So anyway, the point of that digression was that today, after failing to get in to Monty, we went up the street to another art-cinema and went to see Mrs. Brown, a true story about Queen Victoria's, um, very close friendship with a Scottish commoner, John Brown, who looked an awful lot like American abolitionist John Brown, so I kept singing to myself "John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave," which might not have been the mood the filmmakers were looking for. It's a Masterpiece Theater coproduction, and it's the kind of thing that gives Masterpiece Theater a bad name. Folks, I was bored silly. Between the Scottish mumbling and the women behind me who didn't shut up for five consecutive seconds throughout the entire movie (and their comments consisted of deep insights like, "Oh look, she's walking next to him," "Oh, she looks sad."), I had a hard time following what was going on, but frankly Victoria my dear, I didn't give a damn.
The Wash. Post review said it was "hilarious," but I guess it was the kind of humor like when your high school English teacher would tell you, "Shakespeare inserted this scene for comic relief," and you're like, "Oh, yeah, I can barely breathe I'm laughing so hard. Can we go back to where he's talking about death now? That part was funnier." In other words, I guess to find it funny you kinda had to be there, and I mean "there" as in 19th-century England and fully aware of the political situation, so that when someone makes a snide remark about Lord Gladstone, you can go, "That's sticking to that pompous coot! Ha ha!"
On the other
hand, Emily liked it, so what do I know.
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