no wonder i have a chemical sensitivity to perfume

I returned not that long ago from an advance screening of Perfume: The Story of a Murderer at Paramount Studios. The best part may have been not knowing where to find the theater, walking around, and passing under the famous gates. As a film fanatic, I have to admit it was pretty cool to just wander a studio lot.

Anyway, the movie is beautiful, but it's too damn long. And they pulled that Peter Jackson slo-mo bullshit at the end while I squirmed in my seat. And by the way, you have to completely suspend disbelief to buy into the ending. Something I'm almost positively incapable of doing. And I wanted to like the movie. Allie heard it was bad, and it certainly had its moments of camp (without the gay connotation, though). But it seemed promising with a narrator from the present telling us about pre-revolutionary 18th century Paris. And I wanted to sympathize with our protagonist and his incredible sense of smell. I guess I should just be glad that my sense isn't so strong that I become a murderer. And he's ironically drawn to perfume, but then again, even if with my instant migraines, I'd probably be desperate for it in the filthy, stinky 18th century, too.