War Horse, the film at Hackney Picture House. Jan 9th special preview with questions and answers afterwards.
What was funny was my friend ordering a non-cheap small pizza from the restaurant/eaterie and my other mate on seeing it, giggling madly, saying, “Is that for a doll’s house?” Perfick “Emporer’s Clothes” moment. What do you expect? Hackney Picture House is sumptuous, innit, with plush reclining large seats but where are the Hackney/ Clapton/ people I know and like? Anyway, so after the first landscape-swooning scene of Spielberg’s epic, I switched off and from then on it was tedious torture. It was all so blue-eyed Bible-fearing peasant versus landowner predictable and as far-fetched as Jurassic Park could get. I know it’s not real; it’s a film. Sentimental slosh ready for Bafta and “How it was made” on the next Bank Holiday. Ugh! It was a bit of Waltons, that’s what it was.
I’ve watched the marvellous Sky programme about how the theatre production of War Horse was made. Still I never wanted to see the play, not even for ten quid. (I used my free membership ticket at HPH.) From how many war-films must I learn about WW1?
“Oh What A Lovely War was on telly again last week. Now that is not just a film; it’s pure art.
Yesterday afternoon I was at South Bank and wasn’t the sun glorious on the River! When my daughter has a son, she’s gonna call him Thames. How’s that? When she’s out of earshot, I’ll call him Passing Cloud and when his dad’s not in the room he’ll be known as Dragon. Did you know in France the authorities don’t allow children to be registered with non-standard names. Hear that, Geldorf?
So I was with a crowd of seniors for the first free screening of the season “A Moon Over The Alley”at the BFI. I loved it, thought it was genius. It reminded me of “Under Milk Wood” in its going in and out of people’s homes and into their gossip corners and worried, fag-end expressions. Some of the acting was poor, but most was extraordinarily good and I’m sure my child-actor brother was in it. How poor and grimy we all were in the 1970s with our paraffin heaters and mantelpieces, our one item of clothing and our non PC ways!
It was a musical drama and I forgot that as I wondered why the tramp woman broke out into an Oliver kinda song! What a white audience! I’m always shocked whern I see loads of white people together. At the Dickens exhibition last week I saw only retired or on the brink retired white people.
Hot and cold sweat after “A Moon Over The Alley” for I could not find my Freedom Pass. (A Clegg dream). I’d given out all the 25 tickets to Up Your Streeters and in the same wallet I’d kept my treasured Pass. The box-office staff had found it and kept it safe. Love ’em!
The cuts took away our free cuppa tea at BFI. We’ll survive.