Long ago, almost as long ago as Homer composed The Odyssey, I was a film critic on the Sunday Telegraph. People sometimes ask me how sexist the scene was then, back in the bronze age mid-noughties, when male critics outnumbered female by about eight to one. Well, there wasn’t any sexism. It was actually totally fine and everyone was really nice.
They were nice in Soho, anyway. Farther afield, less so. Particularly certain readers, when it came to certain films, made by certain directors. Quentin Tarantino, obviously. Ken Loach, weirdly. And Christopher Nolan. Question their genius and prepare for epic correction by a legion of self-appointed bouncers.
