Movies: Hot Fuzz

Why do I feel as though writing about this movie will take out all the funny? Perhaps it is because my blog has been recently criticized.

"i think i should stop reading your blog. [. . .] oddly, it makes me really hate you. it's somewhat inexplicable because there isn't anything offensive in your blog. it's just something about your tone and word choice. [. . .] i think i like you more in person than i do on paper. i don't recognize you [. . .] when you're in writing - you are like a stranger."

Other readers have agreed that I blog with "a haughty, dismissive tone." I insist that I am, by nature, haughty and dismissive, but dissenters, as is their definitive nature, dissent.

I had always considered my blog to be light (see silly postings including this rhymey poem and my description of Justin Timberlake as a wussy honky cracker), but I am now going to endeavor to make them even lighter (see my thoughts on nose picking, not to be confused with Roald Dahl's thoughts on sex (Sex is like picking your nose; it's okay to do it yourself, but no one should ever have to watch anyone else doing it.)

And Hot Fuzz is the lightest movie I've seen all year—and possibly the best, particularly as it belongs to a genre I usually loathe (farce)—I wanted to leave just seeing the trailers (including an Iraq farce, a ping pong farce, and a pro-life farce). So to blog may be to bore. Suffice to say, this is English farce, and it is with an enthusiastic and even loving gestalt that it simultaneously mocks and pays homage to American Action Flicks in the mold of Bad Boys II. There are lug nut jokes enough that the average American will wet his pants laughing, but anyone suffering from acute Anglophilia will find that he's soiled his knickers, he's laughed so hard.