Let me count the ways I love pouring over the the festival magazine, choosing what to go to. I've been to four films this week (okay The Dark Knight doesn't count as a film festival number but, hey, I was on a roll). However I'm nowhere in the league of a colleague who told me that he was also limiting himself to the number of films he was going to this year.
'How many are you allowing yourself to go to?' Ask I.
'I've narrowed it down to eighteen.'
Anyhou, I was really looking forward to West of Memphis, the documentary about the failure of justice in the case against three teenagers whose biggest crime was to be bit left of field and, as a result, were falsely convicted of the brutal murders of three eight year old boys by a bunch of rednecks. It was directed by Amy Berg and produced in conjunction with Peter Jackson and Fran Walsh. (It's stunning, by the way).
We were lucky enough to have Peter Jackson present the film which was being screened at Auckland's grand old dame - the Civic.
I went with a very old friend of mine who, until recently, has been living in the States so she was well aware of the case and also really looking forward to seeing it.
Going well so far?
We make our way to our seats (with about two thousand of our closest friends), armed with a glass of wine and a packet of doritos, eager for the film to start. Peter Jackson comes on and starts to introduce it.
Everybody is craning forward, hanging off his every word.
Then, just in a moment of silence - CRUNCH! I turn to look at my friend I see the horror slowly register in her eyes at what she's just done.
Yep, you got it, totally inappropriate audible Dorito action. This was bad timing at it's best. The Everest of bad timing. But even worse, while the Holy Grail of New Zealand Film was speaking to us.
In the row in front, a man practically gave himself whiplash as his head snapped around to deliver a look which would freeze a bead of sweat.
And you know what's coming next, don't you?
Inappropriate giggling action. Yup, that was it. She was all over. We both hung our heads in shame while we silently shook and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed.
And you know that when you're not allowed to laugh, that is just a red flag to your laugh bull and you're completely helpless to control it? Well that was us two. Silently shaking and shaking and shaking. Desperate for the silence to be filled up by the soundtrack of a film. It was like a car accident - time slowed down.
I have to say, it took a good twenty minutes for us to calm down. And even as I write the story, I'm off again, giggling away.
Sigh.
Mature? Clearly I haven't quite grasped the concept yet.
I live in hope.
5 comments:
Thoroughly enjoyed reading your post and the laughs that it gave me :)
Happy Saturday
Thank you, Annie ! And 'tis a glorious day here today. Hopefully you're enjoying the same across the ditch.
Don't live in hope, Kate, stay exactly the way you are.
I've had a fit of the giggles at a funeral, in my defence it was with the friend of mine who's dad's funeral we were at.
I think churches definitely increase the potential for a giggling meltdown. My school chapel memories mostly involve trying to control snorting/giggling during droning sermons. But once the giggling meltdown starts it is impossible to stop... and even thinking about a previous giggling meltdown can precipitate an attack. Love it when it happens on live tv/radio though.
Thanks Tinman, I won't take myself off to Laughing Rehab anytime soon!
And FTTG, the ol' giggling fit in church? It tis but a good friend of mine. She can be a lonely fit though - when you unwittingly loudly drop the F-bomb at your niece's christening. (In my defence your honour, nobody had told me it was also Father's Day).
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