Being a parent and somewhat lazy / unorganised, I frequented a moving picture establishment for the first time in several months yesterday to view Mr Campbell’s presentation of Mr Flemings Bond, James Bond in a Casino. Which I thought was excellent by the way. Blond James Blond is also very good.
Much has been made of the blatant product placement in the film, but I found it considerably less of a burden to bear than the half an hour of crap I had to sit through in order to have Sony Vaios and Sony Ericsson phones waved at me for two and a bit hours.
Now, half an hour may not sound like much to those of you in the world where they transmit messages from their sponsors every two seconds because they know you can’t focus on the feature presentation without going to the bathroom every five minutes, or to nip outside for a smoke and a pancake.
But as someone who paid good money to watch Mr Bond chase Msr Parkour through a building site, I didn’t expect a poundsworth of that to be adverts. I’d rather stroll in after half and hour and pay a quid less. Maybe when I’m retired and reach the “I don’t give a shit what you think, I’m old” stage, I will.
There was the usual “turn off your phone” message, except its now three, infommercial-grade mini-series. The Chanel No5 ad with Nicole Kidman had fucking credits! Baz Luhrmann needs to take his head out of his arse. There was even a tourism advert exhorting people to visit precisely the country in which we were viewing said ad.
In amongst all this… my vocabulary fails me at this point… shit, there was one trailer. So, evidently, people who watch James Bond may only be interested in romantic comedies featuring actors fighting for promotion to or against relegation from the A List.
So, out of nearly three hours, I had only two and a bit of the stuff I had paid for. It occurred to me that this was the Sausage Situation in movie format. Pork Sausage Panavision. Meat vs Rusk – Now In Technicolour. The BBFC should introduce an edict; any cinema showing more than 15% by length of cinematic cereal and gristle will not be able to advertise their presentations as films / movies.
They’ll have to come up with some name that identifies them as not having the required percentage of actual content. So, alongside U, PG and all the ages between 1 and 100, there should be an “G” rating: G for Gristle.
You wouldn’t stand for it if you went to dinner and they made you eat a plate of stuff they scooped out of the bins. Can we expect our dinner plates to bear sponsor logs? When you polish off your Virgin Curry (religious-themed entity forbid), will Richard Branson’s bewhiskered mug be beaming out at you twixt poppadom and corriander1?
I guess this is a rant peculiar to those of us who are not rabid consumers. I rarely buy anything beyond basic sustenance, therefore the wiles of advertising are lost on me. I can’t even recall any of the things that were advertised. Thirty Minutes of my life sitting in the dark watching visual filler intended to alter my habits.
We’re a set of eyelid retractors away from A Clockwork Orange, people!
1 This would mean you could stab him, or smash him.