It's Only a Movie Page 9

  ‘The thing I absolutely love about that scene,’ I told a benevolently smiling Lynch, ‘is that when Laura Dern describes her dream, she’s not doing it in a goofy way, but in a real way. This has been written about often as ironic, but to me it seems completely sincere and not ironic at all. You do really mean it, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ agreed Lynch, in his clipped ‘Jimmy Stewart from Mars’ chirrup.’We all have this thing where we want to be very cool and when you see something like this, really kind of embarrassing, the tendency is to laugh, so that you are saying out loud that “This is embarrassing and not cool!” and you’re hip to the scene. This kind of thing happens. But we also always know that when we’re alone with this person that we’re falling in love with, we do say goofy things, but we don’t have a problem with it. It’s so beau-ti-ful. And the other person’s so forgiving of these beautiful, loving, goofy things. So there’s a lot of this swimming in this scene. At the same time, there’s something to that scene, a truth to it, in my book.’

  Love. Beauty. Truth. All the things Ebert (and I) had thought were missing from Blue Velvet.

  Yet there they were all along – staring us right in the face.

  By the time I left Manchester at the end of the eighties, I wasn’t sure what I believed in any more. I had discovered that my judgements about movies were irredeemably flawed; I had learned that doctrine rarely coincided with desire; and I had come to accept that freedom of speech meant allowing people to say the things you don’t want to hear.

  On the night before I shipped out to London, I trekked to Salford Quays on my own to watch a late-night screening of Clive Barker’s lively horror romp Hellraiser, now widely regarded as the best British horror film of the decade. And as I sat there watching Clare Higgins lusting after the freshly flayed corpse of her reanimated boyfriend and wincing at the sight of giant fish hooks tearing strangulated faces apart, I realised that very little had changed since the days when I took refuge from the horrors of school life in triple-bill X-rated all-nighters at the Phoenix East finchley.

  When everything else was uncertain, gore cinema never let me down.

  Pass me that chainsaw.

  Chapter 3

  ‘COME BACK TO CAMDEN’

  ‘London is dead, London is dead, London is dead …’

  So said Morrissey, but only after he’d severed his Salford Lads Club alliances and headed for the beautiful South, finding musical solace in the (metaphorical) arms of Boz Boorer whom I personally credit with putting his ailing career back on the road to glam-stomping longevity. And if Morrissey could run off to the smoke and be a Polecat then I was pretty sure that I could too. After all, we had the same hair.

  So, after bailing out of Manchester, City Life, Men Against Sexism et al., I found myself back in my hometown, tired of politics and hungry for work. Although my written output at City Life had been less than prolific, I had remembered to keep copies of everything I had ever had printed, and so at least I now had a ‘portfolio’. The exact form of this portfolio was peculiar – having been a devout fan of both The Clash and William Burroughs as a kid, I had become besotted with the cut-up aesthetic (which now masquerades as the video ‘mash-up’) and decided that my work would be best presented in a manner which reflected this avant-garde appreciation. So, armed with a crisp £5 note and a collection of City Life s I proceeded to a West End newsagent wherein I photocopied a selection of my finest reviews and studiously ‘ripped and remixed’ them to conjure a creative collage of work which was then photocopied again to give it a rebellious post-punk agitprop feel. Written down this looks pretty stupid, particularly in an age when photocopying itself is seen as slightly less exciting than the purchase of a new ballpoint pen. But this was 1988, and back then I was really ‘pushing the envelope’.

  Really.

  Here was what I knew: every John, Jack and Mary wanted to work for a hip listings magazine, and to get paid for writing about watching films. Since the job itself wasn’t exactly rocket science, you had to have something to mark yourself out from the crowd. My ‘something’ was that ridiculous piece of thrice-photocopied paper – that, and the fact that I actually showed up in person and simply refused to take no for an answer. I figured that if I was persistent enough, in the end it would be easier for them to give me work than to have to keep turning me away. And in the end, I was right.

  The first office upon whose hallowed doors I solemnly banged like Martin Luther nailing his Ninety-five Theses to the church door was that of City Limits. For political reasons, I really wanted to work for the nominally co-operative City Limits, but there was simply no room at the inn – for which I remain retrospectively grateful.

  My next stop was the New Musical Express which by that time had moved from its funky bohemian offices on Carnaby Street to the altogether more corporate surroundings of IPC Towers on the South Bank. Whereas legend once had it that any old wino could roll in off the street to have a pee in the stairwell and end up reviewing the new album by ELP, now you had to get past a doorman and negotiate a lift to the fourth or fifth floor where you would be met by a ‘receptionist’ who would ‘buzz’ whoever it was you were hoping to meet while you waited in the foyer. Remember that scene from King of Comedy where Rupert Pupkin sits like a plank in the foyer of Jerry Langford’s TV show while endless others are ushered silently past him? It was like that – except I was no De Niro. In the end, I wound up handing my post-punk photocopy over to the receptionist and leaving with promises to ‘call back’ – never an effective technique.

  Only slightly disheartened I proceeded forthwith to the Southampton Street offices of Time Out in Covent Garden. As I mentioned previously, City Life had styled itself as a ‘cross between Time Out and Private Eye’ and we had been sending each other complimentary copies of our respective magazines for several years. In fact, some of the freelance contributors who wrote for Time Out topped up their income by filing for regional mags such as ours, and thus I had been blithely subbing copy by Nigel floyd (who was a stalwart of the Time Out film section) without ever having set eyes on him since my arrival at City Life . Despite the lack of personal contact, I believed that I had some connection with Time Out and therefore felt emboldened to stride into reception and announce my arrival as if everyone should automatically know exactly who I was.

  ‘Hello,’ I said to the impishly handsome young man behind the desk (who later turned out to be Time Out’s much-mourned Gay London editor Michael Griffiths, gracefully multitasking in the mornings).’I am Mark Kermode from Manchester’s prestigious City Life magazine, and I should like to see your film editors, Brian Case and/or Geoff Andrew, both of whom know of me and my work, obviously, and are very probably expecting me.’

  Which they weren’t.

  Michael smiled politely, picked up a phone, dialled a number, got no answer, tried again, got no answer again, put the phone down, smiled again, whispered ‘Excuse me,’ then leaned over into the back of the oddly warren-like but allegedly ‘open plan’ office and screeched ‘Geeooooofff!’

  There was a scurrying from the back of the office, which looked uncannily like the set of Terry Gilliam’s Brazil due to the fact that the ceiling area was bedecked with vast exposed heating pipes which seemed set to blow at any moment. Then a head popped round a pillar, friendly but slightly rattled, looked at Michael who nodded toward me, looked at me, completely blank (understandably), then back at Michael.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Him. There. He’s here to see you. From Manchester.’

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘He is. That bloke there. You know him, apparently.’

  Geoff came out from behind the pillar, looked at me again, clearly racking his brain to remember where on earth he might have met me before, but (reasonably enough) coming up with nothing.

  ‘I was just on my way out to lunch …’ he began, but before he could get any further I leaped into the fray.

&
nbsp; ‘Hi!’ I said, grabbing Geoff’s hand with what I considered to be confidence-inspiring force. (I have a thing about firm handshakes – I think they’re important and, crucially, unisex. I can’t be doing with all this French-style cheek-kissing nonsense – no wonder their country keeps getting invaded – and I see it as a sign of respect that I shake hands with women and men equally. A handshake doesn’t have to be crushingly tight or ‘manly’ to be ‘firm’ – merely forthright. Disappointingly, the worst handshake in the world belongs to one of my greatest heroes, Woody Allen, whose dangling half-hearted grip is like grasping a bag of wet, limp lettuce.)

  ‘I’m Mark Kermode, from Manchester’s City Life magazine,’ I announced again with confidence turned up to eleven.’We’ve never actually met, what with me being in Manchester and you being here in London and everything, but we have spoken on the phone [no we hadn’t] and we’ve been in occasional correspondence obviously [not really true either] and you said that if I was ever in London I should pop in [nope, none of the above]. So, here I am.’

  Geoff smiled politely, looked at Michael, who shrugged, looked back at me, and opened his mouth to say something. Probably ‘Go away.’ Only politely. But again I got in first.

  ‘Anyway, as you probably know I’ve actually moved to London [how would he know this?] and I thought I’d come and see you first [an utter, outright lie, as you know] about the possibility of doing some work for you. For Time Out. For the film Section.’

  Silence. Dead space. Press on.

  ‘I’ve brought some cuttings so you can have a look at my work, although you probably know it from the magazine [we have now passed into the realms of fantasy], but I thought that I should bring it anyway. You know, out of politeness.’

  I thrust the photocopied sheet into his hand. He took it, and looked at it, albeit briefly.

  I hadn’t been thrown out. This was going brilliantly!

  ‘Well, thanks very much,’ he said with admirable composure.’The thing is, we don’t really need any more film reviewers at the moment. We’ve got a full film Section here in the office, and a solid roster of regular freelancers …’

  ‘Like Nigel floyd!’ I interjected.’Of course, I know him well [total untruth]. He’s been writing for City Life for years, as you know [worth a try], and I’ve been subbing his copy. He’s great [true! At last!].’

  There was a brief pause.

  ‘You sub?’ said Geoff, his interest marginally piqued.

  ‘Oh yes, I do everything. Subbing. Listings, driving the van. Or crashing the van ha ha ha – only joking. But what I really want to do is write and —’

  It was Geoff’s turn to cut in.

  ‘You’ve done listings?’

  ‘Oh yes. But I really want to write …’

  ‘But you can do listings. You have experience?’

  ‘Yes I have experience in listings. And writing.’

  ‘But listings?’

  ‘Yes, listings. And writing.’

  ‘But listings?’

  With my highly trained super-perception journalist skills I had started to detect a subtle undercurrent in our conversation which may not have been obvious to the untrained ear. Through some uncanny sixth sense I began to divine that Geoff may have an interest in someone with skills in the area of ‘listings ’. Without realising it, he had unwittingly allowed me an entry into the otherwise impenetrable fortress of the Time Out film Section which I would now subtly exploit to my own advantage.

  ‘Do you,’ I ventured nonchalantly, ‘need someone to do … listings?’

  ‘No,’ said Geoff.

  Bugger.

  ‘At least, not right now.’

  Un-bugger. A bit.

  ‘But I might need someone in a couple of weeks’ time.’

  Aha …!

  ‘We’ve got some holidays coming up and we might need some cover … in listings. And if you could do listings then there might be the possibility – only the possibility mind you – that I might perhaps conceivably be able to pass a little bit of …’

  ‘Writing?’

  ‘Yes … “writing”… alongside the listings … your way.’ I decided to play it cool.

  ‘I’ll do it!’ I shrieked.’When do I start?’

  Geoff looked slightly taken aback.

  ‘Well, like I said, it’s only a possibility. And we may be covered after all … I’m not sure. I’ll have to check. Leave your phone number with reception and I’ll give you a call. OK?’

  OK? This was fantastic! Not only had I not been thrown out of the office, I had actually arrived at the ‘possibility’ of some work in the unspecified future. I was on fire – such a conflagration, in fact, that I could scarcely scrawl my contact details on to a piece of paper for fear that it would burst into flames and set the entire building ablaze like that bit in The Towering Inferno when a small electrical fire in a broom cupboard suddenly becomes a skyscraper of incandescent rapture and Robert Wagner’s smoky mistress falls out of a window wrapped only in a flaming towel.

  Incidentally, since you’ve brought up the subject of The Towering Inferno (thanks for that), did you know that co-stars Steve McQueen and Paul Newman were so concerned that neither should have top billing over the other that they got their agents to count the exact number of lines attributed to the fire chief and architect respectively and then got the writers to juggle the script until the amount of dialogue was perfectly balanced? After which, they got the promotions people to agree to a credit system whereby one star’s name would appear left but lower, the other right but higher, on both the movie titles and poster ads, thereby preventing the possibility that either actor could be seen as ‘second billed’.

  And they tell us that communism has no place in Hollywood.

  Back in North London, I went home to sit by the phone like a spurned lover awaiting a reprieve from their errant paramour. Every time the damn thing rang I leaped to grab the receiver, alive with eager anticipation, only to be crushed by yet another call from a double-glazing salesman asking if I could feel the winds of change a-blowin’ through my living room.

  In the end, after a fortnight’s self-flagellating torture, I decided to swallow my pride and go back to Southampton Street.

  This time I got there early in the morning, having learned from my urban revolutionary days in Manchester that police raids were always conducted at dawn to catch suspects at their most ‘unawares’. Once again, Michael was behind the desk, perky and polite, with a saucy glint even at 9.30 in the morning. (We would later become friends, and I remember doing tequila shots and dancing the cha-cha-cha with him at a nightclub underneath St Martin-in-the-fields – not something I have done with many people.) He had the extreme good grace to recognise me and remember my name, and by the time Geoff got to reception at around 10 a.m. he was offering to make me cups of coffee and telling me what was wrong with my haircut and dress sense (a lot, apparently).

  I knew that showing up at the office unannounced a second time was majorly not cool, but like Richard Gere in An Officer and a Gentleman I had nowhere else to go. And Geoff, playing Foley to my Mayo, presumably saw the desperation in my eyes and decided to give me a break. Indeed, he went one better than giving me a break – he gave me a job, albeit temporary. A job filling in listings duties for Time Out stalwarts Wally Hammond and Derek Adams, both of whom were being impertinent enough to take holidays, leaving their respective desks briefly unattended.

  I was in.

  I was keen.

  I was enthusiastic.

  I was hard-working.

  I was also – it turned out – absolutely rubbish at listings.

  Despite a conscientious crash course in the minutiae and importance of Time Out’s extraordinarily detailed account of the time and place of every film showing in London (‘I want you to take these lists home … and worry over them,’ said Wally, who took any inaccuracy very personally) I managed to screw up very badly indeed. In my first few weeks at Time Out, rather than just omitting an
occasional screening here or there, or slipping up on a film title, I managed to lose an entire cinema. This had never happened before, and will surely never happen again. It was a major error – an unparalleled goof which pissed off both the public and the cinema owner, not to mention the publisher of the mag, all at the same time. This was clearly why Geoff had been so insistent in asking whether I could actually ‘do’ listings – because he needed somebody who really could do them, rather than somebody who just thought they could do them but who would actually drop the ball spectacularly. After all, it was Geoff who took the angry calls from the cinema, and the punters (not to mention the publisher), and he clearly did not need this kind of aggravation.

  I promised to do better and tried very hard to do so. But the unavoidable fact was that I was tragically out of my depth. In Manchester, ‘doing’ the film listings for City Life was a comparatively straightforward process which involved ringing round a few cinemas and politely reminding the manager to post us his or her screening times in prompt fashion. Cornerhouse was slightly more complex, since their films changed on a daily (rather than weekly) basis, but they published a terrifically definitive programme which you could pick up from the foyer on your way into the office and then just input the information straight into the typesetter. But London in the late eighties was a whole other world. For one thing it was huge and had what seemed like a billion cinemas, many of which were independent ‘rep’ (or art-house) establishments such as the Scala in King’s Cross which could screen up to twenty different films a week. I used to go to horror all-nighters at the Scala where it was possible to do a dusk-till-dawn five-film marathon – particularly useful if you didn’t have anywhere to stay for the night and weren’t averse to catching a snooze between screenings in tatty velveteen chairs with a cat crawling on your head and the sickly-sweet napalm smell of dope infesting your lungs, pores, hair and clothes. Doing the triple-bill-packed Scala listings for Time Out alone could put you in the hospital, and that was just the tip of the iceberg. Back in those pre-internet days, the magazine prided itself on being the only reliable source of screening information times and it literally stood or fell on the quality of its listings. I remember coming into the office one morning and finding Wally freshening up after a night spent at his desk because there simply hadn’t been any time to go home. It was like the boot camp out of Full Metal Jacket, only without the guns and the dodgy shots of the Isle of Dogs.