People are flocking to the new anti-Disney installation in Weston-super-Mare created by the street artist Banksy, entitled Dismaland. It sounds horribly compelling: especially the Mickey Mouse-eared attendants who are reportedly briefed to respond to every request for information with a sullen shrug or “wanker” gesture. The attraction that sounds best has been devised by David Shrigley, a Turner-nominated artist for whom the word genius is not too strong. He has invented a fairground-type game called Knock the Anvil. You try to knock an anvil off a broad, sturdy pedestal by throwing tennis balls at it. The prize is an anvil. I think Shrigley’s brilliance consists in enigmatically declining to make it clear whether the prize anvil would be the one you are pointlessly trying to knock over. Or perhaps there are dozens of anvils waiting to be won. The other reason I am mildly obsessed with this piece is that it is a gripping metaphor for film critics writing derogatory reviews of big, dumb lucrative Hollywood blockbusters. We sometimes behave as if our latest devastating scathing critique really did make the anvil wobble.
Fear, by royal appointment
On Wednesday week the Queen becomes the longest-serving monarch in British history, and so I feel the time has come to make a contribution to the historical record by revealing the conversation that I had with Her Majesty about modern cinema. It was at a grand event at Windsor Castle a couple of years ago to celebrate British film: the Queen received an honorary Bafta. I found myself standing in a group, sipping champagne and chatting with a likable American executive and Minnie Driver. The Queen joined us. I felt what everyone says they feel in these situations: that you are having the biggest cheese dream of all time. Really, we should have been drawn by Tenniel. “Your Majesty …” began the executive, having evidently not been briefed that you never initiate a conversation with the monarch, “what’s your favourite scary movie?” There was an extraordinary silence while the Queen pondered this. Please let it not be Paranormal Activity 2, I thought. “What’s the one that begins with a G?” she finally asked. Suppressing mounting hysteria and panic, we all desperately tried to think of a horror film beginning with a G. G! Horror film beginning with a G! Come on! Finally, I said in a teeny-tiny little voice: “The Grinch, Your Majesty?” “Yes!” she replied. “That’s it. The Grinch.” Fair enough. The Grinch is pretty scary.
Naff and proud
It is a sickening moment when you realise that something you are in the habit of doing is held to be an Alan Partridge-level middle-class parody. That moment arrived when a colleague said of a fictional film character: “At least they don’t have those terrible photo-collages of kids up on the wall!” I laughed knowingly, along with everyone else. Ha ha ha! Those awful smug people who put up homemade photo-collages of their kids! How obviously and grotesquely bourgeois! Ha ha ha! Internally I was sobbing: “But I do that!” Look … photo-collages? Of your children? You cut them out and create Sergeant Peppery collages of the same sweet little face? And you put in little “cameo” pics of Mum, Dad and grandparents around the edges? Then you put it in a clip-frame up on the wall! It’s adorable, isn’t it?
But now it seems photo-collages are smug and self-advertising and Abigail’s Party. Well, all I can say is: I didn’t get the memo. I’m going to what I like and not care what’s naff. Now if you’ll excuse me, I just have to open this bottle of Piat D’Or – to let it breathe, obviously.