I don’t often visit the cinema with my mother: but over the years I’ve perfected the fine art of choosing an appropriate film. It’s all about the research: I look for words like uplifting, gentle, feel-good, charming and heartfelt in the promotional material, and hope this promises the qualities below:
- 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.
