The English Film Industry - Stop it now!
Quick Links: Rant in Our Forums - Bridget Jones Diary – The Edge of Reason. The edge of fucking homicide. A girly mate of mine went to see this bag o shite at the weekend with her girly mates in a packed cinema. “Yeah? And how many of the audience were male?” “25 out of about 200. We counted them” I know who these guys are. You got 6 gay guys. You got 4 poor bastards out on the first date from Hell who really thought that taking her to see this unwatchable cak would persuade her that they were in touch with their feminine side and they would run a nice hot bath when she got her period pains instead of fucking off down the bar like a sensible chap. You got two bemused pensioners who’s wives are slightly less fuddled than them and who have been promised ice cream. Which they have promptly put on their hot dogs. And I only hope the remaining 13 men got whatever outrageous sexual favours they were promised the night before if they agreed to sit through two hours of saccerine middle class aspirational fucking bollocks. And I hope they are never daft enough to tell their mates they did it. Hugh Grant? Hugh Fucking Grant? That ponce is in the Sunday Times. “Acting is so shallow and worthless. I cannot abide the attention. I may give it up” From your lips to Gods ear Nancy Boy. You scoop up the millions you have made from being able to say “Gosh” right on cue and you fuck off. Catch Ebola then try and find a cure. Or do humanity a real favour and NEGLECT to find a cure. What has become of a film industry that gave us Zulu? Lawrence Of Arabia? The Long Good Friday? Even Lock Stock and Two Mockney Barrels for fucks sakes. Never since the dark days when Mayree Puppins taught a generation of Septics that we all spoke like wankers and dressed like complete fucking tits and that it was OK for grey bearded weirdos to dance with children in gardens at night has the English image on celluloid stood so low. Take 4 Weddings and the Lisping Dead? Enter Hugh Grant again, playing his one part to packed houses. We are a nation not of shopkeepers any more. We have morphed into a nation of Champers swilling effete Oxbridge lounge lizards who are terribly eccentric, dont work, but are really really well educated and have a real social conscience. Really, yah? We have a stiff upper lip but we cry at funerals. Oh, except for the token ‘shocking but terribly amusing really’ Welshman who parades about in blue Y fronts because he is so eccentric. I have no problem with acting the goat and have been known to combine a lavender silk shirt with an lisp to good effect myself. Its an old English game. Think Sir Lawrence Olivier in The Italian Job. Or Michael Caine in the same movie. Steve Birkoff, Alan Rickman. Tim Roth in Rob Roy? We do effete bad guys really well. Hugh Grant and Colin Firth have all the quiet menace of a Créame Brulee with all the little crunchy bits of sugar removed in case they injure ones gums. When I go abroad I take quiet delight in saying “No, I couldn’t possibly” when some foreign Johnnie says “Gee, say that again. You sound just like Tim Roth in Pulp Fiction.” Tell me I sound anything like Hugh Grant or Colin Firth and see the fat lady sing right sharp. Enough of this. It must stop. Right now. Its not big and its not clever.
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