The Bourne Hypocrisy

As I was standing in Waterloo by the statue of the painter, waiting to meet Katherine for lunch yesterday, I realised that this was the first time I'd been in the station since I'd seen the latest Bourne film, which features a superb set piece filmed amongst the commuters and tourists at the terminus. I looked along the length of the building with a keen eye, searching for a few of the landmarks from the scene. I even rummaged for my camera and took a photo.

Cut to a couple of minutes later. I'm still standing by the statue, waiting for Katherine, but by now, Waterloo's novelty has eroded and I'm feeling a deep-seated ennui regarding the Matt Damon connection. A group of twenty-somethings walk past me on their way to the South Bank, three boys in front and two girls behind. The girls ask an inane question about Bourne and the boys answer dismissively, not slowing their pace for a second. I scoff to myself at these tragic figures who have allowed themselves to be touched by a Hollywood blockbuster; in particular, I pity the girls' futile attempts to curry favour with their male friends by expressing interest in a genre that has clearly not been created for them. A few moments on and I'm denouncing the dominance of men's magazines that encourage women to pose in their underwear in order to be 'respected' by their oafish readers while prudish girls who refuse to join in the 'fun' are labelled boring and most likely in possession of some sort of emetic physical deformity.

This 240 second excerpt from my head is me in a nutshell - an initial thought is a joyous event, but is tainted almost immediately by exposure to the elements. Of course, the instant an outsider joins in and creates a link between me and the majority, the artificial barriers are constructed and I force distance between us by rubbishing the ideas I'd been cradling moments earlier. Schizophrenia? Intellectual snobbery? Or desperation for individuality in a sea of people? Methinks it's the latter. I certainly relished going against the critical flow last night having seen Atonement. As expected, strong acting could not disguise the embarrassing self-indulgence of the direction and no amount of incontinent dribblings and five star ratings from celebrity film critics will persuade me otherwise. I do enjoy a swim against the tide: my only sadness is that triceps don't benefit from figurative rebellion.