Severance

So, SO was in Bucharest at the beginning of this week. (All that way for a two-hour meeting, but he gets to charge them for two days of his time. I know - madness.) My pleasure, when he is out of the house, is a good horror movie. I bought myself Severance, and settled down, late in the evening, alone in the house, for a rare treat. I lasted twenty minutes.

Twenty. Minutes.

I bottled. Totally funked it. Twenty minutes! The screeching violins had barely got up to speed! A few moments of handheld camera (cue creepy music) from inside the bunker, and I hit the off button so fast I still have the bruise. I may never play guitar again. (Well, that's actually true, but mostly because of not practising because of idleness, not my over-dexterous use of the remote control.)

I clearly needed broad daylight for this, and preferably an inappropriate hour. So, yesterday, by 9:30 I was sitting on the sofa in front of the TV and d'ye know, I really enjoyed it. Oh yes, it was indeed drenched in gore, and I had to watch half of it from behind the sofa, but the funny bits were very funny indeed. Tim Macinnerny did his usual hapless tosser, but this tosser was far more than usually hapless - splendid performance. Laura Harris I've only seen twice before, once in 24/2, where she metamorphosed from Demure Essence of Femininity to steely-eyed ruthless terrorist from the Middle East, and The Faculty, where she metamorphosed from Demure Essence of Femininity to gigantic drippy-toothed alien from the planet Hell. This time around, DE of F to machete-wielding balls-for-breakfast go-to gal from the office next door. She does it so well.

The only reason for my state of utter funkhood I can think of is that this movie was populated by people I recognised. Movies like Wrong Turn, (which I saw a couple of weeks ago, on my own, late at night, no problem) where shiny American teenagers wander into the wrong house / forest / country and get sliced and diced, subscribe to the natural order of things. We've seen it a million times before. But not Him from the office down the hall with his leg in a mantrap. Or Her from the fourth floor tied to a tree and . . . Nah. Go watch it.

I hadn't banked on SO actually being in the house at that point, watching me watch telly at 9:30 in the morning, and I've been trying to persuade him ever since that this is not how I usually spend my mornings..