Some people hate watching films in the daytime, and some love it for the bunking-off-school feeling of naughtiness. I am in the second category. And there’s an extra-special thrill for the film reviewer: going to see a film in the morning. At 10.30, or even earlier. It feels illegal, immoral and absolutely brilliant. Short of actually drinking a pint of absinthe and smoking one of Lord Henry Wootton’s opium-flavoured cigarettes in the cinema foyer, it couldn’t be more decadent. I feel sure this less‑than‑innocent pleasure will never pall.
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