On Saturday night I settled down in front of the television, and watched IHON. The rope was strung, the blanket hung, and Gable’s hands went to his shirt buttons to reveal...
OH DEAR GOD WHAT IS WRONG WITH THAT MAN’S TROUSERS?
They reached up to his armpits. They had pleats that began somewhere around the ribcage. They were huge. What was going on? Was this film, like Pillow Talk with which I had previously confused it, to turn out to have unexpected mpreg?
I reached for the remote control – and changed the aspect ratio and vowed never again not to check whether an old film had been subjected to pan-and-scan before viewing it on a widescreen television. The trousers were still pretty astonishing, the consequence of not wishing to show any shirt when wearing only a waist-length waistcoat, but could at least be viewed without shuddering and the wearer will never suffer a chill on his kidneys. I suppose that we should only be grateful that we didn’t see Gable take the trousers off and reveal sock suspenders and knee-length drawers.
Then it turned out that the daring young man on the flying trapeze ran off with the girl. There went the rest of my childhood innocence.
My Yuletide assignment seems tolerably do-able, I think. Though I have had to banish my initial thought as probably not what the request was really looking for.
*Oh dear. I'm even worse at identifying actors than I thought