I watched the movie ‘Stardust’.
It was dreadful and I absolutely LOVED (parts of) it. The female characters were all hideously offensive setreotypes, but Robert De Niro played a cross-dressing sky pirate and there was magic and adventure and an excellent cast. It didn’t so much make up for the stereotypes as distract from them, but that was sort-of-ok even though it was wrong.
I watched the whole thing, enjoyed great swathes of it (often despite myself) and then – as the credits rolled – realised the obscene truth: the nice little movie I’d been watching HAD BEEN ADAPTED FROM A NEIL GAIMAN NOVEL. That’s not even the worst of it. If only. The worst part was that the first thing that popped into my head when I realised it was a Neil Gaiman creation was “oh ace, can’t wait to buy the book and see how he imagined it”.
WHAT? EXCUSE ME? Did I just think, “I can’t wait to buy the book”? Did I accidentally express EAGERNESS to read something written by my nemesis? Since when am I a contributor to Gaiman’s Empire of Smug? Since when do I use my hard-earned farthings to support his smug lifestyle? NEVER! Imagine my horror. Imagine the cold prickle of disbelief, the overwhelming sense of self-loathing and betrayal. How could I possibly be thinking such things?
I’m even now inclined to get the book to read for myself.
UGH. This is SERIOUS.
American Gods? Neverwhere? Now this STARDUST? Where will it end? When will he stop torturing me with all his talent and his imagination on the one hand, and all his smug and his shameless self-promotion and his‘cool’ and his ‘nice’ on the other. ARGH. It kills me. At least I hated Coraline. At least I’ve got that to cling on to…