Last night, I went to go see Harry Potter and the Are We Even Half-Way Done with this Franchise Yet. I’m a minor league fan, as in I couldn’t remember if I had even seen the film before this one and was only vaguely troubled by my lack of plot knowledge when I went last night.
Not much has changed. I mean, everyone scary still glowers and slithers in good time and Harry acts petulantly determined to scour out You-Know-Who. He even goes so far as to bandy about His Actual Name saying, “I’m not afraid to use it.” Talk about bravery. Purple heart right there.
Also, there’s some teenagers squirming against one another. Ron, at one point, eats chocolates intended for Harry and falls under a love spell for some random Hispanic-Middle Easern chick. But then when he’s being given the antidote he is mistakenly poisoned and Harry does some quick thinking and saves him. While recovering, Ron, of course, utters something along the lines of “Women will be the end of me,” which caused the everyone in the audience audience around me (not just the older HP fans, everyone) to guffaw uproariously because, hey, that’s pure comedic gold and you’ve got to cash those laughs in at the funny bank some time. Best put them in an IRA actually.
So, I guess, SPOILER ALERT goes here because I’m about to tell you that not only did the dark forces off an incredibly central character (who, by-the-by, worked it during the Gay Pride Parade last year like he was hooking at the mouth of the Holland Tunnel), but also burnt down Hagrid’s cottage and the Weasley’s house.
It was a holocaust.
I forgot to mention that seeing Harry Potter was part of a double header. Harry Potter was supposed to be an uplifting cleanse after the horrors of A Woman in Berlin, but Soviet-Rape-Toture-Porn never looked so delicious than in the aftermath of the Half-Blood Prince.