Dad bod Farrell by tooth, by claw. There’s a lot of talk of stabbing stomachs at the Last Chance Hotel. Verdant bracken, the bay laps the shore. Feral singles in the turgid wood. A brutal film, richly imagined. John C. Reilly would like to be a macaw when the torture’s over.
Gothic canals, f bombs and child murder. It’s not so much In Bruges is milk that’s coddled and gone lumpy from neglect as I’m no longer in my twenties. Should do well for all you Boondock Saints but my fellow depressive neurotics should steer clear. Belgium looks nice though.
This one was recommended to me by attractive marrieds. They’d come to see me drink menstrual blood and shake my butt under a big tent during an evening of orgiastic Klezmer and glitter and then they wrote to me via Facebook and suggested this Irish comedy about a quirky family and a teenage pregnancy. I fear I’m obfuscating the connection in an ill-conceived effort to be a wise-guy. The connection is love.
