IMAX Upselling (Telemachusing)?

I think I could possibly take a bit of flak for this one, if anyone actually ever read this stuff. Maybe that’s one of the advantages of not being widely read. I can have my little say and largely get away with it. Wouldn’t the occasional small furore be kind of nice though? No, it wouldn’t, Ken, you’d hate it and you know it.

So, jog on.

Anyway, I went to see The Odyssey yesterday in my local cinema. Not to sound too namby-pamby about it but this is a sort of an experiment in regeneration for me. As I young person, I really enjoyed going to the movies by myself. From about fourteen to twenty-three I did it quite a lot and it was one of my things. Then I went away from it all. First from solitary cinema-going and then from cinema-going altogether. For the first part I had Dear Patricia to accompany me and for the second part I got tired of mobile phones and popcorn rustles and belligerent kids and, mostly, my own lack of patience.

But since I was laid up for a while, I’ve started to acknowledge that I deserve a little something for myself now and again, and one of those somethings is the occasional revisit to the local film house when there’s something on I’d really like to see on the big screen. (‘Big screen’… hold that thought). I sound like I’ve been doing this all the time but, in actuality, I did it yesterday for the first time. Perhaps that means this is more a statement of intent. One that nobody will read (leave that now, Ken, there’s a good lad).

But let’s get on to the point of this post.. but wait, what? You want an Odyssey review? A non-spoiler one? Can you actually spoil The Odyssey at this juncture? (Be quiet, Ken, you’re sounding like a prat.) All right, not a review per-se (per-se is one of my very few readers) but a little of what I thought of it. Okay?

The Odyssey: I really enjoyed it. I was thoroughly entertained throughout. I found it oddly ‘old-fashioned’ in places. That may sound strange for such an ancient story, but Nolan tends to bring modernity to whatever subject he tackles. Parts of the film seemed to deliberately hark back to the Ray Harryhausen days – men on super-real white beaches about to encounter some outlandish beastie. I liked that. Samantha Morton puts in a great shift, and Robert Pattinson is a fine panto villain. Matt Damon delivers his role, possibly in the knowledge that the driven hero is rarely the most interesting character. The people who suffer the consequences of his passions make for a much more interesting story. Finally, the climax delivers a Gladiator-like payoff that is highly satisfying.

So, yes, I really enjoyed this one. I would recommend it.

Now, let’s get to that gripe.

Sitting in my local cinema, with its nice sound system, solid digital projection and sizeable screen, I was aware that I was a second-class citizen when it came to seeing this movie. That mine was a third-rate experience that could not compare to what others were simultaneously experiencing elsewhere.

In my head, I’m calling this The Great IMAX Upsell or, as I’m trying to be smart, Telemachusing.

If you’ve seen hype about the movie, you’ve also seen hype around the format. ‘The first film ever shot entirely in IMAX’, ‘must be seen in an IMAX cinema to be even partially appreciated and, ideally, in an IMAX 70mm projected format.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure it’s great. Even the buzz of going in to see it like that, after all that hype, would be great. But, at the end of the day, it’s still pretty basic upselling, isn’t it? And why not? The film is a product, and a damned expensive one at that. If it doesn’t recoup, wash its face, and then go on to make a substantial profit then what can the future hold for grand cinema events. So, go IMAX, go 70mm, back the creation and love it and tell me how much more inferior my own meagre experience was. But don’t lose sight of the fact that you were upsold.

A few weeks back I wrote about the ‘would you like a drink with that’ routine in fast food places. This is the same. Would you like an extra few feet at the top and bottom of your screen? It will turbo-charge your experience. It will change your life.

Except it won’t. Will it?

It’s good. It’s great. But it’s not that good. It’s not that great.

So, yes, by all means, have the drink with the burger. It will wash things down nicely. Just don’t buy into how it might change your life. That’s all.

My viewing of The Odyssey was perfectly satisfactory for my needs. And rest assured that I am one of the biggest aspect-ratio nerds you may ever meet. I detest cropped prints. The VHS rental days drove me mad with their awful 4:3 ratios, hacked to fit our then-boxy TVs. The advent of widescreen TVs and then DVDs with correct widescreen letterboxed ratios delighted me.

So, wait. Maybe I need to accept something here. Maybe I’m just being churlish. Maybe, deep down, I would love to see the film in the ratio that Chris Nolan intended me to see it in.

But I can’t, I just can’t.

And maybe there’s something just a little sad about going all the way to your local dream factory and being told that it’s a second-rate, knock down, dream that you’re about to have.

Ball Person

Wimbledon fortnight ends this afternoon and this year, as ever, it’s been a sizeable feature in our little household. Patricia plays tennis and is very good at it, so she knows a lot about the intricacies of the game. Her couch comments frequently prompt the on-screen commentators in what they are about to say. It’s very entertaining.

So, yes, I’ve watched quite a bit of Wimbledon, just as I’ve watched quite a bit of Roland Garros and the Australian and US Opens too.

And I’ve marvelled - yes marvelled is the word – marvelled at the outlandish skill and power of the participants. The dogged determination that is often required to get over the finish line as number one.

But there is one peculiar little aspect of the game that engages me even more than the on-court battle itself: that is the way the players receive the balls from the ball kids, just before serving, and the manner in which they select which of the balls to use.

I mean, is there a better visual representation anywhere in the world of the 'Ten Thousand Hours’ that is oft cited as being required to get really good at something? These players have spent so much time with tennis balls. Catching them, tossing them, stowing them away for a possible second serve. They have become blindingly adept at working with them.

I find it endlessly fascinating. The call for so many more balls that is needed. The visual inspection of the proffered balls and the offhand rejection, straight to the ball person, of the candidate perceived to be the weakest. The sleight-of-hand disappearance of the second serve ball. Even the bounce. Watch Djokovic: his bounce defies gravity, never heading directly for the earth but rather projecting at some diverse and forceful angle of the player’s own careful devising.

I watch these ball manipulations and I wish I could write like that. I aspire to that. I think I have my ten thousand hours well and truly clocked in at this point. But, still, I fumble with my themes and stall before my pitch.

I wish I could have three fuzzy yellow ideas tossed at me. I wish I could momentarily juggle all three in one hand before sending the weakest one rolling away. I wish I could tuck one spare in my pocket for later, though I reckon the first one will be so strong I won’t need it until much, much later. I wish I could throw that idea up in the air and smash it into the sweetest zone on the far side of the net.

And, if and when it comes sailing back, I wish I could return it with interest.

A Pension of Experiences and Memories

Turning 63 yesterday, as I undeniably did, I reflected that I really should have some wisdom worth sharing at this point. I mean, I’ve been around the sun a few times, seen my quota of good stuff and bad. Isn’t it about time I had something useful to share? 'Insightful' might be stretching it, but there really should be something.

Okay, well let’s try for a little something. It ain’t gonna be much, I can promise you that but, come on, we’re talking 63 years old now, I’ve gotta start dispensing some kind of wisdom soon or else it’ll simply be too late.

And, if you’re not there yourself already, let me tell you a little something I’ve discovered about being 63. It’s a darned sight older than 62.

Maybe it’s just me and the year I’ve had (fairly well documented in these pages). Maybe it’s just a general truism. Whatever it is, and I know I’ve only been in it for one day, but 63 starts to feel a little old. Maybe it won’t feel so old tomorrow (here’s hoping) maybe it will feel even worse. I’ll keep you posted.

So, we’d better get to that wisdom of mine before I fall down on the ground (again).

It’s pretty basic and well-trodden stuff, to be honest. And I didn’t come to it solely on account of my advancing year-count. In truth, I got to it via that well-documented ‘falling down’ I experienced in January of this year.

As a key part of recovering from that incident, I was required to spend some time as a resident in a physical rehab unit, where I mastered the art of walking all over again. Said rehab unit – a most excellent place with most excellent people – also doubled effectively as the main old-folks home in the town. So, for that recovery period, I lived alongside the residential elderly, and, for a time, I was as incapable and in need of care as any of them.

My point here is that I got a fair taste of that it is like to be an elderly person who lives in a care facility. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not old and I don’t think of myself as being old - I’m only 63, for God’s sake. But the experience I had gave me an opportunity to draw back the veil on that life and see what it is really like. And, for what it’s worth, I’m here to tell you that it’s not all that bad. The care is good and, most importantly, delivered at a human level. The food isn’t bad at all, and the people try to make you feel like one of the team rather then the target of the exercise.

There’s a TV Show called The Rehearsal where the central guy goes to extraordinary lengths to recreate locations and scenarios so that people can play out life events in a contrived environment to perhaps learn how best to deal with those events. I feel that’s kind of what I did during my time in rehab. I got to play at being old and infirm. I got to do ‘elderly lite’.

And before I share with you what I think I learned best on my ‘elderly lite’ programme, I need to acknowledge one thing that affects everything about my own experience. Apart from a few days early on, where long-term scenarios were being less positively predicted, my time among the elderly and infirm was coloured by one critical piece of knowledge. I was always getting better and I was always going back home. I have to respect the people I met there, who are still there and may always be there. Theirs is a different path to the one I walked, and I know this to be true and I respect it.

But my experience seems to have taught me something or, at the very least, reinforced something I may have always known.

And it is this:

As you move towards retirement, you try to amass some kind of little pension. An investment to see you through the remaining years (hopefully decades) of your life. I think there is another pension you contribute towards, even if you don’t know you’re doing it, and it is a pension of experiences and memories.

The reason I know more about it now is because I drew rather heavily on it when I was in my rehab place. Even in those early days when my life seemed potentially permanently altered, the old memory pension gave me something that I could usefully spend. I thought of the things I had done in my then-62 years. The people I had met. The people I love. The places I’ve been and the various bits and pieces I managed to do. And, perhaps critically, I found myself to be largely satisfied with what I found, there in my account.

Something kept me positive and mostly upbeat during that whole rather rocky time, and I put a lot of it down to that memory pension of mine. I have done a lot and if, for some reason, I didn’t get to do very much more, then the memories and the experiences were things I could draw on to warm me and lull me to peaceful sleep.

And finally, back on my feet again, rocking and rolling, there is an increased drive and incentive to get some more contributions into this virtual pension of mine. I don’t need to go into orbit or descend into the depths of the ocean. I don’t need to jump out of a plane or go to see Timbuktu. I know it sounds mawkish and a bit trite, but I see the leaves on the trees in full summer bloom, and I see them more clearly that I did last year. I will see them this way in my head if a day should come when I will not see them anymore.

So that's my advice to you, as I head boldly into 64. Pay into your memory and experience pension. If the choice arises to do something or to not do something... do it. 

Some day, your pension will pay out for you.