No photos. Pin back your eyelids and try reading some words for a change.
Howaboutno and Nolions rocked up to the premier of Joy Division by Grant Gee, courtesy of an email passed on from an obviously nameless mutual friend and photoshopped to look like addresssed to us. Two immediate questions, why London not Manchester and why bother when last year's film of the year Control had covered the whole Joy Div/Ian Curtis obituary, albeit throught the slightly third party eyes of Debbie Curtis.
Not being miserable enough or Manc enough, turned out we were on a secondary list and thanks to a bit of lip from HAN to the oriental bird graciously deigning to hand out tics, the doors were slammed in our face. None the less, having a eagle eye for an opportunity, as the introductions of the faces were being made to the audience, we managed to hook on behind a small group and ended up sneaking into a pair of very plush seats in a box. Ligging and blagging is a refined skill.
Spookily, for the second time in three days we bumped into MJar, what are the odds!
The film has a bunch of major defects. Before it begins you know how it is going to start, all 70s ooop-north depression, sparking cloggs and smoke pumping chinmeys. The whole of the film is again an obituary and you know what the bloody ending is going to be. Unlike control which was pure dramatisation using actors and no appearances from band members, this film is pure documentary, relying on grainy gig footage and talking heads. As Hooky says in the film, "we never meant things to sound so fucking miserable, we really wanted the records to chop people off at the neck like the live stuff". Top punk attitude.
Grant Gee and legendary Factory Records design guru Peter Saville took the stage afterwards to answer questions.
"Peter, how do you think this contributes to the legend"..."Well it doesn't really"
"Peter, what do you think of the film posters"...."Pretty shit really, I'm glad I didn't have to do them..I left that behind over a decade ago, I can't think what Joy Division wuld look like now"
Afterwards, we blagged a ticket off the same forgetful or forgiving Oriental vision to some West End red roped celeb tarts bar for free Japanese beer and shoulder rubbing with various ancient ghosts from the past. "Smoke either side of the red rope" said the bouncer, which seemed less designed to allow us maximum freedom and more an excuse for him to twat us either way.
We don't think we saw Marianne Faithful but we were puzzled how poncey journo chat-up lines are supposed to deliver the close-quarters limb entanglements when a dready next to us asked a posh bird "Have you smelled Marianne Faithful? she smells deeeeeeviiiiiiiiiiiiine" we certainly didn't smell anything devine dahhhling so perhaps the fragrant Faithful was elsewhere.
The bus ride home was memorable. Rain bucketed down and the bus skewed through deep channels spraying tar and froth over windows and pedestrians. The budget windscreen wipers failed to clear upright rivers from the windscreen, and lights shone green, red, amber and white through the rivulets. The miserable cunts even arranged the weather as a PR stunt.
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