A terrible, terrible Scrooge, but a polite one.
Because my newly minted Tumblr feed is filled with people rhapsodizing over Love, Actually. And because I'm really not a Scrooge, I'm confining my opinion to my journal, and not putting it on Tumblr. :-)
I'll tell you what I LOVED about Love, Actually:
Martin Freeman and Joanna Page as dorky porn stars who fall sweetly and awkwardly in love whilst simulating polite British coitus.
Nuanced performances by Alan Rickman, Emma Thompson, and Laura Linney.
Martin Freeman, naked.
The pleasure of watching a talented kid actor.
Naked Martin Freeman.
Adorable Natalie the Chubby Tea Girl chirruping "I was afraid I'd fuck it up!" to the Prime Minister.
Martin fucking Freeman. Naked.
*checks watch* Okay, that's about ten minutes of screen time there. Fifteen, tops.
What I hated about the movie: everything else.
The fact that all the while widowed Liam Neeson was on screen, all I could think about was Natasha Richardson, and also how unrealistic it was that the kid would have gotten over losing his mother that fast.
The gross class and power differential between David and Natalie, as a nod to droit de signeur. Being romanticized. Oh, and some woman referring to Natalie as CHUBBY (she was, what, a US size 8?).
Mark crashing Juliet's newly wedded bliss with a freight-train load of undeserved guilt cleverly disguised as a "romantic" Christmas message. Because at Christmas, you tell the truth? Like "You've ruined my relationship with my best friend" and "I have an unhealthy obsession with you?"
The gross class and power differential between Jamie and Aurélia, exacerbated by the implied economic disparity between Portugal and England?
Hugh Grant. And nary a single giant blood-covered homicidal immortal phallus-serpent-worm-woman.
Alan Rickman ripping Emma Thompson's heart out and stomping it into the fucking ground.
Because you don't need to actually know someone to be in love with them.
Serious dearth of Joanna Page and Martin Freeman.
Sarah's life being subsumed by her mentally ill brother's to the point of stomping innocent bystander Karl's heart into the ground due to her inability to maintain healthy boundaries.
Hot homewrecking Mia being hot and unrepentantly homewrecking.
Seriously, the only healthy relationships in the movie are John & Judy, and Billy Mack & Joe.
Hugh Grant. And nary a single heartbreaking recitation of A.E. Housmann in sight.
In conclusion: it's not at all a terrible movie. I just don't understand how it's considered a romantic one. On a scale of Four Weddings and a Funeral, I give it one point five Duckfaces.
But if you love it -- please, watch it in joy, watch it in pleasure, and join me in being hypnotized by Martin Freeman's polite British coitus face, for it's hilarious.
I'll tell you what I LOVED about Love, Actually:
Martin Freeman and Joanna Page as dorky porn stars who fall sweetly and awkwardly in love whilst simulating polite British coitus.
Nuanced performances by Alan Rickman, Emma Thompson, and Laura Linney.
Martin Freeman, naked.
The pleasure of watching a talented kid actor.
Naked Martin Freeman.
Adorable Natalie the Chubby Tea Girl chirruping "I was afraid I'd fuck it up!" to the Prime Minister.
Martin fucking Freeman. Naked.
*checks watch* Okay, that's about ten minutes of screen time there. Fifteen, tops.
What I hated about the movie: everything else.
The fact that all the while widowed Liam Neeson was on screen, all I could think about was Natasha Richardson, and also how unrealistic it was that the kid would have gotten over losing his mother that fast.
The gross class and power differential between David and Natalie, as a nod to droit de signeur. Being romanticized. Oh, and some woman referring to Natalie as CHUBBY (she was, what, a US size 8?).
Mark crashing Juliet's newly wedded bliss with a freight-train load of undeserved guilt cleverly disguised as a "romantic" Christmas message. Because at Christmas, you tell the truth? Like "You've ruined my relationship with my best friend" and "I have an unhealthy obsession with you?"
The gross class and power differential between Jamie and Aurélia, exacerbated by the implied economic disparity between Portugal and England?
Hugh Grant. And nary a single giant blood-covered homicidal immortal phallus-serpent-worm-woman.
Alan Rickman ripping Emma Thompson's heart out and stomping it into the fucking ground.
Because you don't need to actually know someone to be in love with them.
Serious dearth of Joanna Page and Martin Freeman.
Sarah's life being subsumed by her mentally ill brother's to the point of stomping innocent bystander Karl's heart into the ground due to her inability to maintain healthy boundaries.
Hot homewrecking Mia being hot and unrepentantly homewrecking.
Seriously, the only healthy relationships in the movie are John & Judy, and Billy Mack & Joe.
Hugh Grant. And nary a single heartbreaking recitation of A.E. Housmann in sight.
In conclusion: it's not at all a terrible movie. I just don't understand how it's considered a romantic one. On a scale of Four Weddings and a Funeral, I give it one point five Duckfaces.
But if you love it -- please, watch it in joy, watch it in pleasure, and join me in being hypnotized by Martin Freeman's polite British coitus face, for it's hilarious.