(no subject)

The best (only) good thing about insomnia, is that it affords you time to watch rented movies without either having to explain the plot to someone (oooh, lets say, for sake of argument: Mum) over and over again, or having someone (again, sake of argument, lets say Dad) deciding that the big finale would be a really good time to have a huge in-depth conversation about something you don't know much about (or know about but don't give a damn, one of the two).

Anyway, I have been taking advantage of the current sleeping drought to catch up on cinema. Tonight's offering: The Producers.

I should point out at this juncture that I was practically raised on a diet of Mel Brooks films. Dad's fault. He trained me well, what with the Python and the Goons and so forth. I could quote liberally from Young Frankenstein before I was ten, the bean scene from Blazing Saddles is permanently etched on my funnybone and dammit, I actually LIKE Spaceballs!

Bet you're thinking I'm about to say I hated it and the original was better, huh? Nah, I'm just messin with ya. I loved it. But then, I love Matthew Broderick, and it was great to see him sing and dance - and I think he did neurotic Leo Bloom even better than Gene Wilder.

This, however is not my point. Hey, I've not had any sleep for a fortnight, I'm doing well to have gotten here so quick, so stop yer whining!

My point is this: fandom collision is bad for my health. To whit: Captian Jack with blonde hair, goose-stepping in time, belting out 'Springtime for Hitler'! I couldn't see the screen for laughing. Why did no-one warn me that John Barrowman was in this film?!

And with that image firmly lodged in your collective noggins, I return you to your regularly scheduled flists.