I Relax With Dr Zhivago

Forty years ago, my first boyfriend told me how much he liked the film Dr Zhivago (released 1965). I wonder if this was early on in our relationship, when we were trying to impress, and our feelings were intense, or later on, when we'd run out of things to say, and our feelings were intense? Was he trying to tell me he was in love with Julie Christie? I think I might have been in love with Julie Christie, or with wanting to be Julie Christie, having seen her in Darling whilst staying for a weekend with my more relaxed Catholic cousins. I'm not sure he was recommending I watch it, because how could I, in those days of 1) No TV (my parents' choice), 2) No VHS (natural consequence of 1) 3) Reliance on re-releases at the cinema, or visits to my Catholic cousins coinciding with TV showings and three hours to spare on a Saturday evening. Question mark.  

I saw Gone with the Wind at a cinema on the Holloway Road, London N1 one afternoon with a school friend, I presume in the school holidays. I skipped school a couple of times, behaviour which left me feeling guilty and behind with my Marlow, but I wouldn't have had the courage to play truant and go to the cinema. I remember that the upper circle was nearly empty. 

Mentioning Gone with the Wind may seem tangential, but it proves that in those days I sometimes had four-hours-plus-interval to spare. Later, when I was married, and we had a TV, and later still when we had a VHS player, I never had the inclination to go to Blockbuster and rent an epic film. I was too busy with Frasier boxsets lent by my brother, and then Fireman Sam.

What a lucky chance, then, that Dr Zhivago, is currently on iPlayer, and that after forty years of adventures I have 1) A TV, 2) A TV licence, 3) A range of techniques learnt in psychotherapy enabling me to side-step any feelings of guilt incurred by watching a film whilst it's still light outside. We all need doctors more than ever these days, so maybe it was this that prompted me, finally, to satisfy my curiosity, watch the film. 

As it turns out, Dr Zhivago is more like early 2021 Shropshire than you'd think, filled as it is with snow, difficult decisions, furs, untimely deaths, beautiful vistas, confusion, heroes, quiet resolve, and drumbeats. And with trains (although ours are largely empty). We also lack a famous, but strangely irritating as the hours ticked by, theme tune.

It was halfway through my viewing, snuggled under my favourite faux fur rug as dusk fell, that I remembered that it was, in fact, my granny who'd first made me aware of Dr Zhivago. She'd be 120 if alive now, and first in the queue for a COVID-19 vaccine. Before experiencing a love of my own, she'd talked to me of hers - among them Yves Montand, Jacques Brel, and the compassionate, flawed, gallant, implausible talent that was Omar Sharif - Dr Zhivago himself.