By Raymond Duck
After a long argument, and many things said that can now never be un-said, it was decided, for me, that my film collection no longer had a place in my own home. The lawn of my back garden, already scorched and hardened by the seemingly unending heat and uncaring sunlight, now contended with my furious pacing. I kicked a cat sculpture and flicked Vs at a squat stone Buddha. She’s gone too far this time. I almost shouted but didn’t.
I should probably take you back to lighter days. (Just to give this some context. Even though writing the word ‘context’ now makes me shiver.) We were happy. I collected film. Not films. Film. I was interested in the art of direction; cinematography; screenplay; special effects; acting and whatever best boys and key grips do or are. But she, she collected ‘real’ things like memories and experiences in ‘real’ time. She barely took photos for Christ’s sake!
That said, when I showed her The Great Escape for the first time, she got it. She actually got the goose bumps! She almost applauded. I mean, she smiled. (We argued over the fidelity of the needle scene, but then who doesn’t?) But film was something we loved. Together. She even encouraged me to experiment with other genres. I even watched The Lost Boys three times. (I secretly always wanted a pair of sunglasses like the ones Jason Patric wears on the cover, but my face is the wrong shape. And my hair.)
Years passed and we watched all kinds of films together. We viewed French films… We even stared at the recent Marvel perversions. And all of the time we had ‘it’ in our hands. The fresh smelling plastic; the joyous paper insert with all of its needless information about age rating and distribution legality. We had it in our hands. And it felt good. I now yearn for the sweet smell of polypropylene when the polyethylene wrapper is finally wrestled off, sometimes after ten minutes of genuine and vitriolic swearing to God.
Alas, it is an all too rare pleasure these days since we suddenly went full blown digital. iTunes and Netflix, Amazon and YouTube, I embrace you and welcome you into my home and of course you must stay, even in this fragile and resentful time. Little did I know what your coming would presage. Whilst we scrolled through your surprisingly extensive menus and temptingly reasonable box sets, there was, unbeknownst to me, a sadness growing around my once hallowed film shelves. Maybe they knew their time was up long before I did?
So fast forward to the present day and I’m standing in a queue of people at my local recycling centre. I hold two large waste sacks in both hands, their fragile sides distorted by the angular items lying in state within. We all shuffle along. The man behind me is crying and being consoled by his partner. “You never watch them anyway,” she is saying, “and this way we free up space for other things”. I want to join in and answer for him but the moment seems too intimate, too raw. Besides, as it becomes my turn to step up the giant metal crate marked ‘cd’s and DVD’s only’, I find that I am unable to speak.
As I reach into the first sack and grab a handful of boxes I notice the title of one. It jumps out at me and suddenly brings a whole new poignancy to this occasion. I think about it all the way home, wet eyed and tired. I’ll always remember the box as it lay on the mountainous discard pile. Kiefer Sutherland stared straight at me, Jami Gertz resting her head coquettishly on his shoulder, whilst Jason Patric wears those stupid sunglasses.