I love cinema, I love talking about cinema, unfortunately the latter involves looking another human being directly in the face for more than five minutes.
It was the year of our Lord, 2007, and I was 19 years old. I remember this year as one of the greatest amalgamations of hours and days on record, not because I had met the love of my life, no, that comes later (said in Bane's voice, though I haven’t broken her back or spirit and forced her to dwell in an uninhabitable hole… yet). This was the year that I believe to be the treasure trove of modern cinema, the Davy Jones locker of celluloid jewels. I felt it at the time, as I sat wide-eyed and motionless in the cinema every single weekend. Not only would I pay for my ticket and confectionary but hand over extras to pay for the gas, electric and other utilities for the upkeep of my home for the next 365 days.
Over the course of the past two weeks I’ve being watching Aziz Ansari and Alan Yang’s Master of None. After my brother informed me via phone, email and carrier pigeon how good it was and the Thanksgiving episode being one of the greatest pieces of television he has seen, I thought I best give it a go. Also, my cheques to Netflix hadn’t bounced, so I was all set.
I’ve being following Christopher Nolan’s work since Memento, though arguably I should have been following him since Following, but if you follow someone for too long they may have you arrested; and I very much doubt Mr Nolan would follow me to the gallows.