Psycho. #3

An almost monosyllabic letter brings up a perennial question

why are film bad date

That’s the question I’m actually dealing with here — “why are film bad date”. I feel as though this question - this drab, effort-free little clunker, may have already brought to a bitter end all the best intentions of this column, which started out with so much hope, fervour and zest for life, only to be met with the reality of existence; its menial, oh-how-ordinary goings-on. 

And this leads us neatly on to dating!!! For isn’t dating, really, but a warding-off of the quotidian? A way to tell ourselves that the sweetness and balm we yearn for in our lives may continue if we create enough artificial conditions for such? A stroll by the river; drinks in a fancy bar; a picnic in the park as it’s sunny!; bowling. While you keep up the act of dating, you can tell yourself that there may really be something special in the world, some seam of delight and wonder that you have uniquely chanced upon - jusqu’ici tout va bien, as Mathieu Kassovitz’s La Haine has it. But reality, with its dirt and smells and obligations, must sooner or later intrude.