Peter Bradshaw

Yesterday morning I saw Peter Bradshaw, the Guardian's chief film critic walking down Great Malborough Street. He looked markedly less old than he often does in their roundtable discussions, but he wore these strangely cobbled heavyset shoes, the sort of things of which Thom Yorke would be proud. He was muttering to himself and gesturing to no one in particular with his idle hand, something that men of a certain age and disposition seem to do when formulating arguments in their head. Admittedly, for all his ticks and mannerisms, I seldom find myself disagreeing with his opinions on cinema and films, which I find quite interesting given what one assumes is a vast social and cultural expanse separating us. His review of Paul Thomas Anderson's The Master was published a day or two ago. Five stars. Bradshaw calls the two hour and fifteen minute journey through the origins of Scientology "something special" and, for the poster, labels it "simply unmissable". Need I remind you that it also boasts a score by Jonny Greenwood? (I know) And from the trailer, perhaps one of the best trailers I've ever seen, I'm happy to wager that the man talking to himself on Great Malborough Street with orthopedic shoes ain't wrong.