FrightFest, and after
Judging by the queue for the cubicles in the men's toilets, FrightFest is secretly a convention for shy bladders. After all, I am also afflicted by this syndrome, which makes it hard to piss in the urinals with people spurting away on either side of you. But the warm feeling of being surrounded by fellow sufferers - or my impatience with the queue - was enough to unfreeze my loins, and soon I was happily pissing everywhere I could.
But that's by the by. For the first time I did not go alone to FrightFest, I went with Dave. No, not that Dave - and not that one either - the other one. This Dave attracts trouble. After the first film a young guy came up to ponce a fag off him. He obliged, but then this guy wouldn't leave us alone, and followed us up the road, talking constantly. Among other things, he said (a.) that the Prince Charles cinema shows new films cheaper than other cinemas after they've been out a couple of weeks, which I knew - and (b.) that his uncle lives on the Caledonian Road, which I didn't. He eventually left us alone, but not until we had both shaken his hand. No wonder they say smoking's bad for you.
Rabies (Israelis lose their tempers) was followed by The Glass Man (Andy Nyman shoots a traffic warden - in a scenario conjured by Jason from Footballer's Wives!), and these were both excellent in their different ways, though I wasn't quite so sure about Tucker and Dale Vs. Evil. Here our eponymous heroes are innocent hillbillies mistaken for psychopathic inbreds by excitable college students who have seen too many horror films, and who set about impaling themselves on tree branches and throwing themselves into wood chippers in their inept attempts to deal with the perceived situation. Amusing, yes, but too slight to detract from 'Dale''s disturbing resemblance to a bearded Heather-from-Eastenders...
I returned on Sunday despite the absence of trains, due to 'essential engineering works' - thank God they weren't frivolous engineering works, that would have been really annoying. On the bus back from Newbury Park - I was on the top deck - I heard a voice from downstairs shouting: 'Anyone getting off at Brentwood?' Thinking that this was the driver, I nearly responded. Luckily I didn't, because it was only a drunken man - another Dave, in fact, as became apparent when he sat next to the girl who was sitting behind me, an acquaintance of his. I learned quite a bit about them on this journey. He had been 'getting right on it' apparently, and was looking forward to 'getting right on it' again in the near future. Both of them were thirty, but she was going out with - gasp! - a 45-year old. 'Is he a typical 45-year old?', asked the Dave. No, he wasn't, she insisted: 'He's Italian'. As so few 45-year olds, notoriously, are.
Meanwhile, I was wondering if I was 'a typical 45-year old' - or, indeed, if I was even 45. It's hard to keep track, these days.
When I got in it was just in time to see Primal, on Film4. This is just the kind of film that you could end up seeing at FrightFest, if you aren't careful. In this Australian shocker, a picturesque group of young things travel to the outback in order to, would you believe, look at some aboriginal paintings. Before long, a couple of them have 'gone primal', which means their teeth fall out and they grow new ones. Sharp ones. And they run about like people pretending to be animals, roaring, and tearing people's throats out. Pretty much what you'd expect, in fact.
As is the film. Although I'll admit that I wasn't expecting the heroine to get raped by a giant leech. If that's what it was. Throughout the film, much has been made of the heroine's reluctance to use the c-word. At the end, having despatched a former friend 'gone primal' with a rock dropped onto her head she finally lets loose with the word: 'Cunt!' It's the last line of the film. This, then, was her character arc. She has learned to unselfconsciously use the word 'cunt'. Well, I guess we've all learned something. If you are looking for a cultural wasteland, go to Australia.
But that's by the by. For the first time I did not go alone to FrightFest, I went with Dave. No, not that Dave - and not that one either - the other one. This Dave attracts trouble. After the first film a young guy came up to ponce a fag off him. He obliged, but then this guy wouldn't leave us alone, and followed us up the road, talking constantly. Among other things, he said (a.) that the Prince Charles cinema shows new films cheaper than other cinemas after they've been out a couple of weeks, which I knew - and (b.) that his uncle lives on the Caledonian Road, which I didn't. He eventually left us alone, but not until we had both shaken his hand. No wonder they say smoking's bad for you.
Rabies (Israelis lose their tempers) was followed by The Glass Man (Andy Nyman shoots a traffic warden - in a scenario conjured by Jason from Footballer's Wives!), and these were both excellent in their different ways, though I wasn't quite so sure about Tucker and Dale Vs. Evil. Here our eponymous heroes are innocent hillbillies mistaken for psychopathic inbreds by excitable college students who have seen too many horror films, and who set about impaling themselves on tree branches and throwing themselves into wood chippers in their inept attempts to deal with the perceived situation. Amusing, yes, but too slight to detract from 'Dale''s disturbing resemblance to a bearded Heather-from-Eastenders...
I returned on Sunday despite the absence of trains, due to 'essential engineering works' - thank God they weren't frivolous engineering works, that would have been really annoying. On the bus back from Newbury Park - I was on the top deck - I heard a voice from downstairs shouting: 'Anyone getting off at Brentwood?' Thinking that this was the driver, I nearly responded. Luckily I didn't, because it was only a drunken man - another Dave, in fact, as became apparent when he sat next to the girl who was sitting behind me, an acquaintance of his. I learned quite a bit about them on this journey. He had been 'getting right on it' apparently, and was looking forward to 'getting right on it' again in the near future. Both of them were thirty, but she was going out with - gasp! - a 45-year old. 'Is he a typical 45-year old?', asked the Dave. No, he wasn't, she insisted: 'He's Italian'. As so few 45-year olds, notoriously, are.
Meanwhile, I was wondering if I was 'a typical 45-year old' - or, indeed, if I was even 45. It's hard to keep track, these days.
When I got in it was just in time to see Primal, on Film4. This is just the kind of film that you could end up seeing at FrightFest, if you aren't careful. In this Australian shocker, a picturesque group of young things travel to the outback in order to, would you believe, look at some aboriginal paintings. Before long, a couple of them have 'gone primal', which means their teeth fall out and they grow new ones. Sharp ones. And they run about like people pretending to be animals, roaring, and tearing people's throats out. Pretty much what you'd expect, in fact.
As is the film. Although I'll admit that I wasn't expecting the heroine to get raped by a giant leech. If that's what it was. Throughout the film, much has been made of the heroine's reluctance to use the c-word. At the end, having despatched a former friend 'gone primal' with a rock dropped onto her head she finally lets loose with the word: 'Cunt!' It's the last line of the film. This, then, was her character arc. She has learned to unselfconsciously use the word 'cunt'. Well, I guess we've all learned something. If you are looking for a cultural wasteland, go to Australia.
posted by martin at 11:42 AM
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