Review: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
So I finally got old. Morning: doctor's appointment for dry skin. Afternoon: phone calls with estate agents and surveyors and mortgage advisors. Evening: still-aching limbs from a football match played 48 hours previously. I startle awake to find myself sat in a Paramount screening room ready to watch the latest iteration of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, a phenomenon I was probably too old to enjoy guilt-free the first time round a quarter of a century ago. "Let's see those hands in the air!" says a company spokesperson, urging attendees to don the giant green foam hands provided for a photo opportunity. I am secretly glad I didn't pick any up on the way in. Because I am old as fuck.

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