Moving Pictures is one of the stand-alone Discworld novels by Terry Pratchett [reviews of the others here].
Something gets uncovered in Holy Wood, a small wood near Ankh-Morpork. And next thing you know, alchemist have found a way to make moving pictures (or clicks) and Holy Wood is home to an assorted group of people who don’t really quite know why they’re there making clicks, but know that they really have to. Among them is Victor Tugelbend (Unseen University drop-out/actor), Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler (Opportunist/Producer) and Gaspode (talking dog). And this wouldn’t be the Discworld if things were as easy as they seem on the first look.
I adored Moving Pictures. It had me laughing out loud basically all the time. I know I’ve said that I like Pratchett at his darkest, but damn it, I like it when he’s this light-hearted, too. [Maybe the combination Watch and light-heartedness is what doesn’t work so well for me.]
I could relate to this book a lot and especially to Victor and his being lost. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, he doesn’t know what to do in life. So he kind of just keeps doing what he’s always done. And I understand so much. *sigh* But well, if the path leads me to Hol(l)ywood stardom, I don’t mind so much.
And I loved the wizards, especially Ridcully.
But what I liked most was the funny movie reference searching game. All the big movies were there. Singing in the Rain to King Kong. Awesome.
Recommended to any movie fan.
Have some quotes!
He gave Gaspode a long, slow stare, which was like challenging a centipede to an arse-kicking contest.
Everything looks interesting until you do it. Then you find it’s just another job.
It is said that the book was written in one day after Achmed drank too much of the strange thick Klatchian coffe which doesn’t just sober you up, but takes you through sobriety and out the other side, so that you glimpse the real universe beyond the clouds of warm self-delusion that sapient life usually generates around itself to stop it turning into a nutcake.
They weren’t looking at him as if he was their only hope. They were looking at him as if he was their certainty.
On an almost unrelated note: If I ever win an Oscar, I will start my acceptance speech by saying: “He really does look like my uncle Osbert.”