The Road: The Verdict

As the Faithful will know, towards the end of last year I read The Road by Cormac McCarthy and was left shell-shocked. So when I heard it was being made into a film starring Viggo Mortensen, I was apprehensive and excited - he's good, I thought, and certainly well-cast - but... what could a film add to the bleak perfection of the book? Last night I went to find out, and the answer is: precisely nothing. It's a worthwhile film, but not nearly as good as the book, not even close - it adds rien and takes away beaucoup. I'm glad I saw it but I wouldn't recommend it to anyone.

That's not to say that I didn't get emotionally involved, however. Of course, I was sitting there being superior, thinking how it wasn't a patch on Cormac's version, that film is probably the most complete medium there is, but that there is something about truly magical books that can't be replicated on celluloid, scoffing at slightly clunky bits in the screenplay that interrupted the story's natural flow, and moments later I was aggressively strangled by the force of my tears, paralysed by the lengths to which the father and son are driven by their need to survive, and grief-stricken by the tale's lowest point right before its end. To the best of my recollection, I haven't cried in quite some time, and the force with which the hot saltwater coursed down my face left me concerned that it might erode pathways in my cheeks. After two minutes of stifling my sobs, I had to look away from the screen for fear that, if the adorable son made one more heart-rending plea to his father, I would start making noises like some sort of birthing walrus. Fortunately, I wasn't the only one snivveling away like a hormonal idiot - it seemed like the entire cinema was having similar issues. It's sad alright. But no sadder than the book - and certainly less powerful overall. Read it, my pretties, read it.

In AOB, today I am starting to face up to my denial about a rather large financial issue. Grania and I are booked to go skiing in March. We've paid for our flights, and we've paid for our accommodation. But on Monday I received an email saying (parents, brace yourselves) that the chalet we'd booked has gone bust. They are allegedly returning our money, but who knows. Of course, we still want to ski, and if they return the money, then great, we can book somewhere else (I've already found an alternative). But if they don't return our cash, we can't afford to go elsewhere and pay two lots of chalet fees, so we'll have to call it quits. It's a bit of a nightmare, really, but the one positive that has emerged from this is that I am ridiculously calm. My parents would have steam coming out of their ears and I know it's a bad thing, but there is literally absolutely nothing I can do about it. I'm firmly in the camp that doesn't see much point shedding tears over spilled milk (although copious weeping over a fictional movie apocalypse is of course fine) - if you can fix it, go ahead, if you can't, shut up and don't whinge - so it's reassuring to know that, in the face of quite an expensive situation, I'm not losing my cool. Go me. Meanwhile, if anyone wants to buy me a week's chalet hire, I'd be very grateful. Email address is in my profile, underneath the photo of the lost baby whale.