Interstellar: They Aimed for the Stars, But Hit Me Right in the Fucking Chest.
Look, I'm not a movie buff. Not in the way some people are, you know? The ones who can quote dialogue from a black and white Swedish film you’ve never heard of. But I love watching movies. I love getting lost in them. And I goddamn love talking about them afterwards, dissecting the bits that stuck, the bits that pissed me off, the bits that made me go, "Huh. Never thought of it that way." But Interstellar. Man. For years, every fucking time I'd be in a movie conversation with one of these self-proclaimed cinephiles, it was inevitable. The moment of judgement. "Wait, what the fuck, bro? You still haven't watched Interstellar?" Cue the dramatic sigh, the headshake of disappointment, the subtle implication that I'm somehow culturally stunted. Yeah, I hadn't. Sue me. I tried a couple of times, flicked it on, got maybe twenty minutes in, and something else always grabbed my attention. Life, you know? Or maybe another movie that didn't feel like ...
