| Monday, July 30, 2001 |
 | Well, somebody is wearing the grumpy trousers today. Quality riposte, mind. Very Patrician.
Moving onto pastures less with walls and fences girdled round, I did enjoy seeing Ginger Snaps with Abigail last week. Sort of like Wendy the Werewolf Slayer directed by Todd Solondz, if that isn't the most horrifying concept ever. Intelligent scripting, engaging if archetypal characters, and really ropey special effects of the kind you just can't help but love. I can see it might not appeal universally, but the imposition of the narrative of a horror film (specifically, "An American Werewolf in London") onto the structure of a John Hughes coming-of-age drama (specifically, "The Breakfast Club" in open field), without allowing it to slide into that most misbegotten of genres, teen horror, is competently handled.
This for free, though: watching the performances at the heart of the drama, I realised how much I missed being a fucked-up teenager. You could do literally anything back then and nobody would really notice, because the teenager tag supercedes the fucked-up tag.
"What are you doing in there?"
"I'm getting in touch with my feminine side by experiencing common conditions of female teen angst. id est, bulimia and self-mutilation."
"Oh. Well, put the seat down when you're finished."
Heady days.
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