Oxford life. Thirtysomething challenges. Music leanings. Anything really.

Last night we watched The Aviator. Or, we watched most of it. Liz gave up with an hour to go, and I bailed out slightly nearer the end, only to watch the end this morning.

I've read plenty of reviews of this film, and once more, I have a feeling of inadequacy in the face of literary review. It's the same with books, films, theatre and music. Where I might find a slice of the culture cake appalling, why do the journos find it amazing?

Is it because I am fundamentally stupid and missing the point? A book can be described as having multiple layers, immense depth, and characterisation that is the most accurate. And yet, I may have thought it was a pile of poo.

I like to think I am intelligent, but the number of times I disagree with a review is worrying. It's the same at my book group: last month a book I found incredible was dismissed as light-weight tosh.

Most Aviator reviews are pretty glowing, but in this case, I stand firm. I think it's a case of the Emperor's clothes. There's no way this was a good film. Three hours of lavishly produced (read: so polished you can't the substance through the shine), self-indulgent rubbish with an entirely unsympathetic lead character.

And the ending. Three hours of drudgery just to finish with someone yabbering in a toilet?