Where's the rulebook that says, in cinema and television, all red wine must look like cranberry juice? Diluted cranberry juice at that.
"We'd use real wine but it doesn't look like wine on camera. It just looks like blood. Here's some Ocean Spray."
"Fuck. I was really hoping for some caber..."
"Just fucking drink it. Roll tape."
How come, when someone walks into an office with greatest gusto, there's always a secretary on hand to form a barrier to entry? Once, just once, I'd like to see her say, "I know you don't have an appointment but, y'know, work away."
Smoking: No more than two drags and it's stubbed out.
A meal is never, ever finished. Often it's not even touched, it's just there as a prop for whatever sad little discourse some sad little screenwriter has put together between bumps.
As our two lovers are gaily strolling through Paris or Manhattan, talking of their loves lost and their hopes and dreams for the future, the male lead (in my head Ethan Hawke in 'Before Sunset') never says "hold that thought, Julie Delpy, because I badly need to have a slash, Julie Delpy."
Why do children always need to have pudding bowl haircuts, when the last known sighting of same in real life was back in 1993?
A wedding must never pass without a simultaneous death, divorce, interruption from a drunken ex-lover, car crash or sex change. That one's pretty much confined to the soaps.
Nobody ever, EVER, takes the change from a taxi driver.
Among my myriad DVDs, I doubt one disc contains a single scene of someone doing the washing up (I don't own any Ken Loach). Kitchen sink dramatics my hole.
And don't get me started on the faultless use of chopsticks, and the fact that there is never a gap between the answering of a phone and a response.