Whether it’s at home with a bowl of burnt popcorn, or in a plush seat at the theatre, I don’t talk during the film and I watch to the end of the credits.
And for the record, I didn’t ask for my money back because The Artist is a silent film.
My most recent movie date with Sarge was Carnage, before a coffee and a successful book trade with a friend.
I snapped some photos, and drove backwards over some cobbles on the way to cheesy nachos and an early evening showing. My kind of Sunday.
I’ve loved Kate Winslet since Sense and Sensibility, and Jodie Foster since Nell. Jodie Foster’s most recent character is considerably less zen than Nell. I kept waiting for her to burst a blood vessel.
After the film, we somewhat reluctantly switched on our mobiles.
Sarge had four missed calls from work. On a Sunday. The next call he got sent him into the office. Somewhere in the world, a computer exploded. On a Sunday. And I found myself looking to dump Sarge’s phone into the nearest vase of tulips.
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