Last week I walked out of a film - am I a bad person?

Is it ever right to leave a film early? After all, going to the cinema is about so much more than what’s on the screen.

Last week, I walked out of a film. Maybe you do this all the time and think nothing of it but it’s unusual for me. There were several mitigating factors. Most importantly, I knew I wouldn’t be reviewing the film; it would be unfair of me as a critic, after all, to even mention the movie’s title given that I bailed after the first hour. (The basic requirement in the profession is to stay in your seat for the duration, and to stay awake. Not all have cleared that hurdle.) So I was there in a non-professional capacity. And when it became clear to me that my young companion was as bored as I was, I suggested that we skedaddle.

If I’m honest, I didn’t feel too great about it. I love cinema but I also adore the cinema: the physical space, its quirks and flaws and guilty secrets, the proximity to others (or not) and how the dynamic in the room changes according to how many people happen to be sharing the experience. Going to the cinema is about much more than what’s on the screen. All but the most unfortunate interference can become tied up with, or in some cases even enhance, our recollections of the movies themselves.

Wes Craven’s New Nightmare will forever be associated for me with being the only audience member at an early evening multiplex screening of that film, which was then interrupted by a man running through the auditorium, pursued a few seconds later by two police officers. Early Cronenberg always take me back to a double-bill of Shivers and Rabid in a subterranean Oxford Street cinema, which was all the more unsettling because I felt a sharp and persistent jabbing in the back of my seat and became convinced that the person behind was trying to inject me with heroin. (Forgive me. I grew up in an unexceptional village. We wanted for excitement.) More recently, a child in the audience at the Pixar film Up responded revealingly to the order of shots at the start of the movie, which shows a man mourning his wife’s death then reaching over in bed to silence his alarm clock. “It was only a dream!” the boy chirruped merrily. I spy a future film editor.

All of which is to say that it takes a lot for me to leave a movie, just as it is virtually impossible for me to enter once it has started. (For many years I loved the rumour that the director Nicolas Roeg would sometimes leave a movie halfway through, the better to devise his own conclusion to the story. Unfortunately, he later told me that this was complete poppycock.)

In his insightful book Watching, Tom Sutcliffe pinpoints the anxiety over making it to the cinema in time: we fear, he says rightly, that “pleasure will leave without us.” Perhaps my ambivalence over leaving before the end of a film, even one that bores or insults me, arises from the same principle: that I have, to extend Sutcliffe’s transport metaphor, disembarked before reaching my destination. Those who make a premature exit also release themselves from membership of the audience, and going it alone can often be an alienating experience. Who knows what treasures and rewards awaited those who stayed the course? The film in question certainly has its cheerleaders. But from now I will associate it not with anything the director intended so much as the poignancy of trudging up the aisle while the soundtrack faded behind me and the screen shrunk to the size of a postage stamp.

For lovers of cinemas, as well as film, there's a fear that leaving the room sends a poor message. Photograph: Getty Images.

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.

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The conflict in Yemen is a Civil War by numbers

Amid the battles, a generation starves.

Ten thousand dead – a conservative estimate at best. Three million internally displaced. Twenty million in need of aid. Two hundred thousand besieged for over a year. Thirty-four ballistic missiles fired into Saudi Arabia. More than 140 mourners killed in a double-tap strike on a funeral. These are just some of the numerical subscripts of the war in Yemen.

The British government would probably prefer to draw attention to the money being spent on aid in Yemen – £37m extra, according to figures released by the Department for International Development in September – rather than the £3.3bn worth of arms that the UK licensed for sale to Saudi Arabia in the first year of the kingdom’s bombing campaign against one of the poorest nations in the Middle East.

Yet, on the ground, the numbers are meaningless. What they do not show is how the conflict is tearing Yemeni society apart. Nor do they account for the deaths from disease and starvation caused by the hindering of food imports and medical supplies – siege tactics used by both sides – and for the appropriation of aid for financial gain.

Since the war began in March 2015 I have travelled more than 2,500 miles across Yemen, criss-crossing the front lines in and out of territories controlled by Houthi rebels, or by their opponents, the Saudi-backed resistance forces, or through vast stretches of land held by al-Qaeda. On those journeys, what struck me most was the deepening resentment expressed by so many people towards their fellow Yemenis.

The object of that loathing can change in the space of a few hundred metres. The soundtrack to this hatred emanates from smartphones resting on rusting oil drums, protruding from the breast pockets of military fatigues, or lying on chairs under makeshift awnings where flags denote the beginning of the dead ground of no-man’s-land. The rabble-rousing propaganda songs preach to the watchful gunmen about a feeble and irreligious enemy backed by foreign powers. Down the road, an almost identical scene awaits, only the flag is different and the song, though echoing the same sentiment, chants of an opponent altogether different from the one decried barely out of earshot in the dust behind you.

“We hate them. They hate us. We kill each other. Who wins?” mused a fellow passenger on one of my trips as he pressed green leaves of the mildly narcotic khat plant into his mouth.

Mohammed was a friend of a friend who helped to smuggle me – dressed in the all-black, face-covering garb of a Yemeni woman – across front lines into the besieged enclave of Taiz. “We lose everything,” he said. “They win. They always win.” He gesticulated as he spoke of these invisible yet omnipresent powers: Yemen’s political elite and the foreign states entangled in his country’s conflict.

This promotion of hatred, creating what are likely to be irreversible divisions, is necessary for the war’s belligerents in order to incite tens of thousands to fight. It is essential to perpetuate the cycle of revenge unleashed by the territorial advances in 2014 and 2015 by Houthi rebels and the forces of their patron, the former president Ali Abdullah Saleh. This demand for retribution is matched by those who are now seeking vengeance for the lives lost in a UK-supported, Saudi-led aerial bombing campaign.

More than 25 years after the two states of North and South Yemen united, the gulf between them has never been wider. The political south, now controlled by forces aligned with the Saudi-led coalition, is logistically as well as politically severed from the north-western territories under the command of the Houthi rebels and Saleh loyalists. Caught in the middle is the city of Taiz, which is steadily being reduced to rubble after a year-long siege imposed by the Houthi-Saleh forces.

Revenge nourishes the violence, but it cannot feed those who are dying from malnutrition. Blowing in the sandy wind on roadsides up and down the country are tattered tents that hundreds of thousands of displaced families now call home. Others have fled from the cities and towns affected by the conflict to remote but safer village areas. There, food and medical care are scarce.

The acute child malnutrition reported in urban hospitals remains largely hidden in these isolated villages, far from tarmac roads, beyond the reach of international aid agencies. On my road trips across Yemen, a journey that would normally take 45 minutes on asphalt could take five hours on tracks across scrubland and rock, climbing mountainsides and descending into valleys where bridges stand useless, snapped in half by air strikes.

Among the other statistics are the missing millions needed by the state – the country’s largest employer. Workers haven’t been paid in months, amid fears of an economic collapse. This is apparently a deliberate tactic of fiscal strangulation by the Saudi-backed Yemeni government-in-exile. The recent relocation of the central bank from the Houthi-controlled capital, Sana’a, to the southern city of Aden is so far proving symbolic, given that the institution remains devoid of funds. The workforce on both sides of the conflict has taken to the streets to protest against salaries being overdue.

Following the deaths of more than 140 people in Saudi-led air strikes on a funeral hall on 8 October, Saleh and the Houthi leader, Abdulmalik al-Houthi, called for yet more revenge. Within hours, ballistic missiles were fired from within Houthi territory, reaching up to 350 miles into Saudi Arabia.

Meanwhile, in the Red Sea, Houthi missile attacks on US warships resulted in retaliation, sucking the US further into the mire. Hours later, Iran announced its intention to deploy naval vessels in the area.

Vengeance continues to drive the violence in Yemen, which is being drawn ever closer to proxy conflicts being fought elsewhere in the Middle East. Yet the impact on Yemeni society and the consequences for the population’s health for generations to come are unlikely to appear to the outside world, not even as annotated numbers in the brief glimpses we get of this war. 

This article first appeared in the 20 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brothers in blood