Sham Fight at the OK Corral
By Laurence McKeown
I'm involved at the moment in organising a film festival in West
Belfast, as readers of last week's An Phoblacht may have noticed.
It's going well, if a bit hectic. We've secured quite a number of
premieres and are delighted that the new film on the life of
Oscar Wilde, entitled Wilde and starring Stephen Fry, will open
the festival. We're doubly delighted that Fry, the director and
the producer will all attend the showing and will then stay on to
conduct a masterclass the following morning. But besides that
there are quite a number of gems in the programmes. Something for
everyone, as the saying goes.
As I say, things have been hectic and conversation in recent
weeks has focused on such topics as the merits of, and
differences between, 35 mm, 16 mm, Beta, and Super VHS (you'd
almost think they were items Mitchell was trying to
decommission.) It got to the point where I began to fear that the
festival and the movie world had taken over my whole life and
entire thought processes.
It all began one evening as I sat down to watch television. I
switched on what I thought to be the news but started to get
flashbacks of such films as The Magnificent Seven or The Wild
Bunch (definitely not the Wilde bunch). Brilliant films, of
course, from innocent childhood days. The baddies, always the
Mexicans, would take over an isolated village and terrorise and
brutalise the inhabitants until a small group of north American
males would ride in at sunrise to their rescue. The latter
weren't necessarily good guys in the sense of good-living. They
had their own problems and chequered histories, a lot of which
they preferred to leave buried, but at the bottom of it all they
were decent blokes.
yhow, there before my eyes the scene was unfolding. No horses
this time, no sand being thrown up, it was some hours past
sunrise, no guns clearly visible (though I would estimate that a
goodly portion of the actors possessed one) and there were many
more than seven of them. They strode along briskly in their
conservative pin-stripes, ties flapping in the wind, one hand
hanging loosely by their hip, the other clutching a briefcase.
This scene was well rehearsed. Up to the holy ground of Stormont
they strode, determination evident on their faces. They were men
with a mission. They were going to get rid of the baddies and
give the building back to its rightful owners. This was just a
warning of what was to come.
The baddies though appeared to have either never watched the
Magnificent Seven, had no comprehension of the role they were to
play, or, in this modern re-make, had either not been given a
script or had torn it up. Maybe they were advocates of the Mike
Leigh/Les Blair style of film-making where you just take a number
of actors, no script, throw them all together, give them a theme
and see what come out of it. Either way these baddies just did
not have a clue. Instead of hiding below the parapets they
blatantly strolled around in their shirt-sleeves looking
nonchalant, waved at colleagues arriving, and generally seemed
uninterested in whatever other scenes were being acted out before
the cameras. Shortly after that the would-be goodies departed.
When they next returned it was a different film, different
scenes, different roles.
By now I'm unsure as to whether or not I have retained a grip on
the real world. The bravado of the magnificent Seven has dimmed
somewhat and their leader has now retreated into the comfortable
and re-assuring world of legalities. I'm wondering if the script
is beginning to develop along the lines of One Flew Over The
Cuckoo's Nest or could it be yet another soap? Why even ponder
such questions? Why not go along instead to the West Belfast Film
Festival, 26 September-2 October.
Programmes and more information available on 01232 325913.
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