Gone With The Wind Review

Gone With the Wind

 My relationship with romantic epics can usually be summed up to a fine-tuned accuracy by solely one word; constipation, my friends, constipation.

That is to say that whenever I'm blessed with a hollywood romance to gaze over, it's close to a sure shot that it will be a long and painful affair involving a bucket load of groaning, moaning, sighing and clenched angry faces on both sides of the screen.

 So finding myself actually juicing some pleasure out of the mother all romance sagas was a surprise on an equal notch to the snooping children discovering Narnia where the back of their wardrobes ought to be.

 And after much grunting and pondering over as to why I actually liked it, I've come to a swift conclusion that there are exactly two things that glosses over the 'spare me the tears' falling south sentiment and the tangerine orange background that suggests that the set designers caused a global dulux colour shortage during filiming.

 And these two things come in the thespian form of Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh.

 Vivien Leigh for her unrelentness queen bitch act that's she carved down to a fine museum centrepiece and Vivien Leigh again for her pseudo-innocent smirk that makes you want to punch her in the ovaries to knock some sense into the curtain-wearing broad.

And Clark Gable for his athlete-mobility rubber moulded facial muscles.
No, seriously, if I had anything to say about the matter, his eyebrows would actually get top billing. And an oscar nomination. And a star on the hollywood walk of fame.
And obviously a restraining order from me.

Look at me, all dashing and shit. Call George Cukor. I feel like a stairway musical number is in the works.