I spent a lovely morning, in air-conditioned comfort, at the movies with my nine year old daughter. We were treated to a spectacular display of stuff and nonsense.
Yes, we saw Mary Poppins Returns. I don’t know what sort of critical reviews or awards, if any, this movie and its actors are receiving, but I thought it marvellous. Emily Blunt, as the titular character, looked to be having the time of her life the whole way through. Almost as if the only thing she needed to do was remember when to dance and sing, and everything else was joyful ad-libbing. The cameos from Dick Van Dyke and Angela Lansbury were gorgeous. The three cast as the Banks children adorable and showed a vulnerability in their roles. Throughout the movie, the old and the new merged to perfection for over two hours.
I should add here that I am not writing a review. Not really. But it was magical. I smiled throughout, shed a tear here and there. During a scene towards the end, where the future of the Banks family was at stake, my girl actually covered her mouth, leaned in close to me and whispered, ‘This is so exciting!’ She clapped her hands seconds later when that scene ended in the Banks’ favour. I’ve not seen that kind of enthusiasm for a movie from any of my three. Ever.
Now home again, I emptied out my handbag and I found a collection of movie tickets there. Eight from last week, two from today; each a reminder of the recent outings with my children. As I held the tickets in my hands, I remembered how I used to keep the stubs in my younger years, especially if I really liked the film, or my movie-going companion. However, these I threw in the bin, although I hung onto the Mary Poppins Returns tickets for a fraction longer than the others.
Old habits die hard, after all.