Bridge Leaping Sesh I

Surprisingly few takes were needed to procure these photos--especially given that I was wearing quite a short and unwieldy denim skirt.

Still, when you have the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges and the Manhattan skyline in the background, taking nice photos isn't too hard.

Practising the ol' volleyball moves...

More Treats than Tricks

My feet are now starting to seriously hurt. I went running again this morning, this time in Central Park, which was full of runners getting in some last-minute practice before tomorrow's marathon. Unlike yesterday which was bright and brisk, today was very warm (22 degrees!), cloudy and muggy and by the time I'd done a loop at the bottom of the park with Papa before bolting up to 85th Street and back, I was feeling uncomfortably warm. There was just time for a quick shower before heading over to Grand Central to meet my party. This was easier said than done as the "friendship marathon" (a 5k race designed for the friends and family of those running in the real marathon) was proceeding up Sixth Avenue. In the end, I had to barge my way through or I could have been there all day.

We got the subway down to Brooklyn and after a brief walk around Brooklyn Heights, where there were plenty of good Halloween house decorations and costumes, before returning to the bridge. It was a bit busier than early on Friday morning (and on that freezing January day last time I was there), which led to problems when we tried to commandeer a section of the bridge for multiple photographs of leaps. It didn't help that some sort of amateur film crew were there, apparently filming or photographing two people holding an NYC subway map up, fully spread out and upside down. Still, they were equally amused by us and started taking photos of the crazy jumping Brits. After about 20 minutes, everyone had been captured airbourne at least once and we could finish walking off the bridge into Manhattan.

Papa and I decided to escape the slow pace of Maman and her friends at that point and headed in a taxi uptown in search of burgers. I took Papa to the Corner Bistro, purveyor of the best burgers in Manhattan (top three, at least). It isn't a fancy joint and the five-line menu (bacon-cheese burger, cheese burger, burger, chicken burger, grilled cheese) appears on an old fashioned diner sign on the wall, in the dark, cosy West Village establishment but the burgers sure are delicious.

Energised by my lunch, I headed over to the Meatpacking district for some browsing in the edgy, cool shops there, as well as taking a wander along the High Line, an elevated walkway over old subway tracks, which goes from the Meatpacking to Chelsea and which has benches, lawns, trees and other foliage to make the walk more pleasant. When I had returned to ground level, I walked onto Bleecker Street and crossed through the West Village, NoHo and the Bowery to the East Village. The Halloween displays in the posh shops were very impressive--Marc Jacobs had filled a whole window with small model skulls and Ralph Lauren had gone pumpkin mad.

I carried on uptown to Union Square and then the J. Crew on Fifth Avenue before getting the subway back to midtown for a little more shopping before I finally made it back to the hotel, threw off my boots and rested my aching tootsies. For once I really fancy a bath but my hotel only has a shower so that will have to do. Luckily I only have to go six blocks (plus two east-west blocks) to Shelly's, where we are going for dinner. I may still have to go barefoot or with trainers on beneath my glad rags; however, given the costumes most of the city has been wearing all day, I will likely still be the most normally dressed person in the restaurant.

Tonight, Tonight

Just as my shopping frustration is eased, so my pudding frustration must continue. New York has great puddings but also has great and filling main courses, which mean that I can rarely find room even for the most tempting of desserts. This evening we went to Del Frisco's, a huge, high-ceilinged chop house on Sixth Avenue, which, on a Friday night, was full of bankers. The waitresses, all beautiful, wore short black dresses, which made me, in my short, black, flouncy dress, feel a bit like a waitress but no matter.

Our waiter was a chatty fellow who took great pride in telling us that here they say tomaydoes. Thanks, waiter, I had been wondering all these years. He brought us a sampling platter of assorted, sauce-covered shellfish but I stuck to a couple of king prawns so that I could save room for the main course, a delicious filet mignon, which was perfectly medium rare, as requested. In fact, the waiter insisted we all cut into our steaks so that we could check the meat was cooked to our specification prior to eating, which was impressive. I could hardly even manage any of the potato gratin or the creamed spinach but consoled myself with the views out onto the Rockefeller Building and Radio City.

After dinner, we hurried to Times Square for West Side Story. It was quite a fun production--certainly a very colourful production, with the Sharks dressing in flamboyant shades of purple, fuschia and pink and the Jets in muted burnt orange, olive and khaki. The dancing and set pieces were excellent and Anita was particularly good, though it felt like there were too many fight sequences. I know it's West Side Story but there were too many same-ish fight scenes, anyway, which dragged on and left me with drooping eyelids towards the end of the first half. Usually in American musicals, the leads and other key parts will have very powerful voices but tonight, Maria and Tony seemed a little too tentative. The only song I really like from this musical is Somewhere, which has nothing to do with the Pet Shop Boys version that came out in 1997 but there was a good rendition of America tonight.

We had pretty good seats with a great view of the stage and--equally important--the percussion guys, who were sitting in two opposing boxes. Best of all though was the fact that the theatre (or at least the section in which we were sitting) only had odd numbered seats--there was not an even number in sight, which made me happy.

What a Heavenly Way To Rise

I should have known better than to complain about shops not having things in the right sizes because now my bank balance is seriously suffering. Still, excluding the serious shopping fail in January, it's been over a year since I've last shopped Manhattan and I have been on relatively good behaviour for the past few months, so I've probably earned it.

I started off more virtuously today, though. I woke at seven, with no evidence of jet lag, and was on the subway downtown by seven-thirty. The sky looked overcast out of my window so I didn't think I needed to race for the sunrise but when I got outside, I could see some gorgeous oranges and pinks peeking through the skyscrapers along 51st Street. By the time I got to Brooklyn Bridge, the sun had mostly risen but it was still a gorgeous morning--bright and sunny but with enough of an autumn nip to keep me at a reasonable temperature while running. I squeezed my iPhone into the pocket of my leggings (in case I had any navigational catastrophes, even though my route basically consisted of: run over Brooklyn Bridge, run through the park at the end of the bridge until Hudson Street, turn right at Christopher Street, caffeinate intensively at Joe, smile), which meant I could take a few photos along the way. A macchiato and a bagel halfway back to my hotel helped the wake-up process.

After a shower, it was shopping time. I decided to don my skinny jeans and head over to Williamsburg but I didn't do my research properly as the shop I really wanted to go to (Catbird) so I could buy one of their gorgeous, delicate gold necklaces, didn't open until twelve. I got there at just after ten and though I passed a happy half hour posing as a Brooklyn hipster at Verb, I decided as that the $4 round trip spent on subway fare was a sunk cost and as time was of the essence this weekend, I would head back to Manhattan.

I was particularly anxious about visiting more J. Crews to see whether I could find the jacket and cardigan I liked in my size. My wish came true as I found both in suitable sizes, along with some dark-wash skinny jeans for short arses in the store near Union Square (subsequently, I found the jacket in an even smaller size and was able to exchange it). My bank account duly emptied, I spent the next hour or two wandering instead, which was a much cheaper occupation. The Union Square greenmarket should really have been called an orangemarket this weekend as there were huge quantities of pumpkins of all sizes, colours and even shapes, lining every stall. In fact most shops in New York seem to have at least one pumpkin in their window at the moment and everywhere you go, people are talking about their costumes for tomorrow.

I met up with the rest of my party for lunch at Fanelli's, a favourite SoHo café. It was rammed and as we had to wait about 20 minutes in the crowded room, I was starting to regret having such a large J. Crew bag that seemed to get in everyone's way. Still, it was worth it when the food came. For once, I had neither a burger nor a club sandwich and decided to go for the festive option of pumpkin ravioli with alfredo sauce, which was delicious (even if I did have top pinch a few of Papa's yummy-looking fries). I spent most of the rest of the afternoon in NoHo and the Village. I managed to find a pretty, gold, star necklace at Edge Noho, an co-op of local artists and designers, flaunting their wares.

My feet were killing by the time I made it back to the hotel but there is no rest for the wicked as I've got to go out again in a few minutes for steak at Del Frisco's, followed by a Broadway production of West Side Story. I'm not really a huge musical fan and I'm fairly sure my mother will be singing Tonight and I Want To Be in America for the rest of the weekend, but it should be fun. Isn't everything in this town?

Autumn in New York

My flight to New York this morning must have been my first ever transatlantic flight that arrived 40 minutes early. I was very happy--extra shopping time--and managed to get through immigration reasonably quickly and without too much surliness. Our taxi from JFK got stuck in the afternoon school run but I was still checked into my hotel before four and in J. Crew by 4.15.

It is so good to be back in Manhattan--the smells of pretzels and steam, the horns of frenetic taxi drivers, the crunch of autumn leaves in Central Park, the hustle, the bustle and the magic. My hotel, the WJ, is in Hells Kitchen. I've never stayed there before and while it's not the smartest area in town, it's not too bad a place to stay and at only three blocks from the Rockefeller Center and eight from Central Park, I really can't complain even if my single room (with an actual single bed) is almost small enough for me to touch all four walls at once. Of course, I don't plan to spend much time here and anyway, the wireless is free, there's a copy of Time Out New York and an iPod charger, so all is well.

I have a feeling this trip might not be a shopping success. Having visited three J. Crews this afternoon, I found about four items I wanted to buy including a short, pale brown tweed blazer and a long, grey merino wool cardigan, but none of them came in the right size. It's not that I'm being overly picky and demanding that every item be available in my specific size (although that would be nice)--all of the items I like come only in very large sizes, which just look silly on me. It's not even that I'm particularly tiny, either, so I do wonder how really thin people cope; layering, I guess.

In J. Crew, as in most American shops, the staff are all falling over themselves to help you, even at the expense of getting in your way and generally distracting you from the task at hand. When one of them cornered me and asked if I needed anything, I asked if they had the jacket in a two or a zero. No, they didn't, unfortunately, but if I really loved it, I could order it online and ask for express delivery. Except, if I could mail order J. Crew to England, I would have been doing it for years and wouldn't need to visit the New York stores. I suggested that they might need to order in more small sizes but of course, she told me, the demographics of each season's range are planned out months in advance and so The Powers That Be can only guess which items will be popular with which sized people. Given this happens every time I go to J. Crew, I think they need to work on their algorithms.

Not to be put off, I decided to go to Lululemon, where I knew I would be able to find some new running kit (grey leggings, grey shorts with lime green trim and a zipped pocket to stop me losing my bank card/hotel key when running, and a turquoise running vest). I walked back downtown through Central Park, which looks at its most gorgeous when the trees are turning brilliant shades of orange, red, yellow and brown.

I was feeling pretty knackered by seven, local time, when I met my parents and their friends for dinner. We went to the Trattoria dell'Arte, an old family favourite of ours. I ordered a buffalo mozzarella margherita pizza, which was about 18 inches by 12 inches although, as the waiter reassured me, it was as thin as the paper on which it was served. I managed about a fifth, feeling guilty about leaving so much uneaten, especially given that the waiter's charisma was clearly going to waste on a party of English people who had been awake for a long time.

In the morrow, I'm probably going to test my new running togs by subwaying down to Brooklyn, running over the Bridge, grabbing some coffee at Joe and then heading back uptown. More J. Crews will inevitably be visited in what will, no doubt, prove to be a fruitless search for the items I covet. I'll probably cover SoHo and/or Williamsburg tomorrow afternoon. Maybe. Time is so precious I should really make a proper plan but I'm very tired and sleep beckons...

To Do and To Done

I'm usually a bit more hyper than this the night before a Manhattan migration and yet I seem to be in more of a state of zen-like calm rather than any type of mood which might force me to start actually preparing for tomorrow's holiday. This is why I find myself catching up on Gossip Girl and the so-bad-it's-OMG Trinity rather than doing any of the following--more useful--things:

1. Pack. OK, so my small suitcase does already contain my passport, my New York Moleskine, my running kit and my camera and to be fair, I don't really need a lot more than this. Well, I hope I don't need too many more clothes--after last winter's disappointing NYC shopping haul, I am optimistic that my materialistic needs will be better met on this visit.

2. Write down the details of my hotel (including the address for the Visa Waiver form), flights and other crucial information in my Moleskine so I can access it if I am iPhone-network-less on the other side.

3. Turn off data-roaming on the iPhone; otherwise, a few emails could generate quite a bill.

4. Update my New York Moleskine to include all of the new places I've heard about and would like to try since the last time I visited. Also, try to highlight some that I definitely want to go to so that I don't feel I've missed out. (This could possibly be done on the eight hour flight tomorrow...)

5. Work out what time I need to get up and leave tomorrow in order to reach the Heathrow Express with enough time for some T5 chilling (and hopefully, BA Club Lounge time) at the airport.

6. Get some dollars. I currently have a total of $3.66, which won't get me very far. Sure, I pay for almost everything on my card but it's nice to have some greenbacks to hand, just in case. (It may possibly be too late to do this now.)

I have achieved some things though:

1. All the washing up is done and the flat is reasonably tidy.

2. Checked the exchange rate. The one good thing about having $1.40 to the pound in January is that $1.64 to the pound now seems like a really good rate.

3. Nails are grown. They aren't very long, thanks to a prolonged period of stress two weeks ago but they aren't too hideous either. I am not going to post a picture, though, because my nail varnish is manky and peeling off and painted on Sunday with very unsteady hands.

4. Synched all my podcasts onto the iPhone and onto my running iPod (the Shuffle).

5. I think four things is quite enough to achieve for one evening.

Now it's suitcase time, methinks.

Surprise, Surprise

LoFiFest screenings/events attended: 6

Red carpets crossed: 2

Directors sighted: 2

Clive Owen sighted: 2

Questions posed by me during Q&A: 1

Each year at the London Film Festival, there is a surprise film event. You aren't told anything about the film--not even its genre and certainly not the name of any of the actors or the director--you just have to book and hope it's a good one. Last year, the surprise film was The Wrestler and the year before that, No Country for Old Men, so you have to assume that it will be a fairly safe gamble--maybe less so for someone like me who only goes to see movies of which there is a high chance of her liking.

The LoFiFest website describes the secret film as, "the hottest ticket in the entire festival" and so naturally it was sold out weeks ago, although the BFI has been releasing a few extra tickets each day for the past few days. Finding myself unexpectedly available this evening and finding that there were about three seats left (fairly good seats too--mine is fairly central and in the seventh row), I decided to go ahead and book before the BFI's Twitter feed led to those seats being snapped up, leaving me once again completely powerless to determine my evening's success.

It only occurred to be afterwards to check the blogosphere for people's suggestions of which film it is likely to be. Both Where the Wild Things Are and Guy Ritchie's Sherlock Holmes film came up several times. Now, regardless of whether Sherlock Holmes was any good, at least I knew I would be able to enjoy the aesthetically appealing Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law (especially if they actually turned up at the end for Q&A). Where the Wild Things Are, on the other hand, is not something I wanted to see. It had pretty bad reviews, I'm not that interested in that kind of film (I don't care how dark it is; I'm not a big fan of fantasy or animation) and there's no one hot in the cast, although admittedly, listening to Spike Jonze talk about the film and his other work might be interesting. The film I really wanted to see was one no one mentioned (it may still be in production)--Shutter Island. I was in the mood for a dark thriller and or drama--and a combination of DiCaprio and Scorsese would have done the trick.

So, along I trekked to the now very familiar Vue cinema at Leicester Square. It was pretty rammed, presumably because people had just come from watching Eva Green arrive at the gala for her new film, Cracks (reading the description, I'm surprised I didn't spot that one before; I'll have to catch it when it goes on general release). It turns out that a) this wasn't my lucky weekend and b) you should be careful what you wish for. You see, when I go to the cinema, I go for the escapism. I go for the characters, the dialogue and, most of all, the story.

And what did I get? A sermon from the church of Michael Moore. Yes, that's right; the surprise film was Capitalism: A Love Story, except only two thirds of the title was accurate because while there was a whole lot of capitalism, there wasn't much love or story. Aged ten, Moore quite liked capitalism--at least, he liked living in his nice house and getting a new family car every three years and going to New York every other summer. This love story soon turned sour, of course, and the rest of the film was filled with Moore's usual emotive polemic filled with the usual shock tactics and the occasional bit of humour (I wish there had been more; it might have been easier to stay awake. At 2h10, the film could have been at least 30 minutes shorter given that it only had one point--capitalism is evil.

It's not that I disagree with the point Moore is making but I prefer to go to the movies to be entertained not to be preached at. It seemed an odd choice for the London Film Festival too--in the final scene of the film, Moore proclaims that he can't live in such a morally and socially bankrupt country any longer but that he isn't leaving, so he then puts a call out to the audience to go and mess with the system a little bit in their own towns and villages. Viva la Revolución! sez Michael Guevara. Zzzzzz... The song remains the same, sez Bex. Anyway, this message would presumably be better targetted at other individuals rather than people whose main common trait is that they love movies, but who am I to judge.

Capitalism: A Love Story had its moments and I did LOL a number of times but needless to say, I wasn't too devastated to hear that the director wouldn't be taking audience questions.

LoFiFest Part V

LoFiFest screenings/events attended: 5

Red carpets crossed: 2

Directors sighted: 2

Clive Owen sighted: 2

Questions posed by me during Q&A: 1

The glam factor of the London Film Festival has certainly subsided as the week went on. There was no red carpet outside the Vue cinema in Leicester Square this afternoon for the screening of Chloe; no actors or directors introducing the film and taking audience questions; not even any free poncy water and chocolate.

Chloe is a sort of Fatal Attraction meets Belle de Jour meets Tipping the Velvet, but doesn't seem sure enough of which of those it wants to be, or even who it wants the eponymous Chloe to be. Julianne Moore plays Catherine, a successful gynaecologist who enjoys her job, has a beautiful (if quirky) home and a great family in her husband David (Liam Neeson) and teenage son Michael.

Perfection soon unravels when David, a popular professor of music, misses his flight back home from New York on the night of his birthday when Catherine has been planning a wonderful surprise party for months. He misses the party and crawls back home after Catherine is already asleep. In the morning, she is angry all her efforts were wasted (even though he doesn't like birthdays) and after a little sniping, he stomps off back to the office, forgetting his iPhone. Sure enough, in comes a text message from some hot chick called Miranda thanking him for a great night. After an attempted interrogation as to what David really got up to in New York yields only a vehement denial that he missed his flight intentionally and that nothing happened in New York, Catherine decides to take matters into her own hands.

Conveniently, a few days later she bumps into a beautiful, young girl in the bathroom of a smart restaurant and after a brief, slightly weird conversation and then seeing the same girl--Chloe--sitting down with an older man in the restaurant, she surmises that Chloe is an escort and days later, arranges to meet with her in a bar where she unveils her plans. She will hire Chloe to casually stumble upon David, flirt with him, try to seduce him and see what happens. To see what he does. To see whether he would cheat on her. Chloe finds this set-up a little strange ("I don't usually see women on their own; couples, yeah, but not just women") but eventually agrees to go to David's usual café, pretending to be a student, and to see where things led, all the time reporting back to Catherine all the gory details.

And the details get pretty gory, from Catherine's point of view anyway--David kissing Chloe, Chloe jacking him off in a deserted tool room at the back of the local botanical garden and, later, the two screwing in a hotel room. The same hotel room where Chloe later tells Catherine all the details she really doesn't--and yet does--want to hear about the encounter that had taken place there hours earlier.

Catherine eventually breaks down and Chloe comforts her and a strange sense of tension descends and this is when the movie changes track. Chloe is a film about trust, above all else--Catherine doesn't trust her husband and yet she is willing to put a great deal more trust in this beautiful stranger. She never questions the accuracy of Chloe's tales of the liaisons dangereuses because Chloe is telling her what she wants to hear. She never questions whether Chloe might have ulterior motives and that the biggest mistake she makes bringing Chloe into her life--and her marriage--might not be that she couldn't handle the truth, after all, especially after Chloe bumps into Michael, Catherine's son, at her surgery one afternoon.

Julianne Moore is excellent in the role of Catherine but the characters of David and Michael are too bland, fading easily into the background. Amanda Seyfried, meanwhile, does a good job of looking beautiful--if you like slim, wide-eyed blondes with long legs and huge, succulent lips (which I guess isn't an entirely unattractive thought for many men)--but doesn't convince as the enigmatic tart-with-a-heart or the spurned woman. Perhaps that's part of the problem. At the beginning of the film, Chloe voices over that she can be whoever you want her to be--first kiss, 7th grade teacher, daughter--but ultimately, the audience has no idea who she is or where she came from. I would be interested to see the French film Nathalie on which Chloe is based; with Fanny Ardant as Catherine, Gérard Depardieu as her husband, and Emmanuelle Béart as the eponymous Nathalie, it sounds interesting.

On the plus side, Mychael Danna's score was great and definitely helped to add tension to the scenes in which it might otherwise have been lacking. There were also some great songs by a band whose name I can't remember--a band which Chloe recommends to Michael as one worth checking out. Unfortunately, until the film goes out on general release, I'm probably not going to be able to find out their name.

Clive: The Golden Age

LoFiFest screenings/events attended: 4

Red carpets crossed: 2

Directors sighted: 2 (although Scott Hicks twice)

Clive Owen sighted: 2

Questions posed by me during Q&A: 1

The last time I attended a live event specifically to see a celebrity in the flesh was when I dragged The Ex to see A Life in the Theatre a few years ago. Never mind that Patrick Stewart was in it and screw the play; I was keen to see Pacey from Dawson's Creek Joshua Jackson. The play did turn out to be good too, luckily, and Pacey didn't do too bad a job given that he was acting opposite Patrick Stewart.

There were no red carpets outside the BFI tonight for the London Film Festival Screen Talk with Clive Owen, but that was probably a good thing as it would have distracted me from the real purpose of the evening. There were a lot more men present than I thought there would be and unlike A Life in the Theatre where most of the audience consisted of screaming 17-year-old girls (while I was all of 21), the average age of the ladies present was a lot higher. There were no gimmicks this time--Jason Solomons, who was doing the interview, came onto the stage and introduced Clive. I had a fairly good seat--near the front, although off to the right, which gave a good view of the stage, even though a large woman in front of me kept getting her big head in my photos. I took a couple of short videos in which he talks about Chancer, Julia Roberts and having to fly 5,000 miles at short notice to pick up an award he didn't win.

Starting the story of how he got into acting after leaving school and spending two years on the dole even though he'd got into a good drama school because he didn't want to go to drama school, he eventually realised it was the only way he'd be able to become an actor and got accepted to RADA, on the basis of an audition that consisted of a very off-colour speech from his local youth theatre group's latest play and Bottom from A Midsummer Night's Dream. The interview then started with his early screen work, including Chancer, which, he said, led to him being called Clive "Chancer" Owen in every newspaper review for the next 15 years (after which point he became Clive "Croupier" Owen). Unfortunately, there wasn't a clip from Chancer, although I suppose I have watched it too many times already.

Then came Croupier and Gosford Park and then the Hollywood years: Closer, Children of Men, Elizabeth: The Golden Age, Duplicity and so on. There was no mention of Sin City but he did talk briefly about his role in the Bourne Identity, where he--unusually--dies ("you don't die very often, do you Clive?" sez the interviewer). He took the role in that film because of an amazing chase sequence towards the end, which involved running down into the Paris Metro and various other clever stunts. It was, of course, cut down in the final edit to a couple of seconds of him running across some grass before getting shot by Matt Damon. The cool shoot-out in the New York Guggenheim in The International seems to have made up for it though.

At last, it was time for audience questions. I had two (serious) questions: 1) were there ever any plans for a new series or film of Chancer set 20 years on and if not, did he imagine Chancer would still be up to his old tricks or would he have settled down? 2) Had he ever considered directing a film? Unfortunately, I didn't get chosen, although at least the last question asked was my second question--answer: yes, he had considered it and would be keen to do so if the right film came along. He tended to be quite general in his answers--someone asked who the favourite character he'd played was (whichever one he's working on next) and someone asked what the most challenging role he'd ever played was (I can't remember his exact answer but he didn't cite a specific character or film).

Finally, he seemed very concerned at the thought of "[his] bum appearing on the screen" when the interviewer mentioned he had a clip from an early film, Close My Eyes--I'll have to try to find a copy of this film even if he does play a character who has an incestuous relationship with his sister! And then he left. Goodbye, Clive; until next time. Reading the production notes, afterwards, I realised that the question of his real date of birth was further confounded. On IMDb, the date is given as October 3, 1962 but used to say October 3, 1964; the BFI's notes said October 30, 1964. Someone this elusive could only be a Scorpio so I'm going to assume the BFI are correct!

Clive Is Back

LoFiFest screenings/events attended: 3

Red carpets crossed: 2

Directors sighted: 2

Clive Owen sighted: 1

Questions posed by me during Q&A: 1

This London Film Festival lark sure is fun, if tiring. Having sprung--rolled, at least--out of bed at 7.05, just four minutes after my alarm went off, I jaunted over to Nowheresville for another day of fun, games and eight-legged creatures (well, the last part was true, anyway). Just before the next 7.05, I left the office, realised how late I was and sprinted for my train. I did catch it and perhaps it was thankful that a combination of my heavy breathing and the BBQ chicken salad I'd bought from M&S for dinner meant I got a double seat to myself.

On to Leicester Square for the real excitement. As soon as booking opened for LoFiFest, I logged on to book tickets for the Screen Talk with Clive Owen (which I'm assuming will involve a live interview with Clive followed by audience Q&A), along with several other films. I didn't try to book for Clive's latest film, The Boys Are Back, because a) I thought I should restrict the number of events I was attending involving Mr Owen and b) I didn't think the film looked that interesting. But then when the BFI sent an email announcing more tickets had become available for The Boys Are Back, I gave in and booked.

Leicester Square was even busier tonight than on Monday and the Vue cinema, where TBAB was being screened, had a bigger red carpet than Monday's Odeon. I stood around outside for a while hoping that Clive might walk past but no such luck--I decided he'd probably already gone in or would only go in after all the audience had entered and I definitely didn't want to miss the film. A very pretty woman with short, dark hair and a gorgeous dress did walk past, though, and as all the paparazzi were calling, "Laura! Laura!" I assumed she was famous. As soon as the film started, I realised she was Laura Fraser, who plays Clive's wife in the film.

In the auditorium, each seat had a bar of Green and Black's chocolate and a bottle of posh and Icelandic (yet carbon-free) water in the cup-holder. Nice! The gala was sponsored by MoFilm, who presumably provided the goodies; they make short films optimised for smart phones and had also sponsored a competition to make a 60-second, smart phone-friendly advert and the winner was announced and screened at the gala. I'd have preferred more of Clive, personally, but I suppose it was only fair. Eventually, the director was introduced and he came up on stage, followed by Clive and, I think, by the writer. Unfortunately, I was sitting in the 11th row and the lighting in the cinema was really low so all my photos came out really badly. I would have been more upset but I'm hoping I'll be able to take plenty more from closer-up and in better light conditions tomorrow at the Screen Talk.

As for TBAB, I enjoyed it as a film, although I wasn't really expecting to. Clive plays Joe, a sports reporter married to an uptight violin teacher, who meets Katy, an Aussie horse-riding champ whom he knocks up before leaving the violinist and their son to go Down Under and live on a ranch with kangaroos and other crazy stuff. Seven years later, all is perfect for Joe and Katy until, inevitably, she finds out she has a horrible, aggressive and advanced form of cancer and soon dies. This happens within the first ten minutes of the film and the rest of the film focuses on how Joe and his younger son Artie (and later, his elder son Harry) deal--or more often, don't deal--with life without Katy, who does appear from time to time as a hallucination.

This description sounds really corny but it wasn't an overly maudlin film. Sure, there were sad moments and tears were shed but there were far more sweet and funny parts, and so TBAB certainly wasn't depressing or clichéd but the intense, excruciating and incessant pain felt by Joe and also Artie (although the latter's tended to be expressed either as acting out or trying not to think about it) came across very well. The situation is complicated by the arrival of 15-year-old Harry from his English boarding school. He and Artie get on well but he hardly knows his father who left when he was eight and whose parental contribution since then has consisted of paying the fees for the boarding school he hates.

It's a startling revelation to Joe how much effort it takes to run a house and parent two children alone, especially while trying to keep his journalist job. His his ability to balance the two is challenged when his boss insists he attend the Australian Open tennis tournament in Melbourne; there are no flights or hotel rooms so Joe can't take the boys, and his mother in law doesn't want to look after Joe's ex's son. Equally, the single mother of a classmate of Artie's, with whom Joe had started a tentative friendship, felt she was being taken advantage of and refused to babysit in his absence. So, Joe watches streams of the event online and gets reports from his friend at the tournament and writes his stories from this. Unfortunately, his boss decides to attend the final so to Melbourne Joe must go and he leaves Artie under Harry's watch. Of course things go wrong and events--and living arrangements--soon come to a head.

I was engaged throughout, though--I didn't check the time on my phone even once, which is usually a good sign--and my only complaints were: a) the structure could have been a little tauter--it tended to meander a little too much for my taste, and b) the soundtrack, which consisted mainly of Sigur Rós (which fitted the mood of the film well) and other pieces from the likes of Kasabian and Mayfield, was generally great but the addition of the Carla Bruni song, You Belong To Me at the end really irritated me. Partly because it's not my favourite song but partly because it played in a scene where Joe was packing away Katy's clothes and if the point was that he still belonged to her, it didn't seem to fit with a scene of him moving forward (if not at really moving on). Maybe it was intended to show that even though he was packing her things away, he'd never forget her and she'd always be his; this makes more sense but even so, I'm not sure it was the right song.

Now, I've got the Screen Talk to look forward to. I've even thought of a proper question to ask him so I hope there is an opportunity for audience questions and if so, I hope I get picked. What a glamorous life I lead...

Ocean's Double-Oh-Fourteen

Oh! what a tangled web we weave,

When first we practise to deceive

--Sir Walter Scott

OK, I admit it; I'm still a teenage fangirl at heart. Tonight was take two of LoFiFest for me and after Saturday's decidedly unglamorous afternoon, I didn't have huge expectations for tonight's showing of The Informant! I did, however, have some expectations because the "programme corrections" section of the LoFiFest website announced the cancellation of another screening of the film due to director Steven Soderbergh's schedule. Why would they cancel the screening if he weren't going to be there in the first place?

When I arrived at Leicester Square at 8.10, there was a red carpet and a huge crowd outside the cinema so I thought maybe Matt Damon would be coming too. Again, it was way exciting to proffer my ticket and to walk past the barriers and across the red carpet, past a small gang of paparazzi. I'm glad I wore a nice dress tonight although I almost regreted not having leaped, given my past experience of leaping on the tapis rouge, but even I'm not quite that narcissistic. A bunch of civilians and some journalists and photographers were hovering in the lobby so I did too in the hope of snapping Soderbergh or Damon but we were eventually ushered into the screen.

I didn't have a great seat (sixth row but right on the far right hand side) but luckily, it was an expensive Leicester Square cinema where the tickets are expensive so all of the seats were reasonably good. Soderbergh and the writer, Scott Burns, then came on stage and announced they would be taking audience questions at the end. Hooray! No Matt Damon, but I always preferred Ben to Matt...

At this point, I was too excited to settle down and enjoy the film but it wasn't a hard film to like. Damon plays Mark Whitacre, a biochemist turned exec at a Big Corn company, who, after realising that the FBI's investigations into his company might implicate him, turns informant. Only, as a narrator he is utterly and delightfully unreliable--he can't keep his story straight in the same sentence let alone in the same day.

Yet, he's also very chatty and personable and so when you discover that what he says isn't always true, you want to believe that maybe he is confabulating rather than lying. That he wants to be a good guy. That he thinks what he is doing is right. Actually, he has a bigger problem with the truth than just not being able to tell it: he also has a habit of telling it at exactly the wrong time, such as during periods when he has sworn to talk to no one about the case, only for it to emerge that he talked to nobody except his secretary, his friend at work and a handful of major journalists. The story is interspersed with Whitacre's narration, which is littered with anecdotes and stories about his past, as well as random facts, although you have to wonder whether even the facts are true.

He's not a typical loser character either, even though on the surface he comes across that way. He's an extremely well-paid employee of a big company--and, he often reminds us, he was once a biochemist. He has a very high opinion of himself but it doesn't come across as arrogance so much as naivete and total lack of self-knowledge. He constantly recites these factoids and thinks he is clever because he can do that and yet the decisions he makes during the course of the film are at best weird and at worse self-destructive and just plain bonkers. The soundtrack is often very Bond/Mission Impossible-esque and Whitacre clearly sees himself as a super-hero type (only much better looking than Bond and Ethan Hunt) and at one point, he proudly tells the FBI agents that they should call him 0014 because he was twice as smart as 007.

I was in hysterics throughout although I can't remember any good lines off hand. In any case, part of its success was down to Damon's great comic performance. His timing was perfect and despite all of the bad things his character does, he still comes across as sympathetic (in the final sequence, set seven years after the main action, he looks scarily like Philip Seymour Hoffman).

Yet, as Soderbergh reminded us at the beginning, the film really is based on a true story (he was asked at the end how famous Whitacre's story was in the US, given that no one seems to have heard of him over here, and Soderbergh said he was right up there with Billy the Kid). Apparently, the real Whitacre quite liked the film and he and his wife attended the New York premiere; he also thought Damon did a great job of playing him.

Some of the other audience questions included topics like the warm and fuzzy effect shooting in the Mid West had on the film and how Soderbergh lined up his projects (it was a relief to go back to the comedy of The Informant! after Che--anything would have been after Che, he said). I've been to several director Q&As but somehow all my ideas for questions disappear as soon as I have the chance to ask one so today when I had a question, I decided I would ask it, no matter how boring it was. I asked about the chronology of the film--given that the use of an achronological plot (a favourite plot device of mine; right up there with unreliable narrators, in fact) is becoming increasingly common these days and that it's getting harder to find films that don't have at least one flash-back or other unconventional chronology, did they (Soderbergh and Burns) ever consider using flashbacks to tell the story or would that have complicated things too much bearing in mind the unreliable narrator. It seemed that the latter was true--they didn't consider using flashbacks because they felt that each time a little plot twist was revealed, it was like the movie--and the audience's understanding and perceptions--started over. They also said that flashbacks would give Whitacre's character a sort of omniscience that they didn't think was right--they preferred for the air of innocence and naivete to remain.

But the main thing was that I asked a question and Soderbergh and Burns answered it. Go me... I just need to think of one to ask Clive Owen on Thursday. He will definitely be there because I've paid £15 to see him being interviewed, followed by an audience Q&A, so I damn well hope he'll be there. Now that I've learned a little of how the red carpet works, I've got to strategise as to how I might be able to snap him on the red carpet (if there is a red carpet on Thursday, or on Wednesday, when I'm seeing the gala of his film, The Boys are Back). Incidentally, there are three other screenings of The Boys Are Back but I'm absolutely not going to go to Leicester Square and hang outside the cinema by the red carpet in the hope of seeing him (and not just because I'll be at work).. As for the question to pose, maybe I should ask him in which year he was really born...

LoFiFest Part I

Leicester Square, like Oxford Street and parts of Covent Garden, is one of those places I used to love ten years ago but now avoid like the plague. Unfortunately, the London Film Festival is far too big for it to be held entirely in the lovely BFI on the South Bank and as I'm attending five events at the Festival, avoiding Leicester Square seemed unlikely. Of course, because I was running late this afternoon, the Tube decided to break and by the time I finally reached Leicester Square station, I had to push past approximately 500 slow and/or lost people and then sprint up the escalator to get out.

I was going to watch Bellamy, a French crime drama (not exactly a thriller), which was being held at the Vue cinema--luckily right next to the Tube station. It felt quite exciting to be able to skip right past the hoards of people queueing outside the cinema and upstairs to the screen. I was five minutes late and didn't really know what the process was for these LoFiFest events--were late folks even admitted to the screens? Would I miss an introduction by the director or cast if I was late? Would I even be able to get to my seat bearing in mind that the only one left when I was booking was right in the back corner?

Actually, as this was from the Film on the Square category rather than a Gala, there were no actors or directors or red carpets--just a load of journalists and Francophiles, on this occasion. The film before had run late, which meant that by the time I arrived, people were only just starting to shuffle in. "They're much more efficient at the BFI," complained the middle-aged woman sitting next to me, before proceeding to chomp noisily on her popcorn throughout. I was inclined to agree, though, and the screens are better designed so that you get a good view even if you're sitting at the back. Never mind; I could see the subtitles if I needed them and that was the main thing, though I've no idea why so many members of the audience couldn't seem to keep from talking and making very loud bodily noises (must be the journos).

Bellamy is Claude Chabrol's latest film but his first in which Le Depardieu has starred. Depardieu is Paul, a Parisian police inspector taking the summer off at his wife's family house in Nimes. He has also just written a best-selling memoir and is something of a celebrity. He can't help but sniff out trouble and mysteries, though, even when on holiday and at the beginning of the film, he finds a suspicious-looking if well-dressed man lurking in the garden. When said suit eventually plucks up the courage to talk to Paul, he admits that he may have contributed to a man's death but that it's not that simple--of course it isn't; he's in a Chabrol film.

It transpires that the suited type, an insurance broker, was having an affair with some hot local beautician he met at a dance class (of course he was; he was in a Chabrol film) and wanted to skip the country with her so concocted some hair-brained plan to raise the cash for them to do this. Bellamy starts sticking his nose in--doing a better job than the local police chief, it seems--and eventually helps the suit to get a lawyer (who does a remarkable job in court, singing a Georges Brassens song to prove a point, prompting one of the policemen to ask whether they were at a trial or an edition of Pop Idol). It's a lot more complicated than this, with lots of apparently minor characters ending up playing a bigger role than you would imagine--nothing is as it seems.

Meanwhile, Paul's younger, black sheep, half-brother shows up and moves in to the house with Paul and his wife, Françoise, drinking, gambling and "accidentally" stealing 2000 Euros from Françoise's gay dentist and his plastic surgeon lover. The relationship between Paul and his brother is terse and it's only towards the end that we learn more about their history.

Happiness seems to pop up throughout the film--at least, the idea of it. Paul's crossword requires the answers bonheur and felicité, a girl he meets at the local DIY store, Bricomarché, is called Claire Bonheur, and Françoise and his brother often talk about how lucky he is (il a de la chance)--he's lucky he has such a great wife, he's lucky Françoise was standing next to him when he almost fell down a manhole, he's lucky he has a real passion for his work. Yet, he doesn't give the impression of a being very lucky or happy. The film also contrasts the use of chance with that of luck. It was his brother's permanent bad luck that led him to lose a whole load of money gambling but it was by chance that Paul happened to bump into Claire at the DIY shop when she turned out to be more involved in the whole affair than he could have imagined.

His investigations into the suited type and his women lead him to become suspicious of Françoise (to be fair, she didn't help herself; when the suit disappears, Paul thinks he should check whether he's with his wife but Françoise tells him he's definitely with the lover and then refuses to answer when Paul asks her how she knows this) and even to think she's having an affair with his brother (this is somewhat ambiguous). And although the ending might be considered "happy" in some ways, other parts are a lot darker and a lot more upsetting (although I did like the use of Elgar's Cello Concerto in E Minor at the end).

I think I need more time to digest this before I can decide how much I like it. I was a bit confused at the end and this may have been intentional on Chabrol's part or it could be that I was dozing for about five minutes in the middle (I don't think the scene was crucial but who's to say?). Still, Depardieu and Marie Bunel, who played Françoise, were both excellent and the plot, convoluted as it was, was engaging.

Oh, and because LoFiFest is sponsored by the Times, naturally, you couldn't leave the cinema without having a copy of today's Times thrust upon you, presumably so they can add these copies to their circulation figures.

Some New — and Old — London Addresses of Note

The Google Spreadsheet I use to store lists of my favourite restaurants, cafés, bars and shops gained some new addresses this weekend. If it were ten years ago and the travel guide industry hadn't moved on, I would so be thinking of a way to take Bex Guides to London, New York and Paris public.

The service at Hix on Friday night was surprisingly slow, especially given that the sun was well over the yardarm by the time we arrived (almost ten). This was probably mainly because the very cool jugs from assorted whiskey distilleries which were used for the table water were so tiny that several members of staff seemed to be employed just to keep them topped up. Luckily, thanks to my cupcake sampling earlier in the evening, I wasn't quite at the stage of needing to start eating the menu just yet. The restaurant was in a large, stylish room with funking lights and a beautiful bar. The only problem with the building itself was that the ceilings were so high that the background noise of the conversation of others never quietened below that of a loud roar, which was a particular problem for a not-quite bilingual group with one person whose English comprehension isn't very good and another who lacks confidence in her spoken French (moi). Also, the lighting was low enough for most of the night that my photos all came out pretty badly.

Luckily, the food was very good. I had hanger steak with baked bone marrow (the steak was cooked beautifully and I even tried a bit of the marrow--it was quite nice but only if I tried not to think about the fact I was eating right out of the middle of a bone) and the boys had sole. We all opted for the special potatoes, which, on Friday, were some terribly healthy northern concoction: beer-battered potatoes. They were very good, anyway. The menu was very much traditional English with a few quirky variations--I wasn't tempted by the thought of lamb, kidney and oyster pie, for example. Ditto the puddings, although I wasn't hungry enough to try one--Autumn (not Eton) mess, blackberry and apple crumble, posh chocolate mousse, etc. Downstairs was a more casual bar, decked out to look like a boys' club room: deep leather sofas, a pool table and plenty of cosy little nooks. All in all, a good time was had although I would like to return when someone else is paying so that I could order the lobster (£39), fillet steak (similar price) or convince someone to share the whole roast chicken.

On Saturday, we only had a few hours before the guys had to head to Heathrow and Monsieur E had to go to Liverpool Street so that he could drop off a bag to some French lawyer friend so I diverted us afterwards to Clerkenwell for breakfast at Smiths. I wasn't exactly hungover but whichever red it was that Monsieur E chose the night before was a little heavy-going and so pancakes with crispy bacon and maple syrup was just what I needed--especially when combined with a strong coffee and a very healthful juice concoction, involving apples, watermelon and ginger, among other things. I wish Smiths was a little closer to Marylebone because it really is a great place for breakfast and/or brunch.

I do like the experience of eating out and so it was nice to do so twice in one weekend, even if did then force myself to survive for much of the rest of the weekend on bread, peanut butter, rice, peas and pancetta (not all in the same dish) to make up for the spending excess. I did, however, check out a new Fitzrovia cafe called Kaffeine—yet another of the stylish-and-frequented-by-urban-hipster-Aussies genre. The champion barista of Sweden was in yesterday barista-ing away so he made my macchiato for me. It was good though not necessarily any better than most of the other macchiati I've ever drunk—is Sweden even famous for their espresso-making prowess? I seem to remember they are known more for their über-thick, über-strong, black filter coffee than for their artisanal espresso-based drinks but what would I know? It's a nice place to hang out, anyway, and nice to have another one WeToCoRo (along with Lantana)—most of the other reliably good (i.e. Antipodean) coffee joints in central London are in or near Soho.