More than a simple exercise in ineffective writing, Tyler Perry’s latest outing is amounts to a lesson in quantum physics and mirror universes that would make Marvel Comics jealous.

Case in point is Terry (Tyler Perry) and Diane’s (Sharon Leal) son who despite supposedly being born in the interim year between both movies looks and acts like a 4 year old. Is he the real world answer to a young Franklin Richards?

Arriving for their annual couples retreat, four relatively affluent African-American couples must confront the issues they otherwise keep hidden. For Sheila (Jill Scott) and Troy (Lamman Rucker) are haunted by her ex-husband Mike (Richard T. Jones); Terry believes Diane is cheating due to a recent change in her mood for the better; Patricia (Janet Jackson) and Gavin (Malik Yoba) are unable to recover from the loss of their child and Patricia’s inability to open up emotionally; and Angela (Tasha Smith) believes Marcus (Michael Jai White) is incapable of fidelity with female fans flocking to the fledgling sportscaster. One couple’s troubles will be too much for them to continue.

Perry’s understanding of story and character development appear even worse than his sense of time. Each couple struggles with such banalities, often recycled entirely from the original, it’s impossible not to wonder how they’ve managed to survive this long. Subtleties are of little importance, leading to each conflict being introduced almost immediately after they gather together, also raising the question of whether or not they’re each other’s worst omens.
How a meaningful and lasting catharsis can be achieved with any degree of impact in the concluding chapters is never a consideration. Despite being store-bought in sentimentality, Perry honestly believes they carry significant gravitas to maintain the audience’s interest, something far from the truth.

None of the cast interact with each other as real friends or beyond their annual vacation, communicate, based at least upon how little the most recent addition Troy knows the rest of the travel party and the children’s lack of knowledge about his very existence.
Each looks at one another with a smile, giggling uncomfortably at jokes
without any punchline before retreating to their own inner demons. Yes they band together at appropriate moments but it is far too transparent and structural, plodding methodically even further through tired conventions.

Angela specifically as a character harks back to the stereotype of the angry black woman which Perry attempts to subvert. So salient is she in her writing and portrayal, there is nothing new added to the conversation except for an ever constant irritation. Her problems are indicative of the entire project, literally ported from one edition to another, ironically for the most part a fact Perry makes light of for as long as possible, missing that he is in reality highlighting a major shortcoming of his “style”.

Credit must however go to Scott, who continues to grow as an actress, illustrating a quiet strength and breathy confidence in every word she utters, even at her most vulnerable.

Aimed at the average Oprah viewer, the only saving grace is Scott, otherwise adrift in a sea of nausea-inducing mediocrity.

Dear you,

Soz, that hotel was SHIT and we couldn’t stay any longer in it. The new place was nice, though. You totally would’a fit in my suitcase.

Day 28 — Someone that changed your life

Dear you,

I used to wonder what if, ‘til I realised how futile that was. You can’t have everything.

Day 29 — The person that you want tell everything to, but too afraid to

Dear You,

Someday I will stop asking why and I’ll just get it. Maybe then I can tell you. It’s not that I want to keep things from you, it’s more that I’m trying to figure out how I feel about it all first.

And I’m a little afraid.

Day 30 – Your Reflection in the Mirror

Dear You… Me… whatever.

Stop messing around and get on with it. No point going backwards.

ALL MY LOVE ETC ETC

Aoife… me… you… whatever.

Dear Longest 30 Days in the World,

Sorry I can’t count and am wholly unreliable to blog daily, unless I really want to.

I’ve nothing to say to you and a billion things I want you to know and I still don’t fully understand how that is.

It’s no longer a secret and I’m no longer scared. Everything’s changed; I’ve changed. And there’s nothing you can do to change that, because your bids for control are lost on me now. You can’t have me.

You can’t. I control it. I decide. It’s all my choice. I’ve taken it all back. It was never really yours. I need you to know that none of your old tricks work. That I know. That I’ve done it anyway.

That you’re a pathetic excuse for a human being, and that you have my pity (also that I’m Buzz Lightyear now, apparently). That you never once gained my respect through any of it, even though that’s possibly part of what it was about. That you’re entitled to nothing. Nothing. That you can’t justify it. You can’t fix it. I don’t even want you to try. I won’t let you. I want nothing from you.

That you taught me where to draw lines. That I might have learned the hard way but that I learned. That I might have been stupidly young, and obscenely naive, but that I’ve grown up. That I have a sense of self worth now, one which I won’t let you diminish.

That you can’t play the victim. You’re only a victim because you made yourself one. It was your fault; you can’t convince me otherwise. There is no excuse. It was learned. It was intentional. You can’t change it. It wasn’t “just” anything. I’m not “too” anything. You can’t downplay it. Not anymore.

You stole a lot from me, and set some sort of bar. I’m raising it. I have raised it. I know different now. I know it wasn’t my fault, no matter what sort of spin you try to put on it. I know that now. I did nothing wrong. I don’t need to be afraid.

But that wasn’t it. You didn’t leave it at that, and I still haven’t figured out how much of it you meant. I can’t trust you, and never will again, but it took a long time before I could trust other people after that. I don’t understand. Trying to differentiate is hard, and I’m still wholly unsure, really, but it can’t destroy things now. You can’t do that. I’m trying really hard not to let you. This isn’t yours.

You don’t win. I never wanted it to be a game, but if you’re looking at it that way, this is me taking control. Perhaps a little late, but I didn’t really ever understand your rules. But I don’t have to walk on eggshells anymore. I don’t have to hide. I don’t have to push people away. I don’t have to put up with your fucking shit. I’m not constantly anxious. I’m not pressurised. I can have some form of self respect/self esteem without that being completely trampled on constantly. I don’t feel guilty. I’m not trapped. Everything is different. Everything.

And I know it doesn’t have to be like that. It won’t be like that, ever again. I deserve more.

My scars can heal, but you won’t just change. I don’t hate you, not now. I can’t change the past. I’ve learned from it and am moving on. You were part of my past but you don’t control my future.

You haven’t learned though. You haven’t changed. I thought you might grow up, grow out of it, but you haven’t. I can’t hate you anymore, I just pity you. You need help, and I tried. I tried so fucking hard, but I couldn’t. Maybe it was because my motivation was somewhat selfish. I don’t know. It didn’t work, it made things worse. I can’t try anymore.

You need to want to. You need to acknowledge it first.

I hope someday you learn, but not for your sake particularly. For their sake. You mean nothing to me. You made it that way.

I was about to apologise, perhaps as a force of habit, but I have nothing to be sorry for.

Aoife.

Director Edgar Wright (Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuss) sets himself a difficult task with his latest project. In an age where comic book adaptations adorn our screens at every turn, the honeymoon period is quickly coming to an end. Kick-Ass tried to do the very same, injecting hipster sensibilities into the preexisting formula, failing early on to carve a substantial niche for itself. But in the mysterious wilds of Toronto, practically anything is possible.

Drawing from the pulsating series by Bryan Lee O’Malley, Pilgrim (Michael Cera) is the jilted bass guitarist of Sex Bob-omb, a group in need of a break. Still cradling his childhood and the memory of the one girl to ever break his heart, Scott begins seeing 17 year old Knives Chau (Ellen Wong). In the year since his last serious relationship ended he’s left a trail of romantic destruction in his wake. The introduction of Ramona Flowers (Mary Elizabeth Winstead) is no different, causing him to yet again lose interest in his current paramour, falling instantly and irrevocably in love. Unfortunately her 7 evil exes aren’t too enthusiastic about the new pairing.

Where Kick-Ass employed tired conventions of teenage angst and hyper-realistic violence without recourse, here multiple elements across as many unlikely genres create a vivid and other-worldly quality. The very nature of these additions form an altogether frantic pacing, initially overloading the senses before enveloping all who come before it. Minor issues exist in the moments left simply to the characters, jarring in their deprivation of background stimuli and an ending lacking in simplicity.
Wright deftly juggles a form of smug indifference and self-awareness, forming a world where in spite of their faults the residents are unquestionably likeable. Rather than simply conforming to the given stereotypes of modern youth they revel in it. Acknowledging their failings with equanimous foresight and celebrating the very same, adds simple and effective depth to the proceedings overall.

Cera, having proved himself to be an unlikely but enigmatic lead in Nick & Norah’s Infinite Playlist essentially channels the same abilities. He may appear to be passive but rarely is he less than formidable. The remaining cast fit comfortably around him, never falling into the background nor overshadowing him.
Where the roles do not feel like the most comfortable of fits are the exes themselves. Entertaining to a point, each are insubstantial in the threat they pose. With every sequence the action increases exponentially yet it is the opponents themselves that dull them even if it’s for the briefest of moments. Such shifts assuage much of the damage yet they continue to exist.

Never overstepping its bounds, Scott Pilgrim manages to subvert a genre in need of change, a fact that studios should consider with any future projects.

School started again this week – Aoife started in her new school and Sinéad went back to be a big scary sixth year. As she says, h8 lyf.
In any case, college doesn’t start for another three weeks.
Well, two weeks and five days, but who’s counting, right?

I met Ciarán the other day, after work, by chance, when I was walking to the train station.
There won’t be that many people in our law class this year – a good few have gone off for years abroad or work placement.
The only thing is, I’m terribly, terribly worried that I won’t be in that class either.

Exam results are out next Wednesday, or Thursday. Thursday is the official day. I’ll spend the entire week on tenterhooks, waiting for the postman to come.
There’s a very good chance I’ll have to repeat. The repeat exams just didn’t go as well as I hoped they would.

Thing is, I really don’t want to. I don’t think I can afford to. What if I don’t like the people who are in my class?
I know, that at the age of 20, I should have more to worry about than that, but, really, the reason I didn’t go to most of my French classes last year, besides the depression and the sleeping and the inability to get out of my seat most of the time, was because I didn’t really know anyone in my class. I still don’t.

I hate this double honours thing. I wish I’d gone somewhere else, or waited another year and done a single honours. I can’t deal with doing two subjects, with splitting my focus. There’s so much that gets left behind, forgotten, shoddily done, avoided, ignored.

I think I picked wrong.
I could change, now, and do Irish instead of French, but I don’t think I could afford it. I don’t think I want to spend another year in Maynooth. To be honest, although I loved it so much in the beginning, I’m dreading the thought of going back there again. Not for another year. And to have to do another after that, with all my class gone, graduated?
Not a chance. I don’t know what I’m going to do.

There’s not much point in thinking about it until the results come out. Maybe, by some freak accident, my papers will have gotten mixed up and I’ll be given enough to pass. I don’t think so, though. I’m not hopeful, to be honest.

And it’s preying on my mind so much, I can barely think of anything else. Yet I know it’s pointless, I know that I’m absolutely helpless, the exams were done a month ago, the results aren’t out for a week and there is nothing, absolutely nothing that I can do until then.

But God, the waiting! It’s so annoying. It’s tearing me apart.

Of course there is always the few bales where something goes wrong on the baler. This time the net wrap didn’t grip the bale and got wrapped around a roller instead.

Sufjan Stevens – From the mouth of Gabriel

This is a bit of a cop out wish today, a little bit cliched, but I wish for the time to appreciate what I have. Time to sit in a cafe or curled up in an armchair and really think of how many good things are in my life and how much I really appreciate it all.

What are you wishing for today my lovelies?

At the end of the last college year, I had to pick my subjects for next year. I did so.

Summer has nearly passed, and college is approaching, and naturally, being the idiot that I am, I’ve forgotten what subjects I picked for next year. I know I’m doing three business ones, and three politics ones, but I’m not sure which exactly.

I can’t believe I didn’t write the fucking choices down at the time, for my own future reference.

Anyway, I decided to email the course office to ask – in case I didn’t like the look of one and wanted to change.

I may have mentioned before that there’s another guy in my class called Mark Walsh – a fact I found out on my very first day of college – crushing any hopes of being in any way individual. This has caused one or two mix-ups during my two years so far, but nothing catastrophic.

Anyway, here’s my email to the office:

“Hi there,

My name is Mark Walsh, student number XXXXXXXX, going into third year BESS.

I’m really sorry to have to ask this, but is there any way you could tell me what subjects I’ve chosen for next year? Ridiculous question I know. I was very undecided at the time of choosing, so can’t quite remember what I actually put down in the end.

I believe there is another student in the year with the same name as me, so included my student number above, to avoid confusion.

Thanks,

Mark.”

I figured I may as well mention the ’student with the same name’ thing, just to avoid any potential future hassle.

Needless to say, they sent me the subject choices of the other Mark Walsh (I know this because there were choices in there that wouldn’t even have been possible for me to do, given the subjects I’ve done previously).

Jesus Christ.

This sort of shit really annoys me.

Originally there was a 50/50 chance of them getting the wrong Mark Walsh.

Then I included my student number – surely swinging the odds in my favour.

Then I went the whole hog and informed them that there was another student with the same name as me.

And still they get it wrong.

My mind jumped back to Saturday

Give it (how much?) time.