Thursday 31 March 2011

Pricking the Poetic.

I just watched a beautiful and haunting little British art house film called Frozen.

Filmed mostly on Morecombe Bay in north west England, it had all you’d expect of such a production: starkly beautiful shots of this most eerie and treacherous bit of coastline, the mystery of an intriguing image on a videotape, a rare level of emotional depth, superb performances by the lead actors, and a beautifully evocative theme for cello, piano and marimba.

And in the midst of all this ethereal fare there was one particularly memorable line.

The weird guy with the squinty eyes is trying to chat up the heroine Kath in a bar. She rejects him and walks away, at which point his mate standing behind him says:

‘Well, that went down like a cup o’ cold sick.’

You have to love that Lancastrian directness, don’t you?

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