Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Jah Jah Dub Recommends: Wedding Crashers
The reviews were bafflingly cruel. Yes, it is predictable; but so is Oedipus Rex. Get over it.
It was consistently funnier than I’d expected, and the inevitable, dread, growing and learning was handled sensitively. Thankfully, the stars were allowed licence to roam: if the Frat Pack is given its head, it will rarely let you down.
But who needs another review? Who demands such analysis? Look at the poster. That’s it. Look at Vince Vaughn’s face. A part of you is woken. You are suppressing it. You have marshalled your mass ranks of sensible argument; they are preparing to march; they are ready to trample this dissent underfoot. Call them off! Let that feeling grow. Reinforce it! Look at the face again. Look at the snarl. Somewhere inside you a realisation is growing. You are fighting it but it cannot be beaten, only ignored. You know it now. You know it but you don’t know what to do with this knowledge. Embrace it. Bring it in close and cradle it. Feel its warmth. You understand. You know. You know that if you allow yourself the privilege, you will love this film – not with reason, not with analysis, but you will love it. And your love will be pure and true.
Oh, how I wish for my friends to develop into Vaughn, Ferrell et al! But no. No, it is impossible. Englishmen are not made like that. And which part would I play? The best, the absolute reach for the stars, aspiration would be to be like *Luke* Wilson. I am in no position to demand the impossible.
So I liked it. The only downer came about three quarters in: I realised that I was not going to enjoy a film this much until Vince Vaughn’s next one.
Counting the days until Outsourced.
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The reviews were bafflingly cruel. Yes, it is predictable; but so is Oedipus Rex. Get over it.
It was consistently funnier than I’d expected, and the inevitable, dread, growing and learning was handled sensitively. Thankfully, the stars were allowed licence to roam: if the Frat Pack is given its head, it will rarely let you down.
But who needs another review? Who demands such analysis? Look at the poster. That’s it. Look at Vince Vaughn’s face. A part of you is woken. You are suppressing it. You have marshalled your mass ranks of sensible argument; they are preparing to march; they are ready to trample this dissent underfoot. Call them off! Let that feeling grow. Reinforce it! Look at the face again. Look at the snarl. Somewhere inside you a realisation is growing. You are fighting it but it cannot be beaten, only ignored. You know it now. You know it but you don’t know what to do with this knowledge. Embrace it. Bring it in close and cradle it. Feel its warmth. You understand. You know. You know that if you allow yourself the privilege, you will love this film – not with reason, not with analysis, but you will love it. And your love will be pure and true.
Oh, how I wish for my friends to develop into Vaughn, Ferrell et al! But no. No, it is impossible. Englishmen are not made like that. And which part would I play? The best, the absolute reach for the stars, aspiration would be to be like *Luke* Wilson. I am in no position to demand the impossible.
So I liked it. The only downer came about three quarters in: I realised that I was not going to enjoy a film this much until Vince Vaughn’s next one.
Counting the days until Outsourced.
|
