Tales From The Heatwave

Hot. You call this hot. You should have been with us in the summer of 1976, taking our 'O' Levels during the drought. That was bloody hot. And did we complain? Of course we bloody did, all to no avail. Anyway the outcomes for me were largely satisfactory so it now resides in my sun-kissed meories as one of the best years of our lives. Funny thing memory.

All of which is not what I intended to write about today but it is a fact that it is scorching hot today so I thought I would remind you that we did occasionally have heat before global warming. No, what I was going to regale you with is the tale of two films. I was ensconced in Plas Piggy last week so that I could enjoy the Open Championship - the best television marathon of the year for this sports fan. Very enjoyable and doesn't Collin Morikawa seem a nice sort? No machismo (DeChambeau), no surliness (Koepka). By the way, if you want to buy some money, I would lump on the USA to win the Ryder Cup in September. But what do I know - I always say that and half the time I'm wrong.

So anyway, those two films. I watched them in the sultry seaside evenings at Plas Piggy. First up was what I have decided was one of the most dispiriting bits of cinema I have had the misfortune to encounter. It had high production values and a starry cast but, wtf, why does a film like The Jackal even get made? Who sat in a meeting and okayed the pitch to do a broad remake of The Day of the Jackal and then lobbed God knows how many millions at the project? This film is garbage - a good bit of the budget must have gone into fitting Bruce Willis for the various fright wigs he sports. As the contract killer he brings about as much danger as a melted box of cinema chocolate. But that's not the worst of it - I repeat, wtf, Richard Gere with a laughable Irish accent. Don't even start me on the horror of an IRA gunman as the honourable freedom fighter and his inamorata, a principled ETA terrorist. Americans just don't get this stuff do they. I could put up with such twaddle if it served up some tension but, no, this film seems to aim to fail on all fronts. Utter tripe. 23/100. And the great Sidney Poitier phones in a lamentable cameo. How are the mighty fallen.

And just as you despair of Hollywood, a French animation crosses your path and all is well again. Belleville Rendez-Vous opens with a surreal musical number and proceeds to get more and more endearingly weird. The plot involves an old woman with a club-foot whose professional cyclist grandson is kidnapped by the Mafia. She and her faithful hound cross the ocean where the weird and ancient Belleville Triplets eventually help her to effect a happy ending. It's barking mad and visually stunning in a heavily abstract sort of way. Not for small children but perfectly good for small adults and Big Fat Pigs. 80/100.

And talking of Big Fat Pig, he's off on his travels tomorrow. It's QMT golf tour, destination Cleobury Mortimer Golf Club but with a first stop at Droitwich Golf Club where the sainted GC is a member. Good weather (call this hot!) and good company. What more could the Pig want? Well, some good golf would be nice but the early season promise seems to have evaporated. Ah well, you can't win them all. Or any, in the Pig's case when it comes to golf.