The very thought of a LGBT film season at one time would have been absurd.

You used to have to look very hard to find a gay character in film. They would usually be hidden behind mannerisms and allusions and parodied as clichéd victim or villain. The very thought of a LGBT film season at one time would have been absurd - or relegated to the nether regions of underground independent cinema.

Now, of course, we get queens on Corrie, sapphic sub-plots in the Square and the pouff (nearly always) doesn't get 'offed in the first reel. The challenge of selecting a program of queer cinema is probably harder now than it was then, but Outsiders have done an admirable job this year.

This year’s big presentation was Whatever Happened To baby Jane at The Philharmonic Hall. Baby Jane is a very good film. Well constructed, it has real tension and suspense and is beautifully shot in black and white. It bears more than a passing resemblance to Sunset Boulevard and neatly reflecting the times it was made in, an America struggling to rebuild with a new, youth obsessed culture after the carnage of WW2 - paranoid and aggressive in the face of Soviet communist threat. It cleverly mirrors the plight of its stars - old, faded and ugly, struggling to find their place in an industry obsessed with a younger, fresher and technicolour beauty.

It also has a strange place in the history of Camp cinema. You can either view it as a glorious grotesque, as shrill and hysterical as any Hammer Horror, or a dark and sinister study in jealousy, sibling rivalry and bitterness.

I first saw 'Baby Jane' when I
was about 14 years old. I thought
it was stylistic, funny and dark.

I first saw 'Baby Jane' when I was about 14 years old. I thought it was stylistic, funny and dark. But this time I was shocked and depressed to see what a sad, sadistic little film it is. If you take aside the history of personal animosity between both stars, famously loathing each other in a way that neatly mirrors the film, you are left with stark observations on parental abuse, children raised as child star products that are cast aside if they are neither pretty or talented enough to fill the bill and a twisted tale of self destruction, disability, isolation and guilt. It's hardly family entertainment.

Robert Aldrich went on to make The Killing Of Sister George six years later, an altogether more British, more complex study of real people rather than the gargoyle stereotypes of Baby Jane - and perhaps that is the real reason Baby Jane is so beloved of the camp aficionado - it's theatrical, artificial and hysterical - a screaming queen of a movie.

The Philharmonic could not have been a better venue. It's 'Deco splendor and sepia toned interior and the marvellous mechanical screen rising from the stage to the sounds of the grand cinema organ (and it's wonderful, kilt-decked maestro). The audience seemed to be the entire great, good and not so good of the Liverpool Scene - only a handful of who had decided to dress for the occasion (it was a bit nippy - after all). It finished just in time for a quiet pint in the Phil, or the Everyman, or further towards the Stanley Street Pink Triangle, for our more hardy members.