190. Trashy films

I was home alone last night. All alone. No Herself, no hound. I'm happy in my own company, but the contrast is always rather startling.

So I did some jobs, spoke to the parent, had some dinner, sat down to watch TV. But it's August, so there's nothing on.

I watched Terry & June. I watched the Vicar of Dibley. And then The Wedding Singer came on. I was going to switch over and watch The Duchess, but I got hooked. Adam Sandler (in a monstrous mullet wig) and Drew Barrymore in a 1980s-set romantic comedy. The best thing about it is the sweetness of the leads and the music. Otherwise, it's all pretty formulaic. But I loved it. I've seen it before, but it was perfect for a chilly, solitary Thursday night.

I got to thinking about the secret comfort of trashy films like this one. Of course one woman's trashy film is another's masterpiece, but unless you dwell entirely in the emotional twilight of romantic comedies there is always a certain amount of conscious choice going on. I think the trick with the joy of a trashy film is to come across it by accident. In my experience, the moment you own a trashy film it stops being the same guilty pleasure.

I quite often have a trashy film guilty pleasure when Herself's away, which will come as no surprise at all to those who know her. But in a way the trashy film makes up for her absence. And maybe that's why I had a little tear in my eye at the end of The Wedding Singer. That, or I'm really losing it...