Gilbey on Film: The projectionist's power

The relationship between directors and cinema technicians.

The projectionist has final cut, or so the saying goes, so it's surprising that more reverence isn't afforded this lowly god, this puppeteer of light, this minimum-wage illuminator. Just as with any higher power, the only time some of us even think about the presence of the projectionist is when things start to go wrong -- when the actors have their heads relegated abruptly to the bottom of the cinema screen like casualties of the woman-sawn-in-half trick, or when the image acquires a blurriness that can't be blamed on a vaselined lens. Some doubting Thomases even cast aspersions on the extent of the projectionist's skill, and ask whether he or she is really that indispensable after all -- a shocking example of impertinence and disrespect (although a former projectionist I met recently admitted he used to set up the reel before nipping outside for a pint).

Digital projection has arguably diminished the projectionist's standing even further. But June was altogether a good month for reminding ourselves that the unseen figure in the room above our heads is vital to our viewing experience. Correspondence came to light from four leading filmmakers who took it upon themselves to address in comradely tones the man or woman in whose hands their work rests ultimately. You can, after all, be one of cinema's leading visionary auteurs (and three of the four letter-writers are just that), but if the projectionist isn't on-side, you may as well have left the lens cap on.

It was always well known that Stanley Kubrick would visit cinemas where his films were playing, in order to check that the equipment was up to scratch, or that the auditorium's glossy walls were not throwing distracting reflections into the viewer's field of vision. Here is a letter from him to projectionists sent out to accompany prints of Barry Lyndon in 1975. David Lynch had some unique advice to offer any cinemas screening Mulholland Drive -- his homely tone (beginning the letter "I understand this is an unusual request yet I do need your help" and signing off "Your friend, David Lynch") is characteristic; you can read his letter here along with similar letters from Terrence Malick concerning his forthcoming film The Tree of Life, and, slipping to the bottom of the prestige scale in one almighty leap, Michael Bay on his third Transformers movie (though the wonder will be if anyone notices anything to do with the quality of projection amidst that picture's visual and aural cacophony).

There's also a rather good post over at CineRobot on the subject of projectionist in movies -- Buster Keaton in Sherlock, Jr, Brad Pitt in Fight Club, Philippe Noiret in Cinema Paradiso, that sort of thing. It's a good list, to which I would add Robert Joy, getting busy in the projection booth with Madonna at the end of Desperately Seeking Susan, and the poor unnamed soul in the grim Chilean comedy Tony Manero who is beaten to death by an audience member aggrieved to find that Saturday Night Fever has been replaced by Grease. A gross overreaction, yes, but you take his point.

Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards.

HELEN SLOAN / THE FALL 3 LTD
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The Fall is back - and once again making me weary

Five more episodes to go, after which its “feminist” writer (his word, not mine), Allan Cubitt, should pull the plug on it at last. Plus: Damned.

It is with much weariness that I return to The Fall (Thursdays, 9pm), the creepy drama that still doesn’t know whether it wants to be a horror-fest or a love story. I’ve written in the past about what I regard as its basic misogyny – to sum up, it seems to me to make a fetish of the violence committed against women, a preoccupation it pathetically tries to disguise by dint of its main character being a female detective – and I don’t propose to return to that theme now. However, in its early days, it was at least moderately gripping. Now, though, it appears to be recovering from some kind of nervous breakdown. If in series two the plot was wobbling all over the place, series three has misplaced the idea of drama altogether. Nothing is happening. At all.

To recap: at the end of the last series, Paul Spector, aka the Belfast Strangler (Jamie Dornan), had been shot while in police custody, somewhat improbably by a man who blames him for the demise of his marriage (oh, that Spector were only responsible for breaking up a few relationships). On the plus side for his supposed nemesis, DSI Stella Gibson (Gillian Anderson), before he fell he led them to Rose Stagg, the ex-girlfriend he’d locked in the boot of a car some days previously, and she is going to live. On the minus side, Spector’s injuries are so bad, it’s touch and go whether he’ll survive, and so Gibson may never see him brought to justice. Of course, the word “justice” is something of a red herring here.

The real reason she wants Spector to live is more dubious. As she stared at his body in the ICU, all tubes and monitors, her expression was so obviously sexual – her mouth opened, and stayed that way, as her eyes ran over every part of his body – that I half expected her to reach out and stroke him. Just in time for this nocturnal visit, she’d slipped into another of her slinky silk blouses that look like poured cream. (Moments earlier – think Jackie Kennedy in 1963 – she’d still been covered in her love object’s blood.)

The entire episode took place at the hospital, police procedural having morphed suddenly into Bodies or Cardiac Arrest. Except, this was so much more boring and cliché-bound than those excellent series – and so badly in need of their verisimilitude. When I watch The Fall, I’m all questions. Why doesn’t Stella ever tie her hair back? And why does she always wear high heels, even when trying to apprehend criminals? For how much longer will the presumably cash-strapped Police Service of Northern Ireland allow her to live in a posh hotel? Above all, I find myself thinking: why has this series been so acclaimed? First it was nasty, and then it was only bad. Five more episodes to go, after which its “feminist” writer (his word, not mine), Allan Cubitt, should join Gibson in the ICU, where together they can ceremonially pull the plug on it at last.

Can Jo Brand do for social workers in her new comedy, Damned, what she did a few years ago for geriatric nurses in the brilliant Getting On? I expect she probably can, even though this Channel 4 series (Tuesdays, 10pm), co-written with Morwenna Banks and Will Smith, does have an awfully inky heart. Hungry children, drug-addict parents, a man who can go nowhere without his oxygen tank: all three were present and correct when Rose (Brand) went to visit a client who turned out to be a woman who, long ago, had nicked her (Rose’s) boyfriend. Ha ha? Boohoo, more like.

Damned is basically The Office with added family dysfunction. Al (Alan Davies) is a hen-pecked wimp, Nitin (Himesh Patel) is a snitch, and Nat (Isy Suttie) is the stupidest and most annoying temp in the Western world. This lot have two bosses: Martin (Kevin Eldon), a kindly widower, and Denise (Georgie Glen), the cost-cutting line manager from hell. And Rose has a plonker of an ex-husband, Lee (Nick Hancock). “I’ve been invited to the Cotswolds for the weekend,” he told her, trying to wriggle out of looking after the children. “Is that why you look like a knob?” she replied.

Jerky camerawork, naturalistic acting, a certain daring when it comes to jokes about, say, race: these things are pretty familiar by now, but I like it all the same.

Rachel Cooke trained as a reporter on The Sunday Times. She is now a writer at The Observer. In the 2006 British Press Awards, she was named Interviewer of the Year.

This article first appeared in the 29 September 2016 issue of the New Statesman, May’s new Tories