It's a title that works on so many levels. After writing the longest string of words I've ever put together, well beyond my
Buffy retrospective and edging out my criticism of
Star Trek Into Damnation, part one of my
Scarlett Johansson indulgence left me a bit listless. And more than a little irritated that the review's been on the front page for exactly two months and garnered precisely one view - I feel like Rivers Cuomo after
Pinkerton, which I haven't heard, or Bill Murray after
The Razor's Edge, which I haven't seen. Er, point made. Having readers
might help. All I need is a little discourage, or perhaps as with
Donnie Darko over a decade ago I'm waiting for other people to discover it so that I can refresh the tree of smugness with the blood of latecomers. I haven't been as single-minded about a film since I saw
Battle Royale - I've got the
Under The Skin soundtrack on vinyl, a promo ad cut out of
The Guardian I read on the day I saw it, and my DVD pre-order date stamped over a month ago. Despite that, I'm still far more restrained than the individual on IMDB who declared of Ms Johansson that he would happily "drink her bathwater". People like that make fans look like obsessives and ruin my chances of ever having children with her. It's spring after all - a time of fertility and flourishing of the
quick.
