… and I wish they’d cut it out. We were watching Ned Kelly (which, incidentally, is not for those with weak stomachs), and had just got to the point where two of the main character contemplate suicide. They were crying and shaking, the violins were soaring, flames were licking at their heals, and the evil police force had then surrounded. Hollywood was pulling no punches.

Meanwhile, I was contemplating my lack of emotion. Normally, characters in books or movies only have to mention sadness or tears for me to feel the familiar and hated pricking in the eyes. But here I was, faced with as much hopelessness and pathos as the director could throw at me, and I could have been watching Mr. Rogers.

Was it the acting, I wondered? I know I’m not a fan of some of those actors, but were they that bad? I mean, really. I cry too easily for them to flub this scene. They’re dying, for goodness sakes.

Was it the screen writing and direction? After all, they were throwing a lot at us all at once. Was this an argument for “less is more” directing?

Then the guy with the gun reached out to grab the other guy’s hand. The camera zoomed in, and all you could see were the fingers gripping each other for comfort. Visions of my grandpa’s funeral, with my sister and me holding hands as we walked to the grave site, obscured the screen. There’s nothing like association to spice up acting and directing.