A Saturday night in, in the UK, means a chance to peruse the 90 or so channels I have, (less now that I’ve ditched Sky) and come to the conclusion that there is bugger all to watch. I’m not into Celebrity cum Z factor’s got talent with a voice on ice, so that rules me out of half the programmes straight off. And watching a drama about health professionals is a bit of a bus-man’s holiday for me.
Thank goodness for Apple TV, I say. Or, more specifically, Netflix, which saw us through the winter with the whole collected series of Braking Bad. Though I must say that yelling Yo Bitch! to all and sundry got me some funny looks. And now there’s House of Cards , equally as absorbing in a what-the-hell’s-going-to-happen-next kind of way.
But last Saturday we eschewed Netflix for Itunes and downloaded a movie.
Saving Mrs Travers is not my usual choice if escapist fayre, but I am not sorry we paid the rental fee. Great cast. Great story. As an author, I’m always interested in seeing what makes other author’s tick and Mrs Tavers had a whole nest of ’em. But the daddy of them all was of course Mr Banks, the banker. Obviously, we are talking here about the high street banker, the old fashioned branch manager, not some gambler trading billions per millisecond. Rewards for service were found much closer to home in the late 19th century.
And seeing how the Sherman brothers wrote those tunes was also an eye-opener and worth the entry fee. At the end of the film they play the tape of Mrs Traverse in a script meeting—something she insisted upon. On gearing these it’s a miracle the film was ever made and I would have happily strangled the old ocean pearl because she must have given old Walt a great set of Chalfont St Giles. She tried her best to blackball Dick Van Dyke and failed, thus offering up comedy gold in the form of mangled cock-er-knee accents for generations to come. Would you Adam and Eve it. Definitely worth a butcher’s hook.