Last weekend, I had the pleasure of taking my son Jonah to the ever-wonderful Hackney Picture House for a matinee of Jurassic World, the latest and greatest of the Jurassic Park films. It wasn’t something I was particularly bothered about seeing myself, having grown up with the franchise and worn it out with re-runs over the years.
But when Reprobate Linda suggested we sit out a wet weekend at the flicks, it happened to be on, so we went, thinking it perfect for the tweenage boys we were bringing along for the ride. It was only once we were in and seated, brought-along popcorn in hand (and a raspberry cider for me), that we realised the film was 12A, and friend and I glanced at each other nervously. But the boys (aged 9) seemed excited at the prospect of a slightly grown up adventure, so we settled down for a bladder-straining three hours.
The film itself was ridiculous, taking as its (I suppose perfectly reasonable) starting point the idea that public had grown bored of dinosaurs per se and needed something “with more teeth”. Cue a genetically modified dinosaur whose origins, except for having a T-Rex base, were unknown (this becomes important later, in a plot device shamelessly nicked from the first film). The plot, predictably, follows two kids visiting their absentee aunt, a high powered Jurassic World exec, who typically abandons them with her assistant to “explore the park.” The kids swiftly give her the slip, at the same time the “Indominous Rex” (you get the picture) bolts its coop and all hell breaks out amid truly epic CGI and some interesting acting from female lead Bryce Dallas Howard, whose character, all high heels and helmet hair, even following several close encounters of the prehistoric kind, was unfortunately rather reductive, and the to-die for Chris Pratt, who could rescue me from a dinosaurus any day.
Amid the blood and gore – there is a reprisal of the goat scene from the first movie (which I watched aged about the same at the main kid character played by Ariana Richards in 1993) but that’s the least of anyone worries at the Tyrannowhasit chomps his way through man and beast on an epic pre-historic rampage. I held Jonah’s hand a bit too tightly during some of the bloodier scenes, but he assured me he was O.K. More than okay, in fact he was enjoying it so much, he didn’t mind me removing his popcorn half way through so he didn’t eat a whole bag, and barely noticed when he mate Ronnie had to leave because he was finding it all a bit much.
And that’s the rub. Yes, the kids were a bit too young, so sensitive types should beware. But having watched the earlier films on the small screen at home, Jonah was well prepared to have his head blown off by the 4D effects (if you include all the bass) of seeing it writ large, up close and personal. Actually, what I worried most about exposing my son to was the latent sexism imbued in the woprrying rather 2D character of “feisty but negatively non-maternal” Claire, tying her top up under her bust to prove she was “ready for action” though not ditching the heels. But Jonah probably probably didn’t notic that much.
In fact, when the film ended, he naively started clapping, so good had it been, to which an echo of claps was heard in the theatre in a spontaneous burst of whoop that I’ve not heard in a cinema since Forrest Gump – but now I’m giving away my age.
We went home on the bus hyped and bonded, and followed up with a sozzled night at the Scouts Centenary event in their cub hut in Bow, which was straight out of 1989, complete with ‘Come on Irene’, plentiful Ernst and Julio Gallo in both colours and a plethora of beige food, served with a side of cling film. Suffice to say, we had a blast.
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