The Artist: Film Review

I must admit I was a little dubious as I settled in my seat at the Apollo Theatre in Piccadilly Circus. As I shredded my many layers against the cold, I enjoyed the intimate atmosphere that accompanied a small theatre and even managed to engage in conversation with fellow audience members. I am not one for silent films or even black and white films but wanting to treat my husband who is a big fan of both, I found myself reserving tickets. As the screen illuminates at the start, you are instantly taken back in time and it was a completely new experience for me to read through the credits before the film actually began.

The film opens in 1927 in the days of Hollywoodland and the power of the music literally moved me to a different place and time altogether. Although I cherished the window into my grandparent’s entertainment, I felt totally set apart. I was sometimes frustrated during key moments of the film when dialogue was key and yet we could not hear what was being said. In fact the cinema was so quiet at times that I could even hear a man sitting two rows in front of me chewing his popcorn.

Having said this, the film is very poetic in parts and the cinematography is breathtaking. I do not like to give away too much of the storyline in my reviews but what I will add is that I found the story very heartbreaking and reminiscent of many artists today and I found myself very close to tears. The story is ultimately about loyalty, love, friendship and pride. Slightly predictable but well worth those BAFTAs.

The film has the sprinkling of Americanisation with John Goodman acting in one of the key roles but what really charmed me the most was how very far apart the entire production was to the dramatised special effects that we are all used to these days. Unfortunately born of a different generation and time I sometimes found it hard to follow the story. Dialogue is essential in life today and I could not help but walk away feeling I was only told half the story.

I hope you will not let this put you off watching The Artist. In my opinion it is still well worth it and I would happily watch it again. The film is wonderfully crafted and I feel privileged to have tasted cinema history.

Celebrating National Libraries Day

One of my most exciting memories was the time I progressed from Junior to Teenager in my local library. I remember looking forward to my weekly trip to the library with my father, losing myself in the rows and rows of books. I would come home and lay the books across the living room floor and show my parents one-by-one each book that I chose. I would rest my head on my father’s shoulder and read my library books one by one in the evenings. I would carry all of them around with me, not just the one that I was reading at the time.

I would sometimes be left in the library while my parents went shopping, safe in the knowledge that surrounded by books, they would find me exactly in the same place where they left me. (Apart from the time the library closed during lunchtime and I was told by the librarian to wait in the street for my parents to return. My mother was flabbergasted and didn’t leave me in the trusting care of books again…)

Visiting a library was not always a comfortable experience for me. In toilet training me, my mother would give me a book to read in order to keep me still. All well and good until I began visiting the library and in similarly to Pavlov’s dog, needed to visit the little girl’s room more or less as soon as I set foot in the building! Fortunately for me (and the library staff) this has now passed, more through self-determination and willpower than anything else!

I can’t quite describe the feeling I have when I now walk into a library. I’m reminded of the trips I used to have with my father. I’m reminded of my innocent care free childhood. National Libraries Day is on 4th February (incidentally my father’s 70th birthday) and our libraries need us more than ever. With the threat of Internet sites such as Amazon (a regular haunt of mine), libraries are becoming increasingly threatened. They need to be saved. Researching for my children’s book at the local library reminded me that I’m not the only child who was (and still is) book obsessed. I have visited the children’s section of my library on several occasions and have smiled at the younger children sprawled on the floor reading with their parents, the older children laid back on bean bags. They were even there longer than me, last weekend one child didn’t even want to leave when it was time to go to Grandma’s. Times have not changed and I don’t think they ever will. I even want them to. Libraries are needed just as much now as eighteen years ago when I first set foot into the teenager’s lair.

Books aside, libraries are needed to maintain and in some cases rebuild communities. It is a chance for people to come together through reading time, parent and toddler group even tai chi. It is a chance for writers to engage with their readers and readers to engage with writers. Not long ago my husband took me to the largest bookshop in Europe, I was beside myself with excitement. It had five floors and I examined each floor thoroughly, yet I walked out empty-handed. I was in absolute heaven as I picked many books up, scanned the backs, skimmed the pages, smelt the pages even but I returned them to their shelves again and again. Set me loose in a library however and I will come away with my arms full. Maybe the fact that the books are free to learn from and to experience, I am more open to choosing them. Following this excursion my husband brought me £20.00 worth of Amazon credit to buy books with. This was at least two months ago and I’m still choosing which books to buy.

My ask of you is to visit your library tomorrow on National Libraries Day. Join a library. Take a book out, a DVD or even a CD. Check out the communities bulletin board. Take your children. Learn something new. A language or a musical instrument. Learn to love your library!

The Book Rant

Books are lovely little creatures.

One thing I hope to do when I am a published writer is to help others. Don’t get me wrong, I do not expect to save the world but I hope that I am able to calm my reader, to help them feel they are not alone in whichever trouble or strife they find themselves in. I want to share their happiness and sadness. I want to be able to make them laugh, to make them cry. I want to help them to feel emotions they didn’t know they had.

I HATE the term chick lit or at least I HATE what the term represents. That it is something unacceptable for a book to offer frilly, happy endings. Sometimes that is what you need in life. Sometimes our lives are so busy and so turbulent that you need frilly, happy endings to remind you that they can happen whether in fantasy or reality. Sometimes you need fantasies to help you forget your reality.

I surprised myself this morning. I experienced a set back yesterday and I actually stood beside my bed choosing which book will accompany me into London today. I am currently reading Second Chance by Jane Green while commuting and although it is full of elements of a hard life for each characters (i.e. in no way happy or frilly), I couldn’t really appreciate its implied positivity today. Instead I chose She’s Never Coming Back by Hans Koppel. It’s pretty harsh about a kidnapping and a woman being held captive in the basement of a house opposite her own. I must admit it is not something I would normally read. I brought it originally because I wanted to expand on my reading material. To learn different methods of writing. Many people suggest that you can tell their mood by their hairstyles, the clothes they wear, the colour (and/or extent) of their make-up. Sometimes for me, you can tell how I feel by the book I hold in my hands.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Even those I know who are not ‘big’ readers always want to curl up in bed or on the sofa with ‘a good book’ when they are not feeling 100%. There is something so very comforting about books, regardless of whether it is about a love or a crime. Who would not want to be a part of that? To be a comfort to a total stranger?

How can people tell what mood you are in?