In Plutarch’s Life of Artaxerxes, he describes a (likely apocryphal) form of torture known as scaphism. The gist was that the victim would be strapped onto a boat, covered in milk and honey, and then cast out onto the water where flies and insects would slowly devour his flesh. Though it is unlikely that scaphism was ever actually practised, it is believed — by this writer — that it was the basis upon which the Prince Charles Cinema in London’s Leicester Square founded their Mystery Movie Marathons.
The format is simple. Starting at around midnight, you turn up at the Prince Charles, take your seat, and over the next nine hours or so you are shown five completely random films, none of which are revealed until the opening credits start rolling. The Mystery Movie Marathon has been a mainstay at the Prince Charles for years, alongside numerous other movie marathons such as all the extended cut Lord of the Rings in one night (which was actually happening downstairs on the night I did the Mystery Marathon), all the Harry Potters (which takes about 20 hours), as well as many other themed marathons such as 80s Horror or every Wes Anderson film.
I’d been curious about the Mystery Movie Marathon for a while. The opportunity could be great! They could show any film from the entire history of the moving image, in a proper cinema setting, surrounded by other film lovers. Imagine, for example, getting to see something like Věra Chytilová’s groundbreaking Daisies in that environment. Or sitting back and discovering that you’re about to be treated to a crisp, restored print of The Magnificent Ambersons. The Prince Charles is renowned for its varied and idiosyncratic programme, so a night of rarely-shown hidden gems surely awaits us.
We begin with Groundhog Day. That’s followed by Shane Black’s Kiss Kiss Bang Bang. And Roger Corman’s X: The Man with the X-Ray Eyes. Then the rightfully forgotten Electric Dreams. And, finally, Three Amigos. Was this a gag? Had I just stayed up the whole night in a cinema to watch films that I could have just watched on Amazon Prime? The entire history of cinema was in our hands and it was somehow decided to make a hungry, sleep-deprived crowd sit through Three Amigos? What did I ever do to you, Prince Charles?
Part of me thinks that I misjudged the whole idea of a movie marathon. Should I have expected that this would happen? Honestly, no. If I look at what the Prince Charles is showing this week they have some Tarkovsky, Peter Weir, they’re showing the cult classic Just Another Girl on the I.R.T. They have Fellini, a Jean-Claude Van Damme and Shane Meadows’ Dead Man’s Shoes. Recently, I had watched all of Kieślowski’s Three Colours there, back to back, twice! And seen some glorious 35mm prints of Cassavetes oeuvre. In what world should I have expected to have now seen Electric Dreams? A film that is only notable for its title song, which doesn’t even play until the end.
There was a break of about 15 minutes between each film, just enough time to maybe go to the toilet and get a coffee. I stayed put most of the time, fascinated by the people around me. There were strangers bumping into each other like old friends. “Good to see you again!”, one said. Others were comparing the line-up to previous marathons. I couldn’t believe it. The people around me weren’t doing this on a curious whim, they did this all the time. As each film ended, practically the second the credits started rolling, the people at either side of me whipped their phones out to log the films on Letterboxd. What had I stumbled into? Was I going to be asked to put on a pair of Nikes and lay under a purple blanket?
Look, of course, everyone has their own definition of fun. But the fact that I can even still watch films after doing the marathon is shocking to me. It was the closest I’ve ever felt to Alex in A Clockwork Orange, his eyes forced open and his body strapped down, being made to sit through a deeply unpleasant psychological torture.
Over the following days, my circadian rhythm completely out of whack, I found myself morosely limping about, telling whoever will listen the story of my marathon. I felt like a wizened veteran of some forgotten war. I wore my trauma like a cloak. Gather round children, and let me tell you about the time I watched Three Amigos whilst fighting every urge in my body to expire. Recovery, I fear, will be a long road.