It’s no big secret that Harry Potter has never been “fine literature,” nor is it any big secret that the Harry Potter films are by no means “great films.” In fact, the third movie, especially in the second half, is so horrendous that it makes me foam at the mouth most of the time. But the seventh film was actually quite good. The actors are starting to finally break out of their shells (it took them long enough), and, although it’s rushed at times, does a fairly good job of portraying the events in the book (yes, I finally caved in, gave into peer pressure, and read the seventh book). There was actual emotion and suspense. It was not a great film—certainly not on my Top 50 List, or any Top List of mine at all for that matter—but it wasn’t boring and it was at least competent.
That said, pretty much the only thing I was thinking about the entire time was the film’s Voldemort in comparison with my Voldemort. I decided that the only thing they have in common is how over-the-top they are.
For serious, though, the actor who played him was overacting like crazy. It was ridiculous. I could not watch that opening scene with a straight face. I was laughing my ass off.
Also, thinking about Movie Voldy as being the same character (kind of?) as My Voldy just made the film more amusing. I kept imagining Bellatrix bursting into his room (which of course would look like a 13-year-old girl’s room, complete with pictures of Justin Beiber) screaming about how “WE’VE CAPTURED POTTER!!!!!!!!!” and Voldemort would be sitting there in his pink bean-bag chair, updating his Facebook status in front of a TV, and he’d say, “Triiiiiiixiiieeee, I’m watching Glee! Can’t killing the Potter boy wait?!”