A Trio of Small Triumphs

Turkey has won the Euro Cup quarter-final against Croatia, after a painfully protracted game with half an hour of extra time plus a penalty shoot-out (which was fairly decisive, though). The usual repertoire of cars beeping in rhythmic staccato or one prolonged note, and overflowing with flags and jubilant fans, and crowds streaming down the sidewalks screaming and shouting slogans (mostly "Türkiye!" or, in one case, "Wer hat gewonnen? Tür-ki-ye!"), whistles, and squawking horns, was rounded out by a bird whistle and even a drum. I followed the game on the Guardian minute-by-minute report, but one could keep score without its assistance. When a goal almost fell, the ambient roar was heightened with agonized shrieks of anticipation only to fade out in disappointment, and when it did fall, the noise swelled into a triumphant roar punctuated by popping firecrackers.

Anyway, the post-victory celebrations are fun and euphoric for about half an hour, but after that it becomes a trifle tiring. At least firecrackers don't disturb me much any longer; I'm afraid of them, in themselves and because their noise resembles that of gunshots, and think the world would be fine without them, but I've learned to take them in stride when they're nowhere near me. Speeding cars and alcohol consumption worry me more. Since I've come here I've tended to associate soccer with cheap beer, dark streams of urine and shards of bottles on the sidewalks, and drunken ditties intoned unsteadily in the dead of night by sad people with the temporary I.Q. of a vegetable and the inevitable prospect of an awful hangover in the morning. I haven't seen drunk-driving, but it's definitely a possibility. Also, when the firecrackers go off and people are screaming it sounds like a war zone or a violent protest, which I don't like either. But, all said and done, these are all good reasons why the beeping cars and happy flag-waving which have so far marked Turkey's victories, though not conducive to sleep, are harmless and pleasant. And I don't detect unsavoury nationalism, either, just a sense of shared excitement.

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My most enjoyable internet reading of today was two reviews of Mike Myers's new film The Love Guru. I had no intention of seeing it anyway, even if the reviews had been favourable, since it is not my style of humour. But as it is, the critics came up with splendidly scathing lines, splendid even considering that criticizing the film is apparently like shooting fish in a barrel. When we read the first paragraph of the Slate article, J. and I were speechless with laughter.

A. O. Scott of the New York Times pondered the word "unfunny," and found it insufficient. His conclusion (italics mine):

“The Love Guru” is downright antifunny, an experience that makes you wonder if you will ever laugh again.

Now from Dana Stevens of Slate:

This tale of a guru who brings joy to all who meet him is the most joy-draining 88 minutes I've ever spent outside a hospital waiting room.

and the pièce de résistance:

There are good movies. There are bad movies. There are movies so bad they're good (though, strangely, not the reverse). And once in a while there is a movie so bad that it takes you to a place beyond good and evil and abandons you there, shivering and alone.

This is quite honestly how I felt when I watched Robert de Niro's CIA film The Good Shepherd. Though it wasn't bad technically, and I don't dislike the actors or the director, it was truly traumatic and repellent.