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Nicolas Cage is My Favourite Actor

DAVE LAZER:  A few days ago, while I was going through files on my laptop, making sure there was no pornography or jpegs of swastikas (a childhood obsession reawakened when I learned how to use Photoshop), I found a film review I don’t remember writing (by the way, it’s not that I’m a racist, I just have a morbid fascination with Nazi symbolism; although, to be fair, that’s probably what I would say if I were a racist. I’m not though).  

Anyway, I can date this piece of writing back to a period in my life where I spent a lot of time drinking on my own in the daytime, pretending to look for a job and trying to entertain myself. I have no idea why I wrote this, but I feel that by putting it on the Internet I will have actually attempted to waste my own time and failed, thus making me both less and more of a loser at the same time.

So please, if you too are attempting to waste your time, read on. I feel obliged to warn you however, that this is an awful review of an awful film written by an awful person trying his best to appear even more awful. I’m pretty sure you’re definitely going to read it though. You’ve already made a commitment by reading this far; you’d just be wasting your time if you stopped now.


Knowing


I generally have no idea what makes a film good. When I come out of the cinema, I normally wait to hear other peoples scathing comments or lavish bumming of whatever film we’ve just seen (and which I have spent a good third of smoking in the toilets) before I quietly agree and hope no one asks me any questions.  It is this lack of knowledge and understanding that once led me to reply “Nicolas Cage”, when asked (in ‘A’ Level film studies) who my favourite actor was.

I don’t know whether it’s my inability to concentrate for long periods of time or whether I just get overawed by the sheer size of the screen and frankly ridiculous noise levels, but I seem to come out of the cinema knowing less about the film than when I went in. I don’t get films. I like television. I like music. But, when I hear friends talking about directors and getting excited about rumours of Robert De Niro and Al Pacino doing a film together I just can’t share their enthusiasm. I have seen one film with Robert De Niro in and that was Meet the Fockers and although I found it quite funny, I couldn’t tell you what happened in the end.

My girlfriend had been angry with me and I knew she wanted to see the film Knowing, so I took her, as, quite frankly, I had been acting a bit like a cock and felt I owed her two hours of my life doing something she knew I hated.

From what I could gather of the plot there was a mad girl and she wrote down lots of numbers fifty years ago. Then, Nicolas Cage’s son finds them, and he is also mad, and he has a friend and she is mad and also hears voices (oh yeah, the boy hears voices). Then, these scary men who look a bit like very thin albinos (except one who was fat who looked like My Name Is Earl’s brother) turn up and I am, at this point, slightly perturbed. They kind of creeped me out, until afterwards when I was thinking about it rationally, and concluded that when an alien decided it was going to take the form of a human, at no point would he decide to be a fat human. It would be of absolutely no benefit. Oh yeah, they turned out to be aliens.

The numbers were all the dates and (somehow) exact destinations of all the major disasters in the world (leading up to Armageddon); all of these disasters seemed to occur in the north west of the United States, in built-up, metropolitan areas. Maybe the producers thought that seeing five thousand Chinese people on fire wouldn’t have the same emotive effect on Western audiences. 

So, when I get back from nearly setting off the smoke alarm in the toilets, it’s the end of the world. Suddenly I was gripped; I genuinely believed as I watched the world disintegrate in front of me (more people on fire and cities crumbling, cars crashing into buildings and people generally going properly nuts) that I was witnessing a moment of cinematic history, a new benchmark by which all films would be judged. I finally understood what the big deal was. I actually had an opinion. 

As the film ended with the earth exploding, I held my breath, waiting for the cinema to burst into spontaneous applause. Then an Asian guy behind me shouted ‘BOLLOCKS’ followed by (rather confusingly) ‘THE FUCKING POWER RANGERS IS BETTER THAN THIS SHIT’, to which everyone laughed. 

The next day my mum asked me what the film was like. I told her it was bollocks.





























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