The Flicks

I taught Millie this morning, a clever, delightful 14 year old who is as sharp as a tack. I gave her a baton and asked her to conduct Barbara Streisand singing ‘Rainbow Connection’. 3/4 time and charming.
We watched Sir John Barbirolli, then Alondra de la Parra conducting ‘Ravels Bolero’, which gave me the brainwave of scrolling to find Frank Zappa. Wearing a white shirt and dragging on a cigarette the genius conducted his own band of reprobates in his unique version of Ravels masterpiece.
The piece took as long as his cigarette to burn out.
The lesson ended and I took Millie to the top of the drive negotiating the acorns that had turned the slope into a roller ring.
The day was my own as the dawter was out picking pinot Noir and the old git spends a lot of his time resting and snoring and resting again.
I went shopping, hugged Anna the ‘Big Issue’ vendor, and decided to take a trip out.
I didn’t know where to go so I told my trusty car to drive me somewhere.
We went through the village then past Maresfield and I knew then we were heading for the cinema in Uckfield. A delightful picture house that has been in the same family since 1916. Pass the ‘Pig and Butcher’ and into the town. I parked. It was 3.25
‘What’s on?’ I asked
‘Loads of things’
‘What’s on now?’
‘Oh! The Roses’
‘Seen it.’
‘Downton abbey.’
The foyer was full of white haired dames smelling of Chanel.
‘Is this just for us oldies’
‘No you’d be surprised at who has been coming.’
I proffered my Bafta card and got in for nothing.
‘We don’t usually accept this on a Saturday but we’re not busy so we’ll let you through this time.’
I bought a small tub of sweet popcorn, an Early Grey tea and was taken to seat C6 in the lounge.
Sunk into my seat and nibbled my way through the trailers.
‘Downton Abbey’ started at 3.45
Too dark for my liking, I mean the colour grading not the film which was light and frothy. To my total astonishment I really enjoyed Julian Fellowes’ conceit.
I even shed a tiny tear, sat in the front of my seat waiting for the handover of fortunes, sharp acting and obvious story telling. Two hours of acceptable escapism.
Apart from a handful of venerable women, I was alone in the cinema.
Most of my life has been lived alone. I’m not complaining sometimes I prefer it like that, but now that the old git’s sociability is limited I’m learning how to entertain myself solo.
Bit of a shock after fifty years of marital howsyourfather, but I can’t spend my now limited life waiting for him to wake up.
In the 60’s we had a beautiful cinema in Boreham Wood before it became a pub. The irony that in the town that was called ‘Little Hollywood’ on account of all the film studios, the only cinema was pulled down for a boozer. Hey ho.
I used to go with my mother. With its impressive winding stairway and red velvet curtains. Ice-cream usherettes stalked the aisles. Torches lighting your way to the seats. Always queues outside. We saw Elvis Presley films, girls squealing and me with my mother. I wanted to be there with a teddy boy instead.
My first boyfriend worked in his uncles greengrocers, gave me a bag of muscatel grapes and took me to see the ‘Fall of the Roman Empire.’ We did not sit in the back row. I’d done that the week before with Paul Tinkler.
He snogged my face off and gave me a stubble rash.
At drama school John T and I would see horror movies every week. From the Elephant and Castle to Hampstead.
And then I started going on my own.
Taking packed lunches to all nighters. French films, Fellini, back to back Polanski, marvelling at the camera work, and taking the night bus back to my flat.
On the road whilst touring, I would see whatever was going. In Sheffield I took a cucumber and pot of cottage cheese – always on a perennial diet being a young starlet – and went to a bijou cinema somewhere near Rotherham.
When the film started it became clear I had entered an x-rated establishment. Men in raincoats, heavy breathing and me with my cucumber. I should have researched the neighbourhood.
The Odeon in Leicester Square to see ‘Carrie’, was an interesting experience. Sitting alone I had no idea that ‘Carrie’ was a nail biter. At the end when the hand shot out of the earth the young man sitting next to me screamed so loudly I jumped into his arms we consoled each other and parted in the foyer.
Finally I joined Bafta, at the time when you had to be nominated.
Terry Frisby sponsored me and we would go together to all the screenings.
I learnt the etiquette of proper film buffs. Never speaking until the screen went dark. Silence was demanded until the last ‘best boy’ had been credited.
I joined Bafta when I had money and lived in London. I would see screenings in Soho then walk back to my flat in Battersea.
And then my telly job stopped. Radio paid half as much.
When BBC London withdrew their support I gave up Sarf Lundon and went back home to the cottage, the old git, and a limited bank balance.
Bafta allowed my penury and has a facility for stone cold broke actors enabling us to still be members. Vote, and pay a meagre amount.
Now we come to the new season. Christmas is watching endless films in the sitting room.
New Year is voting
Then its back to trips to the cinema with my Bafta credentials in tact.
Getting old is funny, I have the same inclinations without the desperation.
I have the same demands without the hysteria.
I watch films alone and do not need to have anybody next to me.
I miss the ‘oosband holding my hand and chortling, but a good Northern film like ‘THE CHORAL’ can compensate a tiny bit.
Alan Bennet, a recling seat, dimming lights and a hot tea, what more could an old thespian ask for?
RIP Diane Keaton, with over 50 films to her name, her legacy lingers on.
And thats what I like about the pictures, the magic of the flicks never dies.