To customer services - Odeon Cinemas

Dear sir or madam,

I would like to tell of you my severe disappointment in visiting your
cinemas.

You are "fanatical about film" – so am I.

I have cash, I live within easy walking distance of one of your
cinemas, and I love watching films on the big screen. Last year I spent
over £1000 (gulp!) attending film festivals, in the UK and overseas, and
in the last 7 days alone I have spent more on cinema tickets than
groceries – and more still on the extras, drinks, snacks, a meal before
or after.

Surely, I fall within some parameter defining a target customer for the
films you are showing this week: Star Trek, Synecdoche or State of Play
for example, all films which should appeal to adult audiences. Surely
you want to entice me in, and syphon the cash off me during the 2.5
hours I will be in your hands.

Apparently not.

On the screen, James Bond may order a well-made chilled Martini, in the
space bars of the 23rd Century James T Kirk can down Bud Classic and
Jack Daniels – but in the foyer James and Jane Public are offered
primary coloured counters offering only infantile treats in massive
quantities. Barrels of Popcorn, Buckets of tooth-piercingly sweet iced
Soda and dayglo Hoppers of Pick n' Mix.
Oh. And Nachos. With Gloopy Orange Cheeze-greeze on top.

I'm 30+ years old damn it, not FIVE.
I'm allowed to stay up past 8pm these days, without asking Mum first,
and these infantile treats no longer hold much appeal.

I like grown-up movies - and beer, wine, gin, coffee, dark chocolate,
cashew nuts, pretzels.

Not Candy, Nachos and Cola.

I'm not whining, honestly - I want to give you lots more money than I
already do, I am itching to hand over my cash for a single shot of real
coffee, but, oddly, you do not seem to want it!

Don't tell me that other customers don't feel the same. Clearly you
also see the oddity here. Why else would there be a tatty photocopied
notice in the Box Office, window advertising wine and beer?

But on a muggy bank holiday Monday evening, no actual drinks on sale, no
one to take my cash and hand me a cold beer in a plastic mug.
Your staff just shrug "Sometime on Saturdays we have a little cart with
wine, but only when we have the staff.".

So, I've learned my lesson. If I want to spend an evening watching a
movie, I'll stick to the Independents, to the BFI, to the Curzon, wait
three weeks until until the film reaches the Prince, or god-dammit, rent
a DVD, and avoid your hellish crèche.

Pelican Crossing

Two nights ago I had a close encounter with a creature straight out of

a medieval bestiary.
I got up close and personal with a stray Pelican in St James Park.

I was walking across the Horse Guard's end when I saw it - walking
along the pavement on the wrong side of the temporary fencing erected
around the pond, and beyond the crash barriers set up for the trooping
of the colour. It was in imminent danger of walking into the path of
traffic, which would be unpleasant both for the bird and for everyone
else.

I mean - these birds are BIG. Its head was at chest level, its wings
span was at least as great as mine, and its bill - oh boy!

As we peered at each other, I remembered that at least one of the St
James Pelican's has previous for eating pigeons. Whole. Alive. And
wriggling.

It didn't seem distressed - it was neither flinching from , nor
snapping at passers by, of which there were many. It was just waddling.

But it was bleeding, from a point somewhere under its left wing, where
the feathers were stained, and dipped its bill at intervals to worry
the site.

This was an odd echo of something I saw last week - a painting of a
crucification in Florence which was crowned by an image of a Pelican
feeding her young with her own blood, drawn from her breast. This
mythical aspect of Pelican parenting was widely believed in the middle
ages, and led to the pelican being adopted as a symbol for the
Eucharist. Now I was perhaps seeing the origin of that myth.

Anyway, it couldn't be left where it was, so I an another couple of
passers-by, herded it gently back into the park, and towards the
water, at a slow and stately pace, and alerted the park rangers to its
injury.

Looking into that dark, perfectly round eye, cocked with cold
curiosity at the antics of the humans surrounding it, was a
thrilling reminder of the *otherness* of the living world.

Star Trek: Heretical - certainly. Blasphemous - probably. An abomination?

Definitely not.

36 hours on I am still startled by Star Trek. I really do have to see it again, and soon.

Other people, better qualified and more articulate, can discuss its
qualities as a film, and its relationship to canon.

But - I think I know how the good citizens of Wittenberg must have
felt the morning Martin Luther nailed the 95 Theses to the door of his
church.
It is exciting, the dawning of a whole age - but oh, if we embrace it,
suddenly all those years of study, the painstakingly gathered
mysteries of Trek priestcraft, the crypts stuffed with holy relics,
glorious art works and revered texts, are rendered dusty and
worthless.
No wonder my ancestors remained devout Catholics to the point of
martyrdom.

Yet as a film rather than a reinterpretation of gospel. Star Trek
purely is gorgeous and thrilling to watch, intelligent, witty and made
with an admirably light touch.
It doesn't have quite the humanistic sensibilities of its 1966
incarnation - but it holds its own in the same universe as Firefly, or
the Culture novels.

The casting is a triumph - with Zachary Quinto the standout
performance in a talented ensemble. He doesn't impersonate Spock - he
simply embodies him, and the result is astonishing.
(BTW - I suspect Nimoy was wearing prostheses to emphasize his
resemblance to Quinto, rather than the other way around.)

Now, here comes the personal revelation.

I've loved Star Trek for 40 years - but I have just only just realised
that I never actually wanted to serve on Enterprise, or any of her
sister ships.

I'd take the king's shilling to man the yards of Surprise with Lucky
Jack Aubrey, would jump at a chance to crew on Serenity, I long to be
recruited to Special Circumstances and have my own knife missiles.
I've learned to hand, reef and steer, have taken helm of a square
rigger in a force 9 in the straits of Gibraltar. I even considered
applying to the Merchant Navy.

But Enterprise and its five year mission left me cold.

No longer. This is a now a ship on which I long to serve/

I'll be on the next shuttle to the Academy*, ta very much!

*Actually I'm flying to Europe, with my mum for 3 days. But I'll wear a mini-skirt and boots, and backcomb.

News flash - the morning after 3 Vesper Martinis*

I woke up on time, and got to work, looking bright and almost normal,
with the aid of a milky coffee and an egg sandwich.

But...

... I haven't been able to complete a crossword or sudoku since.

So something up there was as effectively (and enjoyable) scrambled as
the egg in my sandwich.

*

"A dry martini," [Bond] said. "One. In a deep champagne goblet."

"Oui, monsieur."

"Just a moment. Three measures of Gordon's, one of vodka, half a measure
of Kina Lillet. Shake it very well until it's ice-cold, then add a large
thin slice of lemon peel. Got it?"

"Certainly, monsieur." The barman seemed pleased with the idea.

"Gosh, that's certainly a drink," said Leiter.

Bond laughed. "When I'm...er...concentrating," he explained, "I never
have more than one drink before dinner. But I do like that one to be
large and very strong and very cold and very well-made. I hate small
portions of anything, particularly when they taste bad. This drink's my
own invention. I'm going to patent it when I can think of a good name."

Be still my geeky heart...

I am a little surprised to discover just how much I want to see Star
Trek tomorrow.

I never really considered myself a Trekker/Trekkie/Trekkist, per se,
(although I shared a flat with one, once).

I haven't seen every film, only skimmed DS9, abandoned Voyager after the
first season. I've never read zines, hung out on boards, been tempted
by fic...

But Trek is
a.) an essential element of my childhood, of teatime viewing, sometimes,
like Who, from behind the sofa.
b.) the essential strand of the DNA of fandom itself.
The Daddy and Mammy of them all.
The Ur-Fandom.
It's Fandom's Jerusalem.

And now - oh joy, I have the very last available ticket to watch "Star
Trek Babies" on the IMAX tomorrow evening.

Thrilled in every sinew.

Yay - long dry summer ahead!

If the long-range forecast is correct, the cottage will dry out, and I

can spend long sun-soaked days repainting, and long twilit evenings
lolling in the hammock and watching the owls flit among the emerging
stars.

Or -

- I could, if I can eke out enough leave days this year. Rats. I've
got 9 left - one a month until December.

I'll have to spin out a series of long weekends - perhaps padding them
with some unpaid leave through July and August?

Now - I think I'll celebrate with 30 minutes on the grass with lunch.

Googlewhack!

"Pegfree tents"

I can't believe, that after all these years, there are still
googlewhacks to be found in the wild...

(I am looking for a small tent which can be erected indoors without
using pegs)