A wet Bank Holiday weekend in England.
I didn't get where I am today without spending wet Bank Holiday afternoons in the cinema, so I asked Mrs Botogol to accompany me to see The Boat that Rocked , the latest offering in Richard Curtis' increasingly misogynistic oeuvre.
It's billed as a "light-hearted ensemble comedy". I can't recommend it.
The reviews criticised it mainly for its length and its incoherent plot. I didn't mind either of those: the thing that spoiled it for me, rather, was the light-hearted, ensemble attempted-rape scene. Laugh? It made my skin crawl.
So, what was going on? Is Curtis constructing some kind of triple-layered, post modern, ironic point that is almost too obscure for words? Is he engaged in some kind of cinematographic Stanford prison experiment: seeing exactly how far his cheeky-chappy, blackadder image can be employed to to push his actors, his production teams and his audiences before someone stops laughingm stands up and actually objects, his nihilistic point justified by foolish, uncomfortably-giggling cinema audiences and a general imperception of what is before our eyes? Really, does no one even notice, other than an obscure blogger or two?
Or am I a dinosaur?
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