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Just back from what was probably the greatest cinematic experience I’ve had, or am likely to have for the entire summer. A relentless, take-no-prisoners journey into the further reaches of the human psyche (or somewhere like that, I’m still not quite sure) that left me helpless in my seat, groaning ‘okay, you win, you win’ as the crowd around me heaved and roared. The Dark Knight? Pshaw. An amateur effort. I refer, of course, to this.

The audience made it what it was- nearly all were (just) pre-menopausal women, and by all that is holy and profane did they love this film. Over to our right one of them was howling uncontrollably from about 15 minutes in, and when Pearse Brosnan opened his mouth to mangle the opening bars of S.O.S, the rest of them just …lost their minds. This is a genius bit of casting, as it seems that nothing will have a woman of a certain age snorting into their popcorn quite as readily as the sight of a very, very good-loooking man singing very, very badly in order to impress a woman of a certain age. And the most wonderful part of his performance is that he knows he can’t sing, which gives it a kind of nobility.

Go. No really, just go. You’ll thank me later.

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