Jonathan Dodd‘s latest column. Guest opinion articles do not necessarily reflect the views of the publication. Ed
I was very disappointed last week, because Blade Runner was fully-booked. I was so looking forward to being able to watch it for the last time in a proper cinema. I suppose I could have gone to see Fast and Furious 7. Or even Cinderella. But it’s not the same thing. I’ve got Blade Runner on blu-ray, and I can watch it any time, but even with the best equipment you can buy, your living room isn’t the same as a proper cinema experience.
I once worked at IBM in Portsmouth, and one of the people I worked with was a tall black American, very intelligent and well-read. He had paid his way through college by playing American Football, and had traded his bodily integrity for the benefits of a free education. Unlike our football or rugby, over there you’re almost certain to have various parts of your body smashed up while playing. We talked about films, and he asked me where he could go to see all these wonderful European films that he could never find where he lived in the USA. I’m afraid I laughed. He looked hurt, and sheepishly told me he had asked for a posting to Europe with the glories of art-house cinema in mind.
Portsmouth was his only other option
I had to explain that there are small pockets in the middle of large cities with at least one prestigious university where you can find cinemas that show such films, but that Portsmouth wasn’t one of these. He met my recommendation that he get himself transferred to the centre of London with dismay. Apparently he had already tried that, and Portsmouth was his only other option.
I tried to placate his disappointment by suggesting tours of the beautiful lush countryside, and all the history available within a stone’s throw. And I gave him the downside of London, with the noise and dirt and second-hand air. He got the culture thing, but he gave me a withering look about London. Apparently nothing there could come close to the awfulness of life in his home city.
At least one art-house cinema
The weird thing is that I’ve grown up with American films, where it seems that every small town is equipped with a large auditorium, a lovely library, several excellent bookshops, a tiny theatre, and at least one art-house cinema. As well as the usual burger bars of course, and rough drinking places, and a ghetto where you dare not stray after dark. I have a suspicion that my imagination has been shamefully exploited, if my American Football-playing friend was right.
Of course, nowadays things are getting better. Film clubs are flourishing, and venues are springing up all the time. There’s a cinema in the dockyard in Portsmouth, although if the film’s more than 90 minutes long you have to miss either the end of the film or your ferry. My answer to that would be to take a sleeping bag and hope it doesn’t rain. And there are several film clubs on the Wight. The one in Ventnor is splendid, and there’s one in Sandown now, as well as Gurnard. If I’ve missed you out, I apologise.
Squinting at the screen on a mobile phone
I love films, I read Empire magazine from cover to cover, and I listen to Kermode and Mayo on Radio 5LIVE on Friday afternoons while driving home. I’m frustrated because there are so many films I want to see, but those aren’t ever on at the cinema. I have to wait six months before they come out on DVD or blu-ray, or until the local film club shows them. Or I can pay English prices for the DVDs, which are so much more expensive than almost anywhere else. I suppose I could join the streaming thing, but I suspect that most streaming services only really stock the same stuff you see in cinemas. Besides, I don’t want to end up with Buffer-face. I also don’t want to watch a film squinting at the screen on a mobile phone or tablet, with headphones on.
Films are made to be shown in auditoriums, and shared with other like-minded people. Any other film-watching experience pales against that. Watching films on television doesn’t work in the same way, because there are interruptions and phone calls, and toilet breaks. And conversation. I’m not complaining, because it’s much better than not watching at all. I’m just pointing out the difference in the experience.
Not a French gangster in sight
Some time ago I used to live in Newbury, which had no cinema, a shameful thing. I used to travel ridiculous distances to see films. I remember two films in particular, about a real-life French gangster called Jacques Mésrine (pronounced May-reen). I really wanted to see them. The manager of the Odeon Cinema in Bracknell (yes, there really is such a place) used to reserve a slot on Tuesday evenings for art-house films, bless him, and he had scheduled both films for two Tuesday evenings.
It was February, and the weather was awful. I arrived for Part 1 and bought a ticket, and made a joke about being lucky to get one. The ticket person gave me a blank face, of course, and I made my way to the smallest screening room and sat down. There was one person already there. At the right time the lights dimmed, the film started, and I recognised the opening credits – for 2012, the disaster film about the end of the world. Not a French gangster in sight.
He had to grapple with the concept
After checking that I was in the right screening room I stamped out into the foyer and accosted a minion, who looked at me blankly (they all seem to do that. Is it a prerequisite for the job?), then I demanded the manager. It took an unsurprisingly long time for him to be summoned, and he had to grapple with the concept of showing the wrong film. Eventually they worked it out, offered us free drinks and treats, and started the right film about twenty minutes late. The only other customer sat in his seat throughout. I think he would have watched 2012 and slunk out without saying anything. People are weird. But the film was magnificent.
When I tell that story there are two reactions. Some think it would be great to be able to stand in the foyer and have a good shout. Most are horrified and would rather die than complain. I find that interesting. But the best part of the story was yet to come, because the second Mésrine film was due to be shown the next Tuesday. I fought traffic in freezing rain again, and bought my ticket, getting the same blank face from the ticket person.
It was the greatest feeling
This time there were three differences. 1. I was the only person there. 2. They showed the right film. 3. It was the largest screen in the whole cinema. 500 seats. I counted them. 
I’m certain they weren’t trying to make up for the week before, but I didn’t care. It was the greatest feeling to sit in the centre of the middle row and watch the film on the largest screen. I was able to make as much noise as I wanted, and I could stretch myself right out.
Weirdly, when I tell this story I get two reactions too. Some people are horrified at the idea of being the only one in the room, and the rest are thrilled by the idea. Like I said, people are weird. I’m going to make up for the disappointment of missing Blade Runner by going to see Cinema Paradiso this week at the Open University Film Society. It’ll be heaven.
Now how on earth can you compare the glories of those experiences with squinting at a tiny screen on your mobile?
If you have been, thank you for reading this.
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