I have an undeniable soft spot for Medieval stuff. Hell, I’d call it more than a soft spot — besides High Medieval/Gothic art actually being amongst my favourite subjects in school, I can spend hours watching documentaries about life in the Middle Ages (my latest venture was a marathon on the Black Death, I shit you not). It's probably the miniatures’ open contempt for verisimilitude that strikes me the most (yes, I am aware that yadda yadda underdeveloped painting techniques didn’t allow for better resemblance to the subjects yadda yadda illustration as purpose and symbolism — don’t give me crap, I did five years of Fine Arts’ school), but also the premature intertwining of the arts that allowed for illustration and literature about virtually any subject known to mankind to walk side-by-side, as we’re talking (mostly, at least) about pre-book burning era. It also fascinates me how Medieval imagery allows so much room for imagination, enabling you to dive in that world for hours on end — for example, you should check out this short clip of Kerry Flint doing impro voiceovers with them, it’s amazing.

So the movie.

Even though humour-wise I may be sometimes hard to please, the minute I saw the trailer for The Little Hours I thought why the fuck not; I confess it helped knowing it was loosely based on a tale from Boccaccio’s Decameron (I have read Bocaccio but not that one, I have seen Pasolini but not that one, leave me the fuck alone), and that I had recently seen Kate Micucci in one of my favourite episodes of Easy (go see that as well). An hour-and-a-half, huh. Why not? After all, I can afford wasting 90 minutes of my Friday night; I’m a music (and occasional film) writer, I’m always home. I’m uncool (extra uncool points for the Almost Famous quote).

And even if I’m not the biggest fan of John C. Reilly (though his razzle-dazzling rendition of ‘Mr Cellophane’ in Chicago still gets stuck in my head occasionally), hey, Dave Franco. Those hot Franco genes become noticeable as soon as he gives you that three-quarters, frowned-forehead, puppy-eyed, deliciously degenerate look (and yes, I’m watching The Deuce as well, sue me for double-dosing). But it’s the nuns. Especially the fuck-all violent one (Aubrey Plaza’s Fernanda), who I initially suspected to suffer from misandry but almost clapped out loud when I discovered she was, in fact, a witch. Oh joy of joys, a coven! How glorious those so-called Dark Ages — though not really social-wise, that would actually be the Renaissance for reasons too lengthy to be mentioned here — were, just before the Church started to go full barbecue on our pagan sisters. There’s lesbianism, drunkenness, witchcraft, sodomy, even an attempted threesome — and if you’re about to pull the purist religious card on me, let me tell you that a great part of medieval convents and monasteries wouldn’t be that far from this depiction. At least here they’re not abusing children.

In sum: The Little Hours is indeed loads of fun — not Monty Python fun though, so if you’re expecting that I’m afraid you’ll be rather disappointed — and the best thing is that it has no pretences whatsoever of being regarded as a referential masterpiece of any kind. Yes, it sometimes drifts and sort of loses its track, but never in an annoying or overall too disperse way that could jeopardise its rhythm. And what a great world it would be if all the sins we had to confess were eating a full turnip alone, without sharing it with our sisters.

Oh, did you just roll your eyes? You rolled your eyes!