It was a mere 10 minutes into the film when the voice next to me, in a whisper that reverberated all round the cinema, said "kill me now". My bottom was already numb. I don't know much, but I do know this: I/we should always listen to my/our inner voices.
The Artist? It's like watching an old Harry Enfield ad for Mercury One 2 One crossed with Britain's Got Talent. So the dog plays dead: whoo! Give the actors their voices, and it would be merely a clichéd, emotionally unengaging pastiche of a silent movie on the hackneyed subject of the talkies killing silent films. Making it black and white and silent itself just means it is a black and white, silent, clichéd...
I don't get out much. It makes the times I do even more precious. I cannot afford a terrible meal or a bad movie – and that's before the cost: £22.50 for two horrible seats with popcorn plus water on top. But, who can you trust?
I don't pay attention to movie critics, who generally point you in the direction of the three-hour Russian documentary, and not The Hangover. But they all loved The Artist; and somehow it landed 10 Oscar nominations. Everyone at i raved about it, and I like to see the Oscar favourites in advance... So, I ignored my own "voices".
As I have told you before, I've only ever walked out of one film (Ken Russell's Whore). Growing up in thrift is to blame: I have to have my £22.50's worth. Plus, we were in the middle of the row, and there were old people on the end.
Why do I tell you all this? For the same reason some of you write in several times a day! Like I said yesterday, everyone around me sees what I cannot: the Emperor's New Clothes! So, this column's a darn sight cheaper than therapy.