In the late days of January, with the alternative facts of the newly inaugurated Trump administration dominating my feeds, I turned to the cinema to escape. Instead of revisiting my 1980s childhood preparation for nuclear war, I went to sit in a cool dark room and watch La La Land. (It was also my birthday and a few hours of holiday reality seemed to be in order.) Holding choc-tops that cost as much as the cheap tickets, I took my seat in the fourth row, not expecting much beyond a bit of nostalgic song and dance.

But two hours later, as I emerged into a sunny busy street (that was still there despite whatever might have happened in the United States during this time), the best I could summon was a shrug of my shoulders. Sure I’d been distracted from the garbage fire of distant politics, but this film niggled, and it wasn’t because of the failed romance of two characters, Mia and Sebastian. It was because, for all the talk of dreams and magic, its message was ultimately a frustratingly conservative one of individual success. But here I am getting ahead of myself.