Summer reissue: An increasingly manic diary of Hollywood Avondale’s 24-hour film marathon, as it celebrates its 25th anniversary.

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First published October 15, 2024.

I would say that I am a very casual film fan. My Letterboxd aura is incredibly weak, I prefer to watch movies I’ve already seen and I’ve ruined a few dates by falling asleep in the middle of a movie. But two things I am a very uncasual fan of is writing and punishing myself, which is how I found myself at the 24-hour film marathon at Auckland’s Hollywood Avondale theatre on Saturday night.

Believe it or not, this year marks the marathon’s 25th anniversary. Run by film director Ant Timpson, of Bookworm, Mister Organ and Incredibly Strange fame, the event gathers New Zealand’s most hardened cinephiles for 24 hours of pure cinema. But if you’re familiar with Timpson’s work, you’ll know not to expect 14 crowd-pleasing pictures in a row. An event like this is for the tried and true film buffs who have sat through both the worst and best that humanity has to offer on screen.

I’ve never done a film marathon before – I once tried one for the Harry Potter movies, but gave up after the third one (which, by the way, is already 457 minutes of viewing). But I am really good at binge watching TV shows, and I have deep experience in bed rotting, so I reckoned I had a real fighting chance of making it out alive and unscathed.

One thing that should be mentioned is that the marathon’s lineup is always completely secret – it never gets revealed beforehand, on the day nor afterwards. So, in respecting this sanctity, The Spinoff will refrain from naming the titles too, but we’ll drop enough details to help you follow along (I mean, this story would be pretty boring if we couldn’t say anything about the films themselves, right?).

2.25pm: Blanket in hand, pillow in tote bag and a heart full of hope, I arrive at The Hollywood Avondale, my home for the next 24 hours. A passing couple makes a comment that I look well prepared for the events about to transpire. This newbie is fitting in.

2.27pm: I head upstairs to set up camp. I’ve probably spent more time thinking about tactical positioning in this theatre than my long-term survival sustainability plan (which is simply my blanket, pillow, a single protein bar and deodorant). I figure going upstairs will provide enough distance from the screen so that my eyes don’t immediately melt, and it’ll probably be less crowded than downstairs with the loyalists and bean bag holders (you can pay a bit extra to have enough real estate on the ground to bring your own bean bag).

When I get upstairs, an immediate waft of BO, concentrated in one corner of the room, hits my nostrils. Naturally, I head for the other corner, past a woman unpacking loads of tupperware meals from a big box, to sit behind a canoodling couple discussing their Letterboxd profiles.

There’s actually quite a lot of people up here, the overwhelming majority being Gen Xers, and half the seats are already taken. The cult of Ant Timpson is out in full force. Thankfully, I’m at the end of the row and the next person is two seats away from me. I’ve never in my life felt the need to manspread, but now may be the perfect time.

2.35pm: Man of the (24) hour(s) Timpson takes the stage to hype the audience up for the next 24 hours of our lives. He promises that the films we’re about to see “aren’t all winners”.

“We could easily play good films,” he says. “We don’t give a fuck, we’re not about that. We want to excite you … and hopefully educate you.”

2.47pm: The first film, a 70s heist comedy, kicks off. A few cheers and gasps sound off in the audience when the opening credits reveal the actors.

This is my first time watching a movie as the film Gods intended: on glorious 35mm, film burns and all. I kinda figured a 35mm presentation is the film equivalent of music people telling me to invest in a good record player and vinyl collection – sure, it sounds better for records that were actually made in the vinyl hey-day, but I kind-of feel like my Taylor Swift albums were made precisely for Spotify.

3pm: OK, I’m starting to see the appeal of a 35mm presentation. The picture looks beautiful, and this level of appreciation makes me feel like a bonafide film buff. This is how the lifestyle begins, I guess: frequent Letterboxd posting, then going to 35mm presentations, then gaslighting women on dating apps.

3.33pm: Man, the dialogue and action in this film is really at a minimum so far, and my Gen Z brain is struggling to keep up with something that isn’t all go, go, go. Normally at this point, I would have opened my phone to mindlessly scroll Instagram, but my eyes are forced to pay attention.

4pm: I’ve already eaten too many sweets and am feeling dangerously ill. The empty popcorn box beside me is an unwanted reminder of my ceaseless greed. I make a promise to myself to hold off on more snacks until dinner time – but my hand is already reaching back into the lolly bag.

4.25pm: Just under two hours in, this movie is finally getting interesting thanks to a ridiculous chase scene. I’m not really sure what exactly has been happening up until this point even though I’ve been sitting in the same seat the whole time.

4.50pm: A bit of a sluggish start, but now we’re onto the next film, an 80s flick with James Spader that doesn’t necessarily look good, but definitely looks fun. This is something more so-called film buffs should be considering: does something have to be good to be fun? I think not.

5.15pm: So, who was going to tell me that Spader was (sorry for the past tense, Mr. Spader) really hot? I’ve already seen him in Pretty in Pink and Sex, Lies and Videotape, but my eyes do not recall seeing such a beautiful man.

Is it the PDA of the couple in front of me making me insanely self-aware of my loneliness? Is this the first sign of desperation and mania setting in? Whatever it is, there was definitely something in the water in the 80s, and had I been alive then …

5.45pm: The 80s-isms of this film are completely ridiculous but also insanely wonderful, and if I was watching this at home, I’d probably have turned it off at this point because the cringe is sometimes too much to bear. It’s a lot easier to get through when you have a whole theatre laughing at every stupid line and scene.

6.30pm(ish?): And just like that, it’s film three, a monochrome 60s crime film. Something tells me it’ll be a punishing watch.

7pm: I can’t help but feel like this film is a bit too date rapey for my taste, probably because it’s about men trying to seduce an unassuming woman in her own home. Man, the 60s sure were a crazy time to be a lady. The outfits are pretty cool though.

7.40pm: Hooray! The woman was saved by her husband before she got assaulted. With that fresh on my mind, it’s time for the first marathon break: dinner.

We’re given 25 minutes to feed ourselves, and the Hollywood crowd spills out onto the streets and into the neighbouring park, which soon starts to produce a very herbal aroma. I, in front of a very large crowd of men, head to Shen’s Chicken for a roast meal and scoff it down at record speed on a public bench.

8.05pm: Timpson is back on stage promising an action-packed return. Prayers are sent up to the film gods to ensure the rolls of 35mm don’t skip frames or start a fire. The marathon has gone off without a hitch so far.

8.45pm: I struggle to see how it gets better than this, a Hong Kongese buddy comedy that is supposed to be an action movie, with subtitles which read like gibberish 80% of the time. It’s perfectly goofy hilarity matched with out-the-gate fight scenes, which get played again in slow motion in case we missed the gag. That is pure cinema.

9.45pm: Now, for something completely different: our fifth unnamed film is from the 70s, about a white man and black man in the US and how racism is Really Bad. Take a stab at the title – it could be one of 1,000 films.

11pm: I head to the counter to order a hot chocolate as a morale booster while my body fights to stay awake. Every five minutes, the thought of “what if I just went home?” crosses my mind. I order popcorn as well to incentivise myself to keep going, but it doesn’t take long for that to become a regretful decision for my stomach.

11.13pm: I accidentally took an embarrassingly loud sip of my hot chocolate and locked eyes with the girl in front of me. She keeps looking at me every time I make a noise now. I’m wondering if it’s worth trying to make a truce where I promise not to make any sound if she promises to stop pashing her boyfriend.

Also, I’m actually really enjoying this movie.

11.36pm: We’re on our second break of the night, but this is just a five-minute window to empty your bladder and stock up on more food and drink before the next flick. I’d love some more water, but I’m kind of too tired to get up, and I’ve already made a vow to myself not to eat again until breakfast (my tummy soreness has worsened).

I’m realising there’s quite a bit of real estate right up at the back of the theatre, so I pack up my belongings and make my ascent to the nosebleed seats for what will be the true long haul.

11.40pm: I think the veteran marathoner sitting in front of me in the nosebleeds is glad to have some company. We get to chatting in the wait for the next film, and he tells me he’s been attending the 24hr marathons since their inception over two decades ago. 

He comes all the way from Palmy on this pilgrimage, and has been filling out a notebook with his thoughts on each film. He’s far from the only person swiftly whipping out notebooks and iPads after every screening to record their thoughts. They’re putting me to shame.

12.10am: It feels like we’ve officially entered the danger zone. We’re watching a Brian de Palma flop that I’m really struggling to get into the swing of, and my eyes keep drowsily closing, and slowly opening, and closing, and opening …

1.25am: The sounds of a woman being murdered wake me up from a slumber I wasn’t aware I was in.

1.39am: I head outside for a vape break in the Hollywood courtyard, where the men are discussing the never ending influence of Hitchcock. If we’re being honest, I don’t really care for cricket.

2am: The theatre goes into “lockdown” until 6am. The workers have finally bunked off so no one will be manning the candy bar, and the doors will remain locked from the outside, so if you leave, you’re gone forever. Good luck, soldiers.

The film we’re seeing now is an 80s horror, though horror is very loose in this sense thanks to the terrible visual effects of the time. But that doesn’t mean the film itself is terrible – it’s perfectly average.

5.57am: I wake up on the floor of the Hollywood, scared I may unknowingly be tripping and convinced that this is a different type of Sunday morning wake-up. Then the sounds of crashing and shouting blow out my ears, and I’m brought back to reality by way of an arthouse adaption of a Stephen King novel.

I don’t know exactly when I fell asleep, but I managed to miss the rest of the horror movie, and now we’re halfway through this shitty film. I’m grateful to have caught up on some sleep, but my body is wondering why I had to do it on a theatre floor.

6.05am: I need this film to end so badly.

6.30am: I’m practising some much needed self care by brushing my teeth, deodorising and taking a walk around the block to try and soothe my very sore tummy. The silence of the street is somehow more overwhelming than being in the theatre.

6.45am: Unironically, a film about two dorks learning martial arts is the best thing to be watching at this time of the morning after a rough night. Seeing the power of friendship, ambition and kung fu on the big screen is inspiring me. I feel motivated and ready for the next eight hours. I will not let my sore stomach and body destroy me.

7.40am: It’s time for our hour-long breakfast break. I had dreams of walking down to the Avondale markets to stretch my legs and get a feed but a bit of rain is coming in, and my legs don’t want to take me anywhere further than the Hollywood.

7.45am: Breakfast is a chia pot and green tea from the Hollywood bar. I feel my body slowly regaining strength. Timpson and pals are enjoying some prosecco. Whatever gets you through, as they say.

8.05am: We’re back in action, with Timpson announcing the marathon will now be extended with an extra film in celebration of its 25th anniversary. My brain feels ready to explode.

8.45am: There is something strangely enjoyable about this movie. Don’t get me wrong, it’s really awful, but the 90s visual effects are a real sight to behold. Also, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Russell Crowe look so young.

10.11am: I’m terrified I may be at breaking point. After 16 hours in this theatre, my patience for hard seats and hit-or-miss films is really starting to wane. I cannot keep looking at Crowe for much longer. What were once incredible animations showing the extent of 90s whimsy are now just ugly graphics playing on repeat in my mind.

10.53am: I fear my respite is still a while away as our next film is a British 60s flick about a bunch of little kids. Their tiny British accents are really adorable, but I unfortunately don’t care about their sad little lives. What about mine?

11.20am: I’m taking myself on a walk around the block for some fresh air and fresher thoughts. I’m scared that if I watch another scene in which those kids are screaming at each other I’ll finally snap. Also, I’m scared I’m starting to smell.

12.15pm: The veteran sitting in front of me is very excited about this next film, which he promises will be both wonderful and terrible. That’s basically the name of the game here.

12.45pm: Well, I personally think this film is incredible, and I will now be adding “marine horror” to my list of favourite genres. The scenes are shockingly clunky, the main actor is constantly tripping up over something in his monster costume and the deep voice narrating the flick has a Vincent Price in Thriller-esque vibe which is just inherently funny. I’m obsessed. Life has meaning again.

1.53pm: I didn’t take many notes because that film was actually perfect. Outside in the courtyard, my eyes are struggling to adapt to the natural daylight. I’m scared I may be stuck permanently squinting for the rest of my life.

The next film, a coming-of-age movie set in New York, is just kind-of OK.

2.30pm: We have made it to the 24 hour mark. Morale is low, sanity is even lower. These characters are really getting on my nerves.

2.46pm: My veteran friend is leaving because he has a train to catch, back to the unassuming lands of Palmerston North. “Good luck with your article,” he tells me. I love when people say that because it reminds me of when I wrote for my university student paper.

3.03pm: At this point I’m watching the seconds tick by and trying not to do a runner. My stamina is wearing thin and I make myself a promise: leave after this film. You do not need to see the next one. You have already made it. You are free.

3.30pm: I shuffle out of the theatre with my blanket, pillow in tote bag and a heart hardened by hours in a dark theatre. I feel like less of a loser when I see others starting to leave as well, though we are just a small group of weaklings. I seem to be suffering from extreme brain fog.

6.16pm: I’m in the thick of a 10-step self-care routine which has me scrubbing away any evidence of the last 24 hours of my life when I receive a text from a friend, asking me if I’d made it through. Technically, yes. “Sleep well you mad bitch,” reads their congratulatory text. I will.