s-crazy, with Point Break and Patrick (vomit) Swayze in conversation with fans. I was trying to remember the three films the boarding house had on video this morning (I was at boarding school in the 80s). Top Gun, of course. The eternally loathsome and vile Dirty Dancing. But what was the third? Gremlins? Airplane 2? Or something even worse than that? Quentin Tarantino was entirely wrong about Top Gun, which remains the film that shows that manliness and blusher can go hand in hand. Speaking of which, I caught the better half of Kill Bill the other day and christ what a pile of "oh I see what you were trying to do there" it is. Under par in every direction -- mediocre marshal arts ballet, half-arsed american sinister, weak clever-dick gangster shit ... of course, I have a rotten cold so may be judging things over-harshly.
I have that tune, "it was acceptable in the 80s" running through my head, except I keep substituting the adjective. "It was execrable in the 80s..."
*Wow, next season's teaser is for a series so resolutely not for the kids that there weren't even any actors under 25. Still, the kids have the Sarah Jane Adventures now, so that's OK.
