"Shaun of the Dead"
I met rahael at work yesterday and we walked over to Leicester Square to see Shaun of the Dead. I think I laughed more during that movie than at any movie I've seen in a theater since Soapdish (admittedly, I don't see many movies, especially comedies, in theaters). I am very happy that the movie was such a delight because, well, let's just say that ten and a half pounds seems a bit steep for anything that provokes a response less than ecstasy. I'll get the DVD (in America, presumably at Target) for less than ten and a half pounds! And since our evening viewing, at one of London's premier film-going locations, drew only nine people, I am convinced that it is time that theaters moved to a market-based pricing system. Why should a movie like The Chronicles of Riddick, which was hated by even buffyannotater, cost as much to see as Prisoner of Azkaban? I'm sure there are some people out there so driven to be the first to see Azkaban that they'd be willing to pay 10 quid 50 or more, but might be willing take a flyer on Riddick only if it were in the two-bob range. The airlines concentrate on capacity, on filling every seat on the airplane as efficiently as possible, and have developed a wealth of strategies for getting their seats filled at the prices people want to pay -- why should movie theaters not seek to maximize the capacity of their theaters?
The theaters could even adopt the techniques of internet commerce. I sat through twenty-two minutes of advertisements before Shaun of the Dead actually began. Certainly, some of this advertisement money must have subsidized my ticket somewhat (and I think Pearl & Dean, the ad brokers for London theaters, would be happier if their ads were being seen by more than nine people at a time). Perhaps the theaters could make the cheap cineastes sit through ad after ad before the movie, but offer a premium service where one could pay through the nose to just start watching the damn movie already.
Anyway, an extremely funny zombie caper. Shaun of the Dead won my heart when Shaun, the twenty-nine year old appliance salesman, pub habitue, and general underachiever, told his fellow sales staff that he would be acting in the capacity of manager because "Ash couldn't come in today." I also particularly loved the bit where Shaun and his best friend Ed, having to fight off the two zombies in their garden, start chucking vinyl at them. "Purple Rain?" "No!" "Sign O' the Times?" "God, no!" "The Batman soundtrack?" "Throw it." Bill Nighy shows up as a randomly addled non-sequitur of a stepfather; I can't tell if my pleasure at seeing him was residue from his being the only halfway decent thing about Love, Actually or just that his was the only face I recognized. And it has the sweetest ending of any zombie flick I've seen.
Exiting the theater into a crisp London evening -- the temperature must have had dropped fifteen degrees since the day before -- and noting the general listlessness of the few people we passed walking through Chinatown, I saw a slight post-apocalyptic side to the city last night. A group of kids way in front of me smashed a beer bottle and the sound reverberated down Gerrard Street. The cords of people stacked outside De Hem's staring vacantly into the pub -- are they just Dutch footie fans trying to catch a glimpse of the Euro Cup, or are they . . . the walking dead?
I hope that rahael stores a few blunt objects in her garden shed. Just in case.
The theaters could even adopt the techniques of internet commerce. I sat through twenty-two minutes of advertisements before Shaun of the Dead actually began. Certainly, some of this advertisement money must have subsidized my ticket somewhat (and I think Pearl & Dean, the ad brokers for London theaters, would be happier if their ads were being seen by more than nine people at a time). Perhaps the theaters could make the cheap cineastes sit through ad after ad before the movie, but offer a premium service where one could pay through the nose to just start watching the damn movie already.
Anyway, an extremely funny zombie caper. Shaun of the Dead won my heart when Shaun, the twenty-nine year old appliance salesman, pub habitue, and general underachiever, told his fellow sales staff that he would be acting in the capacity of manager because "Ash couldn't come in today." I also particularly loved the bit where Shaun and his best friend Ed, having to fight off the two zombies in their garden, start chucking vinyl at them. "Purple Rain?" "No!" "Sign O' the Times?" "God, no!" "The Batman soundtrack?" "Throw it." Bill Nighy shows up as a randomly addled non-sequitur of a stepfather; I can't tell if my pleasure at seeing him was residue from his being the only halfway decent thing about Love, Actually or just that his was the only face I recognized. And it has the sweetest ending of any zombie flick I've seen.
Exiting the theater into a crisp London evening -- the temperature must have had dropped fifteen degrees since the day before -- and noting the general listlessness of the few people we passed walking through Chinatown, I saw a slight post-apocalyptic side to the city last night. A group of kids way in front of me smashed a beer bottle and the sound reverberated down Gerrard Street. The cords of people stacked outside De Hem's staring vacantly into the pub -- are they just Dutch footie fans trying to catch a glimpse of the Euro Cup, or are they . . . the walking dead?
I hope that rahael stores a few blunt objects in her garden shed. Just in case.