“Ian Fleming’s Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.”

First half: wacky and delightful.
Intermission: long enough to empty the dishwasher and make a cocktail.
Second half: a b-grade Bulgarian horror film in any other context.

Though I have revisited the breakfast-machine scene many, many times, this I believe was the first full rewatch since I first dressed up at eight years old to go see a repertory screening with my neighbour, at the Classic, which later became a porn cinema. Always enjoyed telling people I saw Chitty Chitty Bang Bang at a porn cinema. The Classic is a comedy club now.

Truly love the idea of the majestic Huntly power station becoming a potato chip factory, and the old Helensville corner butcher transforming into a spacies parlour run by a pink-jacketed gaming punk.

This movie makes no sense without some seven-to-eleven year olds hanging around, so thank flint we had a cinema full of ‘em shout-explaining important plot developments or I would have been lost somewhere between Jennifer Coolidge’s “not again” as she runs someone over, and the wolf-pack of Dennises.

The bittersweet romance of waiting. The aching reality of big city solitude. The damn good jams of Earth Wind & Fire.

Exorcists, assemble.