Jeremy Dennis is Jeremy Day (cleanskies) wrote,
Jeremy Dennis is Jeremy Day
cleanskies

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we couldn't go on the bouncy cloud because there was "a problem"

The last couple of days have been all about the culture. Yesterday was the thoroughly unpublicised single showing of Grindhouse in our fair town, one night only in the Odeon's tiniest screen. [ETA - it's also turnign up -- appropriately-- at the UPP next month.] Rodriguez's half (Planet Terror) is solid stuff, reminiscent of early Cronenberg, and contains universally improving ingredient evil Bruce Willis. Tarantino's Deathproof was a little too faithful to the 70s road movies it was fromaging in that it dragged horribly until the final chase -- although watching the best friend from Wonderfalls and Kiwi Stunt Queen going faster pussycat kill kill on Kurt Russell's arse was actually worth the half hour or so of thinking that if I wanted to hear pretty girls say fuck a lot, I could just go down the pub with my friends. The adverts for imaginary films, though great, were I think one of the reasons why it may not have achieved national release. I'm thinking of a scene in "Thanksgiving" in particular. This trailer for "Don't" had everyone in stitches, though (SFW):


Today was a more sedate affair: boating on the sculpture terraces of the Heyward gallery in a ramshackle coracle made of old desks and chairlegs. It was like a scene from Snowcrash or something -- the temporary pool is level with the parapet, and beyond there are towerblocks, trees and London buses. The tiny boatlets totter alarmingly, and you feel perpetually in danger of being tossed into the water. It's brilliant. Inside, two rooms have been destroyed by shoggoths and an apartment's been smashed by a superhero. There are huge dangling spice stockings and what I suspect is a mere fragment of Rachel Whiteread's dollhouse collection. There's a maze and a metal corridor that looks like something out of Dr Who (or Dr Caligari). Too bad the bouncy castle wasn't taking cloudwalkers but we were assured it would be up by tomorrow. We still smelt of tortured sawdust and peppery spices when we got home.

Afterwards we had overpriced beer outside on the concrete terrace, in the rain, under our umbrellas. Below us, on Jubilee walk, small children puttered around in waterproofs and a man with an enormous telephoto lens hunkered down against the Thames and went through the day's photos. I kept wondering if he'd photograph us, but if he did, he was enough of a professional that I didn't see a thing.
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