My earliest memory of film was watching Westerns on TV with my Dad. They always seemed to feature John Wayne getting off his horse and punching someone. He soon introduced me to British war films. (Dad that is, not John Wayne). Oh how we laughed at John Mills' ridiculous cockney accent.
Mum chipped in with Broadway film musicals. I found cowboys singing to girls in gingham dresses excruciating. There were in depth discussions about Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire; just who was the best dancer? Ealing comedies and Carry on films swiftly followed. It was a harsh lesson for a child of tender years. But it was worth it; the film critic in me was born and raring to go.
I believe no genre is beyond my critical, hideously fair eye. I rarely leave the cinema lamenting two hours of my life I will never get back. It gives me the ability to decide whether a film was good, bad or indifferent. My all time favourite movies are fluid and change daily. But one film that would always be there is the Italian Job. Not the 2003 monstrosity starring Mark Wahlberg; but the 1969 precursor to Cool Britannia starring Michael Caine. Strange how I never grow tired of doors being blown off a van?