Day three in London kicked off in style, with a screening of Quentin Tarantino’s latest Django Unchained. While it wasn’t quite the incredible piece of filmmaking many critics – The Guardian’s Peter Bradshaw, included – had made it out to be, it certainly made for entertaining viewing at nine o’clock in the morning and made up for the torturous Underground experience that proceded it. Don’t travel during rush hour. It’s a nightmare.
The violence in Django Unchained was deliriously over-the-top, the soundtrack was brilliant and the performances by all involved were exhilarating, though special mention must be paid to Christoph Waltz and a game Leonardo DiCaprio. This was followed by two films that were neither terrific nor horrific, the latter of which starred a very attractive Rafe Spall whose nudity in the film acted as a unconscious precursor to many of the conversations that sprung up during the rest of the day.
Following the middling films, fellow film critic and Rafe Spall lover Emma Thrower and I walked over to Waterloo were we were taking part in a podcast titled Raging Bulls**t alongside Joe Cunningham, Tom Grater and Rhys Williamson. The show, which is now available to download on iTunes here (it’s worth a listen for my The Paperboy-related introduction alone), turned out to be a blast. The chat, though consistently film-related quickly deteriorated from most anticipated films of the year to various actors’ genitalia, Velociraptor noises and Ryan Reynolds.
It was probably the craziest, most insane forty minutes of my whole six days in London, but proved to be hilarious nonetheless (I name-checked The Land Before Time). From here, Emma and I left the others to return to the Apollo cinema for Maniac, a film about a serial killer with a liking for scalps that was presented in its uncut glory. The film was insane, but in the best possible way. The trip home, however, was not. Every single noise freaked me out and it wasn’t until I was safety inside easyHotel’s foyer that I unclenched my fists (the biscuits I’d bought were now mush) and relaxed.
Back in my hotel room, I proceded to almost freeze to death. It’s all well and good being kindly upgraded into a nicer, more spacious room, but when that room has a massive window with no curtains or blinds (I’d accidentally forgotten this that morning and embarrassingly presented myself, warts and all, to the staff in the office block opposite) and the heating comes on-and-off in unpredictable patterns, it makes for an uncomfortable, socks-kept-on kind of night. Still, at least I hadn’t been murdered by a maniacal Elijah Wood.
Empty Screens 