The other side of the Channel

The first time I went to the movies in London, I queued amongst a noisy horde of extravagantly dressed Vikings, suffered through 25 long minutes of advertisements, was warned against Ssssilent tthhhiefssss by a mesmerising on-screen snake and ended up 15 euros poorer.

Let me tell you one thing: going to the movies up here in the Northern territories is not a piece of cake - it’s an ordeal for both your wallet and your soul.

I admit I might have been partly to blame for the debacle, for I scheduled my first time on the very first week of the Lord of the Ring’s release. I decidedly selected a cinema on Shaftesbury Avenue, I deliberately went to the 8 pm screening, and no one forced me to set my oh-so-unconventional-mind on a Saturday night.

There I was, an idealistic bean among giants, with my overpriced tickets and overrated idea of a night out, and the sky falling on my head.

You can imagine my surprise when, after 10 minutes of self-intended motivational speaking, I saw the sky get back on its feet, gather its blue train with dignity, and glue itself up on the ceiling in a cubist attempt.

In a few months’ time, I lost ALL of my Parisian reflexes. No more sheltered viewings in the afternoons or religious silence during the screening. I bid farewell to the small independent theatres of the Quartier Latin, to small independent movies from all around the world, to Iran, Korea and Argentina… But what I lost in sophistication, I gained in buoyancy.

Oh the primitive and greasy joy of pop corn!

The childlike excitement before a silly blockbuster!

London has turned me into -the Parisian I once was is turning in her grave- an unfussy audience!