It’s been some considerable time since I went to the cinema for a blockbuster.
The last one I saw on the big screen was The Rise of Skywalker. I had a nightmare migraine that day and decided I’d rather hang out in the loo than endure the last third or so, and finer critics agree that an icepick in the brain is a better experience.
The toilets at my local are nice, anyway, since it’s an arthouse cinema and gallery. The last in-cinema films I saw before the pandemic came down on us (Her Sketchbook, Ten Dark Women, Kakegurui, My Dad Is A Heel Wrestler) were part of the touring Japanese film festival. My first trip back a couple of weeks ago was for Smoking Causes Coughing, playing in their year-round specialist horror programme. It’s a very nice place to visit, and that’s why I’ll pay £3.50 for a coke with the minimum amount of wincing. A donation to the continued existence of the venue, which happens to come with a drink.
And it squared my soul with god for bringing my own sweeties in for Barbie. Good movie! Fun movie! Gorgeous set and costuming work. Being a tokusatsu fan has primed me to recognise when a toy company is spending a lot of money on a story that appears to kick it in the teeth because it knows a fangless predator can creep further into the fold without causing alarm. I can also recognise the genuine love and anger and joy and passion that went into making it. Its inevitable copies will not, for the most part, be granted the same care.
At the very least, I hope big dance scenes are coming back into fashion now. The trailer for Wonka seemed to promise as much, and I think that film will suck fat nuts! Gritty sludge has had a monopoly on mediocrity for too long. It’s time again for dopey showgirls in gooey gowns, two-three-kick-turn-turn-turn-kick-turn...
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