Last week, Sarge wandered into the bedroom, where I was reading and minding my own business. ‘I just bought something,’ he said. ‘What?’ I expected him to name some official noise-making device with numbers on the end of it. ‘You’re going to hate me. You’re never going to speak to me again. It’s terrible.’ ‘Whut?’ ‘I got an internet TV box. Blah, blah, blah (some numbers). And it has Netflix.’ I looked at him over my book. ‘It has what…
I’ve loved movies since I cried during Follow That Bird and my Dad took me to My Left Foot and called it research. Whether it’s at home with a bowl of burnt popcorn, or in a plush seat at the theatre, I don’t talk during the film and I watch to the end of the credits. And for the record, I didn’t ask for my money back because The Artist is a silent film. My most recent movie date with…
Stieg Larsson’s Millennium Trilogy has made me change the habit of a lifetime. I love the books and the films (so far). I love them equally. This has never happened before. Ever. I am always disappointed with film versions. Or I think that the films are better than the books they started from. (Frida, for example. Moving on.) This time, I am enthralled with both. And it helps that I like series of books. I like them for the same…
