Now, my memory might be hazy, but the rain that was threatening the evening as I arrived had definitely parted ways with the West End by the time I left. I wasn't planning on sticking around either. The night had definitely gone on too long. I'm not sure when this realisation dawned on me. Was it between the fourth and fifth innings of Manhattans? Or perhaps when I was on the small stage singing 'Hotel California' with a gang of fetching transvestites. Regardless, there definitely came a point when I could see four cocktails in front of my at the bar, which is odd because I usually order them by the pair.
I climbed up the stairs, emerging from the dank cocktail bar into the fresh London air. It had gone one in the morning, and not being in complete control of my faculties, a brisk walk seemed on the cards. That was until I came across a bike. £1.00 of my money for an hours worth of time! What great value it would have been had I not got lost. The problem with all transports quicker than feet is that one can travel so far in completely the wrong direction. As stated previously, my faculties were not currently in my possession, so it took an hour for me to be able to admit how unfamiliar my surroundings were. It was true revelatory experience. I felt like a better man.
All this led to one conclusion; I'd have to find the nearest telephone box and call my solicitor. I was sure that at 2am, she would love to hear that I couldn't make our appointment at noon. Shame too, she had a wit that exceeded her fine legs. That's when it hit me, I found a safety net. An incredibly fortuitous prostitute had put a map on her call-up card. I found my way to the main road, ditched the bike and walked for 4 hours. I put my keys into the door, tore my boots off and ran upstairs to start a blog post comparing my recent experiences watching the Rum Diary to my recent experiences watching Chico & Rita.
Both are films, both feature sharp suits and sharper tunes, however, one of them is a fair more successful film than the other. Let's get rid of the suspense, the Rum Diary, although not disinteresting, is definitely the more dispassionate affair, which is odd considering the close relationship Johnny Depp had with Hunter S. Thompson. It's a very polished and professional piece, but strangely distant. There are fantastic performances throughout, but Mr Depp's Paul Kemp is always at an arm's distance and for no great reason. It's almost as if Mr Depp holds Hunter S. Thompson with such regard that his performance brings a stately disposition to his friend, but little of the wit and humour that was evident in his writings.
On the other hand, I can't say enough pleasant things about Chico & Rita. A truly heart warming romance that, while possessing a few plot points that don't completely satisfy, is a completely breathtaking visual and audio experience. As has been discussed previously on the blog, I am a complete sucker for most period pieces set between the 20s and 60s. Hats man, people looked better in hats. Anyway, I was completely drawn into the world presented by Javier Mariscal. I would kill to have any of the frames of this movie on my wall.
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Other musings:
Not all of what I wrote above is true, but I certainly did have a time getting back from a cocktail bar on Tuesday night. My legs and back have seized up so I will make sure to do some stretches before bed tonight.
I'm thinking about getting dental insurance. I can't decide how this makes me feel.
I have an incredible weekend of film lined up this weekend. 50/50 on Friday and then My Week With Marilyn, Deep Blue Sea, Moneyball (finally!) and one that escapes my mind right now. Butt-numb-athon 2011. Take Shelter! That's the last one!
I love the Twilight Zone and Rod Serling. Still watching Season 3, just got through some gems including It's A Good Life. Horrible sound effect in that one.
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