He's fine, though. And the latest HP film, Hermione And The Half-Filled A-Cup of Fire (no?), is entertaining in its depressing, earnest way - not a vast lot of fun, but I suppose we're all too grown up and terrorised for that now. I would probably have given in to its charms with abandon if I hadn't been watching The Adventures Of Baron Munchausen before I left for the cinema, because after lines like 'this is the dawning of a new age of lovely, intimate things', lines like 'at least we've got something to fight for' somewhat lose their tingle factor.
I find Gilliam films slightly depressing too, in their syphillitic, decaying, manic way, but Baron is part of a wonderful tradition of very British fantasy; Swiftian, Shakespearean, with a dash of the Gormenghasts - all shifting perspectives, nightmarish visions and unpeeling layers of reality. Tattered around the edges, too, held together with toupee tape and stage paint. HP, which is supposed to be Very English and employs so many National Treasures it's like the Class of '69 RSC reunion, has an increasingly slick patina that points to what it is: a tasteful global gobstopper.
Not that it isn't pleasant enough, with Hermione wearing a very nice stripy grey Gap jumper (must be a welcome break from all that Chanel she's been wearing in the papers) and plenty of pretty schoolboys and even kittens, and I take complete responsibility for having lost the plot way back in the year I was re-reading the first one, listening to Stephen Fry chortle his way through the fourth one, and catching repeats of the third one on telly. Incidentally, I did audition to be a Death Eater once, but I don't hold a grudge.
Anyway, it sparked a lovely reverie that's sustained me through this muggy Monday. Alan Rickman, Gary Oldman, a bottle of HP and me: now that, children, would be magic.