I certainly didn't love it, but the worst thing about Venus proved to be the poster. Look at Peter O'Toole's creepy, staring eyes, just begging for a not-merely-honorary Oscar, beseeching the moviegoing public to love him and take pity on him and see what may be his final, most touching performance. Gahhhhh! I swear, those eyes follow you no matter how desperately you try to avoid his gaze. I cannot think of a less effective marketing tool than this poster, unless it's those disgusting Carl's, Jr. ads of a few years back featuring a series of slobbering yokels dripping condiments on everything and everybody in the vicinity. But I digress.
Venus, while not good, is all right and a bit saltier than your average genteel British comedy. (How does Norman describe this sort of film? Oh yeah: "twee." Actually, "fuckin' twee.") Nothing like watching a bunch of old geezers yelling, "Fucking shut it! You're getting on my nerves!" at one another. Basically, it's about old men's preoccupation with sex and death. Peter O'Toole is fine, if sort of relentlessly fey, and the fellow who plays his best friend Ian is wonderful. All in all, not a terrible experience, and a sweeps stunt episode of Grey's Anatomy easily cleansed any treacly residue from our palates.
My progress on The List is advancing nicely. I plan to catch Borat, The Pursuit of Happyness, and Blood Diamond this weekend, which will leave me with just three more films to see before the 25th. I must say, I'm glad to have the dreaded Venus behind me, although it wasn't nearly the onerous experience I'd steeled myself for.