Twenty three minutes. Summer asks Tom if she likes her. She declares Tom to be interesting and proposes a romantic amnesty in favour of friendship. Summer is a direct sort of a girl, no nonsense about her. She reminds me of my old nanny and tutor Miss Utheridge, who would spoil our summers with Latin lessons and, once while my parents were away at a wedding, by conscripting us into war.
Twenty four minutes. This film must be set further in the future then I’d anticipated. Summer and Tom are nonchalantly operating a fantastical paper replication device, a sort of Guttenberg press as seen through the eyes of LP Hovercraft.
Twenty five minutes. What ho! Canoodling at a work station! Summer bussed Toms lips fat full of kisses! This certainly turns the tables. Locked lips leads to lovers nuptials in this old romantic’s experience. But what of the declaration of friendship Summer made not two minutes ago? Could this be a genuine change of heart or is Summer casting Tom as the lead in a play of her own devising entitled “Fool”.
Twenty six minutes. Its all coming out in the wash. Summer acknowledges that she was aware of Tom’s light hearted stalking and is being a jolly good sport about it. If more fillies saw “pursuing” for what is was, a fact finding act of devotion, then the prisons would be an emptier place and the tax payers pockets fuller.
Twenty seven minutes. A soujourn to the homesgood department of their local shoppe sees Tom release her inner comedienne. Tom trots out the timeless “All of our sinks are broken” routine while roustabouting around to the wholesalers sinks section.
Twenty eight minutes. What fun! Summer has joined in with the japery and now the rib-tickling twosome are pretending to watch a Baird box as if they were in their own homes! Now they’re larking about a model kitchennette. I’m growing wary of them. Their lampooning is most undignified. I do not mind one participating in such horse play in the confines of their own house or inside their own head but I draw the line when two unruly delinquents indulge in such wanton hooliganism inside a respectable wholesaler. I sense another year long break from this film, one which I would find most welcome.
Twenty nine minutes. Tom is a most despicable character. She set out to ensnare the Woman Summer in her web of woo and wine and was successful. Most would be satisfied with Summer as a bedroom companion, but Tom is one of those girls for whom satisfaction always seems to be just out of their grasp. Perhaps if Tom set her sights a bit higher, say by architecting the ultimate love bubble as I had previously mentioned, then she would be a more engaging protagonist.
Thirty minutes. Summer tells Tom that she doesn’t want a serious relationship. Tom says she is fine with this. My wife once shared with me the very same sentiment on our wedding night, which was so casual an affair that I haven’t seen her since. I remarried of course, but accusations of bigamy, like time, catches up with us all in the end.
Thirty one minutes. Just realised that Tom is a man as he is wearing a black tie, presumably for a wake or after wake party.
Thirty one minutes. I don’t know if its the minute old revelation or the surreal turns this production has taken but Tom has just seen the face of an older man reflected in the mirror of a taxi. If Tom had any sense in the world he would call upon the services of a Freudian and undergo one of those full frontal lobotomies I read about in an issue of “Brains Monthly” (Sept, 1925) that everyone was raving about. It cures visions and is apparently very good for freeing up estate in the old noggin for anyone learning how to play the violin.
Thirty two minutes. There’s a dancing sequence with people in the street. How is it that anytime I feel like dancing with the city I am made to feel rather foolish, whereas when Tom does it he’s greeted as an innovator. I must admit that since discovering the true sex of Tom’s character my warmth towards this film has frozen considerably. Its hovering just above absolute zero at the moment. When I thought it to be a recording of a drama of the story of two beans conquering all, I pined as Tom had pined for a happy outcome. Now that its a boring male-female romance, I have lost nearly all interest. There is nothing that this film can teach me about romance. The true nature of romance, for those of you who care to hear the truth occasionally sprinkled onto the poorly prepared lie casserole which everyone gorges on daily, is simple. Marry your housekeeper, that way you won’t have to pay her. Its economy with a dash of love.
Thirty three minutes. Tom’s depressed at work. Good.