Nobody Expects…

This weekend a friend brought over a movie and I had a rather painful realization, one I hesitate to utter even in the relative shamelessness of my mostly-movie blog:

Even though Kinky Boots itself was not bad, I seem to be getting disenchanted with British comedy.

I know! I know! I love Monty Python’s Flying Circus, Black Adder, and A Fish Called Wanda as much as anybody…and often, more. I know which is the superior version of Whose Line… but…

It’s just that over the last few years the comedic British films I’ve seen have fallen into two categories:

1) Films about love by Richard Curtis, whose merely okay Four Weddings and a Funeral has somehow devolved into hooey like Love Actually— a movie the combined efforts of Emma Thompson, Alan Rickman, Colin Firth and Liam Neeson TOGETHER couldn’t save. I’d blame Hugh Grant, since I liked Curtis’s Grantless early movie The Tall Guy just fine, except that I actually thought he was pretty good as the PM in Love Actually. Go figure.

2) The plucky-people-triumphing-against-odds movie, which probably started with the Irish The Commitments and has since gone through The Englishman Who Went Up A Hill But Came Down A Mountain, The Full Monty, Calendar Girls, that movie where Brenda Blethyn grows pot in her greenhouse, and yes, Kinky Boots. I appreciate a good root for the underdog as much as anybody, but this subgenre is becoming as cliché as most American baseball movies. (You will also note that one of these also contains Hugh Grant, who may be at the root of the problem after all.)

What’s a girl to do, then, except sip her tea and cling to her Danger Mouse reruns?


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