quite a handful

Last night I went to see Irina Palm, the much-discussed film about a suburban granny who gives men "manual pleasure" (my middle name is Euphemism...) at a seedy sex club in Soho in order to pay for her grandson's operation in Australia, or rather for his parents' flights and accommodation there.

Quite predictably, there are no graphic images whatsoever and all the grossness involved is expressed in Maggie's/Irina's/Marianne Faithful's initial disgust. In spite of the grim subject matter there are actually some funny elements as well. I couldn't quite decide, though, if the paucity of long dialogue was a sign of an uninspired script-writer or a deliberate measure to put more emphasis on the protagonist's expressive face.

Know those plywood backdrops at fairgrounds which show people in fancy dress and all you have to do is poke your head through and have your picture taken? I'll probably never again be able to look at them without imagining the hole to be somewhat smaller and more, erm south...