Trainspotting, the iconic film from my youth. I have been looking forward to the sequel with the eager anticipation of a junkie who just got their hands on some of Afghanistan's finest. As my belt loosened, I slumped back into the large leather sofa, glazed eyes fixed on the screen and full of warm contentment for the hit I was about to receive
Indeed 'T2' was a trip down memory lane - a contrived trip down a lane that meandered meaninglessly without any apparent beginning or end. A lane with more p(l)ot holes than the cobbled backstreets of Leith.
To reassemble the original cast was a coup that ensured those who loved the original would flock to see the sequel and spend their cash to get another dose of the good stuff. But this time it was hard to relate to those same characters that had oozed so much charisma in the original. It felt like they were all trying just that little bit too hard, likely in an effort to atone for the distinct lack of plot and skittish direction this instalment offered.
As the movie jumped from one gratifying, yet ultimately self-serving piece of cinematography to the next, it became clear that 'T2' lacked a thread from which to hang the heavily affected nostalgia that felt obvious, yet pretentious. The original appealed to the disaffected youth of the working classes and way beyond; the sequel felt like it had been conceived to appeal to the conceited masses who 'Chose life. a job. a career. a family
and that 3-piece suite' a long time ago - and it lacked substance as a result.
Maybe I was too comfortable, drinking my large glass of Rioja on the comfy £16 sofa-seat to really engage – or maybe I was just too pisshed
But as the anticipation waned, I realised this wasn't the real-deal. The injection of wonder I was hoping for turned out to be nothing more than a sugary-sweet placebo that left me disappointed and in need of more. "Just one more hit Renton, just one more hit."
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