As a Communication Studies graduate (class of '94, also reached the semi-finals of the university soccer tournament that same year - a defining era in my young life); I take it as my God-given academic right to hold forth at length about matters celluloid. And to choose the sort of movies we watch here in the Gaynor-Takahashi 'Palace of Light'.
Along as they are love stories.
"Believe it or not, halfling", I said to my beloved wife, "there are romantic movies that do not involve Hugh Grant or adaptations of Jane Austen novels." And so I made her sit down beside me to watch Dr. Zhivago. Yes, that Dr. Zhivago, the David Lean epic, based on the book by Boris Pasternak.
"I never heard of it", said she who is not of the Race of Men.
"What!? One of the greatest love stories ever to grace page and screen. Oh my dear, you are in for a treat, albeit a fairly long, four hour one, but a treat nevertheless. With intermissions, for, eh, treats".
"Just put the feckin DVD on and shut up".
And so we settled down to watch, on Blu-ray no less, one of the great love stories of the twentieth century.
45 minutes into the movie and Sanae has had enough. Not even a quarter way through and we already have had a murder, a massacre, a rape, an attempted suicide, an attempted assassination and some implied incest.
"I though you said this is a love story!"
"Well, it's a Russian love story", I weakly reply.
"Enough" bellows she who is not of the Race of Men but who is quite formidable when annoyed.
Out comes Dr. "Feckin shite" Zhivago, and in goes Sense and Sensibility. And yes, it was the version with Hugh Grant.
Dr. Zhivago - greatest love story ever, or "feckin shite"?
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