Adventures in the Talkies: The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel

There are going to be spoilers eventually. Be warned, suckas.

There was a trailer I was going to make fun of/at/around--it is a Cannes participant, though clearly not in the official lineup, and it has a wise-for-her-years girl narrator, played by an "introducing..." young actress, and it is apparently about magic and poetry and nature and probably the state of America or health care reform or social networking... but apparently the title was so long and chock full of meaning that I completely forgot it.

Anyway, I saw The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel a day after seeing Battleship. I enjoyed them both, in their way, though it's easier to put my enjoyment of The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel into words, since Battleship's appeal pretty much fit into one Tweet. You know, plus "Taylor Kitsch is handsome." The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel has an awkward title to type out, and if I were using the full title that appeared on the screen, The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel for the Elderly and Beautiful, I'd probably get tired of talking about it pretty quick.

I kind of am. Right now.

Also, spoiler alert: stop killing Tom Wilkinson. I don't like that. If you're going to kill someone, kill the non-Tom Wilkinson, non-Bill Nighy English guy. Or kill Dev Patel, who was hamboning like he was Alfred Molina. I get it--he had to die so that everyone could marvel at what a wonderful, warm, positive man he was, and that way, spoiler alert, Bill Nighy could finally grow a pair and tell Penelope Wilton, a far cry from her pleasant Pickle-loving, delightfully airheaded mother in Shaun of Dead and even from her prickly, determined, yet loving character in Downton Abbey, that she was a horrible, horrible person to be around all the time. But still: quit it. I've watched him die too much. I want him to be always happy and alive and gay or stripping (or both, that's fine too).

The film was visually a treat--I fell in love with one of Judi Dench's throw pillows and wonder if World Market has a home furnishings line based on the decor--and I very much enjoyed seeing Maggie Smith be a racist. I wish more racists were like her--delightfully scowling and flapping their hands instead of,  you know, ignorant and horrible and gross. The best part, besides the racism, was the unexpected, fairly chaste love story of Bill Nighy and Judi Dench. It was great and turned me into a big mushball.

Oh, there were character names, but come on. Let's be honest.

Also has anyone ever thought to film one of these movies and cast Celia Imrie and Helen Mirren as the world's foxiest lesbian couple? I'd watch that in a minute, even if Dev Patel was Jerry Lewis'ing all over the damn set.