| Wednesday, July 10, 2002 |
 | Spiderman on Tuesday, after top Tong Mein at the New Culture Revolution. The N1 centre fucking terrifies me. What was it about Islington that made somebody look around it and think, "nope, just not enough overpriced shit middle-class shoppera shit here." You live in cockringing Islington, you scumpuppies. If you've got such a need to be robbed for mediocre noodles served by enthusiastic but clueless Australians, there's a Wagamama in Soho you can reach in thirty minutes. You fucks.
But yes, Spiderman. Which looks like a pilot episode for Smallville hastily rewritten to accommodate the spidery one by the scriptwriting team of Hercules: The Legendary Journeys upon their discovery of a huge laundry basket full of cash. This makes it either the best thing ever or a reasonably entertaining yarn with paper-thin characterisation and at times hilariously bad dialogue. Hilariously bad in a "fuck me, did they just transcribe the 1960s comic here?" way. Heads up, true believers!
Still, it's all pretty pulse-pounding and exciting, and a film with Bruce Campbell in, even for five minutes, is better by definition than any film without Bruce Campbell in. Kirsten Dunst and her terrifying chest (seriously, they are not. Meant. To. Do. That) works personfully with a nothing part, and Willem Dafoe digs deep, finds a hunger for furniture not extinguished by the International Feast of Ham that was Streets of Fire, and chows down. Trust me. Whatever budget didn't go on CGI went on replacement edible sofas.
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