This is paradise. Lying down on a North African beach, parasol shading my eyes from the wonderful sun’s rays, the sea rolling in and rolling out, tickling at my toes, cooling my pinkies. I’m tippedy-tapping away at my laptop keyboard. Life couldn’t be better.
“Creating a spoiler-free review is normally pretty difficult. But with Inception it’s piece of piss, because there are no plot spoilers. Nolan’s new film leaves you begging for spoilers, crouched on your knees, head down, crying with despair, hands cupped together, raised above your bowed head, pleading like a filthy Oliver, “Please, Chris. Can I have some spoilers?”
“Christopher Nolan: the mailman of Hollywood. Produced, written, directed and delivered. Delivered on every level. It’s pretty sickening how talented this film maker is. His CV is “mad-skills” for someone only just knocking on 40 years old.”
It was at this point I decided I needed to go down a level to carry on. I arranged for one flatmate to sit with me at a beach-side dining table, while another other made sure we went under safely and sharpish.
“Action fans can overlook the deeper elements of unreality and just mop, soak and suck-the-fuck-up the wonderfully realised fantastical set pieces and scenarios, gobbling down (just like Hollywood will be gobbling down on Nolan’s stump) one of the greatest converging of crescendos I’ve ever seen in a film.”
This wasn’t enough for me. Sitting on a bright-pink PVC sofa, in a French scat-specialising whore-house, tippedy-tapping on my laptop, my flat mate and I make preparations to put me down another level. This will be as far as I go.
“The sci-fi fans among us will enjoy the paradoxes, unrealities and fake science behind the plot’s vehicle, while thriller fans will quickly start fellating-hard on the film noir-direction and espionage running through the the film’s main vein. Am I falling?”
Continuing my review of Inception, I look out of my Manhattan penthouse and admire the world scurrying about 50 floors down. Like iddy biddy ants. I pour another gin, loosen my tie, unbuttoning my collar and go back to the laptop, to tippedy-tap of course.
I am falling. Hang on. Wait a minute… This dropping in my stomach is quickly followed by a realisation that I’m no longer in New York – I’m back in the slag-house, watching whores poo on one another. Ahh, lovely. Oh wait, falling again… Blam!
Oh, back on the beach. Mmmm, warm. Oh hello skimpily-clad sun lover… oh hang on…. wait a minute…falling again?
After being brought back into reality by my team, I sit here on Ealing high street at rush hour, tippedy-tapping on my laptop, wearing only my underpants, a half-empty bottle of gin is by my side. I appear to have pissed and shat myself, partially thanks to the old “hand in a warm bowl of water” trick, partially because I appear to have drink half a litre of gin. Thanks flat-mates, thanks.
“Just like after watching the masterpiece that is Inception, I’m left stunned. I’m left with questions. I’m left oddly satisfied and giddy. I’m left shocked and exhilarated. I’m left with shit and piss in my pants in public. Again.”
“I’d better check… “