A Night at the Filmworks

I had half a plan to go to Manchester tonight to attend a meet and greet of some of the most talented film-makers in the North-West. It was a good chance to network, my wife (the actress) had suggested. “I don’t need to network in my job”, I told her, probably too curtly to appear polite. I am a movie critic, and as such, actively go outrancet of my way to avoid unnecessary contact with those people I might be forced to be horrible about later, in the normal course of my duties.

It was just as well we didn’t go, as anyway, the wife and I had an enormous row which will no doubt end up with days of silence and ‘sulking’ (her definition, not mine) on my part, and her ignoring my silent protestations, as if she is above all of the nonsense that I am apparently suffering from.

In the end, I went out on my own and went to see the latest Danny Boyle – ‘Trance’, starring James McAvoy, Vincent Cassell and Rosario Dawson. This is the second film in as many weeks that I have seen London dressed up to the nines with lovely lighting and contemporary framing, with McAvoy haring around it like a mad thing. The last one was ‘Welcome To The Punch’. Anyhow, screen seventeen on the third floor was practically empty. Completely empty until I walked into it, in fact, and not much busier half an hour later when the film finally started. It was fair enough, I suppose, though WTTP just edged it for glamour and polish. Also, it tried to be as clever as Inception, which it was never going to be. Danny Boyle may be the nation’s sweetheart, but he’s no Christopher Nolan, let’s be honest.

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