I went to a screening with a friend and, trying not to be the diva, smiled as I took the middle seat. ‘No, no, it is fine,’ I grinned in deathly rictus.
NEVER sit in the middle seat because you will end up a) sitting behind a man who won’t take off his cowboy hat, b) sitting behind someone who has the most enormous ‘fro or c) sitting behind someone who has a huge head AND jug ears and you’ll spend the whole night stuck behind a gigantic sugar bowl. A chap at The Golden Compass screening came to the cinema with his very own built-in view-blocker – hair so sticky-out that I licked my palms and reached to either side of his head to smooth it down so I could see part of the screen… ah, but the light dimmed before my saliva’d hands achieved their mission.
So I got to see the film sitting behind a human bush, thank you. And he didn’t even have the niceness or awareness to scrunch down in the seat. That, next to faking an orgasm after 20 minutes of hard work, is the least anyone can do to uphold the standards of civility in this world. As my 90-year-old aunt likes to exclaim, ‘STANDARDS ARE SLIPPING!’ Anway, before the film, I was thinking this Wong Kar-Wai moving picture can’t be all bad; it’s got Norah Jones in it and Jude Law and Norah Jones and Rachel Weisz and some more Norah Jones… she’s singing and acting and in every damned frame and so it is called Blueberry Nights, OH GOD WHAT HAVE I DONE?!
The film is interminable, an endless childlike look at love and beauty and pie, saved from a diabetic coma by gambler-with-a-heart-of-crap Natalie Portman (who is working very hard indeed to make sure we associate her beauty with shitty onscreen behaviour; see The Darjeeling Limited).
Both my friend and I were fuming as yet another shot of La Jones’ milk-and-pie-besmirched puss (that’s old 1930s Yankee speak for ‘face’, btw) appeared and hovered endlessly in front of us, the film’s editor apparently having gone out for a snack. It is the first time in a long time where I needed a sick bag.
Where else could I have been? I could have been with Jeffrey Archer and Dame Joanna Lumley at the Chris Beetles gallery on Ryder Street, with a huge picnic spread of Gala pie and famous sketches done by UK famouses with inkpots. If only I’d known… Blueberry Nights? More like Dingleberry Nights! (And I think those are called ‘winnets’ in the UK.)