Film: El Verdugo (The Executioner)

After a strenuous trawl through the films listed for this week in London (and at least now they're done, if I want to see another: during this week, anyway), I had a film list, ranked in order of IMDB ratings. And as is often the way with arthouse films, the top three on the list weren't showing today. Number 4 was El Verdugo (The Executioner), showing at the BFI, and after quickly checking out the trailer and deciding it was decent, I checked the BFI website - to find there were only two seats left! So I booked the one closer to the screen, and more central. And sure enough, by the time I left, the other was gone too.

With the whole day to get ready (I was working from home), I was still rushing! Now, there's no free parking that I know of near Waterloo, so public transport it was - I was too late for the bus, so train it was, and I did cut it fine; fast as I trotted from the station, I still only got to the BFI ever so slightly after the scheduled start time. And they do start on time. And blast the BFI box office, but they must have the payment card, and type the whole number into the computer to print out the ticket. Now, very few places take that long to issue a ticket - they might like to streamline their process.

She unnecessarily told me that it had started, and I scurried to the theatre, where I was met by an usher with a flashlight. I would be sat near the front, too. Anyway, in recent times the BFI has taken to screening its own ads before the main feature, so I did actually have some breathing space - and wasn't even the last to arrive, with at least two coming after me. (They used to have a policy of not letting people in more than 15 minutes after the scheduled start time - I don't know whether they still do.) I settled back in the plush red velvet seat - if I position myself right, I can get my head to rest on the seat back, which is lovely. And I had ample opportunity to notice the heavy breathing of the guy beside me - almost a snore. And at several points during the film, it did develop into a snore. I'm sure that wasn't a comment on the film.

El Verdugo was made in Spain in 1963 - plenty of opportunities to stare at the outdated fashions. Not to mention the subject matter: our protagonist is an undertaker for the prison service, and falls for the daughter of the executioner - a reviled, but genial, old man. He marries her, and behold, finds himself obliged to take on the profession of his father-in-law, who's about to retire, in order to retain possession of the brand spanking new flat that goes with the job. Unfortunately, he doesn't have the temperament for it..

The film has a lovely, gentle humour to it, and plenty of clever visual gags. And funnily enough, Franco's government never realised that its message was against the death penalty, then in force in Spain, as in other places where it's now long been abolished. Until, that is, it went and won an award at the Venice Film Festival - whereupon it was banned in Spain. Guess somebody spilled the beans.

Mind you, the consistent anti-death penalty stance of the main character isn't the only thing they'd have found objectionable - there's some unrepentant premarital sex (implied, of course), and a hilarious wedding scene, which opens with a bride and groom, fancily attired, standing before an altar bedecked with candles and a choir. Of course, this isn't our hapless couple, as we see when the ceremony is concluded and they turn to leave, taking priests and choir with them. No, our bridal party creeps in afterwards, nearly tripping on the carpet, which obviously belonged to the previous party, and is being rolled up under their feet. The ceremony is conducted by a lone priest, squinting in the light of the single candle left lighting. A sweet little swipe at the church's attitude to money - no, that wouldn't have gone down well either.

As I left, I wondered whether they had any informational fliers, which the BFI tends to have accompanying its screenings - but the holders were empty. Seems they hadn't been there at the start, either - someone was complaining to the usher, saying he'd promised they'd be there at the end; the usher was promising they would be, once he got this wheelchair down to the front.. I didn't wait. I determined to get the bus home, and found the stop easily enough - it's the terminus, on Concert Hall Approach. Would've spent my time waiting there reading the special "Night Standard" edition that the Evening Standard has published, in honour of the infamous night Tube, which finally starts tonight! ..Except I couldn't read while I was waiting, as the street light was out. Never mind, when the bus did arrive, I made up for the expense of the train fare in; the card reader wasn't working that early in the journey, so we all got on for free!

Boy, am I looking forward to my bed. I don't have to be up early tomorrow - I am meeting Helen for lunch, and in the evening I'm joining London Dramatic Arts - who got a great deal on tickets, for once - for The Plough and the Stars, at the National. Funnily enough, I've never seen it live - didn't even do it in school, because I did Higher Level English, which meant we got taught Shakespeare, while those doing Ordinary Level did O' Casey.. I did get to see it on telly, eventually.