Last Friday evening I hauled my ass all the way to London's delightful Fulham Palace to see an outdoor screening of Some Like It Hot.
Somerset House, The General at Canary Wharf, Rocky on the roof of the Queen Of Hoxton pub and Some Like It Hot.
Given the right conditions - an absence of rain, at least a bottle of wine per person and a good crowd - these screenings can turn a good film into a great experience. Discovering The General at The Scoop a few years ago, and watching open-air singalongs like Moulin Rouge!, Singin' In The Rain (in the rain) and even Mamma Mia! have been some of the best nights out I've ever had in the capital. In fact I was saddened to discover recently that watching Mamma Mia! at home with less than a bottle of wine inside you is the movie equivalent of going to bed drunk with Amanda Seyfried and waking up in the morning to find you've actually slept with Stellan Skarsgård.
The Nomad, who put the screening on, did a fine job with the extracurricular entertainment even though none of it was of any use to me. There was a live jazz band (I hate jazz), a man shining shoes for free (I am rarely seen without trainers) and a small photo studio where you could dress up like a 1920s flapper and have your picture taken (I'm not a transvestite).
But it was Billy Wilder's masterpiece that made the evening such a joy. It's at least twenty years since I last saw Some Like It Hot, and its brilliance went straight over my stupid spotty-faced head then. This time I boggled at the perfection of Wilder's compositions, literally almost wet myself at every zinger that flew out of the script, fell in love with Marilyn Monroe, delighted in the company of Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis and probably actually pissed myself at Curtis' Cary Grant impression ("Who talks like that?").