You know, I don't mean for these entries to descend into being ill-tempered hate rants. Truly, I don't. I have things I want to try and cover in this blog. I've got the new Tori Amos album to get around to reviewing, for one thing, and I'm also thrashing around an article dealing with my ambiguous feelings about Velvet Goldmine , which, ten years ago, was probably one of my favourite movies of all time but which, as I was forced to conclude after watching it again the other day, is in fact a deeply flawed piece of cinema: dreamlike and beautiful in parts but in other places indulgent and even, frankly, boring. It would have been a good article, that: I would have linked back to my review of Fire Walk With Me below and talked about how some films can still get us even after we've grown up while others remain the guilty pleasures of our wasted youth (though, like Jim Steinman , I will concede that a wasted youth is better, or at least more fun, than a wise and productive old age).
But then I noticed that motor-racing midget Bernie Ecclestone has took it on himself to defend that much-misunderstood figure, Adolf Hitler .