In a change to our regular programming, Excuses And Half Truths is delighted to welcome Ryan Morris back to the fold. He brings us a special report on the 2024 London Film Festival, and what it takes to survive the madness of one of the biggest gatherings of film-makers and fans in the world…
It’s 8:20am on a Wednesday morning. I’m sat in Picturehouse Central’s lavish Screen One, matcha latte in hand, blissfully unaware that the first film I’ll be watching at the 2024 London Film Festival will involve a man having his penis cut off and refrigerated. As I stumble out of the cinema some 98 minutes later, still in a daze from the frenetic blast of French cinema I’ve subjected myself to before the clock has even struck ten, I wonder to myself – “Would I rather be at work right now?”
The answer, of course, a resounding “No”. LFF 2024, here I come.
Noemie Merlant’s The Balconettes was the first of thirty films I saw in the cinema over the next eleven days, a whirlwind of fancy red carpets, sleepy early morning trains, movie-induced tears, movie-induced yawns and the occasional mad dash to a cinema on the other side of the Thames. People think of film festivals as something of a static affair in which you spend the whole time sitting down. Tell that to my Fitness app — it clocked an average of 18,500 steps a day.
Having the Press & Industry pass gave me access to screenings away from the public eye, a chance to see the kind of films that’ll never make it to your local multiplex. Apocalyptic musical comedy/drama about the last surviving family on Earth, anyone? These were the bulk of my films this year, based almost entirely at the retro-fitted Picturehouse Central by Piccadilly. It’s a warm and welcoming place, a cinema mostly frequented by the more passionate of film fans and given an even further jolt of energy when filled by a festival crowd.
All of my four-film days – of which there were, aptly, four – were mostly spent here, often with only half an hour to digest a gritty and contemplative Portuguese-Scottish drama about the systemic failings of immigration before sitting down for a gentle comedy about a man being left to single-handedly look after his and all of his friends’ elderly mothers when they jet off to a Pride event without him. These half hour breaks commonly involved a very brisk walk to a Leon around the corner, with their monthly membership giving us five free barista made drinks per day – a lifesaver in every sense of the word. I’m all for supporting the independents, and boy did I find a croissant or two to prove that to myself, but it’s hard to turn down a deal that good. Ryan needs his film fuel.
The other side of the festival is the public screenings, reasonably priced until you step onto the nightly red carpet gala premieres. Star-studded events both on and off the stage (I’ve seen Edgar Wright in the crowd so often at these he feels like a cousin at this point), this is the side of LFF that hits the headlines – and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t my favourite. It feels like a reward for the early starts and the long days, to walk the red carpet with names like Angelina Jolie and Andrew Garfield, and have them introduce their films before they premiere. If the endless barrage of the P&I screenings is a testament to one’s commitment to cinema, the galas feel like a celebration of just how loved cinema truly is.
And then day eight came – the day I hit the wall. It was the fourth and final of my four-film days starting with 7am trains into London, and at the risk of sounding ungrateful for an experience I truly do adore every year, this was when I started to flag. I’d seen fifteen films in the past 72 hours and was facing a five hour gap before sitting down for the sixteenth. Even with a close friend I attend the festival with keeping me company, this next film felt like a chore. It was the Surprise Film, so we didn’t even know what we were in for. The unimaginable threat of the Robbie Williams CGI monkey biopic felt like a guillotine blade quivering over our necks.
But then came the suggestion – ice cream? On a cold October night, ice cream? It’s a mad idea but it might just work. We galloped off to Anita Gelato between Soho and The Strand for a three scoop tub of coconut, almond & white chocolate. And do you know what? The sugar and fat saved the day. Suddenly film sixteen didn’t feel like such a chore. It turned out to be a comedy, too. Thank the Lord.
The last four days are when the festival quietens down. The early trains push back to late morning, and the trips to Leon become leisurely walks rather than breakneck runs. This is probably how days out to the cinema are supposed to be enjoyed, but I’ll be damned if I let that stop me. After thirty films in eleven days, spread between eight screens across three venues, I caught the sleepy last train home from Paddington and revelled in the fact there was nothing new in the cinema I wanted to see that coming week.
I’m writing this a mere nine days after the festival ended, and I now have five cinema tickets saved in my Apple wallet for the next seven days. Time to relaunch that Leon subscription.
Ryan’s prolific review output is available on Letterboxd, which includes his views on the many, many films watched during the LFF.
EXCUSES AND HALF TRUTHS 
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