We’ve been to the movies a couple of times this week, for the first time since we moved: first to the very proper Glasgow Film Theatre for some good old fashioned elitist cinema, and then to Cineworld for the more populist stuff.

The art deco GFT is a great building, all geometric curves and ’30s lighting. I could have happily wandered around taking pictures of it for the day, which coincidentally is exactly how long The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford lasts. The acting is uniformly excellent—it’s rare I’d mention any particular actor, but Casey Affleck made me pity his wheedling, sullen Bob Ford while simultaneously creeping the shit out of me. The film looks good (the yawning gaps between dialogue are filled with dramatic landscape shots contrived to look like early photographs) but it’s just too damn long: there’s a satisfying dénouement when James’ unravelling mindset and Ford’s scheming collide and then it just keeps going, lurching on like a tottering bull for another forty-five minutes, exhaustively exploring Bob’s all too obvious character flaws. I squirmed in the slightly-too-small seat the whole time.

Last Saturday we saw We Own the Night with the great unwashed at Cineworld in the centre of town. The film was fair enough: lots of convincing period detail (Robert Green’s awesome Merkur XR4Ti, for example), a reasonable plot and most happily a sub-two hour duration, but having reached the grand old age of 30 I now cannot enjoy a film without near-absolute silence. The row of adolescent eejits behind us put paid to that, whispering continually about Pokémon, or crack cocaine or whatever it is 15-year olds play with these days. I snapped, and not in the creatively humorous way that romantic comedy leads played by such actors as Hugh Grant might have done. “Guys—shut up, will you?” I asked.

“It was him,” the ned in the line of fire shot back reflexively, pointing to his mate.

“Just…shut up,” I deftly countered. To be fair, they did mostly keep quiet but then to my disbelieving, staggered incomprehension, they all trooped out about ten minutes from the end.

It’s nice to know I’m ageing gracefully.

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With Coba Fynn’s next gig imminent (why, it’s on Thursday 16th December at the Liquid Ship of course), it’s nice to see that our first bona fide review is in. Sub City Radio have some moderately nice things to say about Waiting Days. And if you take Davis’ assertion that it’s only a demo and not a fully fledged EP or album into account, it’s practically glowing. If only Top of the Pops hadn’t gone the way of my rapidly receding youth.