The advent of misery porn

Though I love the cinema, I don’t go as often as I’d like because I must confess there really isn’t very much that I can watch…

…or read, for that matter. I’m extremely sensitive when it comes to such things which is odd, because I am the farthest thing from a delicate little flower you can imagine. A damsel in distress I certainly am not!

I think it could be down to my vivid and hyperactive imagination. The contents of horror movies can stay with me for weeks, and even simple sad endings suck the joy outta me for hours, days even…

…crazy I know, but that’s how I am. Since I’ve figured that out – trust me, nothing beats self-awareness – I find that I generally end up watching films in one of the following genres:

• rom coms (I’m sure I have watched Pretty Woman scores of times, and still won’t hesitate to watch it if it came on the box right now!)
• comic book remakes like Batman and Spiderman (the superhero always overcomes evil you see, guaranteeing me my obligatory happy ending)
• action movies without a lot of action or gore (I love the James Bond franchise, but note to the Broccoli family – Daniel Craig is not Bond!)

Consequently, there are loads of things I can’t be bothered with, as I find them far too gut-wrenching. So yes, Tarantino may be a unique and gifted director, but nothing can motivate me to watch his movies – far too much blood and gore.

And I will never watch the Law and Order Special Victims Unit series which, though fictional, focuses only on the perpetration and solving of sex crimes – much too disconcerting for me. Besides, what’s entertaining about that?

Some may mock my sensitivity, but my rationale is that life is far too short. Yes, I concede that I am a chicken, but why watch a program about rape, when it’s only going to upset me and make me so paranoid on my way to work tomorrow that I’m prepared to bodyslam the poor guy who leans over to ask if it’s okay to close the window in the train carriage?

Or, why read a novel about some guy who was abused by his parents when growing up? How does it improve the quality of my life in any way? And what lessons are there for me to learn, or what enjoyment is there for me to derive, particularly as such tendencies are thankfully lacking in my make-up?

Frankly, I don’t see the point.

Which is why I loved this article by India Knight in today’s Times. I must confess, she is fast becoming one of my favourite columnists: she has a way with words that conveys her opinions forthrightly, yet with such wit. Politically incorrect without being offensive, I am well on my way to becoming a bona fide fan of her direct and common sense approach to issues, which is sadly lacking these days.

India’s article centres on what I personally consider to be the sordidly detailed press coverage of the Baby P issue in recent weeks, and she then goes on to marvel about the bizarre success of the misery lit genre.

Why do we consciously consume stuff that has the ability to eat us up on the inside, eh? I honestly don’t understand…

…anyway, I’m off my high horse now…India’s article makes good reading; the link’s below.

Our taste for all this misery lit makes ugly reading