It’s very rare for journalists not in television or radio to attend a premiere. It’s seen as some kind of circus used to sell and promote a film, for the stars to appear in front of an adoring crowd more than willing to tell, no scream, how great they are while simultaneously thrusting a camera in their face and begging for an autograph. Press get their own screenings weeks before a release and are safely confined to their own crowd to natter freely about recent releases over sarnies. So after a few years of growing accustomed to this way of watching films, I excitedly accepted the offer of a spot on the blue carpet and a seat at the screening of Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen.
Safe to say, my evening did not begin well. After legging it from a presentation in Green Park (more on that later), I soon reached the Odeon Leicester Square to be greeted by the back of a ginormous Bumblebee statue and a bunch of envious looks as I was casually let past the barricades. After dodging rain, pigeon shit and onlookers eager to jack my ticket, I took my place in the Sky pen and waited to see what all the fuss is about.
At first it was pretty standard fare; attention seeking nobodies in cellulite revealing dresses, reality show losers (who the hell are JLS?) and more reality show losers (Danielle Lloyd and Bianca Gascoigne), but soon there were some genuine screams of excitement from the crowd around the corner to alert everyone that someone of note had arrived. Not that you couldn’t tell with the idiotic introductions (‘She’s the hottest thing in Hollywood so let’s give her a hot applause!’) from some random dude who didn’t deserve to hold a microphone.
Surprisingly, Shia LaBeouf was the first to arrive (I thought the big stars arrived last?) and quickly disappeared around the corner leaving us on the other end of the carpet to be entertained by the likes of Kate from The Apprentice, Dizzee Rascal and some random dude with guns the size of my thighs. As time whittled on everyone arrived in quick succession and the personalities of each actor soon became clear. John Turturro seemed genuinely pleased to be there even if he got a smaller cheer than the minnows of television (don’t they know who he is? Nobody fucks with the Jesus!), he did manage to gain the hearts of the fans by actually returning to sign autographs like he promised. Josh Duhamel sleep-walked his way past everyone and newcomer Ramone Rodriquez seemed more excited than anyone else.
Compare that to the star of the show, Shia LaBeouf, who looked so bored, so unimpressed, so uninterested that as soon as he was out of sight he just grabbed a fag from his security and lit up on the corner in the rain like the suits on Liverpool Street. Exactly how trying can it be to have people tell you that they love you? Being there shined an interesting light on the cult of celebrity. Everyone tries to act like they are unaffected by the people who grace the pages of every newspaper and have their mugs splashed across buses. It’s made abundantly clear where you stand; they are on one side of the fence while you are on the other. You scream their name, take their picture and pay money to see them on screen. I couldn’t care less about the exploits of former child stars and daughters of aging rockers, but when confronted with genuine stars whom I’ve watched for many years, I retreated into my cave. You also become like a walking talking issue of Heat magazine, dissecting and judging every inch of them (Megan looks like a doll, Shia is moody, Michael Bay is arrogant), most of which was done as they were standing less than a foot away from me. They’re rich, beautiful and famous – they don’t have feelings.
After the film (warning: best enjoyed when brain cells are left at the door), I lamented the fact that I didn’t ask Mr Turturro to give me some goodness from The Big Lebowski or Quiz Show. Soon enough, I found myself in the lobby standing in between the extremely hot Josh Duhamel and Turturro and realised I’d been given a second chance. My response? My eyes hit the floor and I scuttled through the crowd. Dang, maybe next time.
