King’s Cross on a wet and rainy Tuesday morning. As we boarded our train in Standard Class, David informed me that he would have been in First were I not with him. Great! As our fellow passengers proceeded to spill the contents of their lattes all over our seats, sit beside us with their BK Flame Grilled Whoppers and tuck into their Tupperware containers of potato salad (for breakfast!), I couldn’t help but think that David would happily have traded me in for the acres of legroom, unlimited china cups of coffee and the shortbread fingers of First!
We arrived at Northern Film and Media where the afternoon session was taking place, and met Trevor Fox, an old friend of David’s who was joining us for the masterclass. He was brilliantly funny, full of good stories and completely no nonsense. There was nothing not to like. He and David compared notes about directors who had clearly wanted someone else for the part, but ended up with them. Trevor mentioned one job where the director had said simply, “Him? F***ing hell!” Which isn’t going to fill you with confidence on your first day. David also spoke of actresses on set and what a tough time they can have compared to the men. He said if an actor asks questions about his character he’s seen as intense. If an actress does it she’s seen as difficult. Oh for the chance to be difficult!
I have many friends in Newcastle, and had managed to wangle 23 tickets for them to come to the screening. I have been banging on about this movie for so long that I swear people must think I made the whole thing up, so it was great to be able to show them it wasn’t all a big lie! They laughed, cried and forgot it was me, so that’s a resounding success in my book. David says I am unashamedly using this tour to gallivant about the country watching films with my friends. Which is only semi-true.
The train back to London this morning was thoroughly pleasant until some mothers got on in Darlington. I have nothing against mothers per se, nor their children. But I object to loud shouty ones who think the world owes them a table and who make way more noise than their offspring. One declared to her surly 12 year old who was trying to out-debate her that she was “not going to parent by committee.” What does that even mean? I am also inclined to dislike women who name their children Marmalade and Starshine (seriously, we shared a carriage). If you must go in for a conserve-based theme, at least stick to it. Damson for a boy perhaps, and Lemon Curd for a girl.
Many thanks to Rupert Lee at Northern Film and Media from whom I wangled my tickets. And as always to Jenny at BAFTA, for her organization, patience and continual provision of good snacks.
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