I’m reading a bloody awful book at the moment, of which I’ll provide more details when I get round to reviewing the wretched thing. I haven’t enjoyed a single word I’ve read and yet I’m persevering with it. Why? My darling friend, Katie Cat, has a rule for books she isn’t enjoying. If she reaches the 100th page and she’s finding it hard work, she’ll give up on it. I can’t do that. Whether it’s because I have a sneaky suspicion that the story will improve, whether I sado-masichistically enjoy inflicting literary torture on myself or whether I finish the book just so that I can moan about how it got published whereas I’ve never had any luck convincing literary agents of my writerly prowess, I’m not sure.
The same is true of other things. I wasn’t bothered at all about going to see Sex and the City 2. I loved the series, abhorred the film and was planning to leave Carrie and her geriatric friends sucking pureed sushi in their NYC nursing home. Until I heard all the appalling reviews about it and now I’m dying to see it. (I understand I’m a little behind on the game here. The film came out a year ago and I still haven’t even made the tiniest step towards Blockbusters).
The same goes for Burlesque. This film was bound to be shite (Cher and Christina Aguilera – whaaa…?) but, I’m drawn to it like Cher to a feathered headdress.
Maybe it’s because I like to review every film I watch / book I read and bad reviews are definitely more entertaining to read and write than glowing sentences steeped in praise. I always prefer A A Gill’s 1 star restaurant reviews and the NME’s 1/10 album critiques; it’s the one thing that’s sure to get me spending money on crap food / dire music.