Blue is not so warm, thank you very much.

It's after midnight on a hideous night, freezing rain, treacherous after a long dark day. I spent the whole day doing yet another edit of the manuscript and emailed it to a man whose business is self-publishing. So we'll see. Jean-Marc and Richard appeared, we had a glass of wine, and they proposed that we see "Blue is the Warmest Colour," the Palme d'Or winner at Cannes and subject of much buzz - "let's go watch lesbians make out," as they said. I ignored my natural caution where modern French theatre and cinema is concerned - the reviews were raves, the Palme d'Or ...

Well, that's three very, very long hours of my life I won't get back. Endless. Interminable. The camera thrust so close to those women, it was practically up their noses. And up other parts of their bodies too. Why why why do French theatre directors and filmmakers believe that if one scene in a classroom is good, fifteen scenes in a classroom are better? If one scene where the heroine weeps so much that snot rolls down into her mouth is good, then five of them will move us so much more? And as long as possible, please. In case we don't get it. In case you don't get it, audience, let's film it again.

Bedtime. Alone. Hooray.