How Gwyneth Paltrow ate London

I don’t know what possessed me. I loathe Gwyneth Paltrow with a hatred bordering on the murderous, and I knew that this particular film was going to be pure unmitigated crap. Yet for some strange reason - general ennui, probably - I noted that Sliding Doors was on BBC1 last night, and decided to watch it.

In the name of Mayor Ken, Dick Whittington and the pussycat that went up to London to visit the Queen, I wish I hadn’t.

I have a love/hate relationship with London. I’ve documented it here often enough. Just recently, however, I seem to have reached some kind of unspoken agreement with this infernal metropolis. I’ve (almost) stopped daydreaming of moving to a rural barn in the back of beyond, with roses round the door and a goat at the end of the garden. Instead, I’ve resolved to give this place the benefit of the doubt. It has its good points, after all, and I’m trying to block my mind to the bad stuff such as the public transport system, the pollution, the overcrowding, the cost of living … well, you get my point.

And then there are London movies. In so far as I feel I belong anywhere, it’s here. This is my city. Consequently, I’m drawn to seeing London portrayed on the big screen - giving a magical life to the familiar streets and buildings, turning the lens on the details that I rarely see with the naked eye. I’m thinking of films like Michael Winterbottom’s Wonderland (a perennial favourite) or Patrick Keiller’s London; even The Long Good Friday, which is absolutely not my sort of movie.

Maybe the alarm bells should have sounded when I read the description of Sliding Doors as a ‘romantic comedy’. However, when I’m feeling brain-dead and vacuous, even I can be swayed by the average rom-com’s promise of gentle humour, a few soppy moments and the perfect happy ending. It couldn’t be that bad, surely?

Oh, but it was that bad. In fact, it was worse. I managed approximately a quarter of an hour in front of the TV before I got the irresistible urge to put my boot through the screen, whilst shouting “This is not London! This is not where I live!”

If you’re reading this in New York, Chicago or San Francisco, then you’ll probably be far more used to seeing films set in your city than the average Londoner. So tell me, do directors get it so wrong over there, too? Don’t they have residents up in arms if street names or locations are arbitrarily changed, important buildings are created where there aren’t any, locations are moved closer to each other so that they’re more visually appealing, or the public transport infrastructure of the city is altered for no apparent reason?

In the first few minutes of Sliding Doors, the lovely and fragrant Gwyneth - speaking in an English accent so ridiculously clipped that it could cut glass - embarks upon possibly the most peculiar journey on the London Underground network that I have ever had the misfortune to witness. Firstly, let’s send her to only the cleanest, poshest stations, shall we? Only the most pristine and least crowded trains for our perfect Hollywood superstar. Look, she’s found a seat immediately and her head’s not being forced into close proximity with some sweaty city businessman’s armpit! And didn’t that station announcement mention services on the District Line when our delightful heroine is quite clearly on a Waterloo & City Line platform? What on earth is going on? Have we suddenly entered Alice in Wonderland territory?

You’re probably thinking that I’m taking all this far, far too seriously. But I’m not. Venture into the darkest recesses of the internet and you will discover obsessives who have examined these scenes in worryingly minute detail. My observations are positively restrained.

But let’s move on from public transport. Let’s continue to the scene in which Gwyneth gets knocked down by a mugger and is rescued by a friendly cabbie, who drives her to the nearest Accident & Emergency department. The driver doesn’t charge her for this journey, presumably because he’s a thoroughly decent salt of the earth English sort who knows his place in society. I’m suspecting that this isn’t very realistic, but as it’s ages since I’ve been able to afford to hail a black cab I’m probably less than qualified to comment.

What I can comment on, however, is Ms Paltrow’s visit to the hospital. She is met by a nurse as soon as she sets foot through the doors, whisked through treatment in record time, and emerges only minutes later looking as pale and wan as always - but with a small sticking plaster delicately applied to her forehead. God bless the National Health Service, eh? As someone who lived through his own minor head injury incident some three and a half years ago, I can’t help wondering why Gwyneth didn’t have to endure a five-hour wait surrounded by drunken piss-heads and the bloody participants of violent fights from chucking-out time at the local pubs, like the rest of us mere mortals.

So Gwyneth heads home to her small, unassuming flat in a Georgian conversion. It looks like Chelsea, possibly Knightsbridge (because nobody lives beyond Zone 1 in the movies). Whichever it is, it’s undoubtedly extremely posh and beyond the budget of the average Londoner. Despite never having lived in such a well-heeled environment, even my rudimentary grasp of interior architecture tells me that the layout of this tastefully designed flat - with just a hint of ‘shabby chic’, because they’re oh-so-bohemian, yah? - is virtually impossible in such a building. Oh, sod it, I’ve had enough.

At this point, I gave up on the film. I had already worked out what would happen later - a shot of Trafalgar Square overlooked by the Palace of Westminster, with the Cutty Sark moored alongside. Then John Hannah and Gwyneth Paltrow would most likely saunter to Hyde Park to feed the ducks, watched over benevolently by some Beefeaters, a couple of Chelsea Pensioners and the Pearly King and Queen. Well, it happens all the time, doesn’t it?

“Let’s go for a romantic meal!” says Gwyneth excitedly (despite the fact that the poor girl looks like she hasn’t eaten anything since gorging on one whole lump of Tofu in 1996). “We could go and grab some of that good old honest Cock-er-nee cuisine from our friendly neighbourhood grocer, Mr Al Fayed. Mama was telling me that he’s got a special offer on pie and mash at his lovely little Harrod’s market stall. It’s where I do all my daily shopping, just like every citizen of fair old London town. Strike a light, guv’nor. Apples and pears. How’s the trouble and strife? Sound of bow bells, innit?”

And off they walk, hand in hand, into the city sunset - past the Bank of England, left at Tower Bridge, around Shakespeare’s Globe and straight into Leicester Square. Cue titles and a Cool Britannia version of the national anthem. I can already feel a lump in my throat and tears forming in my eyes. It makes me proud to be a Londoner.