Cinema Paradiso

I vividly remember my first visit to the cinema. My Dad brought my brother and me to the movies to see a full length feature on the 1970 world cup. We had a black and white telly at the time, so the realisation that football was actually played in colour was my first shock. The second thing to hit me was the majesty of the theatre. The screen was bigger than anything my young mind could imagine and the way the sound enveloped me was strangely comforting. There was also the cushioned seats, which were a far cry from the wooden benches I was used to at home.

I started a love affair with the cinema then to which I remained faithful through the years, even though other technologies sought to entice me into their parlour. First, there was video, which killed the radio star and did it’s best to destroy the movie going experience too. I was around when the first top loaders came in and remember that space docking sound as it sucked the cassette into its inner sanctum.

One of mates had a player in the back room of his parent’s house and for a few years during my adolescence, we could think of nothing more edgy than to pool our meagre resources and rent a video to watch teen focussed American movies that might offer the prospect of a naked breast or at least a few curse words that we hadn’t heard before.

Adolescence in the Ireland I grew up in was a slow burning affair.

Video rental shops were the big craze back then and seemed to pop up everywhere. The one we frequented was in a pub, with the videos arranged against the back wall. This meant that your selection was monitored by a collection of surly drinkers huddled around the bar. “The butler did it” they’d say if you chose a thriller. “There are more tits on the bull I have at home than you’d see in that filum” would be their call if you went for something more risqué.

DVD came later and I was a late convert having built up a sizable collection of Woody Allen and moody European movies on video that I was loathe to say goodbye to. But the lure of the box set got me in the end. Who could resist the entire catalogue of The Wire for example? Particularly when you can set up subtitles to understand the gangster accents and watch 20 episodes back to back over a weekend.

But throughout the video and DVD age, I stayed loyal to the cinema. It forces you to sit in one place for two hours, without distractions. You tend not to visit the toilet or play text tennis, as you do when watching a movie at home.

During my bachelor years I noticed that my married friends had all stopped visiting the movies, except for the occasional Saturday afternoon visit to a multiplex with their kids to see the latest Shrek or Toy Story release. When I asked why they never bothered seeing a grown up film, they would shrug and say that they weren’t going to waste a baby sitting night by watching something they could rent six months later. It always seemed to be about the film and not the atmosphere for them.

But in a week or so, I’ll become a Daddy and for the next few years at least, my cinema visits will be limited. So the wife and I have been trying to catch as many movies as possible in the past few weeks. But I’ve never been a weekly attendant. I’ve only ever gone when there was something worth seeing. It’s only when I felt I needed to go urgently that I noticed how much dross is on most of the time.

In my local back in Ireland, Betty (the landlady) kindly displays the front page of the local paper above the urinals to give you something to read while carrying out your waste control. The only problem is that the paper is from 1965 and Betty hasn’t changed it since then. The cinema listings have always stayed with me because I’ve never heard of any of the films that were playing that week. Red Buttons was the star of one of them (which gives an indication of the star quality) and the rest would have fitted into the straight to video category if only video had existed back then.

I puzzled over this until last week when I checked out the new releases and found only rubbish. One is a movie called Red Dog. I read a review and it didn’t go much further than saying “It’s about a red dog”. It reminded me of my mother’s last cinema visit, which was to see George Clooney’s “The Perfect Storm”. I asked her how it was which she took as a question as to the movie’s plot. “It was about a fishing boat that went out in a storm and then it sunk”. I watched it two weeks later and she’d pretty much nailed it. Most films aren’t about much except pretty scenery and boy meets girl. Red Dog falls into this category although dog meets bitch would probably better summarise the ending.

The other films on offer were “We need to talk about Kevin” (which is not the sort of movie expectant parents should see) and “The Orator” which is about a Samoan dwarf and has the added benefit of being in Somoan.

I’d just about given up and resigned myself to a life of Toy Story sequels when I
noticed that my old friend George Clooney had a new release out. “The Ides of March” is a political thriller and makes the West Wing look like Glee. It is magnificent and if movies like that keep coming out, I know where I’ll be spending my baby sitting nights in the next few years. My love of cinema still has a beating heart.

The Phantom Belly

I was once in a play in Dublin that involved a complicated costume change during the interval. Shortly into the second half I found myself front of stage during a long speech by one of the other actors. During a pause I noticed an elderly lady with a distinctive blue rinse hairstyle pointing at me. I should say that the front rows at amateur drama are usually reserved for people who are aurally challenged, so I wasn’t surprised when she spoke loudly to her partner.

“Who’s he?” she said, keeping her finger pointed straight at me.

Her partner (who was obviously equally hard of hearing) replied in a similar booming voice “He’s the fat bloke from act 1”.

Yes, it’s time I admitted that I struggle with my weight. I have done so since I was a teenager. I got a job in a pub and used to sneak out with crisps, chocolate and anything else I could find (with the strange exception of alcohol). In no time at all I had developed a belly, or a spare tyre as my Mother so cruelly called it.

Then I went into my last year at school and had to give up work, due to the pressures of study. I went back to a frugal existence of three meals a day and soon returned to the scrawny shaped youth I was before I started work. Then of course I discovered beer and the belly returned. Over the years I guess it has fluctuated but the sport I played in my twenties probably kept it under control.

My next challenge was pasta. I didn’t start eating it until I was in my late twenties and moved to Luxembourg. I wouldn’t exactly say I was jockey like when I arrived there, but after 3 years of Tre de Pate every day I came back looking like the Michelin man. Luxembourg is squeezed between France and Germany and has developed a culinary tradition that takes the rich style of cooking from the former and portion sizes from the latter. It might be the smallest country in the European Union but it boasts some of the biggest people.

There followed 10 years in Ireland, which could best be described as an odyssey of Guinness and fried food. As the years passed, I played less and less sport and in one of those cruel games that nature plays I started losing hair in direct proportion to the weight I gained.

Moving to Australia was partly motivated by the desire to live in a healthier, outdoors type culture and this has worked to some degree. I’m five kilos lighter than I was when I got here and have the motivation to drive this further.

But recently I’ve noticed that despite my weight remaining steady, my stomach has bulged outwards. Last night I started getting cramps in the belly department and I was hit with a sudden realisation. I have developed a phantom pregnancy! My good wife is now eight months into her confinement and perhaps I’m subconsciously feeling jealous. I’ve had a well-structured belly for years after all but now she’s getting all the attention, including small children who want to touch her bump. The only people who have ever wanted to touch my bump are Chinese tourists who think I might be the reincarnation of Budda.

Jealousy or not, it is very strange. I find myself struggling to get out of sofas and hold the small of my back while waddling around the house. I’ve also started getting up to go to the toilet in the middle of the night as though some small creature was pressing against my bladder.

It seems odd though that men should want to share in the trials of pregnancy. It looks a pretty uncomfortable experience. I hope my own phantom experience doesn’t extend to the labour stage. I cry when I get an injection after all. I shudder to imagine what it would be like to have a thing the size of a melon pass through me.

However, I am pleased that my belly will become useful in a few weeks. The biggest thing I’m looking forward to is having our new born child rest on my stomach while I introduce him/her to the delights of football on TV. Skin on skin contact in the best bond a parent can develop with their child and I have enough skin to last the kid until adolescence.

We got into a bit of a panic a few weeks ago when we realised we had nothing bought. But a couple of laborious Saturdays spent in Mothercare and Baby Buntings has sorted us out. Junior now has somewhere to sleep and to wash and enough cute baby clothes to bring a tear to an ogre.

All that is left is for him/her to make their grand entrance. The doctor told us this morning that the baby’s head is now “engaged” which makes it sound like we are involved in a space mission, where we have hooked up with the rocket ship that will take us into the great unknown.

We are certainly on the cusp of something life changing and amazing and that might be a more realistic reason for last night’s stomach cramps. I don’t have much experience with kids after all, apart from once being one myself (and that was so long ago I can barely remember it). So I will admit to being a little nervous. Will I be a good Dad? Will I raise somebody to be my best friend, as my Father has been to me?

All expectant fathers have these fears apparently and all we can do is sit back, let our wives do all the hard work and then hope that instinct kicks in. If I can be half the Dad my Father was to me I will do well. And if our kid can be half the offspring I was, they will also be doing well. Because that means they will be unlikely to have a bulging belly.