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Which brings me along nicely to the only foreign film I’ve seen in 2009 and our 22^nd issue film, Let the Right One In. You’ve probably heard about the Hollywood remake that will grace/destroy our screens in 2010 that Cloverfield director Matt Reeves is writing and directing and as of late he’s been yapping his gums about it.

Talking to the Los Angeles Times Hero Complex blog, he stated his reasons for nabbing the rights to the then unreleased, instant Swedish classic. “I was just hooked,” Reeves recalled recently. “I was so taken with the story and I had a very personal reaction. It reminded me a lot of my childhood, with the metaphor that the hard times of your pre-adolescent, early adolescent moment, that painful experience is a horror.”

Then showing a great amount of receptiveness, “There’s this cynicism that I’ll come in and trash it, when in fact I have nothing but respect for the film.” Hmmm, cynicism is expected though isn’t it? But I have to say that although I loved LTROI its isn’t my favourite film of the year so far (that title goes to Pixar’s Up) and I’m actually intrigued to see what Reeves does with “Let Me In” and the characters Owen and Abby.

It’s oh so easy to trash Hollywood for its vacuous and unimaginative ways but unfortunately this is good business. The sad fact is that the majority of Americans, especially in Central America just don’t want to sit through a subtitled film. All this chatter got me wondering about exactly how many “unknown” films have been given the Hollywood treatment that I love and treasure amongst my favourites.

Well, there’s Roxanne (Cyrano de Bergerac), True Lies (La Totale!), The Birdcage (La Cage aux Folles), Three Men and A Baby (Trois Hommes et un Couffin) and although not technically a remake, Patrick Swayze fell out of my good graces when he and Wesley Snipes defecated on the glorious Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.

I’m intrigued to know what other Hollywood favourites came from foreign shores and which interpretation is the superior version. The floor dear friends, is officially open…

As always the British Galas came thick and fast, with the most talked about film being Andrea Arnold’s Cannes success Fish Tank (pictured). The affecting story of a girl living in a council estate had everyone buzzing, and lead Katie Jarvis (who celebrated her 18^th birthday party whilst at the festival) was an unsurprising choice for the Award for Best Performance in a British Feature Film. More surprising, given that almost everyone thought that Fish Tank was a dead cert, was the decision to award Moon the Michael Powell Award for Best New British Feature Film. Directed by Duncan Jones (formerly Zowie Bowie), the film evokes the spirit of films such as Silent Running and Solaris in its portrayal of an astronaut (Sam Rockwell) stuck on the moon on a three-year mission. This low-budget sci-fi movie should provide a unique and welcome alternative to the usual crushing summer blockbusters when it’s released in mid-July.

But, for me, there were three British features that really stood out from the pack. In reading the synopsis for Crying With Laughter you’d be forgiven for thinking that it was ‘just another British feature film’ (a fate suffered by many others present including the depressing Running In Traffic and A Boy Called Dad). Joey Frisk is a stand-up comedian who is plagued with a dysfunctional family life, drug habit and the re-appearance of an old school friend who has a shocking secret. So far, so seemingly every other British film made over the past few years. But it’s done with a fresh style (Frisk narrates the story as part of his act) that consistently keeps the narrative fresh, some absolutely brilliant performances from the likes of Stephen McCole as Frisk and a deliciously dark sense of humour that gives everything a slightly surreal air. Justin Molotnikov’s directorial debut has yet to be picked up by a distributor, which is a damn shame as it deserves a lot of attention and remains a fine showcase of some new British talents both in front and behind the camera. Very much the same can be said for Kicks, which takes what would seem to be a rather silly premise (two girls kidnap a Premiership footballer) and turns it into something much more rich and moving. Lindy Heymann’s film, based on Leigh Campbell’s script, makes some salient points about the nature of celebrity culture with two more eye-opening performances from Kerrie Hayes and Nichola Burley about two obsessed teenagers who want everything now.

Whilst the pace is sometimes off-kilter, this is yet another film that’s worth keeping an eye out for. Finally, Isolation – shown in the Document section of the festival – is a truly revealing study of Stuart Griffiths who, upon leaving the British Army, found himself living on the streets. After living through tough time, Griffiths now photographs the 25% of British soldiers who find themselves on the streets after they leave active service. This eschews gritty realism, and goes for a dreamy and visually stunning aesthetic that is absolutely riveting. Griffiths is an engaging narrator and the people he interviews (including injured soldier Simon Brown in an astounding middle section) are honest and forthcoming. Not about the morality of war and much more about the treatment of those who fight in our name, this is a vital and important documentary from directors Luke Seomore and Joseph Bull that stays with you long after it has finished. Again, let’s just hope it gets some sort of distribution deal as it is one of the best documentaries I have seen in quite a while.

Speaking of documentaries, the EIFF moved out of the cinema for a screening of All Tomorrow’s Parties made by Tarnation director Jonathan Caouette and footage supplied more than 200 visitors to the holiday camp based music festival. Put together by Future Cinema, the event proved a nice antidote to the usual dark cinema experience with dancers, redcoats and all manner of games. Oh and some donkeys. Don’t ask. The documentary itself was great, with some cracking music from the likes of Grinderman, The Dirty Three and Seasick Steve and some lovely evocations of festival life from impromptu fan bands to the usual drunken debauchery. It really does its job well, making you want to visit ATP as soon as tickets are available. Mogwai followed the film from with a secret gig – they were good but were slightly lost on some of the audience who were ready to party hard. But all in all, a really fun, different night; great to see Future Cinema bringing their enhanced screening experiences to the festival.

Other films that made an impression throughout the festival included Peter Strickland’s remarkable and subtle revenge drama Katalin Varga, Abbas Kiarostami’s experimental Shirin, the lively Unmade Beds, Shane Meadows’ latest Le Donk & Scor-zay-zee (which was also the best party of the festival – held in a church hall, it cost £300 and had all the supermarket own brand beer you would want), a number of eye-opening shorts including Curtains, the co-directorial debut of Julian ‘The Mighty Boosh’ Barratt and Steven Soderbergh’s low-key but well-observed The Girlfriend Experience. There were also some fun retrospectives including Roger Corman who proved a popular guest with a screening of The Trip winning over all those who saw it including me. Laurence Rebouillon’s West Point channelled the spirit of Chris Marker, Claude Chabrol and even David Lynch to create a wonderfully obtuse detective/love/family story. Using a mixture of super 8 and 16mm footage, it’s a movie of great subtlety and emotion that provides layers of reality and continually gets the audience to think. A movie such as this are exactly what festivals such as Edinburgh are for: the chance, amongst the heavyweights, to discover those that will move, delight and astound.

This is what those at EIFF would do well to remember. With a recent injection of cash from the UK Film Council, whose stated aim is to make a ‘Cannes for the UK’, they may be forced into upping the star quotient. This is all very well and good, especially as Sir Sean Connery castigated the BBC for ignoring the festival in favour of Glastonbury during his speech at the awards ceremony. But it would be shame if they do this at the expense of the smaller – and often more exciting – films. Certainly moving themselves out of the of the Fringe seems to have done them a world of good, as they become more assured and confident about their place on the international Film Festival circuit. I think this pensioner doesn’t really need its bus pass just yet.

For more information on the festival and the full list of 2009 award winners go to http://www.edfilmfest.org.uk./

Laurence Boyce would like to thank Alex, Andy, Billy, Dave, Grant, Hussain, Ian, Joe, Kevin, Liz, Luke, Matt, Paul, Neil, Nicola, and Nine for putting up with him and his broken tooth in-between the films.

Kicking off the mini-fest will be Alejandro Brugues’ Personal Belongings whilst on the same night running throughout the event will be Tomas Gutierrez Alea’s Strawberry and Chocolate (Fresa y Chocolate). Considered a landmark film, it is the first Cuban film to receive an Oscar nod and was praised for it’s direction and revelatory plot. Strawberry and Chocolate showed how politics can shape lives, opinions and relationships and was the first to feature a gay man as the hero whilst openly criticising the government and it’s intolerance.

That’s just one of the many subjects covered in the event which will also feature a documentary showcase along with the most important films of Cuba’s history.

Dog Day Afternoon (1975) / Taxi Driver (1976) / Summer of Sam (1999 – set 1977)

Whether it was due to the socio-economic fall-out of the 1973 Iranian oil crisis or the national daze that resulted from the raggedy end of America’s unsuccessful Vietnam campaign, New York in the mid-’70s was a scorched powderkeg just waiting for a spark. That spark duly arrived in 1977 when a bolt of lightning set off a chain of events that caused a ‘Son of Sam’ murders and the very worst of a series of heatwaves, so when the lights went out the city blew its stack and erupted into a rampage of looting.

Sidney Lumet’s Dog Day Afternoon came to the boil a couple of years earlier in a tin-pot bank on the blistering sidewalks of 1975 Brooklyn, while Travis Bickle roamed across the Baked Apple in pursuit of redemption, connection and a really good gelato in Scorsese’s yellow-cab yarn, Taxi Driver in ’76. But if you’re talking about boiling-point urban psychosis, nobody does it better than Spike Lee. If his pressure-cooked in-your-face race riot Do The Right Thing fairly dripped from the screen, then Summer of Sam set the thing on fire – with disco divas, punk posers, racial tensions, serial murders and John Turturro as a talking dog all basking in Lee’s masterful depiction of the hot, hot heat.

Punishment Park (1971)

The only thing heavier than the weather is the metaphor in British provocateur Peter Watkins’ sand-blasted toke on the hot blue steel of repression. Made during the height of the Vietnam War, his semi-documentary polemic, Punishment Park, prods a surly bunch of peaceniks through the high Californian desert with a snarling dog-pack of trainee National Guardsmen hot on their hippy-dippy heels. The Freaks have three days to traverse the rock-strewn desert or face a lengthy spell in the cooler, while Watkins’ always-impassive camera charts their dusty travails with the beady eye of a circling buzzard.

Walkabout (1971) / Gerry (2002)

“You don’t want to go to the desert,” warns Val Kilmer in David Mamet’s overlooked Secret Service gem Spartan. Casey Affleck and Matt Damon would have done well to heed his advice in Gus Van Sant’s improvised head-scratcher Gerry, which sees them wander about the desert, acting up a storm and doing their level best not to dart a glance past the lens in the hope that their director might clue them in as to what exactly it is that they’re supposed to be doing. Nic Roeg’s Walkabout is a much more focussed but no more comprehensible tilt at the same set up, with Jenny Agutter and David Gulpilil paraded through the Australian outback merely so that Roeg has something to point his camera at. Both flIms are as confusing and exhausting as heat-stroke.

The Man Who Fell To Earth (1976) / Dune (1984)

Fast forward to 1976 and we find Roeg at it again, this time putting David Bowie’s serenely sociopathic spaceman through his paces on both the arid plains of his dying home planet and the dusty majesty of New Mexico in The Man Who Fell To Earth. The Thin White Duke would never look more desperately in need of a G&T ’til he rocked up as a surprisingly effective Pontius Pilate in the bone-dry temples of The Last Temptation of Christ. Dune further reminded us that even the chilliest reaches of deep space are dotted with furnace-hot dog-patches that make the Mojave look like Moss Side.

The Day the Earth Caught Fire (1961)

You do the maths.

The Wind (1928)

The infernal heat and wind-whipped sand of the West Texas dustbowl push poor Lillian Gish properly over the edge in Victor Sjörström’s unsentimentally poetic frontier Western. The ever-harsher environment acts as a barometer for Gish’s isolation and mental dilapidation as the film goes on to explore some exceedingly dark territory for its time, with rape, murder and insanity all on the forecast. The studio – MGM – eventually felt compelled to tag on a happy ending to spare the audience from the unremittingly bleak splendour of a film that is as dry as a Mormon wake.

Ice Cold in Alex (1958)

Other than bacon sandwiches, Eddie ‘The Eagle’ Edwards and that 5-1 thumping of Germany in Munich a few years ago, very few things are as likely to swell the heart of your average Brit (read: advertising exec) as John Mills crossing the Sahara for a swift half of ice cold lager-top. Mills might be shell-shocked, alcoholic and saddled with German spy Anthony Quayle (who nobody seems to talk much about these days…), but he retains a few sandy remnants of both the Mad Dog and the Englishman and uses his stiff upper lip as a rudimentary parasol with which to shield himself from the pitiless sun – giving the Hun a bloody nose for good measure. Top work, fella!

Body Heat (1981)

Murder, betrayal and molto exploratory sex amongst the Palm Beach set is the order of the day in a cannily framed noir homage from Lawrence Kasdan that arrives dripping with flop-sweat and moral torpor. Thinning gigolo William Hurt reckons he knows all the angles, and scheming Kathleen Turner is more than happy to let him keep thinking as much while she spins the clammy web for which he and her rich husband are bound. Muggy with human weakness and oozing all sorts of nasty effluents, it’s the kind of film that makes you want to take a bath as soon as soon as it’s over.

Waterworld (1995)

This could have ended up being a very long list, with the unnerving naturalisto-porn of Austria’s Dog Days (2001), Henry Fonda’s empathy showreel The Grapes of Wrath (1940) and the winsome parenticide of concrete-crackin’ Ian McEwan adaptation The Cement Garden (1993) all coming under our lasers. Gummy, grimy and moist as they may be, none of them measure up to the cool-rockin’ daddy of all permanent vacations – Waterworld. It may, as entertainment, have as much going for it as Al Gore at the Oil Baron’s Ball, but in the ice cap-melting stakes it has no equal.

In the late 1960s, Michel Powell’s reputation was in the gutter – where his film Peeping Tom belonged, according to one reviewer. It was a fallow period for him that became more fertile with a visit to Australia in 1966 to make They’re a Weird Mob, which set in motion a new interest in Australian cinema that peaked in the 1970s with films such as Picnic at Hanging Rock, Breaker Morant and Walkabout.

Always the restless traveller, Powell headed down under again to make a film of Norman Lindsay’s novel Age of Consent. Powell’s former writing partner Emeric Pressburger had written the script for They’re a Weird Mob under the pseudonym of Richard Imrie but was not involved with Age of Consent.

The film’s star and co-producer was James Mason, with whom Powell had not worked previously, though Mason was cast as Torquil in I Know Where I’m Going! in 1944 before withdrawing because, as Powell put it, he “didn’t propose to play boy scouts for anybody” by enduring the rough wartime conditions on a remote Scottish outpost.

Age of Consent explores the theme of art and the artist, a motif that occurs frequently in Powell’s work. Later, the director felt that “the only failure of Age of Consent was that the artist himself was not original enough.” But he could never be modest for too long. Age of Consent has a delicious scene in which a dog puts on its own collar – “one of the best scenes I’ve ever made,” reckoned Powell.

There were some problems with the British censor about the opening bedroom scene between Mason and Clarissa Kaye, who enjoyed their time together so much that they were married in 1971. The censor also objected to the amount of flesh shown by 22-year old Royal Shakespeare Company actress Helen Mirren. Powell called it “a painter’s nudity” but cuts were made to avoid the difficult ‘X’ certificate, introduced by the Board of British Film Censors in 1951 to exclude under-16s. To Mason and Powell’s astonishment, the film was nonetheless distributed on the Rank circuit alongside an ‘X’ film.

Even without the censorship, it was challenging to have an Australian film accepted in the UK and US markets. The critical response was as cool as an English summer, with the mixed tone of the film leaving viewers indifferent. The Observer’s critic Penelope Mortimer sniffed, “I tremendously admire James Mason and I believed, until I saw Age of Consent, that he could do no wrong… It is best forgiven and forgotten.” There is much to enjoy in Age of Consent – Mason’s portrayal of the Gauguin-like artist who escapes the city to pursue a simpler life; the relationship between an older man and a much younger woman that recalls Mason’s earlier film Lolita; Helen Mirren’s luminous beauty; and the dog collar scene. But Mortimer’s assessment is fair enough.

Age of Consent was more or less the end of the road for Powell. Three years later he made The Boy Who Turned Yellow and then that was it. He never directed another film.

With Che: Part One & Che: Part Two due for release on DVD and Blu-ray on June 29, the time is right to re-visit the films, starring Benicio Del Toro in a career-defining role that won him the best actor award at the 2008 Cannes Film Festival.

In Part One, we follow the former doctor as he throws himself into the struggle for Cuban autonomy. Partly based on his own memoirs (Reminisces Of The Cuban Revolutionary War), this is an action-strewn story of a revolutionary hero.

In Part Two, we find that Che has become a man of extreme integrity who believed that life should be motivated by moral incentive as opposed to material gain. It was a belief that would lead him into the relentless, savage terrain of the Bolivian jungle and towards his tragic demise.

To celebrate the DVD and Blu-ray release of Che: Part One & Part Two we are offering one reader the chance to win the Che boxset on DVD, a fantastic Cuban revolutionary T-shirt from Philosophy Football, Che: A Graphic Novel by acclaimed artist Spain Rodriguez, and Che’s diaries, the writings on which the films were based. Four runners-up will also win the graphic novel, books and a T-shirt.

To win just answer this simple question:

Who directed Che?

a) Steven Spielberg
b) Steven Soderbergh
c) Stephen King

Send you answer to competitions@littlewhitelies.co.uk by July 6, with ‘Che Stuff’ in the subject line.

More Cuba Revolution T-shirts are available from Philosophy Football.

Che Part One: Reminiscences Of The Cuban Revolutionary War & Che Part Two: The Bolivian Diary available from HarperCollins.

Che: A Graphic Novel by Spain Rodriguez is published by Verso.

Thanks to Optimum Releasing.

There is something innately revolting about watching someone young enough to be your chimney sweep projected four metres high on screen in front of a gawping audience. It’s even worse when the little twerp in question is so gargantuanly talentless that you want to shove a carrot up its nose until the green tip disappears.

But hey, let’s not tar all those juvenile junk-nuts with the same cynical brush, some of those rugrats were actually pretty awesome.

Leonardo DiCaprio

Before he grew the most fainted-over set of curtains since the storming of the Bastille, Leonardo DiCaprio had already proved his acting mettle as Arnie, the younger brother of Andrew WK lookalike, Johnny Depp. Grabbing potential offence by the bull horns, DiCaprio managed to miraculously pull off a depiction of learning difficulties that showed more sensitivity in his 19-year-old bones than the whole cast of Grange Hill put together.

Where are they now?

DiCaprio, or Leo to you, has tried furiously to wipe the collective memory of The Man In The Iron Mask with stunning performances in The Aviator and The Departed. But for some of us, the memory of him in a horrific ginger wig will never fade.

Mary Kate and Ashley

When it comes to cinematic masterpieces, I’m yet to find something that can top the 1992 TV movie To Grandmother’s House We Go. It’s got Christmas cheer (I hate Christmas), some hilarious crooked comedy capers (unfortunately these don’t involve the mini-trolls selling stolen weapons to fuel a crack addiction) and Bob Saget. Yeah, the Bob Saget. No wonder the Olsen twins became more internationally famous than malaria.

Where are they now?

Both Mary-Kate and Ashley can be seen digesting their internal organs at premiers, parties and parking lots across the globe.

Dustin Diamond

Okay, okay cheap shot. But come on. Who among us hasn’t said ‘zoinks’? The whitest man with the biggest afro will be a hero of the perverse for all time.

Where are they now?

Don’t go thinking Screech has given up on cinema. Good crikey no. After a minor diversion in to the world of pro-wrestling, the Diamond in the rough is back in front of the camera. Doing a different kind of wrestling. Oh yes. Suffice to say, more than 40 seconds spent watching the Dustin Diamond sex tape is enough to burn out not only your retinas, but your very soul. Thanks Mr Bell-ding-dong.

Mariam from Georgia

Sounds Like Teen Spirit had all the makings of a buttock-breakingly awful film. Collection of precocious wannabe pop stars? Check. Children learning inappropriately sexual dance routines? Check. Enough hormones to bring Anne Widdicombe back from the menopause? Check. Euro pop? Check. Thank Christ that Mariam, a 13-year-old Georgian refugee, was there. Whether she was being handed an orange from the back of a beaten up ford-fiesta-cum-market-stall, or singing her heart out on stage in Rotterdam (while her parents could only watch a fuzzy transmission on a broken TV back in Georgia), Mariam plucked the heartstrings like the PG tips princess.

Where are they now?

According to the film’s postscript, Mariam’s family were forced to leave their home in Gori after the contest, due to the recent conflict in Georgia.

Hayley Joel Osment

Forget The Sixth Sense (although a shout out to Mischa Barton’s brilliant depiction of a haggard victim of substance abuse. Oh, and that part in the film where she’s been poisoned). Forget Pay It Forward (how easy is it to forget drowning in treacle?). Forget AI (honestly, you’ll thank me for it). Because the performance that propelled the man with a baby’s face into the realms of genius can be found right here (0:45 is where the magic really happens). Oh yes. We have double denim dealing king of the world Chuck Norris. We have a jolly old man. We have a woman so wholesome you want to pour salt up her nose. And we have the best delivery of a single line in the entire history of cinema.

Where are they now?

Well, judging by this clip, I can only imagine he’s living in America, on anti-viral medication.

The pantheon of child stars could go on and on: the diabolical double act of Judy Garland and Liza Minelli; the sound of nails on a blackboard made flesh, also known as Aileen Quinn in Annie; the barn-stormingly dysfunctional Danny Bonaduce from The Partridge Family; the baby in Willow…

But who are your favourites? And where are they now?

Director Nick Broomfield has teamed up with a selection of industry professionals to offer the UK’s view on environmental activism, completing a 20-minute film, A Times Comes, celebrating the spirit of direct action.

The film tells the story of the Kingsnorth Six, a group of Greenpeace volunteers who scaled the 220m chimney at a coal-fired power station in Kent in 2007 to protest against government plans to build new coal plants across Britain. The six were arrested for their action and charged with causing £30,000 worth of criminal damage to the tower because they painted ‘Gordon’ down its side.

The subsequent trial a year later ended in a landmark decision when the jury found the activists not guilty because the damage they did to the smokestack was outweighed by the harm done to the planet by emissions from the power station and The New York Times later listed the defence as one of the ideas that defined 2008. The story caught the eye of producer and creator of the industry collective Bright Green Pictures, Christina Robert, who approached Broomfield about making a film.

Speaking about the decision to show the film on YouTube’s high definition service and on the Greenpeace website, director Nick Bloomfield explains, “Offering your services for a film is not exactly direct action but it’s doing something that is long overdue. People need to feel that they can be involved themselves directly rather than relying on other people to do it for them. I suppose this was my own little step in that direction. There are new ways of disseminating films like YouTube, MySpace, all that sort of thing, coupled with the more traditional ways of showing films. I think there’s an opportunity for more people to see the film than would have before.”

Safe to say, my evening did not begin well. After legging it from a presentation in Green Park (more on that later), I soon reached the Odeon Leicester Square to be greeted by the back of a ginormous Bumblebee statue and a bunch of envious looks as I was casually let past the barricades. After dodging rain, pigeon shit and onlookers eager to jack my ticket, I took my place in the Sky pen and waited to see what all the fuss is about.

At first it was pretty standard fare; attention seeking nobodies in cellulite revealing dresses, reality show losers (who the hell are JLS?) and more reality show losers (Danielle Lloyd and Bianca Gascoigne), but soon there were some genuine screams of excitement from the crowd around the corner to alert everyone that someone of note had arrived. Not that you couldn’t tell with the idiotic introductions (’She’s the hottest thing in Hollywood so let’s give her a hot applause!’) from some random dude who didn’t deserve to hold a microphone.

Surprisingly, Shia LaBeouf was the first to arrive (I thought the big stars arrived last?) and quickly disappeared around the corner leaving us on the other end of the carpet to be entertained by the likes of Kate from The Apprentice, Dizzee Rascal and some random dude with guns the size of my thighs. As time whittled on everyone arrived in quick succession and the personalities of each actor soon became clear. John Turturro seemed genuinely pleased to be there even if he got a smaller cheer than the minnows of television (don’t they know who he is? Nobody fucks with the Jesus!), he did manage to gain the hearts of the fans by actually returning to sign autographs like he promised. Josh Duhamel sleep-walked his way past everyone and newcomer Ramone Rodriquez seemed more excited than anyone else.

Compare that to the star of the show, Shia LaBeouf, who looked so bored, so unimpressed, so uninterested that as soon as he was out of sight he just grabbed a fag from his security and lit up on the corner in the rain like the suits on Liverpool Street. Exactly how trying can it be to have people tell you that they love you? Being there shined an interesting light on the cult of celebrity. Everyone tries to act like they are unaffected by the people who grace the pages of every newspaper and have their mugs splashed across buses. It’s made abundantly clear where you stand; they are on one side of the fence while you are on the other. You scream their name, take their picture and pay money to see them on screen. I couldn’t care less about the exploits of former child stars and daughters of aging rockers, but when confronted with genuine stars whom I’ve watched for many years, I retreated into my cave. You also become like a walking talking issue of Heat magazine, dissecting and judging every inch of them (Megan looks like a doll, Shia is moody, Michael Bay is arrogant), most of which was done as they were standing less than a foot away from me. They’re rich, beautiful and famous – they don’t have feelings.

After the film (warning: best enjoyed when brain cells are left at the door), I lamented the fact that I didn’t ask Mr Turturro to give me some goodness from The Big Lebowski or Quiz Show. Soon enough, I found myself in the lobby standing in between the extremely hot Josh Duhamel and Turturro and realised I’d been given a second chance. My response? My eyes hit the floor and I scuttled through the crowd. Dang, maybe next time.