Failure of a film festival fanatic

For a long, long time, one of my absolute favourite days of the year was the day the programme for the NZ International Film festival would come out. I would obsessively go through it, finding all the cinematic treasures, and making my own time-table of treats.

The first time I ever saw one of these programmes was when the festival went out to the sticks in the 1980s, and I saw one that had a write-up of the first Evil Dead film - along with a glorious black and white picture of a blood-soaked Bruce Campbell with an axe. I wouldn't see Evil Dead for years, but that one listing had a profound effect on me, in many different ways.

By the time I was a grown-up and living in the big city, film festival attendance was mandatory every year. At my height I would go a dozen or two every year, especially when they had the Incredibly Strange Film Festival running as part of the larger festival, and would bring out the weird cult films.

They were the only place to see some movies by genius directors, the festivals are where I saw my first Wong Kar-wai, or a Paul Thomas Anderson film months before it appeared in regular cinemas. The festivals are always in the dark depths of winter down here, but a screening in the cathedral of light that is great cinema lit up my world. 

The best screenings were always in the grand theatres of Auckland and Dunedin, which were usually used for big live performances, where you could get that glorious echo of a soundtrack from the vast walls. Carter Burwell's eternally roving score for Fargo all round you, or Hendrix and The Who carving it up in the Message To Love doco.

For a while, the wife and I would get a 10-ticket for it, which would force us to get out into the world and see at least five films. This was always pretty easy, because there were always two I was desperate to see because they were obviously brilliant, two that sounded pretty good and one completely random choice, like a Nigerian crime epic or something.

And then this year's festival rolled around, and after carefully going through the motions on Programme Day, I only went to one film - Hard Boiled, John Woo's 90s action classic which I'd seen a thousand times before.

The lack of film festival action was partly because I work late shifts and have other familial commitments, but also so many of the films seemed so self-consciously film festival, full of dully heartbreaking tales of real life from around the world. Even the weird section was a bit tame, and always has the lame local horror with an eye-rolling premise.

I also get skeeved out by the smugness of other festival goers, and not just the 'I have a comment more than a question' monsters. It's just the aura of sniffy culture that feels performative, with screenings full of people you never see at all the cool films.

So I'm happy enough with the classic Woo. Besides, now I can go see the new PTA at the local multiplex at a time that suits. That's more than the festival can offer anymore.