The Film Club, David Gilmour

I read about this ages ago over at Sassymonkey’s blog, and I thought it sounded brilliant.  The writer permitted his son to drop out of high school, drop out of high school, and stay home and watch films with him.  And he knew all what films to watch, so he could pick out loads of really good ones.  That’s genius.  I wouldn’t ever know what films to watch, even if I were inclined to permit my offspring to drop out of school, which I really don’t think I would be.

I am always a bit distressed – I have probably said this before – by memoirs in which people talk shit about their family.  Even when their families are insane with dysfunction, I still can’t help thinking, HeyThat is your family.  You only get one.  What about after your book gets published and they read what you have said about them, and it is too late to take it back because the whole world already knows? Such as, that you hate your brother?  Or such as, that your son was confiding his orgasm concerns in you?  If I were that dude’s son, however old I was when that book got published, I would kill my father.

Apart from that, The Film Club was ever so interesting.  I started a great big long list of films I wanted to see, and then of course got to the end – I didn’t check the end because you don’t, do you, with memoirs?  Unless there’s a suspense issue – and discovered that Mr. Gilmour had helpfully made a list of films already and stuck it right at the back of the book.  Bah.  Er, but useful.  This book reminded me how much I really need to get round to watching some Truffaut.

Another game I play with memoirs: Spot the concealed dysfunction.  This really distracts me from considering their merits as books.  Same here as ever.  What can I say?  I’m a social worker’s kid.


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