Spy on the Red Carpet (Spy Premiere Report)

After spending half an hour deciding whether it was socially acceptable to bring a backpack to a red carpet event in London’s Leicester Square, I grabbed the press passes from Fox’s Soho office and ran in my converses (heels in tow in the offending backpack) to Leicester square. Accompanied by my loyal film aficionado and photographer Alice and sneakily changing my shoes in an alleyway, we tottered our way to the premiere, faced with a challenging problem: where on earth was the entrance. Amidst the squeals of countless fans mostly under 15, we went twice around the square before having to ask a security guard where to go and eventually joined a heaving queue of people with shiny premiere passes.

First impressions: selfies, selfies everywhere. Welcome to the new generation, we scoffed, until about a minute and a cheeky glance later, we ended up doing exactly the same thing, and it was rather fun. However when you actually see those blessed individuals who don’t require their own clammy hands to have their pictures, you realise how utterly redundant an individual you are. Jason Statham’s shiny head danced about the red carpet as he gleefully posed for photos and chatted with the two main interviewers, one from Yahoo! News who was so dull I couldn’t fathom the energy to remember his name or face, but a woman called Laura Whitmore does stick in my mind. Mostly because her two main questions for the likes of Jude Law et al. involved two topics: the weather, which was entirely forgettable because it was mild, and the ‘challenging’ height of the staircase on which she stood to ask the damn questions. Deep and penetrating questions of our time, Laura, you absolute fucking turnip.

After clearing the on-going stampede of endless people (think Simba in the wildebeest herd), we noticed a strange creature in silver foil looking like she urgently needed the toilet. We eventually found out it was a member of the Pussy Cat Dolls in some strange dress resembling tin foil. Perhaps she was using it as protection from the strange alien peasants screaming at her as she posed for photos, managing to keep her legs crossed the entire time in the same stance, even when she moved to different parts of the carpet. Maybe she’s secretly a warlock. By comparison, the two leading ladies of the film who were actually needed for the event were simply lovely, even from our faraway viewpoint. Miranda Hart and Melissa McCarthy are the kind of celebrities who still seem to be humbled by people loving their work, probably because neither sex tapes and/or liposuction were involved in achieving their stardom in the first place. Or maybe they’re just really good at acting chuffed. Either way, it was refreshing, and we nodded in approval, approval, which I am sure, they were desperate to gain. Peter Serafinowicz (the guy in Shaun of the Dead, Shaun’s grumpy flatmate) was probably the most entertaining, who looked as if he was bracing for impact when Ms Whitmore persevered with her interview. With a face that resembled an overtired father answering his daughter’s ‘but why is the sky blue’-esque question for the 5th time, she asked ‘Is this event particularly special for you?’ His response: ‘well the carpet is red, which is pretty unusual.’ You could practically see the cogs of that brain sputtering away as she attempted to work with that soggy towel of a response.


Watching this with amusement from the SpyLive Cam (a device to allow the poor fuckers who forked out for a premiere ticket, to view their beloved celebrities prancing about from one interview to the next from the safe confines of the cinema itself), we decided that enough of all this envious, self-congratulatory ranting: let’s watch the movie.