Betraying my usual disdain for anything that falls under the category of ‘musical’, I went to see the critically-acclaimed Emma Stone and Ryan Gosling bonanza that is ‘La La Land’ this evening. Lauded as ‘the most romantic film of the year’, which – let’s face it – isn’t all that difficult considering we’re only twenty days in, the film follows the entanglement of two dreamers living in Hollywood, Mia and Seb.
To give credit where it is due, the film shed its predictable love-story plotline and finished with an altogether inspiring message – for those of us who are hellbent on pursuing our creative endeavours/are as unlucky in love as Bridget Jones circa 2001 (I, alas, fit snugly into both categories).
Here are the most pressing matters of the film as perceived by a self-professed Northern pessimist (SPOILERS AHEAD):
As cinematographic musicals tend to, ‘La La Land’ throws us in at the deep end by commencing with a traffic jam that results in an all-singing, all-dancing flashmob-y number. A girl does a high kick and flashes her underwear, which is perfectly matched to the shade of her dress. This would not happen on the M6.
Mia is dragged out to a party by her fellow actress-hopeful housemates, in a bid to arse-lick their way into new casting opportunities. This scene presents a whole host of burning questions. Namely, who the fuck goes out in a flock of colour-blocked dresses and why is nobody shit-faced and why is Mia drinking Lilt at a party? Also why does the party end before a restaurant closes downtown? Unrealistic plot, or bunch of squares?
I fly my quirky-girl-loving flag high for her but, let’s be real: Emma Stone cannot sing for toffee. And given the consistent musical motif throughout the film, surely you could’ve at least made all the lines rhyme, guys? Bring back that 10/10 Easy A miming scene, ta.
Will Ryan Gosling convey more than one facial expression this movie? And am I the only female alive who thinks he’s nothing to write home about?
Three words: Griffith Observatory scene. It can only be hoped that Seb slipped something in their popcorn to induce that pure cringe floaty ceiling-dancing. Nearly vommed up my beer.
After the onslaught of DIY BDSM following the popularity of 50 Shades of Grey, are we going to now see an influx of tap dancing in the street? Will starstruck lovers now start foxtrotting into Greggs after too many pints on a Sunday afternoon?
Tune in next time when another unsuspecting male lures me away from my pit of solitude to the cinema. xo