T2 Trainspot­ting

Choose life.
Choose a sequel.
Choose Dan­ny Boyle.
Choose swear­ing.
Choose a fuck­ing big bud­get.
Choose a cel­e­bra­tion of male venal­i­ty.
Choose a fla­grant cash grab.
Choose fan ser­vice.
Choose soil­ing a per­fect­ly decent lega­cy.
Choose mis­ap­pro­pri­at­ing an icon­ic prop­er­ty.
Choose brand exten­sions, sweet mar­ket­ing oppor­tu­ni­ties and robust demo­graph­ic feed­back.
Choose sick­ly nos­tal­gia porn.
Choose affect­ed melan­choly and tire­some self-aware­ness.
Choose soft-focus 8mm inserts.
Choose cos­met­ic jump-cuts and unnec­es­sary freeze-frames.
Choose an unmem­o­rable pop sound­track that feels like it was culled from a dri­ve­time radio playlist.
Choose a Prodi­gy remix of ​‘Lust for Life’.
Choose the crush­ing real­i­sa­tion of creep­ing depres­sion.
Choose archa­ic buzz­words and social media namechecks.
Choose awk­ward cameos by actors who look like they have a gun pressed to their low­er spine.
Choose the deci­sion to give Shirley Hen­der­son bare­ly any screen­time.
Choose fud­dy-dud­dy sub-Top Gear mono­logues.
Choose the type of doom­say­ing tech­no fear only seen in the let­ters pages of a Home Coun­ties gar­den­ing cir­cu­lar.
Choose hor­ren­dous­ly ugly visu­als.
Choose hav­ing to empha­sise just how hor­ren­dous­ly ugly the visu­als are.
Choose labour­ing a point to real­ly stress how hor­rif­ic this film looks.
Choose weak attempts at depict­ing cul­tur­al diver­si­ty.
Choose osten­ta­tious sleeve tat­toos and over­sized flatscreen TVs.
Choose mis-fir­ing com­ic asides.
Choose Snapchat fil­ters.
Choose a female lead who couldn’t be less inter­est­ing if you lit­er­al­ly for­got to write her any dia­logue because you were too busy play­ing Poke­mon Go.
Choose trans­form­ing Fran­cis Beg­bie into the bad­die out of Com­man­do, the pout­ing prick with chain­mail and a han­dle­bar mous­tache.
Choose smug, unearned redemp­tion.
Choose not hav­ing a sto­ry.
Choose not hav­ing any dra­ma.
Choose a suc­ces­sion of increas­ing­ly idi­ot­ic and unlike­ly twists.
Choose need­less­ly explain­ing away every­thing that made the orig­i­nal so unique and inter­est­ing.
Choose tedious lad anec­dotes and warmed-over wis­dom bombs.
Choose arti­fi­cial empa­thy and being told that it’s sad to get old.
Choose the sweet mem­o­ry of Poly­Gram Filmed Enter­tain­ment.
Choose the vim and fire and dirt and sin­cer­i­ty of the orig­i­nal.
Choose a film that carps on about the inno­cent joys of child­hood while uri­nat­ing on yours.
Choose a final shot that’s stag­ger­ing in its inept­ness.
Choose want­i­ng to bury your head in your hands.
Choose the hor­ri­ble thought that some­one, some­where thought that this is what the world need­ed right now.
Choose hav­ing to write egre­gious con­cept reviews for arty film mag­a­zines.
Choose a film that feels like the age­ing, obese fore­man at a may­on­naise fac­to­ry explain­ing the plot and char­ac­ters of the orig­i­nal Trainspot­ting to his pet canary.
Choose for­giv­ing, pos­si­bly.
Choose for­get­ting, def­i­nite­ly.
Choose life.