As you may know, buried deep within my ample, yet perky, bosom is a small, cold heart. Testament to my heart of stone, I seem to remain void of any emotion when watching even the most moving of programming. Case in point: I gave no hint of emotion while watching the new Star Wars trailer. Even Kit was unnerved by my lack of expression while Han and Chewie were onscreen. It was like I was dead inside.
This past weekend Kit and I settled down to watch Pride, mostly because I am an unabashed Imelda Staunton fan. I first fell in like with her back in the nineties when she played Charlotte in Sense and Sensibility. So when Kit suggested we spend date night watching Imelda Staunton in action, I thought, “Please! Who wouldn’t want to watch a film about gays in a van raising money for miners?” Like you, housewives, I had learned most of what I know about the 1984-85 UK miners’ strike from the movie Billy Elliot. It was that film that taught me that striking miners define manhood by a lack of rhythm and uncoordinated footwork. I longed to learn more.
Pride, an historical drama, gives us a fuller picture of miner-gay relations. A group of London gays come together to raise funds for striking miners in a small Welsh village. Some meet them with hate, others with gratitude. Pride deploys the trifecta of any quality gay-themed movie: A disco dance scene. Lesbian jokes about vegetarianism. And Imelda Staunton swinging around a dildo.
At the end of the film, when busloads of miners arrived to march in the London Pride parade, Portman Doe lost her shit. I started to sob. Full on sob. The labour politics! The humanity! The glitter! And like the Grinch in Whoville, my heart grew three sizes in what can only be described as solidarity-induced cardiomegaly.