David Robbins: The naked truth about my love of art-house movies
You know how it is in the early stages of a relationship. The cunning of the male knows no bounds. There is no pose he will not adopt, no cause he will not espouse, no political stance he will not embrace in pursuit of his prey.
The object of my affections was a yoga teacher, a vegetarian and a former editor of Film Ireland magazine. These posed formidable challenges for a carnivorous rugby jock with tight hamstrings, but I was willing to be flexible (except when it came to the yoga).
Thus it was that I found myself attending the Galway Film Fleadh a couple of years ago, pretending to know my Antonioni from my elbow.