It might just have been the whole “waking up to a bed of poop” thing that put me in a bad mood yesterday, but I finally got around to watching “Notting Hill,” and came very close to barfing right there on my floor from it. I chose not to, as I had already cleaned up one body-related mess too many that day.
Back to Notting Hill. See, I wanted to like this movie, I really did. It was written by the same bloke that wrote “Love, Actually,” (which also should have been a better movie than it was), and it featured a positively charming cast, a truly adorable setting and lorry-loads of posh British quirkiness. And yet....the saccharine dialogue, Julia Roberts' teeth, the race-to-get-the-girl ending…it was just too bloody much, really. I laughed out loud at the “I’m just a girl standing in front of a boy….” speech and I’m pretty sure that wasn’t what the writer had in mind when he wrote that part.
Have I become irreversibly bitter and spiteful, or is something going around the air this Autumn season?