You’ve gotta like this movie. Not all the jokes work any more, by any means, but Young Frankenstein must be the finest parody-homage of any genre, ever. And at a completely decadent time of day, too, thanks to the Hebden Bridge Picture House’s Thursday morning “Elevenses” deal.
I have several times tried to capture a version of this shot, but it’s never really worked before. I’m quite happy with this one, though. Most of the thirty or so people who were watching have already departed and yet still the credits roll, down to the stage where only the assistant catering key grip’s mother is still watching them. The movie? Trap — which, I suppose, was OK, at least for a while.
In the mid-1970s the esteemed, and very good, photographer Martin Parr (see this page) moved to Hebden Bridge aged 23 and started capturing scenes from local life. These were published as the exhibition and photo-book The Nonconformists. The picture seen here, of the policeman walking in front of the cinema snack bar, was taken in exactly the same spot that this print now hangs, nearly 50 years later. It doesn’t really look a great deal different, on the whole.
Spectacular urban decay. Oldham doesn’t look all that great at the best of times but on a dreich day in December it really comes into — or perhaps gets out of — its own. Bear in mind that not only is this clock wrong, but I suspect has been stopped for a couple of decades by now.
Clare’s birthday was yesterday but it passed without comment on here. We took each other out tonight though, including to the movies to see The Creator. Verdict? Well, it’s a damn fine-looking movie, that’s undeniable but a) it doesn’t always make a great deal of sense and b) in true Hollywood style, it takes some complex philosophical and ethical issues and treats them as mere trivia. As I followed C up the aisle on the way out, and the other two guys went through the box of old posters, I was none the wiser as to the point of it all.
Wetherspoons, the pub chain, are a company of ambiguous attractions: but one thing they do have going for them is good taste in premises. The Old Picture House in Stafford is magnificent. I suppose it would be great if it were still a cinema but at least it is in use. And yes, I was in there at 11.25 in the morning, but hey, so were several other people.
OK, maybe you’ve see The Jungle Book like 38 times or whatever, but until this afternoon, I had never seen it all the way through. Bits of it — the songs, mainly — on Disney Time that we used to get on TV when it was a public holiday in the 1970s (“I’m the king of the swingers…. a jungle VIP”, that stuff) but never all the way through. And it might be a little archaic in its depictions of this or that but it is a pretty good movie, don’t you think? It’s certainly the only thing that happened to me today.
Clare, on the right, has her membership card ready for action. The movie, as the title of the post indicates, was Oppenheimer: which is a decent movie, I’ll acknowledge that, but I’ve stopped thinking that any film needs to be three hours long. (Though these three hours were definitely better than the three hours of my life that Beau is Afraid is never giving back.)
I am still finding the light input of my new camera somewhat difficult to set accurately. Most of the time I get it to acceptable levels that reflect the environment but other times it’s way up or down, with unpredictable results. But ‘unpredictable’ can also mean ‘interesting’ and ‘not what was expected’ — as with here. This room, showing the introductory movie at the Discovery Point centre in Dundee, was quite dark when I took this one. It worked, though.
Every Thursday, for years (floods and other arbitrary closures allowing), the Hebden Bridge Picture House has had a weekly Thursday morning showing known as ‘Elevenses’. Attendees get complimentary tea and biscuits. I think in all this time I have only made one of them, but today was the second (the film being Brian and Charles). There was something quite decadent about going to the movies and being out before lunch.
And seat C8 is MINE. It has my name on it, literally — with Clare’s on C7. If you ever get there before me and sit there, believe me I will be looking evilly at you throughout the picture.
Being 42 