The main difference between Richard (Kenneth Branagh) and I - in 1998 - is that I'd have given Jane (Helena Bonham-Carter) what used to be called "a good seeing to" in a remote shed in Wales in the late evening without any hesitation - as she is obviously gagging for it and nobody's about.
She's shown in a care institution watching space age crash dummy porno films with a realistic panting and moaning audio track. She's also spent two or three weeks, solid, fully encoding (@one keypess per minute) a long and prevaricating message on an NHS communication device, whereas "please ***k me" would have done the trick. Only 14 keypresses and hardly any f*nnying about (unless particularly requested). Job done. Film - only a short and well under budget.
But Englishman Paul Greengrass was directing and this is the (English, fully-sexually-repressed) movies.
In reality, in 1998 (even in England) you bought a Contact Magazine which was full of adverts with polaroid photos (stone age instant photography) - to avoid the roll of film conventional film being rejected by censors Boots the Chemist as pornographic when you put it in for developing and printing). Contact Mags were full of dodgy couples whom you could meet in shady pubs; then being careful to wear condoms to avoid the bacterial diseases that were curable with antibiotics and avoiding a.i.d.s. by refraining from anal sex or any sex where skin is broken and blood fluids exchanged - you went back to their place for seedy sex.
In 1940's Hollywood every chorus girl who wanted a starring role had to be personally f***ed by the director and possibly several other production executives to get the job in the first place.
In Shakespeare's day, all the girls (even those with motor neurone disease) roles were played by rent boys. That's why only gay directors and gay leading men thrived in the theatre.
Anyway this is a great, English 'will the young man ever work out where to put his penis ?' film in which Richard's chances of ever leaving the ground in a pile of old scrap metal are about as likely as Jane's are to get him to politely insert a working dildo with a new set of batteries into her willing vagina - or even have the straightforward ingenuity to hot-wire it from the battery on her three-phase, space-age, wheelchair.
But I'm not going to spoil the magic "Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid - 1969" moment where one of them admits "I've never shot anybody before ! / I can't swim !" you'll have to watch it youself to find out. The rumour that I get any residual on Netflix and Amazon viewings is laughable, but possible.
When a strange kind of aeronautical intimacy is finally achieved you will understand why the Civil Aviation Authority and British Airways Flying Club doesn't let Ken Branagh and Helena Bonham-Carter up in real aeroplanes in googles and leather helmets - however much they get paid for acting.
Children in those days were very naughty - well into their thirties. I wonder where babies really come from - my gooseberry bush is not working at all. Perhaps I need professional help from a horticulturalist ?
She's shown in a care institution watching space age crash dummy porno films with a realistic panting and moaning audio track. She's also spent two or three weeks, solid, fully encoding (@one keypess per minute) a long and prevaricating message on an NHS communication device, whereas "please ***k me" would have done the trick. Only 14 keypresses and hardly any f*nnying about (unless particularly requested). Job done. Film - only a short and well under budget.
But Englishman Paul Greengrass was directing and this is the (English, fully-sexually-repressed) movies.
In reality, in 1998 (even in England) you bought a Contact Magazine which was full of adverts with polaroid photos (stone age instant photography) - to avoid the roll of film conventional film being rejected by censors Boots the Chemist as pornographic when you put it in for developing and printing). Contact Mags were full of dodgy couples whom you could meet in shady pubs; then being careful to wear condoms to avoid the bacterial diseases that were curable with antibiotics and avoiding a.i.d.s. by refraining from anal sex or any sex where skin is broken and blood fluids exchanged - you went back to their place for seedy sex.
In 1940's Hollywood every chorus girl who wanted a starring role had to be personally f***ed by the director and possibly several other production executives to get the job in the first place.
In Shakespeare's day, all the girls (even those with motor neurone disease) roles were played by rent boys. That's why only gay directors and gay leading men thrived in the theatre.
Anyway this is a great, English 'will the young man ever work out where to put his penis ?' film in which Richard's chances of ever leaving the ground in a pile of old scrap metal are about as likely as Jane's are to get him to politely insert a working dildo with a new set of batteries into her willing vagina - or even have the straightforward ingenuity to hot-wire it from the battery on her three-phase, space-age, wheelchair.
But I'm not going to spoil the magic "Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid - 1969" moment where one of them admits "I've never shot anybody before ! / I can't swim !" you'll have to watch it youself to find out. The rumour that I get any residual on Netflix and Amazon viewings is laughable, but possible.
When a strange kind of aeronautical intimacy is finally achieved you will understand why the Civil Aviation Authority and British Airways Flying Club doesn't let Ken Branagh and Helena Bonham-Carter up in real aeroplanes in googles and leather helmets - however much they get paid for acting.
Children in those days were very naughty - well into their thirties. I wonder where babies really come from - my gooseberry bush is not working at all. Perhaps I need professional help from a horticulturalist ?