(diaryland) October 19, 2000 - 12:10:51

Peter Greenaway - rich English overly-arthouse director guy

Oh, my goodness.

I saw Prospero's Books once. I hated it, but I kind of gave Peter Greenaway the benefit of the doubt because I hadn't seen any of his other films, plus he's friends with Michael Nyman, who is a cool composer. But, man - how on earth does any small child have enough pee in him to continously piss on stuff throughout an entire film? I was all like, stop peeing, kid. Go to the toilet.

I saw The Pillow Book today. I was coping pretty well with it for the most part until the film took a nasty, nasty turn. A very nasty turn. There had been lots of naked Ewan McGregor throughout the whole movie, but then he got, how should I say, slightly more naked than most people ever get. What happened was pretty much like the inimitable Robbie Williams' music video to Rock DJ, except with all the humour and loveable rogueness sucked out. Oh, man. I'm having horrible flashbacks right now. Ughhh hhhhh hh. (that was my text interpretation of a shudder)

If that wasn't bad enough, they played the really, really awful bit back in the lecture just after it. I refused to watch. I didn't want anyone to know I couldn't cope, so I decided to slouch studiously over my exercise book and write something inane until the scene was over. This I did. Then we watched a roasted guy from the film The Cook, the Thief, his Wife and her Lover. I had had enough for the day.

Yesterday, Roland and I watched Shaft. There was far more death and destruction in that movie, but I'm not going to have nightmares about that movie like I will about The Pillow Book. Well, maybe I'll have nightmares about Samuel L. Jackson's wardrobe, but yeah.

God, my feet really, really stink. Here is a haiku.

hair sticks to lipstick
a smile grows in the forest
to be brushed away