Frankenstein at the National Theatre at My Local Cinema

My only regret was that I went to see Frankenstein, on St Patrick’s Night, on my own.  

When it was over, I longed for someone to effuse with.  There was other people there, of course, but it didn’t seem right to burst in on them and try to share with them how bloody awesome I thought it had been.

So I just left.

The lady who sells popcorn seemed amenable to a chat so I told her what a great experience I had just had.  She said she had dropped in for five minutes, expecting nothing, and would have loved to stay for it all.

Then, in the car park, where was a lady getting into the car beside mine.  I am aware that one can scare people, striking up conversations in darkened gravel-topped parking areas but I still ventured a quick word across the car roofs.

“It was good, wasn’t it?” I said.

She smiled.

“It was extra-ordinary,” she said, “quite extra-ordinary.”

She had put it better than me.

It was.

    *        *        *        *

Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein has been adapted into a new play by Nick Dear, it has been directed by Danny Boyle and Benedict Cumberbatch and Jonny Lee Miller have been cast in the roles of Creator and Creature – roles which they swap every show.

It was, for me, a mouth-watering prospect and if I had still been living in London, I would have queued long-and-hard for my ticket to see it.  But, of course, I don’t live in London anymore and budgets do not easily soar to a quick nip over to The Big Smoke to catch a play.  So I couldn’t see it.

Except, of course, I could.

It’s this new thing, you see, where the National Theatre beams a live performance to cinemas all over the place so that anyone can easily come and see the play.

I was very excited at the prospect but my expectations were a bit lowered too.  I’ve watched my share of theatre on the telly and it never seems to work well for me.  Something - the intimacy, the urgency, the danger - gets lost along the way and one often seems to be left with a poor-man’s telly-show.  What I expected was a chance to get a least some diluted feel for the new production and the greatly-praised performances.  In actuality, I got so much more than I bargained for.

I put much of that down to the sound.

The audience in the huge auditorium were very much a part of the broadcast.  Before the play started, they were there, chatting and murmuring, finding their seats and opening their toffees.  It was a buzz, literally, and it created a buzz, figuratively.

The play was expertly shot from multiple angles with close-ups, veering zooms – the lot.  The overall effect, I reckon, was to elevate the cinema viewing to a place almost beyond being present, in the flesh, at the event.

So I enjoyed this immensely – and I really mean immensely.  I was elated for hours afterward that I was permitted to see it as I did.

Then I got to thinking hard about it, letting the logical brain work at it rather than just the gut reaction.

So much for the Event, what of the play?

The central performances and the production were simply phenomenal.  That’s my view.  I saw Cumberbatch as The Creature and I was astonished at the balletic and moving performance he gave.  Jonny Lee Miller had the slightly less showy part as Frankenstein but both brought great integrity and no small measure of spittle to their work.

The lighting and general production-values are like nothing I have ever seen.  Astonishing.

Now, let me be critical.  I always think it’s important to try to be a bit critical.  It’s like proof reading a text – if you only look for the good stuff you will not learn of the improvements which may need to be made.  So…

The writer – Nick Dear – has invested great passion and insight into his central duo.  Unfortunately the supporting characters often come out of the deal as sketchy and somewhat caricatured at times.  Frankenstein’s Dad was the worst – he just seemed to be an impotent deliverer of occasional dismay.  The Scottish assistants made Willie from The Simpsons look like a Caledonian Documentary Figure and the Blind Man’s Son and Daughter in Law were quite Twee and Predictable.

But Dear is not a weak link here.  He pulls some masterstrokes – one, in particular with his treatment of Frankenstein’s thoughtful new Bride which left me quite shocked at the very audacity and brilliance of it.

Danny Boyle is a visionary and his vision here is a clear, faithful presentation of Mary Shelley’s perhaps overly-lauded book.  It is, at times, visceral, tragic, philosophical and funny.  It is really quite special.

In summary - after I calmed down a bit, I may have seen some flaws with the play and with the supporting roles.  But to hell with all that!!  I came out of that cinema on a complete high, thanks to that play, and - clever-clogs reservations or not - that makes it a One Hundred Percent winner for me.

They are doing this all over again, in many venues, on Thursday 24 March, with Jonny Lee Miller taking the Creature role.  I recommend most highly that you try to see it and then please come and tell me what you think.

Credits Where they're Due

I miss that people don't hang around in the movies anymore until the credits finish. I always used to do it and found it to be a rewarding experience on any number of levels.

Granted, I don't remember a time when the majority of people stayed for the titles. There has always been a general rush for the door as if the outside world held some great attraction. But there used to be a tight little contingent of credit-fans who would sit them out until the 'all rights reserved' bit rolled up.

I particularly remember the James Bond movies where you could only find out the name of the next installment by waiting until the end of the end credits when it always said "James Bond will return in 'Man with the Golden Gun' or whatever.

Nowadays it seems you simply cannot stay.

The lights come up practically before the bad guy is dead. The cleaning folk wade in through the popcorn and start mopping up and the general vibe is one of "why are you still sitting there, you sad little man?"

Which is a shame.

There is much to be learned from end credits and often a few laughs too. And there is occasionally a bloody good song to hear as well.

I also think it's a nice time to reflect on the movie before you have to go out and express an opinion about it.

I think 'Spiderman 3' (which i did not think was that bad) would have been better if I had been allowed to stay and hear the Snow Patrol song play over the end credits.

But I'll never know.

"Get the DVD," you might say, "watch your bloody credits at home."

No, it's simply not the same...

Maybe if I hired a bunch of people to try to squeeze grumpily past me on the couch while I was watching the credits... maybe that would help replicate the experience?

Anybody...?

Please Refrain from Crying Out During the Show

It was only after I posted that last short story, ‘Rasp’, that I decided to write a post about the true story behind it. Shall I just tell you how I remember it? Everything you are about to read is true:

In August 1994, we celebrated our wedding anniversary by having a little dinner and then going to the movies in Richmond, Surrey, which was close to where we lived.

There wasn’t much on but I’d heard that ‘The Mask’ with Jim Carey was at least a little bit funny and had some good special effects so we settled for that.

The cinema was pretty full for a midweek show. We ended up sitting beside a couple who were about the same age as us. The girl was sitting to my right and her guy, who I hadn’t seen much of, was in the next seat over to her right.

The main feature hadn’t long started when this girl produced a sealed cellophane bag of sweets. My purgatory was about to begin.

Over the next few minutes, she proceeded to drill a tiny hole in the bag with her fingernail. She then set about trying to extract one of the sweets out through this tiny hole using only one finger. This keyhole-candy-surgery produced the most tooth-grinding of noises – a gentle crinkling and crackling which went on and on and on… and still the damned sweet would not come out.

And all the while, this girl was keeping up an unceasing commentary on the film with her invisible boyfriend on her other side.

Trish took to squeezing my hand. She knew how I got. I tried to silently reassure her that I would not start anything but the finger - in the hole - in the bag - kept on crinkling and crackling and ‘rasping’ and something… had to give.

A voice in my head – a voice which often appears dressed up in a rational suit but is, in fact, anything but – this voice suggested to me that I should simply have a quiet word with this girl about this noise. In the words of some great man, “it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

I leaned over a little and said to the girl in my most kindly voice.

“Wouldn’t it be much easier if you just tore the top of the bag open?”

The girl did something I didn’t expect then. She started to cry. I could see huge wet tears roll down her cheek as she let out a big heartfelt sob.

I felt like a complete bully.

I sat for a few minutes silently cursing myself for making this poor girl feel so bad. I couldn’t leave it at that, I had to apologise to her.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, looking at the screen, “I really didn’t mean to upset you,”

The girl tuned to me angrily and, in a very loud voice, said, “Shut up, just shut up, you’ve been annoying me all evening. Just shut up!”

The entire cinema was suddenly aware of us.

One of my many failings, arguably my greatest one, is that I never know when I am at the end of my tether. I am given no warning. One second I am, to my mind, the epitome of sweetness and light, the next moment I can be gone, real real gone. This happens less now as I get older but it can still happen. I have to tread carefully.

When this noisy girl told me to shut up, I immediately fell far beyond the end of my tether and my base instincts marched in took over.

“Well that’s just fucking rich,” I roared at her, “You sit there all night, blabbing, and… fingering your little crinkley bag and then you have the gall to tell me to shut up?”

The girl started to cry. No liddle bitty tear this time, we were talking floods.

A huge shadow fell over me. Her boyfriend was ready to enter the fray. He stood up and inched past her. I’m sorry to swear again so soon but he was fucking enormous, he really was.

“You,” he boomed, “stand up.”

“You,” a disgruntled punter from the back muttered, “sit down.”

At this point his poor upset girlfriend pulled on the big guy’s sleeve and said, “let’s go, I want to go.”

“No way, I’m gonna tear_”

“Let’s just go… please.”

So they gathered up their stuff and they left. But, as he was going, the big guy calmly said the following words to me, “I will be waiting outside for you and when you come out I am going to kill you.”

Okaaaayyy.

I felt just awful, like a criminal. That always happens when I lose my cool.

Trish and I left shortly afterward, at Trish’s request although I wasn’t sorry to go. We left through a fire exit at the rear, walked to a nearby bus stop and got a bus home.

The bus went past the front of the cinema. The big guy and his girlfriend were sitting on the steps outside. I swear to God they were.

I’ve never watched ‘The Mask’. Is it any good?


FOOTNOTE
Interestingly, when I went and researched the writing of the story, I found my memory to be suspect and my perceived truth to be actually completely false.

The above story is true but the timeline is all wrong.

The above ‘cinema argument’ did not inspire me to write ‘Rasp’. In fact, the story had been written a full year earlier. I had completely forgotten this fact and, over the years, had totally come to associate the events described above with the writing of this story.

This means that, when the above fight was unfolding, my story was already written. Did it occur to me at the time that this was life-imitating-fiction quite scarily? I don’t recall that it did.

The facts are irrefutable. We always went to see movies when they first came out and ‘The Mask’ did not come out until 1994. My story ‘Rasp’ was fully complete in 1993. As soon as I realised this was true, I immediately recalled the actual events behind the story and they are as simple as they are unexciting.

The facts (as they say on ‘Pushing Daisies’) are these:

One Saturday night in 1993, Trish and I went to see ‘Indecent Proposal’ in the West End. (Don’t judge us on these movies, we saw everything back then). The guy in the seat behind me talked non-stop all the way through the film. He drove me completely mad but I said nothing. Instead I went home and sat up half the night writing the story that’s in my previous post.

That’s really all there was to it.

Yet I had forgotten this truth completely and convinced myself that an entirely different version of reality was true. Isn’t memory a funny thing?

Or perhaps it’s just mine…

A Short Story - Rasp

We queued in the rain.

It wasn't a terribly long queue and the rain wasn't particularly heavy but Shiv was not a happy person. I tilted the umbrella further out over her head, getting myself thoroughly drizzled-on in the process. She did not seem appreciative.

"Why can't we go and see something new? There's that one with 'what's-his-name' in it, you know who I mean."

I knew exactly who she meant. 'What's-his-name' was reason enough not to go see it.

I didn't say that though.

"We can go next week. Give this a chance, you'll love it, I promise."

We progressed two steps in silence.

"It's not as if I've never seen it. I have, you know...twice!"

"Yeah but only on television. It's not the same."

Shiv made a face. "Oh please!" she said, "It's not as if it's 'Citizen Kane'. "

Then she laughed.

I laughed too. We both felt the same about the great 'Citizen Kane. We reckoned it was the most chronically overrated film of all time. Perhaps we should have gone to see it in the cinema.

The queue started to shuffle along with a purpose so I took the umbrella down and shook it.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"We'll be inside in a minute."

"Then put the goddamned umbrella down in a minute!"

God, I loved that girl.

The ticket lady was enclosed in a chin-high perspex booth. Permed, fluffy and wearing horn rimmed glasses, she looked like an escapee from a Larson cartoon - everything but the chickens.

I paused respectfully in front of her. She sat rigid, staring blankly ahead. Shiv had wandered off somewhere so we were practically alone. She studied a point beyond my left ear, a dying breed, masticating gently. I wanted to say something to her, just so she'd acknowledge me, but nothing appropriate came to mind. I paid up the admission fee and two pink bus tickets clunked out of the shiny metal plate on the counter between us.

"Thanks." I volunteered.

She chewed at me - once.

I found Shiv over at the wall where the poster hung. She was staring at the credits.

"You didn't tell me John Barry did the music."

"You're right. Sorry love. I know we shouldn't keep such things from each other"

"Be serious! I hate John Barry. You'd never have got me here if I'd known it was him."

I nervously adjusted my jacket. I believed John Barry to be the greatest Cinema composer since Rachmaninov. I even had the soundtrack album at home, it had cost me thirty-five quid. Was this a stand worth making?

"You're probably right," I said, deciding not, "I can't hardly remember the music."

Shiv started jumping and pointing at me.

"Liar! Liar! You love it, you've even got the record, I've seen it under your bed along with all those soggy Penthouses."

"Hey, you know I only read those for the articles."

"Sure!"

"Anyway, they never look as good naked as you."

Shiv looked round anxiously.

"For Christ's sake Minty!"

"Well, it's true."

"You wish."

"Have an Opal Fruit."

It was time to go in. We headed for the double doors, held open by the stubble-chinned relic in the decaying blue tunic. I handed him our tickets and he ripped them effortlessly in two.

"See that?" I asked Shiv.

"What?"

"He ripped our tickets in half. Look."

"Wow, is there someone we should call?"

"Don't be sarcastic, there's a whole generation of kids coming up who've never had their ticket torn at the movies."

"Have you lost it completely, Minty? Everybody tears tickets."

"Rip, they rip. Hardly anyone tears. The secret is in the perforations.

It's all perforations now. All you get are those awful printout jobs with hot dog offers on the back and perforations to rip along - I hate them!

"Shiv, what you are about to experience here is Cinema as it used to be. No gimmicks, no tricks, just raw nostalgia."

"Raw what?"

"You'll see."

"Just keep taking the pills, that's all."

And then we were in. The place was about quarter-full, people scattered around here and there. It was old fashioned, of course, that was part of the attraction. Dominant colour red, not particularly ornate, plush in a dusty sort of a way and big...very big.

"God it's big, isn't it?" Shiv was impressed. She and I were frequently impressed by similar things. "Which are our seats?"

"Anywhere you like. First come, first served."

"Are you sure? Didn't the computer allocate us seats?"

"The 'computer' was too busy filing her nails. It's much better this way."

"Oh come on! It's a great little movie-house, sure, but let's not stretch this 'weren't the old ways wonderful' routine too far. Computerised seat allocation is a great idea and you know it."

I arched an eyebrow at her. "Do I?"

"Okay, you smug git, tell me it isn't!"

"All right it isn't. Not always."

"Yeah? When is it not? Give me one 'for instance'."

I need to explain that the show hadn't yet begun. The house lights were still up and people were chatting away among themselves. Also we were speaking quietly so our mid-aisle exchange was neither exhibitionist nor a nuisance to anybody. I feel I should make that clear in the light of what was to follow.

"In the afternoons."

"What?"

I had her here, I knew it.

"Automatic ticket allocation can be an embarrassment in the afternoons."

"He's bluffing."

"I am not! Listen, the computers always allocate seats on a 'best seat first' basis, right? The best two seats are always in the same place, near the back, in the centre, beside each other..."

"Let's sit here," Shiv marched into a row, chose a seat five in from the aisle and collapsed into it, "Now, what are you going on about?"

"Most afternoon shows only ever get a small attendance. Okay, suppose two separate people, a guy and a girl, decide to go to the same movie one afternoon. The movie is a bit well...sexy, and they're the only two people who go."

"Don't you think this is a touch contrived?"

"Let me finish. Those two people, who have never met, will be allocated seats right next to each other. They'll have to sit, shoulder to shoulder, through some of the most graphic sex scenes ever committed to celluloid, with hundreds of empty seats all around them. Nervous, anxious and seriously embarrassed those poor people will emerge cursing the computer that seated them. And that, m'lud, is where the system falls down."

Shiv mused on it a moment.

"I think it sounds great. I bet the two would get off with each other, and live happily ever after. Pretty imaginative though, Minty, well done."

"Thanks."

"Did you just make it up?"

"Of course... sure."

She caught my tone.

"You didn't?

I must have shifted in my seat.

"You didn't! You sod! That actually happened to you, didn't it? What happened? What was the movie? Did you get lucky?"

"No!"

"Truth."

"Don't be silly."

At that moment the house lights dimmed and I clammed up, saved by the bell. Neither of us believed in talking while the show was running. We both got too wound up when other people did it.

An usher crept in and sat on a little pull-down perch at the side of the stairs below us. Not the slob who had torn our tickets - this was an altogether smarter-looking guy. I watched as he made himself as comfortable as possible and then gave himself to the screen, obviously a fan. I followed his example and settled into the show.

The curtains opened.

No trailers, no adverts and no charity-collecting-do-good bastards rattling their tuppence boxes along the rows. This was Cinema, folks, as it used to be.

The Film began.

The titles gave us our first taste of the smoky, elusive score that I loved so well - no matter what Shiv thought. Piano first, then tenor sax, lazy, slow and seductive but always, not far behind, that insistent, nervy back beat warning us, telling us to watch out - there is more going on here than meets the eye.

"John Barry," whispered Shiv, "I hate him!"

Scene one:

"My god, it's hot!" breathes the lady on the screen as the sax fades into the wail of distant sirens, " 'Stepped out of the shower and started sweating again."

The man she is talking to turns from the window to grin at her distractedly as she climbs into her nurses uniform. He is Racine, the lawyer. The nurse is not relevant, we won't see her again.

The film seemed different from the last time I had seen it eleven years before. I suddenly realised what it was. Back then, Racine had been anonymous but nonetheless instantly recognisable as a dubious character. Since then, though, he had become infinitely more well-known. Now he was William Hurt - Movie star - and as such towed with him the baggage of the many memorable roles he had since played. A person seeing the film for the first time would now take a while to figure out the nature of Hurt's character.

I didn't let this worry me overly. The mood was as I remembered, the atmosphere still intact. The movie was going to be just as good this time around as...

Latecomers.

A guy, well built, wearing a black leather jacket, a gangly blonde girl in tow. They fell up the stairs fooling with each other and giggling selfishly. The usher jumped from his perch to quieten them.

"Tennn-shun!" the big guy bawled, at the top of his voice, and then, "Jesus Corr-aye-est, is it dark in here or is it me?"

A palpable swell of hostility coursed instantly through the entire auditorium. These were good people, all they wanted was to enjoy this fine film in peace. They did not deserve this West End Saturday Night trash.

"Two of your best seats for my lady and I, scout," the noisy one boomed, "And be quick about it!"

The usher tried his best. "The feature has already started," he hinted coolly but the guy was ready for him.

"Good job too! Less of this shit for me to sit through," he marched past the usher, "C'mon, babe, let's sit up here."

Four seats in from the aisle was where we had sat. Why did we do it? We could have just taken the aisle seats like normal people. The quest for the perfect stereo position perhaps. Didn't matter now, the mouthpiece and his girl had collapsed into the two seats right next to us, her closest to me. Ignore them, I advised myself, give your attention back to the film, they'll probably shut up once they settle.

On screen, Racine and Mattie were about to meet for the first time. The fire was beginning to burn. The band played 'I saw you last night and got that old feeling' while Hurt pursued Kathleen Turner through the summer heat. I relaxed again, forgetting the interruption.

"Hey," brayed the big guy, "What's this crap all about anyway?"

Somebody behind 'ssshh'ed angrily but it only served as encouragement to him. He twisted full round in his seat and stared out into the gloom behind.

"Shush me one more time, scout. I'll come back there and shush you."

Then he turned jubilant back to the girl beside him, punched her shoulder and said, "Where's my sweeties?"

Sweeties?

No!

Anything but sweeties, please.

The blonde rummaged in her coat pocket and fished out a virgin bag of gold wrapped chewy caramels. The brute ripped them out of her grip...

"Yes, sweeties!"

...and proceeded to tear the plastic limb from limb. The bag was gunfire in the still of the auditorium, it went...

Rasp.

For many people it is a certain smell which trigger vivid memories; flowers, bus stations, drains.

For me it is a sound.

That sound.

Rasp.

"Are you all right?" whispered Shiv anxiously.

Fine. Except for that sound, dragging me back.

Rasp.

"Hey!"

Rasp.

"I said are you okay?"

Shiv was now also torn out of the movie and was worried about me. She knew how I got.

"I just wish he'd...stop. Y'know?"

"I know. Just try to watch the movie, it's good."

I tried to watch the movie - I really did - but that bag went...

Rasp.

...and back I went...

It was a joke, a kids joke. We were walking back to school one day and we had our rolls of mint imperials in our hand, chewing away. Remember the packets? Ten white ovals laid end to end, wrapped in a square of transparent cellophane then all rolled up with a couple of twists in both ends.

Coogan finished his first and rasped the paper into a ball in his hand. I told him to stop, that I hated that noise. I didn't really, it was just something to say, but the guys latched onto it.

They started to call me Minty. They rasped paper at me all the time. Everywhere I went - rasp, rasp, rasp - and it wasn't the noise that got me, not really. It was the knowing that, even though I'd said how much I hated it, they still kept on doing it just the same. It got to a stage that every time I heard that noise I got really upset.

It became something of a problem for me.

Mop does it one day and I lose it completely. We'd been playing marbles in the gutter on the back street and Mops opaque had rolled down into the gully. We manage to get the cover up - it is cast iron and very heavy - and mops kneels and reaches in to feel around in the muck at the bottom for his prize. I wander off to look for pennies but he calls me over.

"Hey Minty, c'mere and see!"

I go over and kneel down and he pulls his arms out and he's got a filthy mint imperial wrapper in his hand. He rasps the damned stuff at me, right under my nose, then he laughs and shoves his arms back down the hole. "Poor mad Minty," he says.

Then I just get all upset and kick the gully lid over on his arms. It crunches down on him just above the elbows. It doesn't chop them off or anything but it's still pretty bad, there's a lot of gore and stuff and Mops is howling....

I snapped back. From the corner of my eye I saw the blonde staring at me, annoyed, and I realised that I have been cracking my knuckles slowly one by one. I can crack them really well, twenty-two different ways. Shiv reckons I'll have Arthritis by the time I'm forty. It really winds her up.

Anyway, this blonde was staring at me angrily and her dumb boyfriend was still off in his own world rasping away beside her so I couldn't resist the dig.

"I'm sorry," I said, turning and smiling my most winning smile at her, "I do hope I'm not bugging you."

I could see that she didn't really know what to do. Her eyes darted away from me to the screen for a moment but then back again. I cracked another knuckle at her for punctuation. She winced.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, hardly a breath really, "he wanted to go and see Tom Cruise."

"So did she," I said, nodding over at wonderful unaware Shiv, "but she's still behaving herself."

Then, from nowhere, he was over in my face. He had leant across the blonde using her arm as painful purchase to drag himself closer to me.

"What's this then, sodding 'Blind date' or something?"

He was too close, I could smell the caramels on his breath, probably wedged somewhere between his teeth.

Shiv snapped suddenly around to face him.

"Why don't you shut up, you ignorant shit-head?" she hissed. Shiv really doesn't like being disturbed in the cinema.

He stared at her just for a moment then threw himself to his feet in a manner that might have been funny in different circumstances.

"Right!"

He pushed roughly past his girlfriend towards Shivs' seat.

"Shit-head, am I?"

"Sit down," somebody behind said.

"I'll sit in a minute, scout," he replied, almost reasonably, "Just let me straighten something out with this bitch here."

To get to my Shiv, he had to first get through me. I stood up to face him, my seat popping upright as I left it. Somebody behind swore softly, I sympathised - it really was a very good part of the film.

"You first, eh?" The guy looked pleased to see me," Good. I'll save her for dessert."

He probably would have too. He was a foot above me and a damn sight heavier. I calculated the odds, realised it was a certain loss, then reached in and drew out my gun.

"Minty!" Shiv shouted.

The entire cinema gasped. Some girl behind started to scream. It was just like being back at that gully.

I extended the gun, raised it above the morons head and slowly brought it down level with the bridge of his nose. His mouth fell open and chewy caramel-coloured drool ran out of the corner of it. I could tell he was impressed.

"Step back and sit down," I advised. He did.

"Pull in your legs" I requested the blonde. She did.

"Minty, you swore..."

"Shut up a minute, Shiv." I said. She didn't.

"You're a real Wally sometimes, you know that?"

"I know."

I advanced on my quivering thug, past the blondes' tucked-in legs. I inserted the barrel of the gun into his left nostril and pressed hard. I was all upset again.

"You wanted to straighten something out with us? Is that what you wanted to do?

"Look..."

"SHUT UP!! Just...shut up"

I forced the barrel of the Walther a little further up his nose.

The James Bond gun,' Shiv had called it when she gave it to me two birthdays ago. Not quite. The Walther PPK, 7.6mm was a cool piece but If she'd wanted to buy me the 'James Bond gun' then she should have opted for the Beretta .25mm. Bond only gave his Beretta up because M forced him to in 'Dr. No'. Still at least she got the holster right - Berns Martin triple-draw - worn tight under the left shoulder.

I'd promised I'd never carry it outdoors because that was totally illegal and normally I didn't but today we were going to see my all time favourite film. I wanted to see what it would feel like to see it tooled up.

Actually, it felt all right.

"Hey," the big guy sounded a bit bunged up.

I blinked. I had tuned out for a second, it was true, but I was back now, loud and proud. Things had changed. The house lights were up, for a start, and somebody had stopped the film. I took a look around, everybody was watching me, waiting to see which way I would jump. The usher from the pull-down seat was out in the aisle just beyond the Jerk. The room was poised.

Then somebody down the front spoke up, an American I think.

"It's a fake."

A murmur raced around.

"It's a fake gun, for Christ's sake. Who's going to pack something like that in London?"

He was right, of course, my gun was a replica, it fired only blanks. Below me, the idiot slowly realised that this had to be true. A smile spread slowly across his big mouth.

"Put your toy away now scout," he said, "It's time to learn some manners."

Normally that would have been it. My bluff had been called, it was time to pay the price. That's how it had been when I kicked the gully cover down on Mops arms. I had triumphed in my rage but only for the briefest of moments. Many bad things were to follow close behind.

The guy's hand rose up to brush my gun aside and, normally, I would have been powerless to stop him.

Normally.

Not this time.

This time there was an awful lot of anger still inside me. This PIG had ruined my favourite movie for me forever and then, THEN had moved to hurt my Shiv, My dear precious Shiv, and I knew, if he got past me now, he would surely go on to Shiv and hurt her and hurt her and hurt her and hurt...

"LEAN BACK, YOU SON-OF-A-WHORE!!"

He leaned back...and stared.

"THE GUN IS A FAKE, SURE IT IS," I roared, pumped with adrenaline, "IT SHOOTS BLANKS."

The blonde was staring, the usher too. Everybody was staring.

I made a little speech.

"Anybody know what a 'blank' is? Anybody? I'll tell you shall I? It's really just a little bit of paper rolled up really tight. Wouldn't hurt a fly. Right?... Right?... WRONG! Ever hear of Jimmy Ruane? No? Jimmy 'Sax' Ruane put a gun to his head during a game of Russian Roulette in Salt Lake City back in 1988 and fired a blank round at his temple. That piece of paper went in one side of his skull and out the other and took half his BRAINS with it. Believe me? No? Shall I prove it to you?"

I dug the gun back up his nose and squeezed at the trigger.

"SHALL I?"

"NO!"

The big guys' eyes were bursting out of his sockets and his jaw seemed to be locked ajar.

"Get off me!"

I eased the gun back to let him move.

"Get out of here," I whispered, "Get out of my sight."

Drool, once more flowing freely.

"NOW!"

He jumped up and fell out into the aisle. The blonde got up too. She muttered an 'excuse me' as she squeezed past, her hip brushing me. For a second, I thought she was going to stoop and get the bag of sweets.

She didn't.

When the big guy had got some distance between himself and my piece of paper he turned around and made like he was going to come back. The audience started up a slow handclap and a low sinister hiss. He cut his losses, spun and stomped down the stairs.

From outside, he screamed.

"I'm going straight to a phone and calling the police. You'll suffer for this, matey, you'll pay."

Then he left.

I got the gun back into my Berns Martin triple-draw holster only with a lot of difficulty. My hands had started to shake really badly.

I looked at the scatter of faces, all gaping at me, then I looked over at Shiv. She just stood there shaking her head and crying. I straightened my jacket and headed out into the aisle. Once there, I looked back. She was sitting down again.

"You coming?"

"No."

"I did it for you, you know"

"Go home, Minty. Just go home."

I left without her.

On the stairs, I met the usher from inside. He was hanging around nervously. He looked as if he had something to say.

"What?" I asked.

He grinned.

"It is hot," he said.

I had to smile back.

"Yes," I agreed, “it is.”

© Ken Armstrong

Iron Man, Noisy Patrons and Projectionist Excuses

These days, I only get to see first run movies if they are kid-friendly. That’s why I was quite pleased to see ‘Iron Man’ come along. This was right up my young guy’s street and, truth be told, it was right up mine too.

I enjoyed this film a lot. I like my comic-book-movies to take themselves a little seriously. That’s the way the original comics were – they created a fantastic world that they did not then feel obliged to apologise for. That’s why those ‘nod-and-a-wink’ movies like Tim Burton’s Batman never really did it for me.

So ‘Iron Man’ takes itself a bit seriously, but not too much so. Robert Downey Jr, looking gaunt and remarkably like Al Pacino at times, is perfect in the lead. This nicely-flawed egotistical, selfish hero almost feels autobiographical to him – except for the flying bits.

(Photo by Lman1138)


Support from Gwyneth Paltrow and most especially Jeff Bridges is excellent. Special effects are so good that it’s finally hard to see the joins between CGI and live action and the overall design mixes hyper-modern with a curious retro feel which simply works brilliantly.

Downside? It’s sufficiently slow to get off the ground that the young folk might twitch a bit (I didn’t). Oh and Terrence Howard doesn’t get enough to do to raise himself above standard sidekick material.

But it’s a complete blast, really. The Iron Man suits are iconic and powerful and the last line is wonderfully telegraphed for all the world to appreciate.

You’ll probably have to like comic books to like it.

But, if you do, you will.


My only complaint had nothing to do with the movie but rather with the theatre I saw it in – so pay attention Mayo Movie World, I know you monitor this feed on a 24 hour basis.

Basically, the sound reproduction in the cinema was nothing less than dreadful. The whole show sounded like it was coming out of a brown paper bag, it was muddied and indistinct.

I went into the foyer quite early on and asked whether the projectionist could come in and have a listen and see if he/she could do something about it. Nothing ever happened. I’ll write them a letter and maybe someone will look into it.

I think auditoria in multiplexes are under-monitored – ‘Set the movie running and then leave it alone’, seems to be the general policy. This is nothing new. In Sligo, many years ago, the movie ‘Christiane F’ ran for a full week with all the reels shown in the wrong order. The general view in the town was that the show was avant garde and challenging.

I also remember when I went to see ‘Saving Private Ryan’ in the cinema. The reels were cranked incorrectly so that only the heads and shoulders of the on-screen protagonists were being seen. The full-house munched away happily while I nearly went mad. I went out, found the projectionist, and told him what was wrong.

"Ah no," said he, in his very best Sligo accent, "Ye see that’s the way it was back in World War Two. They were all down in trenches the whole time."

As I got back to my seat, the image on the screen lurched upwards and corrected itself magically. I spotted the projectionist again as I left but I couldn’t catch his eye.

Finally, at ‘Iron Man’ last night there was a bunch of giddy schoolkids running in and out of the cinema laughing and shouting with no regard for the rest of us trying to watch the film. Well, I think there was regard because this kind of thing is mostly a play for attention, in my jaded opinion.

Anyway, I gave them the attention they craved with a stout warning from my darkened seat.

And guess what?

They all shut up! That never happened before.

... now I know I’m getting old.