Monday, December 20, 2004

Jude the Ordure

I should have held off for 24 hours before selecting my Worst Movie of 2004. I have a new Winner.

Alfie. A remake of a film that was very much of its time, encapsulating the Swinging Sixties of London and Carnaby Street. Seeing as Carnaby Street’s reputation for blazing fashion trails is long dead, and the place is now a hideous tourist trap festooned with tie-dye T-Shirts and cheap plastic junk for our foreign guests to take home (see also: Camden), the new version transposes the action to New York.

Our modern-day Alfie still likes to bone his way through the laydeez of the city, though. Jude Law needs an open-handed slap in the face for his horrible smugness. Name-dropping labels like a fashion whore, but still managing to look like a rumpled Reservoir Dogs reject. Sporting awful scarves that would better serve the audience as a garrotte to throttle the breath from his body. Incessantly jabbering to camera, when you just feel like shouting “CUNT!” at the screen. Before Alfie, I merely thought of Jude Law as overrated. Now, thanks to the magic of cinema, I hate him unreservedly.

At random intervals throughout the film, words like “DESIRE” and “PURSUE” appear on billboards, in a feeble attempt at hanging themes onto this shapeless mess of a movie. It’s a lazy cinematic conceit, and it fails in every conceivable way.

This is a plotless, aimless, poorly written, poorly acted, misogynistic, homophobic waste of celluloid. Decent actors like Omar Epps and Marisa Tomei are given thankless supporting roles, sliding off the screen in the slipstream of Law’s odious monologues, as the Jude Show rolls inexorably forward, destroying everything in its path. Every time the film looks like its about to commit to something resembling a story, the film writes itself into a corner and struggles to find a reason to keep going. And there’s no ending. The film just stops. With Law looking to camera and saying “What’s it all about?”. Fuck knows, Jude. But you should have tried to work out the answer to that one before the cameras started turning over. Horrible.

What else did Friday hold? Another Christmas party. A good one. Two of my brethren and I gorged ourselves on sausages and inhaled schnapps and laughed heartily at the expense of Wee Jimmie Krankie at the Bierodrome in Holborn, before decamping to Baker Street and the inexpensive beery delights hidden therein. Now, THAT’S how you do a Christmas Party.

Today is my last working day before Christmas. To celebrate, I will be taking in Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events after work, before returning home to the endless joys of Buttercup, who has now mastered the art of inspired babbling. As her little head appears over her mother’s shoulder, her face cracks into the widest grin, followed by a breathless stream of almost-comprehensible chatter. Merry Christmas to Me.

And in other news: Rumsfeld proves he’s a Complete Shit again.

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