This could work in Birmingham, we have quite a lot of dirty underpasses. It could also work well in Barcelona which is similarly filthy….though, to be pedantic, Barcelona is more smelly than filthy. If you were a very clever conceptual artist, particularly the type that likes to do something incredibly technically difficult for a barely perceptible result, you could perhaps conceive of a way to etch clean air designs into the atmosphere of particularly smelly barrios. Stringy-haired Catalan youth would have to pass up and down the narrow streets, many times, sniffing constantly, before the true complexity of the design would become apparent.
If I was a socially aware, edgy, clandestine, reverse-graffiti-artist operating in Birmingham I would collect all the litter that is stuck in bushes around the bottom of blocks of flats. Then I would re-attach it to the bushes, but in such a way that it spelled out the phone-number of the council’s waste collection service. This would be a scathing attack on the council’s apparent neglect of run-down areas. But I suspect that litter isn’t very cool – it’s probably a bit suburban and small minded to worry about it – I’d probably get kicked out of the reverse-graffiti-artist gang tree hut (which is where I like to imagine they hang out – I really hope they do).
There’s probably not enough space on this site, if indeed on the entire Internet for me to fully express my antipathy towards BBC Breakfast. For a long time I put this down to regular presenter Sian Williams who, I’ve concluded, I actually have a physical allergy to. But now she seems to have vanished (I assumed at first she’d been eagerly headhunted by The Daily Express, but I fear instead she may be reproducing) and I can’t help but notice that the programme is just as offensive without her – though with less insane giggling.
Last week they were inciting Middle England to contact them with their views about fireworks. Degrees of outrage (obviously) varied, but all seemed to agree that maybe a few fireworks on Guy Fawkes Night might be ok, but setting them off two weeks ahead of the date was mere anti-social thuggishness. This went on and on and no-one at any point mentioned that Diwali fell on October 21st, or Eid ul Fitr on October 23rd – or that anyone in the UK might have the temerity to be celebrating anything other than the failure of a Catholic plot. In my imagination this item led seamlessly into an outraged discussion of how Muslims were separating themselves off from mainstream British culture…or maybe it was just another item on Strictly Come Horse Jumping.
Should you re-watch films that seemed great to you when you were 15? In my experience, this is usually a bad idea. I say 15, but it could be 18, or 21 or even 30 –pieces of art that make a big impression initially can sometimes disappoint on later viewing/reading/listening. But if you don’t check them out again years later, you might be recommending absolute rubbish to people. Some things of course – like ‘The Maltese Falcon’ get better. But others – it’s not just that they disappoint – it’s that they make you wonder who you were, what kind of a shallow fool you must have been. They make you worry that maybe you’re still a fool now. Maybe you’re clapping your hands, this very minute, like a wind-up chimp, at some piece of mediocre nonsense. It’s unsettling.
Anyway I’ve done it twice recently. The first was ‘Wings of Desire’ which I hadn’t seen since it first came out, but didn’t even doubt for a second that I would find it equally great. And it wasn’t that it was terrible. It was still beautiful, and still a great idea. But something about the writing. After about 45 minutes I couldn’t take any more. Maybe it had been a long day. Maybe I was tired. But it was just noise. Noise that wouldn’t stop until I ejected the DVD. But I did feel very bad about this. Later, at Pete’s insistence, I watched the film with the director’s commentary – and this I would definitely recommend: a) because you don’t hear the script (b) because you get to hear Peter Falk discussing his scenes and (c) because you discover the original ‘custard pie fight’ ending – which is well…remarkable.
The second occasion was Jean Cocteau’s ‘La Belle et La Bete’. Again – it wasn’t terrible. Just whereas when I was 15 I thought it was a marvellous work of art, now I saw it more as a source of high comedy. ‘La Bete’ in particular (who is played by Bungle who went on to achieve great fame in Rainbow) and his way of hissing ‘Belle’, or spitting ‘chaque soir’, is very entertaining. I’m too scared to watch ‘Orphee’ now – I don’t think I could bear the disappointment if it turned out to be less great than I remembered it.
The exciting possibility exists that maybe this works in reverse too, and films or books that you originally thought were abysmal would maybe be amazing given a second chance. Hmmm – maybe I’ll go and re-read ‘Midnight’s Children’…..hahahahaha – only joking.
This is sad. I had a great fondness for Desmond – I liked the quavery, on the edge tone his voice had. And the frequent indecipherability of the lyrics was obviously a great thing. I considered it an act of generosity that he encouraged his listeners to interpret the songs as freely as they wished. My own interpretations of his lyrics always seemed to involve goats – I’m not sure if this was right, though I suspect not. One of the hard lessons that life has taught me is that it’s always better to avoid discovering the true lyrics to songs that you like. Back in those pre-internet days when being an obsessive fan demanded real effort and application, I wasted too much time lurking about in bookshops trying to track down lyrics, which when finally discovered, always seemed far more prosaic than the lines I’d been improvising.
Anyway the sudden death of Desmond, so soon after the sudden death of Gene (both of whom played their last gigs in the UK) would make me worry if my biggest hit included the name of a place. Glen Campbell might escape this curse by virtue of ‘Rhinestone Cowboy’ being a bigger hit than ‘Galveston’ or ‘Wichita Lineman’ – but he should probably see a doctor just in case, and definitely avoid touring the UK in the near future. Anyone else we should be looking out for?
Easter – hurray – two bank holidays. We should have songs to celebrate that.
Not songs about Jesus – obviously. Where are the songs about eggs? Even a song about rabbits – hang on – what the hell are Chas and Dave doing? They could be on a Merry Christmas Everybody style goldmine.
Anyway, as I said, two bank holidays. And even though bank holidays are pretty much meaningless to me in the job I have, I still find my mind wandering to ideas for day trips. In fact I do that all the time, regardless of the calendar, but it feels a little more justified at this time of year. The dilemma with public holidays is that you want a classic day out, but you want to avoid other people doing the same thing. Actually the more I think about that, the more I think it’s the dilemma with life in general. So I’ve been looking around for less obvious, perhaps some would say unpromising, days out. My favourites so far are Hack Green which is doing a great job making nuclear Armageddon fun for kids. I love the way the website says ‘in preparation for a war that was yet to come’. Yet. It will come you understand. Equally exciting is the marvellously titled Stella Mitchell’s Land of Lost Content, which I’m sure really is more than just Stella Mitchell’s Land of Loft Content, but does seem pretty close. Both of these are feasible distances for a day trip, so I will report back with reviews. Sadly, what seems to be lacking within day trip distance is some kind of a freak species farm, which is what I would really like. I have a dream of a farm with tiny horses and massive rabbits. This is the closest I’ve found, but it just doesn’t offer the juxtaposition of different species that I’m ideally looking for. Any other recommendations?
‘New Cadbury’s biscuit Boost’ – who could forget that shrill little jingle? It sticks in the mind not simply because of its non-tune, but also as being just about the last time a genuinely new chocolate bar was launched. Those crazy pioneer days are long gone. The fat (I’m assuming) controllers of the chocolate conglomerates don’t gamble on new brands now, but prefer instead to stretch existing brands into new and ever more mutated shapes. This is a sad thing for me, partly because we’ve lost the variety, but more importantly we’ve lost the strange little fictional backdrops unique to each chocolate bar that somehow imbued eating them with some exotic edge. To eat a ‘Country Style’ was to cross the wide open prairies on a covered wagon, to sample a ‘Mint Cracknel’ was a more authentic encounter with the piste than any mere skiing holiday.
Now we just have endless remixes of the Dairy Milk brand with its thrilling connotations of a glass and a half of milk. Not only have the small, gaily adorned foot soldiers of confectionery been erased, but for the big names, the relationship between name and product has been ruptured for ever. Who could begin to say what a Kit Kat is these days? Once it was a 2/4 finger choco-wafer treat, now, engorged and distorted as a Bernard Matthews Franken-turkey, it looks around baffled and a little ashamed with no idea of its place in the world.
I was wondering if there were any analogies with other risk averse industries like the music business. I guess the most naked attempt to create an ever-mutating brand was when S Club 7 spawned S Club Juniors, though sadly this didn’t seem to go any further. We never did get to see S Club New Wave– though of course that franchise does exist under various other names. I suppose the situation in the music industry rather than being the same as the confectionery business is actually the opposite. The chocolate industry innovates content all the time, but hides it behind the same names and packaging. The music business churns out the same bilge endlessly, but gives it new names. A glass and a half of Richard Ashcroft; a glass and a half of James Blunt; a glass and a half of Simon Webbe….
Seen a few films recently. ‘Good Night and Good Luck’ is pretty much exactly as you’d expect – a decent enough dramatisation of the McCarthy/Murrow tussle. David Strathairn has a great face for the job – hewn from granite – so that imperciptible twitches of the eyebrow convey volumes. I think though they might have overdone the everyone-in-the-1950’s-smoked-a-lot angle. I found myself imagining a Morecambe and Wise style spoof of the film with hardbitten newshounds puffing away on 3 cigarettes at a time, with another one in each ear.
‘Walk the Line’ was again much as expected – but that’s not good when your expectations are low. Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon are great, but biopics – particularly of artists – are just so corn-laden. (Are there exceptions to this?) There’s something toe-curling about the obligatory scene where they create their masterpiece – in this case Johnny coming up with the follow up line to ‘I killed a man in Reno…’ or June driving home, sobbing ‘It burns, burns, burns’ etc. It’s a shame they went for such a formulaic approach when Cash’s own autobiography doesn’t follow that linear, cliché-drenched model. If you haven’t read it, it’s worth it, not least for what you learn about cotton-picking terminology and the dangers of ostriches. It also reveals that a recording of Edward R. Murrow was one of Johnny’s desert island choices – so that’s nice.
On the other hand, ‘Hidden’ (Caché) is brilliant. It stays with you long after it’s finished – and not just because the ending is open. There is a whole raft of pretty dimwitted speculation about ‘what really happened’ on the internet should you be the kind of person who hates to draw your own conclusions.
Another hot off the press recommendation – only 33 years late – is ‘Spirit of the Beehive’. It’s a powerful, still movie but this describes it far better than I can.
In a cold room in a castle, in files entitled ‘Ancestors’, are hundreds of sepia photo portraits of anonymous people from the past. Most have lost their moorings on the page and have slipped down into a slush of moustaches and frowns. In another room in a damp bookshop is a tabletop piled high with magazines and journals on everything from motorcycle maintenance to the Kennedy dynasty. In the corner – towers of detailed instructional paperbacks on obsolete technologies. All these forgotten people and words – what can you think about except death? Or in fact worse than death, the utter futility of everything in the face of death?
Hurray – welcome to Hay on Wye.
I don’t know, in the past it’s always been a pleasant way to spend an afternoon, browsing around the various bookshops – but this time it was just a slow slide into despair. I couldn’t work out why this was so – then I realised it was the disorder. If the magazines had been sorted by genre and date and piled neatly…..if the ancestors had been stuck down properly and all the moustached men put in one file, the milky eyed women in another…then it would have felt like a triumph over oblivion. That was when I realised that the first weapon in the ‘War on Death’ is tidiness. Our parents obviously knew this – this is why they went so crazy when they saw the state of our bedrooms – it wasn’t crayons and Beano annuals they saw on the floor – it was the abyss.
