I have a paternally inherited urge to see action movies.
It’s perhaps the same compeller that drove David Foster Wallace to read every sports person’s biography he could put his hands on, knowing beforehand of his inevitable disappointment at the silly, boring prose that comes out of the physically exciting but otherwise mentally mundane athlete.
I go to see action movies in the theatre, certain I’ll grow bored as we get closer to the unveiling of the plot’s secrets, uncomfortable with the volume of the explosions, irritated at the stale manner some of the exotic cities I visited are portrayed in glossy, epoxy grit.
Last Sunday it was Skyfall’s turn.
I had no special expectations from this trip to the cinema other than trying to, for a couple of hours, artificially extend the weekend, trying to postpone the thoughts about the cliff that is Monday.
As I remembered, James Bond…
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