Bloody marvellous. Like scientists haven’t got enough useful things to be doing, they’re now encroaching on the territory occupied by filmmakers. Physics professor Sidney Percowitz of Emory University in Atlanta, Georgia, is behind a plan that is all about allowing Hollywood creators just one departure from scientific thinking. After that, it’s a slippery slope — and there are real world penalties for shoddy thinking in blockbusters, reckons Percowitz:

“I am not offended if they make one big scientific blunder in a given film. You can have things move faster than the speed of light if you want. But after that I would like things developed in a coherent way.”

“If you violate that you are in trouble. The chances are that the public will pick it up and that is what matters to Hollywood. The Core did not make money because people understood the science was so out to lunch,” he added.

(quotes from today’s Guardian)

Right, so The Core was a box office failure because of poorly thought out science? And not because it was a shockingly dull concept with poor execution? If anything, it would have been more likely to succeed had the science been worse, and those venturing to the planet’s centre encountered dinosaurs and women in fur bikinis, as is traditional for the genre.

Anyway, let’s give this concept some thinking through. Call it a thought experiment. Superhero films are in a mess, for a start. Superman might be able to fly, but if that’s all he can do he’s not going to be of much use against stray dogs, never mind laser-toting alien warriors. Or maybe superheroes should live with the consequences of their difference: Wolverine can have claws, but they rust, and he’s suffering from metal poisoning, and because he’s got just the one power so much for a healing factor to sort out his resistance as adamantium particles clog his arteries. Hmm, not much fun now is it, bub?

And where do we even begin with The Matrix? There’s the business of suspending pretty much the entire human population in a virtual reality, for one thing. What kind of computing power would be needed to make that happen? More importantly, the story is essentially a Gnostic allegory about how people live in a half-life identified with the trinkets dangled in front of them rather than anything of real consequence. Is Percowitz going to ban films that use science as a metaphor unless the metaphor confirms to scientific facts as known?

Besides, what happens when science changes? Which it does. Right now, there are scientists talking about parallel dimensions and suggesting that the universe is best understood as a hologram of which individual consciousness is but a fractal. Man. So does that make Sliders and Quantum Leap ok, despite being a bit pony?

And what of Dumbo’s ears? Did they really aid his flight? Doubtful, but the pachyderm’s zest for achievement has inspired generations of kids to find the courage to make their dreams come true. Best put a stop to that then, if fundamental physical laws are contravened.

All of which is to say that science and stories utilise different forms of logic. And that Prof Percowitz has precious little idea of what a symbol is unless it’s one used in science papers. * sigh * Is it really necessary to overhaul Terminator films to keep diehard rationalists happy at the expense of an audience captivated by a cautionary tale about what happens when machines take over from man? I think not.

If anything, let’s celebrate the extent to which the creative imagination fuels scientific progress. Real life researchers have been inspired by growing up in front of Star Trek. Einstein’s methodology for coming up with the theory of relativity was pretty whacked out, consisting of Albert imagining what would happen if he himself were to travel at light speed, and formulated in part through thought experiments involving steam trains. There’s an interesting ongoing dialogue between science and the creative arts, but it helps neither camp for one to police the activities of the other.

I’ve been wondering what would have happened had I moved to Manchester at the time that I instead chose to come to Nottingham. Given that Manchester has a strong media economy, with plenty of tv production companies and lots of multimedia happening, there’s every chance I’d be further on now than I actually am. But, being Nottingham based has introduced me to some wonderful people — playwright and writing tutor Jon Wood, without whose encouragement I might not have written the short play that became a treatment I entered in a Times competition which won me a meeting with Working Title’s Tim Bevan. And Andy Tudor, a highly talented illustrator and designer with whom I’m developing a project aimed at children.

It’s this project that I’ve just taken to Manchester, for a workshop organised and partly delivered by Mel Norman of Media-Sauce. The day was all about familiarising a varied group of aspiring media tycoons with the intricacies involved in realising profit from multi media intellectual property. Just what Andy and I need at this point, basically: we’re confident about the quality of what we’re doing creatively, and the feedback from people who’ve seen it is great…but we’re two creative dudes, not high-rolling negotiators.

Fortunately, help was at hand. As well as Mel’s invaluable contributions, there was a great group of fellow students whose input was gratefully received over the course of the day, and whose varied experience of animation, production, collaboration and the general business of Making Stuff Happen was a core part of what I brought home. Plus, there were two guest speakers — Amy Chandler, a multimedia IP expert from Pannone LLP, whose common-sense approach to the nuts and bolts of copyright and trademarks was very welcome. And Andrew Sparrow, acknowledged as one of the heavyweights of IP law and the internet, whose lively and engaging style derives from a wealth of experience in the trenches, and who incorporated questions from the group into his informal and instructive talk.

Mel is very much engaged in what she’s speaking about too, drawing on experience as a producer in tv and film. Her description of the bewildered reaction of former colleagues baffled by her choice to move to this odd little fad called online is a sadly familiar one. I’m sure dinosaurs had similar conversations about the fleet-footed hominids scurrying around them once upon a time. Reality check: every form of media is converging, and sooner or later all will emerge from a portal that transmits 3 minute songs and 90 minute films equally well (regardless of whether you or a recognised name created them), can send them to other people just like that, and the very technology of which mitigates against old-fashioned notions of ownership. That’s the reality of the 21st century, and the legal system is a horse and buggy compared to its sleek supersonic styling. Neither are there definitive business models about how to make a success from this new reality. Which is tremendously exciting.

Have a look online. There’s a world of freaks and geeks out there, and some of them are making a living from being on the internet purely through doing their thing, whatever that may be. Some of them are cartoonists who’ve realised that you can make more money from merchandising your own products than being syndicated in newspapers. Some are experts in one or another domain, and have established an authority that attracts advertisers. Others are selling their artwork to an international audience. Others still have realised that the ubiquity of free content means that, if anything, fans value limited edition versions of their fave creators’ work even more than what’s readily available: supporting a creator this way is the crowdsourced version of having a patron.

Understanding new media possibilities puts creators in a better position to reach old media goals, too. All of which has got me thinking, and looking forward to the next time Andy and I put our heads together, with renewed energy for a project that we want to be as rewarding financially as it is creatively, and to reach the biggest audience possible. Watch this space.

It’s been a while since I ran a writing workshop. I’ve been doing plenty of script doctoring and working on my own projects, and that tends to be a great platform for running a class. As you develop your own skills, you come to new conclusions about how they relate to the bigger picture and details of writing, and one of the times I find out where my own understanding is when I’m asked to share it with others.

That opportunity comes next Saturday, February 13th, in a free workshop I’ll be running as part of the Nottingham Loves Learning event. The class kicks off at 2 in The Arts Organisation, 3-21 Station Street, Nottingham NG2 3AJ — just by the train station — and finishes at 5. That said, I can see us heading somewhere we can continue to chat over food and drink into the evening. To indicate your interest, email me: adrian at youdothatvoodoo dot com, or call 07815 158123.

The session will be suitable for people at all levels of experience. There’s always something you can learn, whether it’s by going back to basics or coming across a new understanding. Besides, my approach is to ensure people have a good set of creativity tools to work with that can be used across the board, and not just screenwriting, seeing as it all starts with your ability to play with ideas. There’ll be time for questions and answers as well, and it’s possible we could start some kind of regular group if enough people are interested.

So, get in touch and let me know if you want to participate. It promises to be a fun session, using a range of exercises designed to get you coming up with material quicker than you might have thought possible, and give you some different perspectives on writing — all that, and industry tips too.

The workshop is brought to you by the Department of Business Innovation and Skills, Nottinghamshire: City and County Employment and Skills Board, Transformation Fund and The Learning Revolution. Not forgetting the letter W.

Nothing here to speak of today. But there’s a big piece by me about Sam Raimi’s trilogy of Spider-Man films over at Debatable Spaces, the excellent site run by scriptwriter, script editor, and science fiction novelist Philip Palmer, who shares the same initials as Peter Parker…hmm.

What are you waiting for?

Shoo!

Just a few weeks ago, I was in Kakadu National Park in the Northern Territories of Australia. One of the reasons for being there was to check out some of the Aboriginal art that can be found on rocks in the area. There’s something both stark and lyrical about these images, as seen in this one depicting spirit people hunting. And part of what I liked was that the painting tradition has always been one in which artists are happy to work over the creations of their ancestors, as you can see in this image that was reworked in the 1960s.

There’s a non-preciousness about that attitude, of wiping the slate clean when you start, that appeals to me a lot. But it goes hand in hand with a respect for what has gone before. Stylistic changes are introduced, for instance X-ray style depictions of the internal organs of animals, but the narrative concerns are essentially the same. Art — and Aboriginal art is very much allied to storytelling — depicts the stories of the tribe. And those are fairly constant over time: relationships, hunting, noteworthy accomplishments. Layers of these images can be found on rock surfaces where Aboriginal people have gathered, dating back centuries and longer.

As with Aboriginal art, so with screenwriting. One project I’ve always been fond of, a science fiction epic I mapped out in a feverish week when I was tired of writing low budget naturalistic short films, is arguably redundant now that Avatar has stolen its thunder. At any rate, were my idea to be brought to the screen, people would inevitably compare it with Cameron’s epic. And I got there first…but that doesn’t matter. He got an actual film made, whereas all I have is a few pages of notes. Hey ho. So now I can develop my story in new ways that differentiate it from his (it’s not that similar, but…), or decide to devote my attention to something else.

Something else I liked in Australia was a boho gypsy band I caught in an artsy place that sold crepes and beer to support the nightly live music they showcased. Bizerka are a wonderful live experience, with accordion and cello and violin and guitar and orange box drums clattering away to amazing effect. Their music draws on Greek, Romanian and Russian traditions, and an old Greek man danced with his vivacious companion with delight on his face and in his feet, swigging red wine as he did.

What made Bizerka beautiful was their abundant passion for what they did. They loved playing, and that joy exuded from every performer and every tune, and in the nonsensical tales that the accordionist told between the songs, about how they’d been arrested in Russia for three months, and only learned one lousy tune in the prison. All lies, but it fit the fabric of their style and made the evening all the more delightful.

It never once occurred to me to question whether the musicians were representatives of the cultures whose musics they played. Authenticity was apparent in every note: Bizerka are part of a living tradition, in the same way that I aspire to write thrillers that people speak of in the same breath as ones that Hitchcock made and Bogart and Pacino dazzled in, or dramas that draw from the same well as Orson Welles and Kurosawa and Paul Thomas Anderson.

I have many wishes for 2010, but if I have a wish for other writers and filmmakers it is this: never mind what your influences are, but respect them whatever they are. And find a way to imbue your own concerns and fascinations and experiences with the scripts you write and the films you make. Stay true to yourself, learn who to listen to and when to turn a deaf ear, and allow your inner compass to take you forward to the future, in the certain knowledge that the journey will be a precarious one at times. It’s that edge that lets you know you’re alive, and an audience can scent that in everything you do, and will seek it out time and again, from you or whoever else provides that vital quality. The best way not to let them down is to not let yourself down.

If you were to do a house-to-house search in your neighbourhood, assuming you live in Britain, you’d discover that fully a quarter of homes have a copy of Mamma Mia! The Musical on DVD. The film’s staggering success is built on the equally humungous record it had in theatres worldwide, where it was brought to the stage by producer Judy Craymer, writer Catherine Johnson, and director Phyllida Lloyd.

Mamma Mia! was and is Judy Craymer’s brainchild. She’d worked for Tim Rice for some years, and had a gut feeling that a musical based on the songs of Abba would be a big hit. Fortunately, she got to meet Abba’s songwriters through their contributions to the Tim Rice show Chess, and with their backing went on to assemble the team that created the hit stage show. Not only that, she held onto the same team when Hollywood came knocking at her door wanting to do a screen version, not prepared to do a deal that didn’t include the people she’d brought to the table.

I know all this, incidentally, not through any particular interest in the works of Abba — though they surely do have a way with a tune — but because I watched a documentary on Mamma Mia! last night on Channel 5. What fascinated me was Judy Craymer’s tenacity in making the show, then the film, happen. It’s a given that the story is perfunctory, a means of holding together the Abba songs that are the real reason that an audience has gathered. And I say that hopefully without condescension — the writing in this instance had to be within carefully designed parameters. As such, I’d treat a commission along similar lines (perhaps based on the work of Half Man Half Biscuit) more like I do writing a corporate video script than a screenplay: a job of work rather than something more personal. But still to be done to the best of my ability, and with pride.

All of which raises the interesting question of the distinction between art and entertainment, if indeed such a distinction can be drawn. Music producer Pete Waterman was banging the drum for Mamma Mia! and noting that it’s a film you can see, enjoy hugely while singing along, and then pretty much forget. Well, until some friends or relatives pop over and need to be shown the DVD anyway.

And sure enough, there’s a place for disposable fun. Soap opera is an ephemeral form, providing an emotional connection that’s put aside until next episode. But without soap, would we have had shows like The Sopranos and Six Feet Under? Similarly, pulp magazines were used as padding for packing crates coming over from America, but where would comics writer Ed Brubaker be without their influence on his own sophisticated works, Criminal, Incognito, and Sleeper?

Pop culture’s base metals sometimes prove to be gold, at least in retrospect, and are often used as the inspiration for more ambitious creations. Without pianists playing honkytonk in New Orleans brothels, there’d be no Miles Davis or John Coltrane. No Flash Gordon serial to reach for the stars, and maybe Kubrick wouldn’t have given us 2001: A Space Odyssey.

Which makes me wonder what of today’s apparent junk will prove to be inspiration for mature work in the future. Can something inspirational evolve from Japanese collectable card games? Will composers with serious intentions create ringtones? Can Twitter give rise to a 21st century take on the haiku?

These are valid questions, and interesting ones to ask when some commentators are decrying the emptiness of modern culture. Personally, I’ve always viewed such critiques as bunkum, but rather than do that as a reflex action, consider what could be done if the time and resources that went into creating spam and negativity went into saying or doing something new. And if new is too much of a challenge, one that’s just as great is to say something old in an unexpected way.

First things first: go and read this excellent post by Philip Palmer. I was lucky enough to be part of a course that Philip led in Brighton a few years ago, and still have occasional contact with him. And when he talks about knowing yourself, he’s speaking the truth.

I know this, because there were a few years when I was writing and not being myself, and one way or another that’ll catch up with you. It all started innocently enough, when I did one of the smarter things I’ve thought up: there was an ad from a filmmaker looking for sample scripts from writers, and I hadn’t got anything suitable but instead indicated my enthusiasm and suggested we come up with something from scratch. That move paid off: I met the director/producer, and we got on well.

Not long later, he was given the chance to take over the making of a short. And he wanted me to do a script rewrite so that he could do the story justice, which he believed the existing script didn’t. I agreed with him. Besides, this was my chance to make a film. So I wrote. And wrote. And wrote. And in the end did about fifteen drafts of what went on to become my first filmed project. And there was a level at which it was pretty cool — it was filmed on 35mm, featured a relatively well known tv actor, and was beautifully shot. The British Council liked it enough to tour it internationally.

But something was wrong, which my friend Nicola put her finger on. “It’s not your voice, and it’s not those characters’ voices either.” Bingo. That was it. In adapting the work of another writer, to suit the demands and style of a director with his own vision, something had been left out of the equation. That something was me. Oh, there are traces of thoughts and feelings of mine in there, no doubting that — but it lacked a coherent voice.

And that surprised me. I’d written and helped devise plays where my voice was present, but something about the development process of that short film stifled it. And I felt similarly about what happened when I got to write episodes of Doctors. Sure, I was grateful for the opportunity and everything — a BBC gig, whoo — but somewhere in the long process between coming up with an idea, having it approved with reservations, selected with considerations, and developed with the input of maybe four people channeled through one script editor, the scripts lost any of the idiosyncrasies that I’d liked them for in the first place.

This, you’ll understand, is seen with my retrospectacles on. I’d like to say I learned from what happened and immediately made necessary changes to ensure my voice was once again front and centre in my writing. But it wasn’t like that. I got involved in all manner of projects for the filmmaker I’d done the short with, which increasingly veered away from anything I could recognise as me. Only when I’d written a treatment for a cagefighting movie that was aired in a meeting with Jean Claude Van Damme did I realise the magnitude of the nonsense I was participating in.

No wonder then, that I had a breakdown of sorts. And, to tell the short version, that turned out to be a turning point for me. For the last five or so years, I’ve only developed stories that I am 100% committed to, that — like it or not — are characterised by my voice, my sweat, my stink. That’s the way I like it, and — interestingly — it’s since then that people have paid more attention to the projects I want to develop. Which isn’t to say the going is easy. Far from it. But I’d rather do things this way and fail than succeed and feel as compromised as I did a decade ago.

One of the best things I ever did was fail all but two of my GCE ‘O’ levels. Meant I escaped the dismal institution I’d done a five year learning stretch in, and got to do some retakes at a much more egalitarian technical college, before leaving there with enough passes to go to a quality sixth form college.

The sixth form was a beacon of light in a conservative area, an excellent model of how to give young people a liberal education and enough experience of independence that it’d match where they were in their late teens emotionally. It also meant that it functioned as a great place to ready yourself for further education, or the world of work, depending on what you had in mind when you spread your wings after A levels.

A number of factors at sixth form served to prepare me well for the idea that I could write films years later, though at the time the nearest I managed was some scribbling in inky fanzines. One was that teachers there, as well as teaching their regular A level classes, also did a weekly session in which they shared one of their passions with students. You could do anything from bee keeping to astronomy, and one of the extra classes I remember making an impact was on film appreciation. Each week, we’d watch a sequence from a film, and discuss how the way it was made affected you as a viewer.

It was nothing heavy — one week, I recall, we watched a chunk of Escape from Alcatraz, realising how the photography made the prison so imposing. What made this possible was the appearance of the video recorder, which by the time I’m talking about — the early 80s — was ubiquitous enough that many people had one at home.

One of those people was Mike Ward. A fellow sixth form student, it was Mike’s house we piled round to on afternoons off from college. It became quite a ritual, and a gang of us watched videos at his on a regular basis. Escape from New York, screened last night on ITV4, was one favourite. It pressed all the buttons for that mostly-male crew, what with being an action science fiction yarn that could have sprung from the pages of 2000AD, which several of us were reading. And Mike himself was a connoisseur of genre films; I can remember him making jokes about the length of credit sequences in John Carpenter films, and circulating the information that Carpenter himself did everything from write the things to compose their soundtracks. Again, VHS is to thank for this knowledge, rather than any formal film education — Mike knew these things because he watched the films before and after we watched them as a group, and some of what he saw stuck.

We didn’t just watch action hokum though. We watched Hong Kong action hokum, Mike having got into Jackie Chan early and with more enthusiasm than the rest of us could muster. The definitive film of that time though remains Flash Gordon, which we viewed innumerable times and was our very own cult classic. Never mind Rocky Horror Picture Show (though we enjoyed that too), the essence of camp for me is Brian Blessed’s performance as the King of the Hawkmen. And watching it lots of times — I dread to think how many — gave me an appreciation of details of the filmmaker’s art and led, along with the consumption of cannabis purchased from whoever it was who supplied such things then, to some fascinating theories about the film. All good stuff for activating bits of the brain interested in how films function.

Naturally, it couldn’t last. We were due to go our separate ways — and those sessions at Mike’s place helped prepare us for that. When it came to filling in the forms you had to complete to send off to universities, there was a section for stuff of note, like whether you’d swam the channel for charity. None of us had done that — but we’d all spent a lot of time at Mike’s place watching cool films. And thus the Dorridge Film and Video Society was born. We all got to be officers of the club, ensuring that we all had a position of responsibility representing our commitment to watching VHS genre films in a marijuana haze. I was Secretary, and I’m sure that made the difference to my eventual destination as a student when it came to doing a degree.

Years ago, when I was rather more dense, I heard an EP by the band Psychic TV. They always were a fairly terrible act, led by the curiously named Genesis P. Orridge (just don’t pronounce it ‘porridge’ even though that is of course what he’s crying out for — he’s a counterculture icon, after all). And the songs included a Beach Boys cover and a track called Roman P. The connecting factor was Charles Manson, Mr Orridge at that point having a juvenile fascination with the 60s murderer, that any number of tiresome individuals have perpetuated since. Yawn.

Roman P. was of course about Roman Polanski, whose wife Sharon Tate was one of those killed by Manson’s gang. It was a dreadful crime, more so because Tate was just two weeks or so from giving birth at the time. And this was by far from the only tragedy in the filmmaker’s life: he’d also survived the ghetto and concentration camps in World War Two, while losing family members to the Nazis.

So, Roman Polanksi went through tough times, no question. And still went on to make some notable films, such as Chinatown, Tess, and The Pianist. Somewhere in there, he also raped a 13 year old girl.

Now, 32 years later, the past has caught up with him. Arriving in Switzerland to collect a gong to add to his collection of prizes, he was arrested at Zurich Airport at the request of American authorities. A reminder of what was said in the last paragraph: Roman Polanski raped a 13 year old girl. Sodomised her too, for that matter.

What’s happened in response to Polanski’s arrest? 100 notables in the world of film have written a pompous letter to the effect that making some decent films should exempt Roman Polanski from being punished for his crimes. (Remember: he violated a 13 year old girl without her consent, vaginally and anally.)

Those notables include Martin Scorsese and Woody Allen, and they should be ashamed. Family men both, they know what it’s like to have a daughter of 13. In Woody’s case…but maybe we shouldn’t go further into Woody’s case. Might have been silly asking him to sign up to the petition, in the circumstances, given what went on between Woody and his adopted daughter. But hey, maybe I need to loosen up about this, and accept that filmmakers have libidos bigger and wider ranging than most.

It’s not just American filmmakers that are making apologetic noises about Roman Polanski the rapist. A whole bunch of arty French types are supporting sex attacker Polanski and suggesting that at 76 the matter is too long in the past to deal with now. I wonder how many people who believe that also believe it’s time to let bygones be bygones, and forgive surviving Nazis for their crimes?

But of course, this is about men of culture who happen to be rapists, not run of the mill fascists. Hmm. What would we now make of Hitler then? Perhaps the Holocaust ought to be reassessed in the light of the Fuhrer’s accomplishments as a watercolourist. Or would his painting have to be better to earn him some time off?

Just in case there’s any doubt, I have no doubt. Old cases are coming to light as the result of DNA evidence which mean sex offenders and murderers are being brought to justice for the crimes of the past. The fact that Roman Polanski is wealthy enough and protected enough to have maintained his career as a filmmaker all these years is an obscenity. He should no more be given clemency on the basis of his art than I’d grant it to any other rapist. Is that clear enough?

It’s not that I make a point of walking out of films. It’s just, sometimes, it’s the wisest thing to do. Stay in the cinema and continue to be assaulted with idiocy — or leave, to a world where there is coffee, and carrot cake, and people; some of whom will say more intelligent things than what you’ve witnessed happening on screen.

This evening it was Orphan that I made an early exit from. My expectations were not high, and they were not satisfied. I don’t expect cinematic genius from the horror genre, as my liking for The Descent and the films of George Romero makes clear. But some basic respect for the audience goes a long way, and this spooky kid film showed me none.

Things came to a head in a scene where the couple on the lookout for a kiddie go to the orphanage. Which at least means I got to see CCH Pounder, who I love in The Shield and is here cast as a nun who clearly sees the devil at work in the weird kid painting upstairs while her peers party. Oh, silly husband for going upstairs. Sillier still, for being entranced by the freakish child’s preternatural ability with a paintbrush, and her cutesy story about how the lioness in the picture is being reunited with her cubs. I couldn’t be bothered to untangle the metaphor, but I wouldn’t want a freak-eyed Russian-accented child who paints jungle creatures with family issues anywhere near my house.

And that’s as much as I saw. The bit with the paintings, and some dreadful on-the-nose dialogue, was enough to catapult me out of the cinema and into the early evening. Somehow, I don’t feel I’ve missed anything. The bogus shock at the start, direction that made every damn thing creepy regardless whether it was or not, and risible dialogue…thirty minutes of that was quite enough, thank you.

Last time I walked out was about three weeks ago, for different reasons. I decided to check out the G.I. Joe movie, figuring that being directed by the man who made The Mummy such fun made it worth a look. I’ve no attachment to the geekery associated with the animation series or comic, just wanted some big dumb action. And I got it. Even before the film started, a couple of sweets were shot in my direction by some nearby teens, and were soon joined by a shower of popcorn. I figured I wouldn’t enjoy much more of that, and left.

You could also argue that such is the price of going to see a kids’ movie. Has to be said I’ve had similar experiences in American cinemas, and at a German one where the audience was primarily composed of G.I.s. I’m used to the idea that The Rocky Horror Show is an interactive experience for audiences, but it seems that some American audiences treat every film as if it’s a long lost cousin or dimwitted friend, to be hollered at genially and offered food and drink.

Cinema etiquette seems straightforward enough, so I’m at a loss to know what to do when people behave like asshats in one. I have been known to urge people to shut up, and I’m big and ugly enough that such entreaties have worked and not resulted in confrontation. But there are other things that people can do…I was unsettled to be in a front row screening once when the guy next to me slipped out of his seat to lie on the floor. He was hurting nobody, but at the back of my head was the thought that a man who lies on the ground in a cinema might be capable of anything. And yes, I know that sounds sad and alarmist, but that’s what I thought. He was wearing sandals, for godsake. Who knows what could have happened?