Whether or not we’re always aware of it, most of us are in search of the perfect movie-watching experience. Here are some rules I’ve recently realised I adhere to pretty strictly…

The Hollywood Blockbuster (Avatar)

Go for an early performance at the nearest overpriced multiscreen, on an Orange Wednesday so everyone else is there too. With as many friends as possible, lots of popcorn to chew noisily, and horribly overpriced drinks to slurp ceremoniously (and most likely finish before the trailers are over). Follow it with Pizza and a lively discussion about whether the lead was more attractive in human or big blue form.

Indie/Arthouse (Donnie Darko, My Summer of Love)

At the local arthouse cinema, obviously, with a companion who wears dark rimmed specs and at least one item of tweed. Ideally visit it on a Monday or Tuesday to show you’re the sort of person who could visit the cinema any day of the week (nutter). Afterwards, compare notes in a thespian bar with a well-chosen glass of red or something else that’s definitely not lager.

Slasher/Horror (Dawn of the Dead)

Watch at a friends house on DVD, with the lights off and after a few ghost stories or (truth; optional) tales of deaths-during-filming to set the scary mood. Invite other like-minded viewers who appreciate whether the films live up to their bloody-minded expectations and can be impressed when you guess who the killer is. Screaming/Jumping/generally reacting loudly to the film: obligatory.

Romantic Comedy (Love Actually, Four Weddings)

Either at the local cinema or on DVD with your mum and ‘the girls’. These films are to be enjoyed with chocolate, wine, and absent of any macho-like presence that may try to spoil the mood. Sarcastic comments can only be made with underlying appreciation for the genre, like when Hugh Grant narrates Love Actually’s reunions, “c’mon girls, get a grip!’ only works if you’re holding back soppy tears yourself.

War and Conflict (Saving Private Ryan, Apocalypse Now)

To continue with the stereotypes; if you’re a woman, it’s probably best to watch it with at least one man or someone who can keep watching (and explain all) while you look away in horror. Follow with an episode of Friends, or something equally cheery, to prevent nightmares.

Emotional Human Drama (Stepmom)

Watch with people who you don’t mind seeing you cry, somewhere quiet - either in the cinema or at home when there’s no one who can walk in at the emotional moment. Keep tissues handy, and talk to other humans after in case the ‘uplifting’ element is minimal and you’re tempted to end everything.

Disney (no example necessary!)

The old ones are the best, not least because you’ll have seen them loads before and can happily sing along throughout. Ideally your companions will be equally obsessed and therefore not at all distressed by the singing or constant ‘oooh I love this bit’ outbursts. No need for the cinema, anyone over twenty should at least have the Lion King, Jungle Book and Robin Hood on VHS and DVD.

I could go on but will leave it there for now. Am I the only person quite so particular about how I watch a film?!

I always enjoy myself at Bristol’s Tobacco Factory Theatre so I wasn’t worried before Monday night’s performance. Nonetheless I really wasn’t sure what to expect from what turned out to be a trio of versatile, animated, and talented performers who form the Gonzo Moose Company. My friend and I were giggling long before the end of the opening scene and the show was consistently funny from that moment on.

A self-consciously absurd gothic horror take-off, the play is thankfully more accessible than any such wordy summary. An archetypal mad scientist and his beautiful, intelligent daughter live in an ominous-looking house on the outskirts of their village, when an Oxford gentleman arrives to shake things up a bit. Of course, the village is awash with whisperings about what is really going on… though it’s the gargoyles that guard the old house who are the greatest gossipers! Spooky, anarchic, and physical, the plot was also unexpectedly moving, as a dance sequence involving the mad professor and his long-deceased wife turned out to be.

Slapstick, dance, magical illusion and inspired interaction with an effective set meant the play was visually compelling even without the verbal wit, live music, and surreal humour that accompanied the more physical side of things. The three actors handled over twenty characters and fast paced action with good humour and boundless enthusiasm, which meant the audience soon warmed to them - cheering when the odd mishap was overcome by in-character improvisation and, at times, brute force. The occasional piece of planned audience participation was equally well received, particularly one in which we found ourselves at the centre of a village AGM, inadvertently voting on how to handle these mysterious goings on, and the superb, melodramatic fanale was a fitting end to a thoroughly enjoyable piece of theatre.

It turns out Is That A Bolt In Your Kneck is my kind of spoof gothic horror. There’s a pleasing emphasis on the comedy, and no actual blood. I’ll be first in line for the next Gonzo Moose production and, though there’s rather more of the red stuff involved, I suppose Shaun of the Dead is on the cards for tonight’s entertainment.

- Likeable female characters that you can bond over your affinity with.
- At least one male character with entirely honourable tendencies.
- Gentle, relatively clean comedy: Steer well clear from Sacha Baron Cohen.- Accessible themes: Love, friendship, and now cookery.
- At least one very recognisable face in a lead role.

And for the record, five BIG no-nos:

- Bloody, gory, mindless violence (Hot Fuzz is saved by its humour – mum loved it).
- Long and/or explicit sex scenes: It was uncomfortable as a teenager; it’s uncomfortable now.- Overwhelmingly sad endings: Save hard hitting grit for friends and solo viewing.
- Offensive music. For suitable soundtracks think Juno and Little Miss Sunshine.- Reflections on the mother-daughter relationship that may throw unflattering light on your own.

Mrs Henderson Presents, Love Actually, and Four Weddings all adhere to these specifications, and my mum loves them all. Period dramas generally work - Austen is a dead-cert – and Atonement also deserves a mention, luckily the costumes, literary credentials, and artsy lighting are enough to distract from a slightly awkward sex scene! And the accidental English-theme to this list is about to change as I add Nora Ephron’s Julie & Julia.

The small Orpheus Cinema is seventy years old and tucked away in the depths of Bristol’s middle-English suburbs. Tiny screens, questionable sound quality, and seats that remain extremely cosy despite a recent upgrade; are all part of its charm. Staff members have been there since my childhood, and tickets, popcorn and a drink all come to less than £10: They don’t make them like this any more.

Bond films may be better enjoyed at Odeon, but the crowd at Julie & Julia wasn’t in it for the special effects. This crowd was very female, and stereotypically middling in demographic; gentle middle aged women attracted to the slightly brasher but soft hearted heroine brought to life by Meryl Streep (a very very famous name that my mother - known for her inability to recognise famous people – is even familiar with). I was relieved to find both female leads likeable, and their male opposites, gentlemanly. Amy Adams convinces as the modern day writer-come-cook, blogging her way through Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking. And Streep is reliably brilliant as the American in 1950s France, learning her trade and fighting to publish the 1961 influential classic. Aided at all times by Stanley Tucci’s superb and devoted husband, Paul, who lovingly humours his eccentric wife but never strays into mockery. Chris Messina’s portrayal of the husband of Adam’s Julie is admirable in its conviction, though not as memorable as Tucci’s subtle performance. And the film itself is beautiful- the Paris of La Haine this is certainly not. Even Julie and Adam’s tiny studio flat becomes more inviting with every meal produced. Of course the foodie-porn is irresistible and I was grateful to be watching it with a full stomach. Julie & Julia really is warm, enjoyable, and funny throughout: particularly in its depiction of Child’s lessons at a Parisian cookery school. One scene involving a determined Julia and an awful lot of onions had my mother and I laughing so hard it became embarrassing.

Unsurprisingly this particular screening was not overloaded with film geeks (any attempt to concentrate on the trailors beforehand would have failed miserably). Though I genuinely think men would enjoy Julie & Julia, this screening was an opportunity to catch up on the gossip and goings on of the week, and to escape into world that revolves around two women who may never have met, but undoubtedly took centre stage in this particular show. I gladly did my bit for the average range since no one else was below 40. They should have brought their daughters.

After staring for several minutes at the image, I turned to my friend and asked him to take a look. “What?” came the response. And then, after a second glance; “it’s just a picture of an old guy”.

So after my initial, emotional response to the photo, I tried to figure out what had hooked me in. Why, to me, it is not just a picture of an old guy, but an exceptional one.

The watery film on Trevor’s eyes might have been caused by bright daylight or excessive flash-use by the photographer – perhaps that what my friend saw. I however, saw emotional depth. The left eye is partially obscured by a drooping eyelid, conveying vulnerability. As do the sharply defined wrinkles that crinkle through his skin. I write this, with the photograph still beside me, and feel a little uncomfortable about dissecting anyone’s appearance in such a way. But I’d like to understand why I am still moved by the portrait when my friend remains unstirred.

The image combines direct eye contact between subject, photographer, and therefore audience; with a curious expression (Trevor’s not smiling but there’s a lift to the corners of his mouth that suggests he may be humouring the photographer). Smart attire, includes a trilby so impeccably placed and appropriate that the romantic in me believes it’s taken up position there for the last fourty-something mornings.

This is a beautifully humane portrait. Trevor looks vulnerable but not weak; wise but not superior; comfortable but not arrogant. I am happily convinced that there is so much more to Trevor than can ever be made explicit in one photograph (or indeed one article). This is the least and indeed the most that we should expect from a portrait photograph. We need at once to learn, and feel like there is more to learn. Though we may be given an insight into the subject’s character; to conclude that there is nothing more to discover about the subject is to be misled. As a rule, I think curiosity is a healthy response to photography.

So, I read on, ultimately undeterred by my friend’s deflated response. Hooked in by this outstanding photograph and an intriguing lead quote ‘I would use anything at all in order to tell a story, anything at all to make a story work’. I wonder whether the photographer, Eamonn McCabe abides by the same rules as this particular subject. Regardless; long may he and other photographers be given the freedom to produce such work.

Graffiti is big news in Bristol right now. It’s big news everywhere really. Thanks largely to Banksy (graffiti’s only household name), whose surprise summer exhibition at the Bristol Museum certainly highlights, if not transcends, high-art’s enduringly pompous and exclusive reputation. I have friends who’ve queued for over four hours for a chance to see 100 plus of his secretly installed works: there is no doubting the exhibition’s popularity. This is good news… right? Great publicity for Bristol’s flourishing creative scene, and a well-rewarded risk (only a couple of staff members, none at the council, were warned about the exhibition – a bold move considering Banksy’s traditionally controversial status).

In fact the Royal west of England Academy took a similar step in March this year. Another establishment with a traditional past, the RWA self-consciously broadened its horizons with an exhibition celebrating Bristol’s street art. While galleries across the city increasingly dedicate exhibition space to artists like ‘Jody’ whose work could previously only be seen on the exterior of Bristol’s buildings. It is important that such steps continue though. It may have become a cliché but art should be accessible to all. Individual pieces, and specific artists, movements even, may be down to personal taste. But our museums and galleries; public space everywhere, should represent art of all influence, style, form and subject matter. Is this not why graffiti has refused to go away? Because it was never legally represented in public? Many will say that this is the point: that it is anti-establishment by definition, art for and by mid-teens raging publicly against the machine. But that feels over-simplified, a little dated, and does a kind of injustice to the artistry often evident in such work, much of which is neither maliciously produced, nor ugly.

Would you not agree that such a massive contributor to contemporary culture needs to be celebrated and understood? Even, ironically, by the establishment many argue it inherently rejects. After all, the law-abiding world and his wife can overlook Banksy’s growing catalogue of illegal street pieces, to admire and pay outrageous sums for a demonstration of his obvious talent. I see nothing but fairness in the current wave of very public respect for this skilled and popular craft.