Up until the age of around fifteen I was pretty much convinced that most films were a load of rubbish; before this, enjoyable cinematic adventures were few and far between. The arrival of Mark Kermode into my life heralded a change. previously me and friends rarely went to the cinema to go and see a particular film, rather we would venture around bored, finally deciding that the local multiplex was the only option. The final straw was watching Get rich or die tryin’; however this luckily coincided with me discovering Mark Kermode discussing movies with Simon Mayo every Friday afternoon. Leading me in the right direction, he showed me there was more out there than I had originally thought and perhaps more comfortingly, proved me right; all my friends had a terrible, terrible taste in films. Modern cinema wasn’t inherently bad; I just wasn’t looking in the right places. All this may seem irrelevant given I’m here to talk about Mark Kermode; it’s his taste in films which people are interested in, not mine. However I feel it necessary to foreground the importance this man has held for me in the past few years. (Sorry if that sounds a little creepy) It is in the context and listening to and relying on this mans opinion every week in which I read this book and probably will be the same for many others who choose to do the same.
Kermode cleverly avoids the conventions of standard autobiography and by appreciating the flawed conception of memory it allows him to open up, to elaborate without appearing self indulgent. The book is told through the narrative of The Mark Kermode Story, a movie in which Kermode is played by Jason Isaacs with a large and famous supporting cast. Through this he discusses his life as a film obsessive; charting his rise from avid film fan, through his many attempts and his eventual success as possibly the nations favourite film critic. From the early days sitting in the cinema watching films such as Slade in Fame and silent running we are told of more star studded encounters such as being present for the moment someone chooses to take fire at Werner Herzog and being confronted by Helen Mirren for his forthright opinions on The Queen. Kermode certainly knows the audience he is writing for and therefore it is somewhat disappointing that he recounts stories I have heard him endlessly talk about before. Despite his entertaining sardonic wit, the retelling of the stories adds little to what I knew already. The book treads on more interesting ground when we here of the unknown. Mark’s short venture onto American soil proves to be unexpected and entertaining while the certain highlight of this book is his Russian journey into the unknown. Brilliantly told, I became sympathetically angry while at the same time incredibly amused at the impenetrable Mr. Nyet.
For someone who professes to have a PhD in English, ‘It’s only a movie’ is a strikingly simple piece of work. However it’s also a successful one, Kermode knows his audience and he plays to them. Like many of the narrative films which he has evidently become so endowed with, this book accepts and takes part in a brand of mythological story telling. Although nothing new, ‘Its only a movie’ confirms why I became such a fan of the man in the first place. If lacking in striking originality, it makes up for it in simple entertainment. For those unaccustomed to his weekly radio ramblings there is little to offer; however Kermode certainly knows how to play to a crowd. Anecdotal, rather than analytical this is a memoir which although offers little subversion has high entertainment value. If anything, the familiarity of many of the incidents involved is part of my own undoing. Being slightly obsessed with this man’s opinion over the past few years has made it near impossible for me to miss these tales. Perhaps the greatest testament to the book is the way in which it left me reeling missed opportunities. Around a year ago I worked in a bar where the good doctor himself was in attendance. When I saw him at the bar I stated ‘are you being served’ with the reply being a simple ‘yes’. My attitude then was that although I was a fan why would he want to talk to me? Reading this book gave me a feeling of deep regret. Why didn’t I just run up and ask him about the exorcist?
By Sam
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