Dr J and Dr T

Spent part of last night rewatching Robert Altman's film Dr T And The Women, a film that has just so much bad about it that I can only use a phrase as stilted as"so much bad about it" to describe it. Now, don't get me wrong: when Altman is on-- as with Gosford Park, Nashville, Short Cuts, The Player, McCabe and Mrs Miller-- he's brilliant; but when he's off-- as with Popeye, Ready to Wear and this abominable piece of cinematic crap-- he's stunningly bad. The film is so cacophonous I wanted to start screaming at the characters to shut the hell up for a minute just so I could hear what any one of the characters was saying. Worse, the script (as much as there every really is one with an Altman film) is ludicrous, with an ending that looks like a cheap imitation of Magnolia's. But watching was almost compulsory, in the same way that one can't look away from a train wreck. And the film's penultimate shots will certainly derail most teenage boys from even joking about growing up to become OB-GYNs. (What is it with the recent trend that says that any film that decides to be graphic in its dealings with human anatomy absolutely have at the same time to be excruciatingly dull? See also the films of Catherine Breillat.)

Another long, long day pends as I set out to make my way to the university. It's Richard III on the menu today, but I have a hunch (*groan*) we'll still be talking about our previous plays. Perhaps the Duke of Clarence was fortunate to have been stabbed and drowned in a vat of wine.