A bad film is possible for any director; nobody gets it right every time. This is a yawningly BAD film. I could go on. And on. And on. Because that is precisely what this pedestrian heap of self indulgence does. I think I stayed awake for most of it. I began to construct a little mechanical toothpick machine, made out of a fine boxwood. I thought of what might be going on soon when the lockdown is over and done with and I can go into a bookshop again. I remembered a speech from Richard III, where he goes on about getting lost in a thorny wood. And was that bluebell wood we walked through this afternoon so much more interesting than this turgid exercise in how to spend money on a movie production without doing it well. And now I am going to bed.