Films, lack of sweets and the need to sleep - at the cinema!

Strangely, I like to think that I'm fully capable of counting the amount of times I've ever visited a cinema on my ten fingers, which are currently resembling a roasted potato that has spent just a little too much time inside a boiling hot oven. Yeah, I guess that the correct term for myself is that I prefer to lie on a cream leather sofa, resist the temptation to gorge upon a bag of lip-stinging, salty crisps and place my Carrie-isque gaze on the television, awaiting for the signal to be transported to a fictional, more-often-than-not better world which steadily holds my attention for two hours or so.

Don't get me wrong - if a particular film with a suitable rating (I won't be giving any hints as to my age; nobody could hand me over the answers to my Algebra book, couldn't they?) comes along and catches my sea-blue eyes, I immediately start to talk about it at a hundred mph until my parents ask whether my doting heart wishes to see it in the most comfortable and popcorn-scented building on the cola-drinking planet. However, these occasions have hardly ever risen because the majority of the films which I enjoy are from the past, even extending back to the gloriously cool 80s and stylish 90s, the memorable decade in which I was born. Alas, my nose has a tendency to go up into the air à la a Harrods-shopping snob when a so-called 'brilliant' blockbuster or supposedly 'acclaimed' film is advertised on television or magazines, resulting in a very patronizing raise of my bush-like eyebrows because I've reached a dramatic point where no stereotypes or over-used clichés can leave a permanent mark upon myself - when you have seen it once, why bother view such a similar thing on a second occasion?

Although watching films in the comfort of home sweet home (which is made even sweeter if my brother has happened to pick up a packet of Mentos at the supermarket) never fails to offer the perfect opportunity to relax and unwind before bedtime - I only feel comfortable to view a film or television in the evening, once all of the lights are turned off and the moon has half-risen into the deepening blue sky - there are moments when I wish to sit inside a massive theatre and stare at a wider-than-a-house screen, taking in the drastic change of surroundings and being amazed by the flawless beauty of watching a film on the big screen. Who could argue against such a prized thing which has created a source of happiness for millions of captivated audiences over decades and generations? Therefore, an occasional trip to the local cinema (well, ten miles or so out of the town in which I live, in order to be more precise) creates a sense of excitement more contagious than the latest bout of colds, which has put my life-long lessons of appreciation into good use because I'm able to fully enjoy every moment I spend in a different and rather obscure environment; in all honesty, if such a choice had to be made, it wouldn't take a single heartbeat until I would choose to be appreciative of all things that I've been given and earnt in life, instead of leading a 'life of riley' (even my mum doesn't quite know who 'riley' is!) and never taking a moment to be grateful for what I would receive. That's another story - and probably one which I'll discuss in the future, once chocolate Santas no longer remain a mouth-licking conversation starter - so let's get back to the main subject.

Anyway, the reason which provoked me to take off my half-holed black gloves and let the magic flow beneath my fingertips (if only such powers existed - I would no longer be a main target for annoyance from oh-so-irritating brother!) is that I did go out to the cinema yesterday, ignoring the bone-chilling cold air whipping against my defenceless face, to see the second instalment in The Hunger Games series, Catching Fire, which was just as thrilling and brilliantly acted as the previous film.

Having not stepped foot inside the cinema for around a year (the inevitable finale of The Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn Part 2 left my vampire-loving self so distraught that the idea of seeing another film without Edward Cullen almost shattered my heart into blood-spilling pieces; comme si!), I was looking forward to getting to see what typically sharp-tongued critics and adoring fans had been talking about Catching Fire because the first film quickly claimed a place on my imaginary 'Must-Watch Films' list which hasn't quite found its way onto a Microsoft Word document as of yet. I read all the whole trilogy of books last year and was gripped to the very end, as I was with the first words being spoken in the film adaption; as I'd seen her star in sibling favourite (one of the increasingly few films my brother and I can bear to watch together in the same room) X-Men: First Class and Oscar-winning Silver Linings Playbook, I had already become a fan of Jennifer Lawrence, who successfully portrayed Katniss Everdeen in the box office hit and showed a softer, more vulnerable side to Katniss's usual tough, emotionless aura, a very hard feat to pull off for such a grown-up-yet-slightly-not character in a series attracting fans of all ages. To my delight, Catching Fire did not disappoint in the slightest and remained very true to the book itself, which was a relief in certain ways because I can never avoid getting annoyed - which sometimes bubbles more erratically than a pot of boiling water - if a film adaption is dishonest to the book's originality which has a right to be respected for not only the book's sake, but also the fans who are aware of what they want to see. All in all, I spent a very pleasant 146 minutes (according to the running time on Wikipedia; my inner geek rises the surface once again!), my golden glasses literally glued to the screen and completely losing track of time - surely that is a tell-tale sign of a fantastic film, right?

Despite the fact that Catching Fire was luckily one of those few-and-far-between films which avoids an insatiable need to fall asleep by the time one reaches the end of their box of buttery popcorn, I had to shake myself out of the alluring desire to yawn like a fatigued baby (a habit I prefer to perform at home) and close my mascaraed eyes for what I told myself for a moment or two - has anyone ever considered how sitting on a thankfully unsticky chair for nearly three hours can provoke a desire to doze off in the middle of a breath-taking, attention-grabbing film? After the film reached an end and I left the theatre, I was still fighting a battle against my exhausted senses to prevent a nap taking me on an unwanted journey to Sleepyland; unless a bag of teeth-rotting sweets was within sight, there wasn't anything capable of awakening my sluggish self and make me feel as energized as a Gwyneth Paltrow-wannabe exercise fanatic. So, what did I do? A slice of lightly sugar-coated stollen - a festive bread originating from Austria - restored my energies for all but a while, yet a long-awaited rest in bed was the sole form of a cure; I seriously doubt whether Katniss Everdeen would appreciate the fact that she offered me an enormously restful night as she was fighting for a her life inside a humid rainforest brimming with monkeys behaving wilder than a frightful mob of heartthrob-adoring fans.

Perhaps my lack of sweets was also partly to blame for my sudden exhaustion, though I won't even bother to count the candy-popping chocolate Freddie Bar which made my mouth make these weird and quite horrible sounds before the dreaded dinosaur and The Hobbit trailers began; usually, I wouldn't think twice of placing several liquorice allsorts into my awaiting mouth before the actual film would start, but the idea either slipped from my mind or I took my ever-so-precious teeth into consideration by not picking any calorific bags of marshmallows, fruity jelly babies or wine gums (I still don't know whether they contain any alcohol or wine). Instead, I ate a few almonds and a box of energy-revitalizing raisins before heading out on the road, so on this occasion I managed to avoid the perilous guilt trap which usually comes after the last allsort is licked clean from its noisily plastic bag - but at what cost? If my mind is capable of remembering it, I think that I've come across another reason why I prefer going to the cinema on fewer occasions: a need for sleep becomes too strong a yearning when a bag of sweets isn't hidden at the bottom of my wine red handbag, but it doesn't matter so much to me as it once did. As I'm growing up and moving onto designer perfume (Ricci Ricci is the one which sets my mood soaring sky-high, if you wish to know), so are my tastes at the cinema!

What, in your opinion, is the best way of describing the cinema for what it truly is? Most of us go there to escape from reality for a few hours and be entertained by the best actors and actresses the film industry have to offer; the popcorn and sweet counter also attracts plenty of film-goers as a few of us decide to give into temptation; and sitting down in a row of seats with people you love is a great opportunity to spend time together, whilst getting to see the huge fuss over the newest and hottest film on show. Although I only visit it around once or twice a year, the journey is just as exciting as it was years ago, when I was a young child and any Disney film would have had me squealing in delight, though let's forget about that one, OK?

Enjoy it, love it and do whatever you want to discover the pleasure you seek!