This is one of those books that everyone seems to have read when they were younger but it passed me by. I don’t know why but I just never read it. I mean it is often referred to as one of the greatest pieces of English literature of recent years. In 2019, BBC News included it in their list of 100 most influential novels. So, there must be plenty of people out there who think it was worth reading. I just never did. Maybe I just didn’t like the idea of reading a boy’s diary? As much as I don’t want to perpetuate the idea of gender stereotypes, I wasn’t exactly interested in what a 13/14-year-old boy had to say. Or maybe it was something about diaries in general? I never wrote a diary when I was younger. I think I was always a bit too embarrassed. It seemed too self-indulgent and pathetic. Why did I think my life was so worthy that it deserved being immortalised in a diary? Part of me is quite sad I never did, especially as my memory is o bad these days. Of course, every time one of my friends tells me about reading their old diaries, I am overjoyed that I never tried. Remembering what I was like as a teenager, I can be assured that it wouldn’t make for an easy read.
I always wonder what’s wrong with the people who wish they’d been born in another year. Like all of those Tumblr teenagers who wish they’d been born in the 80s. It doesn’t make any sense. Yeah, I love John Hughes movies and glam rock as much as the next person. But living in the 80s? I don’t think so. The only people who ever say things like that are the people who only know that era through a microcosm. Ask the people who lived in the 80s, they’d probably tell a different story. Certainly in England, the 80s weren’t the magical place so many young people want to believe it to be. The economy had gone to shit, people were out of work, there was so much violence and hatred on the streets. Kinda like now but with even bigger shoulder pads and double denim. It wasn’t a great time overall. I’m sure people made the best of it but it will have been so difficult for so many. To romanticise any era of the past solely based on your pop culture/fashion tastes is to trivialise the reality of that time. And, as you can tell, it annoys the fuck out of me.
Let’s pretend it’s Tuesday 18th June and not Monday 24th. This is the film that I had intended to review last week but, at the time, I was probably holding my one-day-old niece for the first time. And, as I gave up all ideas of achieving anything last week, I didn’t even think about taking part in the Creatively Squared hashtag challenge. So, to get myself back on schedule, I decided I would post two movie reviews this week. Starting with a film that has followed me around social media since it was released. I was skeptical about Booksmart in the same way that I am about any film being given almost universal praise. It always seems too good to be true. And as much as I like Olivia Wilde, this was her directorial debut. Could it really be as good as everyone claims? I mean I’ve seen people already describing it as their favourite film. I never trust people who do that. Anyone who says the last film they saw is their favourite is either an idiot, a liar, or someone who has only ever seen one movie in their life.