The Baftas have come, the Baftas have gone.
And Hugh Grant has once more stolen the show.
I’ve always thought of me as not a cinema person. Which doesn’t mean anything really other than an inclination for defining myself not by what I like doing, but for what I’d rather avoid. A bit like Hugh Grant, my spirit animal.
So bearing that in mind, how is that the first thing I’ve done today as soon as I woke up was to check the list of Bafta (British Academy Film and Television Academy) winners from last night to see if my favourite films and performances had received a nod of approval in the form of a thespian gilded mask?
There’s an explanation, but we need to travel back in time a bit to get to it.
When I started university many moons ago I lived in a shared flat with a girl who loved cinema. Her name was Bea, short for Beatriz.
We were both from small towns in rural areas in central Spain and each of us found in our new setting, a small city but to our eyes massive, what we had always dreamed of. In my case, a greater variety of shops including the jewel of the crown back then: Zara. In hers, a couple of cinemas. One with multiple screens.
As we both studied English we were also classmates so as a result of our living arrangements and vocational paths we got to spend a lot of time together. Whenever we’d discuss where we would like to do our year abroad -which wasn’t compulsory but when you study English in Spain is a must if you ever want to speak the language- she would undoubtley say the United States because it was the home of Hollywood, the place that had elevated to an art the thing she derived most joy from: Cinema.
Bea was by all standards a cinephile and would go to watch movies on her own whether at weekends or in the middle of the day, which one of our other flatmates and I considered to be a clear a sign of some unmet need or childhood trauma.
When she came back to the flat you could always tell what she had made of a film by looking at her. If she’d like it there’d be a special spark in her eyes. If she hadn’t enjoy it, she’d go to her room, closed the door and retreated for a few minutes to an hour, depending on how much she hadn’t enjoyed the film. She rarely ranted about a film she had disliked, though, preferring to wait the frustration over in her room.
She explained that when she went to her room after a not so great movie she’d spend a few minutes in silence looking at the myriad of posters on her wall - all from movies she considered to be the pinnacle of the seventh art. This was as a sort of post-shock therapy to be reminded of the many good films out there and still to be made. Not all was lost, she’d tell herself.
She’d gently nudged me and a couple of our group friends to go to the cinema with her when we weren’t that keen on a movie she was very excited about. “What’s the worst that can happen? That you actually enjoy the movie?” which was an excellent argument as we were already convinced we wouldn’t.
It was thanks to her unwavering love of cinema that I discovered a few films I really enjoyed and which I wouldn’t have seen otherwise, such as Moulin Rouge (not a fan of musicals, what’s the point of all that singing?), Frida (not a fan of biopics, do a documentary instead) and the first Harry Potter movie (not a fan of fantasy or what I thought was a film for kids and therefore way below me). Guess what? That Harry Potter film would go on to become an instant favourite as well as the books.
Fast forward to the present day and some of the films I’ve absolutely adored recently include Wonka (a musical, watched four times at the cinema, knew all the songs by the second time I saw it), Oppenheimer (a merry biopic about the creator of the atomic bomb, watched twice and left the cinema thinking that if Cillian Murphy didn’t win an Oscar this life had no meaning anymore) and Dune Part I (eating my words big time here as I’d snubbed this film when it came out and ignored the novel, but by the time the movie ended I wanted to live in Arrakis; watched twice: one at the cinema, one at home).
Dune has in fact brought bac the same giddy excitment I felt after watching the first Harry Potter film all those years ago, when a world I had dismissed ended up enthralling me.
When September comes this year I will have been living in London for fifteen years.
Thirteen of which have been spent avoiding cinemas. Not because I didn’t enjoy watching films. In fact, I’ve watched plenty over the years here, but mostly at home and usually on my own as I was in a relationship with someone who wasn’t particularly interested in cinema and we had opposite tastes. However, after that relationship ended, I went to the cinema three times on my own to watch Parasite, Cold War and La Panthère des neiges, a beautiful documentary by Vincent Munier . I was mesmerised by all three.
When a Curzon cinema opened in my area towards the end of 2021 I thought I may as well go watch a movie at the cinema and check the venue out as it was a short walk from my place. The first film I went to see there in early 2022 was Madres Paralelas (Parallel Mothers) by Pedro Almodóvar and with Penélope Cruz, who really shines under Almodóvar’s direction. A trust and tested duo that is the visual equivalent to comfort food.
The choice of film was indeed not casual.
Almodóvar is from a town very close to mine in Spain and in his films there’s something that always reminds me of home, no matter how crazy the premise or the lives of the characters are. My sister and I often joke that our mum is a quintessential Almodóvar character and she would deliver a great performance without the need for a script in any of his movies.
Hearing my language -and seeing the final scenes that reminded me of my hometown - in a venue in the middle of Camden had a sort of soothing effect in the context of isolation we had been experiencing. In fact, over the lockdown I started to listen to and watch more content in Spanish as a way to feel closer to home.
After watching that first film, I returned a few more times to my local cinema and now I have a membership and go several times a week. For some reason I had convinced myself that I wasn’t really into cinema, but the more I went, the more I reconnected with a previous version of me that perhaps I had forgotten and who did go to the cinema even before meeting Bea as well as after she wasn’t part of my life anymore.
I’ve been thinking a lot about Bea and her love for cinema over this past year as I’ve immersed myself in all kind of films and stories just like she did.
Everytime I left a venue, overcome by whatever emotions the movie I had gone to see had provoked in me, I was reminded of her and how she would return home and show us, without words, everything she had experienced in the last couple of hours when she was by herself within the four walls of a dark cinema room, her favourite place on earth, her full attention on what was happening inside it, not in the real world.
She was deeply moved by My Life Without Me by Isabel Coixet, which would become one of her favourite films, but she was also enamoured by Viggo Mortensen and his portrayal of Aragorn. This is perhaps the only time she did insist and try to convince our group of friends not only to go and see the Lord of the Rings trilogy with her but also to read the book.
And yet she wasn’t overbearing or pedantic and she never judged people based on their taste in films or lack of interest in cinema, no matter how strongly she felt about both. She’d take the time to ask questions about why someone may not be into a particular movie, and may suggest a couple of alternatives if she knew the person well enough and felt watching these other films could restore the faith of this person in cinema.
Most importantly, I never heard her use sentences such as “I can’t believe you haven’t watched that movie!” or “You must definitely watch that film, you’re missing out!” which I realised I said often when discussing books with others. I wouldn’t be surprised if that was the reason they never wanted to read them in first place. Liking what I liked was almost a requisite for me to be interested in speaking to someone.
Unlike me, Bea was generous in sharing why she loved a particular movie or considered it a masterpiece that could help expand one’s horizons, but never imposed or forced her personal taste on others. She didn’t think it was superior or by any means the measure of anything. It was only a reflection of who she was and what she enjoyed at that time in her life, which also showed she was intellingent enough to grasp her taste could change and evolve over time.
She had the maturity to understand that our passions are always personal, never universal, and that the surest way to prevent someone from wanting to explore a new interest that may become a source of unexpected joy is to force it upon them. Perphas that’s why, after all these years, I’ve found myself coming back to movies that I enjoyed vicariously through her in such a positive way.
Which brings us to the present day and my urge to check who’s won at the BAFTAS.
The same me who until two years ago hadn’t really thought of herself as a cinema person and now cares about people she’s never met whose job is to create stories that for the most part have never happened, or not exactly as they’re telling me they did. But I guess this is what crossing paths in life with someone sincerely passionate about something and generous enough to share her love for it when we never previously thought it could be of any relevance or interest for us does: it transforms us and it makes us care too.
And that’s what happened this morning as I felt joy at seeing Oppenheirmer has been rewarded with best film and best director; Cillian Murphy as best actor; Robert Downey Jr. as best supporting actor; Emma Stone as best actress; Da’ Vine Joy Randolph as best supporting actress; American Fiction as best adapted screenplay; and Anatomy of a Fall as best original screenplay. I have immensely enjoyed each of this movies and performances and I’m glad they’ve been rewarded.
However, there was also a sort of sadness for the people who have been left out after their incredible work. Most notably Andrew Scott, who was not even included in the shortlist for Best Actor. His performance in All of Us Strangers was out of this world and he hugely deserved the acknowledgement of a nomination. It would have been a nod to a job extremely well done and which hasn’t gone unnoticed.
And of course, the BAFTAS have also featured my favourite of them all, Hugh Grant.
He once again stole the show when presenting the Best Director award by delivering another dose of his half-assed persona that, whether he wants it or not, is wrapped up in effortless charm and unshakeable comedic genius.
How can’t you not love this man? Or his films?
You should watch him in…
Wait, no, that’s not what Bea taught me.
She would have never foced you to watch a Hugh Grant movie. She would have encouraged you to explore his latest roles.
I can almost hear her now: “I understand you’re not into his mumbling and stuttering, and that you think he always plays the same character but have you seen him in About a Boy, Paddinton 2, Florence Forster Jenkins or The Gentlemen? You may want to give those a go.1”
Yes, that’s what Bea would have said.
Abroad is an independent publication about identity and belonging, living in between cultures and languages, the love of books, music, films, creativity, life in London, and being human in the age of artificial intelligence.
You really should, though. The best thing that could ever happen to Hugh Grant was to stop playing romantic leads. He was great and I adored him in those roles, to the point that I blame him for creating very unrealistic expectations of what the average British man is like, but he shines when given the chance to ventue beyond romantic comedies. I’m glad he’ having more fun now in his career, even though he insists on pretending he doesn’t.
Thanks Cristina, for a really enjoyable post! I admit to having a tendresse for Hugh Grant for many years... so glad he's still doing sterling work as an actor. And I very much agree with you about the brilliant Andrew Scott too.