Take 75 minutes of film and attempt to describe, or better still, allow the viewer to feel a pure kind of love. I bet you won't succeed better than the people who created this little work of art have. Not at all sentimental, slightly weird, very engaging and nicely bewildering.
Moved of Brighton.
Saturday's activities included afternoon tea at the Orangery in Kensington Gardens; a deliciously autumnal experience.
After that we paid a visit to the Whole Foods shop which occupies three floors in the Barkers building on Kensington High Street. More of a foodies' theme park than a supermarket, I found it quite exciting. Bought some unusual sausages including an Italian Pork with fennel one and some Pecan Butter (lovely but I can make it myself at home and much more cheaply) as well as some tasty seaweed (which I had with roast chicken for Sunday lunch). Rounded off the experience with a drink on the top floor, there are a variety of cafes, bars and restaurants up there. Due to a misunderstanding, I enjoyed an "espresso beer" (which reminded me of Guinness but with more of a kick), courtesy of the management.
It's contemporary London Russian gangland (the centre of which would appear to be a building next door to Vic Naylor's Bar in St John Street, which I used to frequent nearly twenty years ago and featured in a couple of scenes of Snatch or another Guy Richie movie) and David Cronenburg is seeing to it that we are not given a break from the idea that something horrible might happen to anyone at any moment.
For me it took a while to get going and I was not convinced by some of the characters but it seemed to change gear in the second half and Viggo Mortensen's until then latent potency, is brought to the fore with devastating effect. Some good tattoos on display if you like that sort of thing.
Watch out for one of the most shocking and "cross your legs" ferocious fight scenes you will ever see, naked Viggo against two Rusky hitmen with curvy knives.
Two friends whose lives have gone different ways meet up to drive into the hills and spend a night getting drunk. It is what isn't said in this film that generates the real power, I found myself wondering all sorts of things. A beautiful original soundtrack provided by Yo La Tengo really helped to gently remove me from my comfortable seat and lead me off to all sorts of slightly melancholic "what if" places.
"Sorrow is just worn-out joy".
27 September - I get a call from my mother fairly late in the evening to say that she has returned from the hospital with my step-father, his procedure did not go according to plan but they were home now and will see how he gets on and perhaps go back to the hospital if necessary in the morning.
28 September - Mum calls at 7am from the hospital in Oban which is an hour from their home and bigger than their local hospital, Jack was taken there by ambulance in the night. She is a bit teary, she he has been told that he has hours or maybe days.
I fly to Glasgow where I hire a car, drive to the local M&S to get some provisions (as suggested by my brother), return the car to the hire place and replace it with something more appropriate and then drive the two hours to Oban. My mum and I spend the night in a "guest room" in the hospital, me on the floor on top of some cushions. Jack is drifting in and out of consciousness.
29 September - Bit of sitting about in Oban. Jack's condition is unchanged. My brother arrives in the evening, he and my mum and I have a mediocre dinner at the Waterfront Restaurant (the fish tastes funny) and then check in to the Royal Hotel where there are two weddings on the go. My brother and I have a couple of beers at the Lorne Bar on Stevenson Street, most adjacent, and then retire to our room where we both snore a lot, aparently.
30 September - Jack is still mainly conscious but prone to saying some odd things. My brother and I rent a flat for the week, the owner agrees to refund us for those days we do not use, my having explained the circumstances. Jack has asked us to bring in the bottle of champagne that I bought him for his birthday a few months ago and then bravely consumes half a glass (he has not taken any kind of fluid by mouth for three days and not passed any either).
1 October - It is Monday, much more going on in the hospital. We are summoned to a room where it is explained again that Jack's situation is terminal. It is also explained that pain control will be the staff's priority. We return to Jack's room, he is very angry that he is still alive and has a go at negotiating his disconnection from life the life-support systems but it is expained that he does not have that option. "I'll just have to try harder", he promises.
He is in a lot of pain and it takes a long time to get more drugs administered. I believe that the problem here was about expectations. If it had been explained that it would not be possible to keep him pain free and that there would be an issue with the finding the right balance between pain relief and maintaining consciousness then things might have gone more smoothly but instead we get angry when we see him in pain. Later another surgeon takes us into a room to talk to us about the morals of administering morphine, he has good intentions I'm sure (one of which would appear to be to show his junior how to talk to patient's relatives about morals) but it seems to me that the idea is just to distract us. I spend the night in one of those reclining chairs, in Jack's room. The night staff are excellent, attending to Jack throughout and always offering me tea and toast. 
Oban sunset
2 October - For the second day in a row I have a meal in "the Oban Fish and Chip Restaurant" (it has a picture of Rick Stein and the proprietor in the window); the food is excellent and costs half what it did in the faux posh restaurant on the Saturday. I say goodbye to Jack in late afternoon and a bit emotionally at first , drive back to Glasgow from where I fly back to Gatwick.
3 October - I call my mum's mobile (they don't mind you using your mobile in this hospital, presumably because they don't have one of those bullshit contracts with the Patientline company) at about 7.30. She and my brother have just been with Jack as he breathed his last breath. I go to London for a meeting. 
Hotel Puerta America
4 October - Gemma and I return to Gatwick for an early flight to Madrid for a long standing long weekend, there are many delays, we arrive at the phenomenally beautiful "Terminal 4"in mid afternoon before going to the "Hotel Puerta de America" where each floor has been designed by a different famous designer. We get to choose and select floor 9 (designed by Mr Richard Gluckman) which, whilst it is not as wacky as some of the others, is very relaxed. We head to town where I blame fatigue for my inability to read the map. It is raining heavily and we dive into the nearest Tapas bar. The food is fabulous, we order three different types of potato and some beers (amongst other things).
5 October - We lie in and order breakfast in our room. It doesn't come and so we go down to the restaurant (I don't believe that I should be chasing after it). They say that the restaurant has stopped serving breakfast and I explain why they are about to restart, which they do, food very nice but 50 Euros for the two of us doesn't seem reasonable. Back at the room, our smartly attired breakfast is there by the window smelling of strawberries and wondering what is going on. We go to the Prado where Julian's recommendations prompt us to consider his state of mind; neither of us enjoy Goya's Black Paintings which look a bit rushed to me.
Torres Blanco (our hotel's fantastic neighbour)
6 October - Find a great cafe behind the hotel where we have an excellent breakfast for 4 euros. Lunch at Il Teatriz, a former run-down theatre redisgned by Phillippe Starck (the bar is on the stage and the tables in the stalls and the circles with a cafe in the foyer).
Feeling small (at "Vincon)"
7 October - Breakfast in the same cafe. Lunch takes place downtown in a restaurant inhabited mainly by well to do locals; excellent. Back to the amazing looking airport for further delays, finally arriving at Gatwick at about 9.30pm. 
Teatriz iz a treat
Spend the night in the "Yotel", will not be doing that again in a hurry. I reckon it is brilliant for a few hours rest but not so comfortable for whole night (especially two people in a standard room). It does mean that we don't have to rely on our alarm to make sure that we are up at 4am for our flight to Edinburgh. From there a bus takes us to Haymarket where we catch a train to Glasgow Central and then a taxi to the interesting Abode Hotel. I have not been feeling too good and manage a few bouts of diahorrea accompanied by shivering and sweating before meeting up with others in reception. I am full of Immodium and Paracodol we drive to Clydebank (30 minutes away) where Jack's funeral takes place. I am doing the eulogy and am on button pressing duty so am relieved that it seems to go ok. Back to the Abode for very nice drinks and snacks (which I am not in the best shape to enjoy), Michael Caines is the chef/proprietor of this handsome gaff, you might remember I spotted him last year sitting in the reception at the Windsor Hotel in Nice. The wake is very pleasant. Gemma and my mum and I drive back to Lochgilphead (2 hours) arriving about 8pm, I am in bed by 8.30.
9 October - Mum hosts a drinks party for her local friends (some of whom couldn't make the trip yesterday), what an interesting and eclectic bunch, all very nice too. Among others there is a French Coppersmith, a Dutch Tai Chi teacher, an ex fisherman turned reflexologist (he used to dive for scallops), the ex factory manager of Argyll Cars (who also was a mechanic for a two-time British Saloon Car Championship winning team, must have been a while ago, the cars were Minis) and a lady who used to look after monkeys (in Africa).
10 October - Ferry to Gigha (an hour to the ferry and 20 minute crossing), a six mile long island. Lunch in the hotel and then off to the handsome "Achamore House" where we meet the Californian owner, leading light in the world of Flower Remedies and (based on our converstion) leading "Tetra Mast" scheptic. Conversation with him leaves me feeling a bit doomed. Gardens beautiful. 
Good Gigha
11 October - Drive to Glasgow, fly back to Gatwick, train to Brighton, more delays.
12 October - Two Meetings
13 October - A few episodes of the Sopranos
14 October - Sausage and Mash for lunch.
A film about a camel in Mongolia who doesn't hit it off with her new-born colt but experiences the healing power of music; a masterpiece.
Somehow this word is slightly onomatopoeic, it means "free from hair or down, smooth". I am more familiar with its antonym; hirsute. In the school holidays when I was about 14, I was attempting the Telegraph quick crossword, the clue I was considering was "hirsute appendage".
"Dad, what does hirsute mean?"
"Hairy......how many letters?"
"Blank-e-blank-blank-blank".
"Beard", he said. (Although it had fit, penis just hadn't seemed right).
The various glabrous appendages I had when young, all seem to have become hirsute ones.
Defined as a stroke off a wall or cushion (in squash or billiards)I like two things, correction three things about this word. Firstly I think it sounds delicious. Secondly I like the fact that it seems to lend itself to use in other circumstances, "he negotiated himself out of difficulty deploying the splendid bricole of arranging for one of his friends to call his boss at precisely the right moment pretending to be......." kind of thing. Not that I have ever yet had cause to use it in any circumstance, except for talking about it for its own sake.
Lastly, it reminds me of the time I spent in the town of Pau in the South West of France. For some reason I joined a local boxing club and would turn up every week to an old place that reminded me very much of my old prep school gym but with every aspcet of that room augmented significantly; more smell of stale sweat, equipment which was even more delapidated, wooden floors even more dusty and worn out and with the sence of occasion enhanced by the addition of blood stains on the floor, these were not present in my old school gym. This establishment was headed by someone who I would describe as resembling the captain of the Vogon Destructor Ship (from the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy). I suspect that a babel fish would have been of no help in trying to communicate with this man, I never understood a single thing he said. What I did like about him was the respect he was held in by the other part time pugilists. Every week after training, we would all (7 or 8 of us) decamp into the sauna which was the size of a large wardrobe. For the first several weeks I sat there and no one said a word to me. When someone finally did ask where I was from there was a lot of apologising; they had thought I was English (not Scottish) and everyone was my best friend after that.
Next door to the gym there was what I would call a Pelote Court although I am sure that, strictly speaking, it might have been called something else, especially now I have looked at "this". It was basically a carpark sized bit of land with a huge wall. In there I would occasionally see exponents with long banana-shaped bats hurling a ball at a phonomenal and frightening speed in great arcing bricoles.
So you thought you had problems.......
Made in 2002 by the Swedish Director/Writer Lukas Moodysson who also made Together , which I enjoyed as well as something called Fucking Amal, which I have not seen. I saw an interview with him and he was big on responsibility. Music plays a major role in this film. According to imdb, he rates the most significant influence in his life as the Cure. I am now of a mind to make such a list of my own.
This is somehow both repugnant and very moving. If you want to know how lucky you are, watch this film.
..., it has certain limitations which you will discover in due course, but it yours to develop and use throughout the experience. Abuse of it may result in the failure of a part which may not be replaceable. If a major element fails, the liklihood is that you will end up back here. Sign here and here, we take the full amount up front, there are no refunds".
"Any tips?"
"Remember that the object of the exercise is to enjoy yourself. Our other customers tell us that contributing in some way or other to the experience of others can be an effective way to do this. Abuse of the mechanism through over use of drugs such as adrenalin (which you can read about in the handbook) for example, typically foreshortens the experience".
This week's word is a name. Phaeton was the son of Apollo who was famous for drivign his dad's chariot recklessly. Nice that VW should choose it as the name for their flagship vehicle.
For a while my brother has been saying that I ought to see this Jim Jarmusch film. It wasn't until the opening scene that I realised that I had seen it before but, as seems to be the case more and more, I couldn't remember it well enough to know what was going to happen next.
William Blake (Johnny Depp) travels across the States at the beginning of the last century to take up a position as an accountant in a metal factory. When he finds the job gone, things start to change significantly for him. A little while later he is on the run, accused of murdering at first two then more people, with at first one then another bullet in his body.
This is a glorious thing, shot in black and white, the scenery is awesome and Mr Depp has imbued the character with fearless dignity and a powerful kind of naivity, as he makes the journey from life to death, accompanied some of the time by "Nobody", a Native American outcast who believes him to be, at least in spirit, William Blake, the poet.
Not much happens, it is very beautiful and inspiring.
One of the reasons that the air-side shops are so successful is that passengers have effectively handed over responsibility for themselves to the authorities, they are relaxed, even vulnerable. You can say that everyone is vulnerable to some extent depending on a variety of personal and situational factors.
Yesterday Gemma was in the dentist's chair when the dentist said;
"Why are you frowning"?
"What do you mean"?
"That line on your forehead, shows you are frowning.......you can get rid of it with botox.......I can give you botox".
What's next....stealing your wallet whilst you are under anaesthetic?
This word cropped up the other day as it is the name of a song by Mahogany as reviewed in the esteemed Critical Mass blog last week. I first encountered it in the maths class of Mr McDonald as it was some part of a logrithm if I remember. What I liked about it was the sound and so aged twelve I decided that it should have "my favourite word" status. Neglected since then apart from a couple of fleeting mentions in my life, I have restored some of its status by awarding it "word of the week". According to Wikipedia, its archaic, non-mathematical meaning is "a small or worthless supplement". I like it for that reason as well.
ps I apologise if you have arrived here from Google or some other search engine hoping to learn something about maths. I suppose that the person who did a search on "tauten" was disappointed too.
I have nneglected my duties as a film reviewer over the last few weeks and have decided to rectify the situation to some extent by offering cut down notes on a number of the films that I have seen over that time. If you think I scatter around those little asteriscs too liberally, in the spirit of brevity, I have kept to my favourites.
The Machinist *****
A fascinating and disturbing study of guilt. (Christian Bale has managed to get himself unfeasibly skinny for the role of the eponymous factory worker). Most thought provoking, (for someone like me).
Little Miss Sunshine ****
This has been much hyped and rightly so. Disfunctional family attempts to support youngest daughter in her dream of success in one of those weird child beauty pageants they do in the States. Not what it seems, very funny and in the end, makes a point. (One criticism is that a repeated and nevertheless funny joke based on a mechanical problem with their transportation annoys me slightly as as it would not be possible).
Pan's Labyrinth ****
Very unusual, stylish, violent, engaging cross between a war thriller and fairy tail; honest. Brilliant nevertheless. Features the guy who played Harry in Harry he is here to help; Sergi Lopez, as a very nasty nutter, a role in which he is entirely believeable.
Volver****
An unusually accessible Almodovar film. Troubles in a Spanish family for Penelope Cruz to work out. The film is touching and atmospheric and now I can see what the all the fuss about Penelope Cruz is for. I really cared by the end.
I Vitelloni***
The adventures of a group of young men (vitelloni are calves), attempting to find their way in life, in a seaside town in Italy. Fredrico Fellini brilliantly makes me squirm at how people can be such idiots. Had to admire it even if not enjoy it. Once again (it was made in 1953) he manages to make a film that doesn't really date.
Sideways*****
Another film that makes you want to squirm a bit but which is perhaps more forgiving. Two very different (early middle-aged male) friends go off wine-tasting in Northern California in the week before the not very successful actor,(the other one is a penurious wannabe writer) is due to get married. A number of extreme situations in which they find themselves force them to face their own and each other's problems. Very very funny, brilliant acting.
I just enjoyed a substancial lunch at a local Japanese Restaurant. At the bar afterwards I was chatting to the waitress and asked her the meaning of Japanese symbol/character. After three confrimations I was confident that she had said "wheat grain", despite having intially thought she'd said "wheat germ". Gemma joined in the conversation at this point and quickly established that the girl was saying "weekend". I have had some odd conversations with that very nice girl in the past.
Living in a traditional Italian fishing village, the heroine is slightly bonkers in an unthreatening, even endearing kind of a way. This does not go down well with the locals however for whom her deviation from the norm is not acceptable. The film is about being an outsider and what that means, it is about taboo. The consequences are surprising and ironic.
The characters, particularly of the family members are authentic and compelling and the film has a great atmosphere, I use the word carefully. Respiro means "I breathe", at times we witness moments of Grazia's spirited liberation. However, the film also manages to convey the feeling of suffocation that she struggles with as a result of her inability to conform; several times I noticed my attention was drawn to my own breath, particularly at the perfectly conceived climax.
Dystocia is the name given to the condition experienced when having trouble giving birth. This week I have had trouble coming up with a word of the week. Perhaps it could be said that I have suffered from a touch of etymological dystocia or alternatively that I need to pull my finger out.
Yesterday I had a couple of meetings in London in the morning and was on my way to Green Park to get the tube back to Vicotira when I had the idea that I could take a look at the Damien Hirst exhibition at the White Cube gallery in St James's. I suspected that there might not be a big queue to see the skull at 11.30 on a Monday morning and fortunatley I was correct. Entry is free but you have to have a ticket for a particular time slot; I was able to get my ticket and go in five minutes later.
The security man takes up seven or eight people at a time and you stand in a line in a corridor that reminded me of being at school. You get a little pep talk about leaving your bags on the floor outside and so on. He made me smile by explaining that the room was dark but that the only thing in there was the exhibit itself and not to worry about bumping into anything despite not being able to see your feet. He then mentioned however, that there was a woman in wheelchair already in there.
You have to give Mr Hirst credit for his ability to create icons, I have to say that I found "for the love of god" quite a stunning thing. The sense of theatre plays a part but the head itself is an object of beauty. I was particularly impressed by the view from the back. From the front, it is obviously an inanimate (if painstakingly prepared) object but from the rear there are no features missing that would necessarily lead you to believe that you might not be looking at the back of the head of young person, albeit shaved and covered with diamonds. I did wonder about its provenance, I understand that it is a cast made of platinum but of whom, where was he from, what colour skin did he have, what thoughts occurred in that space?
If I could fiddle with time, I could ask the artist on the bus on the way to school; he was in the year below me and often sat on his own. They didn't offer PR as a subject at that school but it is all art if you ask me. I remember the anticipation and the smell of paint as I queued outside the art room, I wonder what he remembers about those days. No smells at the White Cube but plenty of the other.
West from Rocca Calascio
Abruzzo is quite mountainous. There are those peaks around Grand Sasso in the north, in the Grand Sasso National Park, the other main group is to be found in the Majella National Park more southerly, where San Tommaso, one of a number of places in Italy so-named by pope somebody the something after Henry VIII had martyred Thomas Beckett is to be found. The village is located about a third of the way up Majella, so to get to most other places, you have first to decend a few hundred meters to a town called Scafa where you can join the autostrada if you're going somewhere in a hurry or a main road if you are staying more local or aren't in a rush.
The Mille Miglia (the thousand mile road race, last run fifty years ago) used to pass through here, the drivers having just turned west to cross the country to Rome before turning back north to complete their mad few hours back in Brescia. Gemma's dad used to cycle down from San Tommaso (where cars of any type were rarely seen) to witness those special people hurtling through that town.
Turning left at Scafa leads you along a valley and between two big hills to a town called Popoli. Turn right there and wind back up, higher than San Tommaso and slightly weirdly, find yourself on a massive flat plane. Driving its length will take about half an hour and will lead you to L'Aquila. That road is mainly dead straight and driving along it gives me the feeling that I must have a special, other wordly destination.
This time we decided to check out some of the villages that cling to the hills that surround the plane. One such is Calascio, where an ancient, mostly ruined castle commands views, on a clear day, all the way back to Majella to the south and for a long way in every other direction. We arrived there in our Fiat Idea 1.3 diesel having driven up some roads that were precarious enough to have caused raised voices in the car, despite my crawling along in second gear, the absence of barriers between the edge of the road and the sheer drops being the main problem. Eventually you arrive in a dust bowl of a small car park also occupied by the village bins. From there by foot you climb steeply with expectations of seeing very little activity, the first houses and many of the others too have been abandoned for what looks like a long time. As you climb, through the gaps between those run down homes to your left, the view makes you giddy. 
Looking north from Rocca Calascio
Don't be surprised, when you find a tiny cafe, perched on the cliff, with a quintet (Il Quintetto a fiata della Baronia) playing Hinemith's Kleine Kammermusik opus 24, no. 2. Stoop to enter, order your espresso, retire to a table outside and wonder about how things can sometimes be so extraordinary. Shake off the emotions you have been sitting in and climb the last bit to the castle itself. This is our other-worldly destination, a bridge between the prosaic and the astral.
Looking south from Rocca Calascio (that's Majella topped with snow)
p.s. I thought I had better just check my Mille Miglia facts before publishing this post and have spent a most enjoyable half hour surfing through related sites. At first I was concerned that there was some confusion over the exact route and that Gemma's dad might have been referring to a 16 mile street circuit that used to exist in the Pescara environs but I was pleased to be able to confirm that that infamous race did pass along that exact piece of road. A fact which, for me, really turns the evocativeness knob right up, is that the route of the race actually included the road across that plane. Next time I am there, I can imagine Sterling Moss passing me at 170mph (a speed the cars often reached on the straights in those days) in his cocoon of noise and wind, dirty faced, his eyes piercing those leather rimmed goggles, calculating in a moment the value of the hazard that I represent, before forgetting me forever, vanishing in a vortex of dust.
It turns out that there were a number of routes (click here),used for the race between 1927 and 1957. From 1949 they all passed between Pescara and L'Aquila in one or other direction.
Il Rifugio della Rocca (click here) is where those concerts are held, if you happen to be passing.
In view of my recent trip, this week we travel to Italy to find our word of the week. Boh is a bit rude and means I don't know or I don't care and although I couldn't find it in my dictionary it does appear in the BBC's language website under "cool Italian" click here to hear it pronounced, where it says it is usually accompanied by a shrug of the shoulders. When I first encountered it I was impressed by the level of laziness it conveys.
Che ora e?
What time is it?
Boh!
How the hell should I know!
They fish from these
View of the Marone from 23 Corsa Reale, San Tommaso
Gargano Adriatic
A view from the tower in San Stefano
That's Vieste in Gargano in the distance
A stick
He sat confidently, ready to play. It was the aspect of his day which made it all worth while, every tenth encounter would contain opportunity, and every third of those would be truly satisfying. The beauty was that he had nothing to lose, he was protected, there was the high desk between him and the danger, behind him was a large sign warning people that his company would not tolerate him being abused in any way. The object of the game; make them do things they don't want to.
I approached and placed my case on the weighing scale, and with a smile and a "hi" handed over three passports. He nodded to himself, this could be a good one. It transpired that I had misunderstood something on the website, he wanted thirty quid in excess baggage charges despite our carrying less than our allowance, (our return tickets had come to less than £50 each). We redistrubuted the contents of our bags. He now wanted only 5 quid but he also wanted our booking reference. I have used this carrier many times and in the past my passport (and maybe my credit card) had been enough. Now he wanted me to go to the sales desk to get the code and rejoin the back of the queue. I remained fairly calm, suggesting that I would be prepared to leave my position in the queue if he called security. Gemma was less happy and wanted his name, he refused and so she called him a "scaredy cat". Eventually that issue was resolved. He then announced that he didn't want any more money from us but that "as you have been so uncooperative, we would not like to see you here again".
The end result, as far as I can make out, was that everybody in the queue had experienced a ten minute delay, Ryan Air had made no more money, we had not enjoyed the nicest start to our trip, but "nameless man", after adjusting himself in his seat, running his finger round the inside of his collar and stretching out his lower jaw, was feeling good and ready for the next passenger.
Wereen is an older guy in Gemma's family's village in Italy, a real character, he is always doing nice things for me when I am there. Several times during the stay, I opened the front door to find a bottle of wine there that he had left for us; he makes wine, that is his big thing, and Grappa. Under his house in what they call the cantina over there, or what he calls his office, he has a still as well as various other grape related paraphernalia. Outside the cantina there is a bird cage where a minor bird lives, she will return your “Boun Giorno” with an unsettlingly human voice. Between her cage and the road is a high hedge, Gemma’s mother had become quite angry when, walking down the road last week, she was wolf whistled at a number of times.
Yesterday Wereen came round to the house in the morning to say that he was off to the next village to get his paper, and I suppose to see if I wanted to go too. Gemma’s mum intercepted him at the door telling him that I was busy, which I kind of was; I was writing a letter to Nat West for a lady who had an account there in the 60’s with about £200 in it; she wanted to know how she could retrieve the balance.
Anyway, when I had finished the letter I went after him. He was in his garden, he’d been and come back but thought he might have left his paper at the shop/café because he couldn’t find it. So off we went in his old Fiat Panda through the heat, down the hill across the bridge that Gemma’s granddad built in the 50’s (he was the foreman) and is now occasionally used for bungy jumping or suicides, up the other side into a sleepy village, through some very narrow streets before stopping outside the shop. When we went in we saw that the owner had ordered three copies of Il Centro (Abruzzo's daily) for the day (he showed us his manifest) and that he only had two left, the assumption being that Wereen had left with the other one. A shrug later we went through an archway into a deserted and dark room, the shop keeper followed us through and became barman. Wereen ordered two Sambucca al Centerbas.
Centerba is 70% alcohol and smells like it should be illegal. You can buy it on its own, usually only a splash is added to coffee (after dinner). Sambucca al Centerba has a slight taste of the "hundred herbs" spirit, it is delicious if a bit strong for 9.30 am. I declined, but agreed to have some in my coffee. Wereen had the drink in a measure that I would describe as being about the size of a small glass of wine. When we left there he insisted that he would like to take me to another bar. We drove through a maze of tiny streets arriving at the little square where, in one corner there were five or six mainly older guys sitting outside what looked like a very small shop, some of the men were drinking. It was very hot and bright, despite the early hour, as well as very quiet, it reminded me of a western film set. Everybody knows Wereen and he exchanged banter with some of the guys in French (he and a number of the locals had all gone off to Belgium to work in a coal mine in the 50’s) and the local dialect before we stepped into the cool of the bar. No tables, two slot machines, one not working. He asked for two Sambucca al Centerbas. The lady behind the bar produced the bottle but it only had enough for one (wine glass sized) shot left in it. There was a short debate about whiskies and other Sambuccas before Wereen suggested topping up our glasses with neat Centerba. Our hostess looked shocked at the idea, I couldn't understand everything that was said but I could see that she felt it was important that I knew what I was letting myself in for. Sambucca al Centerba is clear, Centerba is bright green and so were our cocktails. Five minutes later when I left, I knew I had had a drink.
Buon giorno from the Abruzzese town of Chieti, perched high on a hill from where you can see the Adriatic to the east and, in the distance, Grande Sasso ("Big Stone", the tallest mountain in the region to the West).
The sky is clear blue but for a few whisps of cotton wool, unlike the last few days which have seen every conceivable meteorogical phenomenon.
Optimistic, we set out to walk to the hermitage of San Bartolomeo, a cave with an extension, perched on the side of a cliff, not far from here, on Sunday. Half way back a thunder storm intervened and when we reached the car we looked as though we had swam there.
Have been eating particularly well, yesterday's highlight being fried lambs liver, heart and kidneys with onions, I think it was called Contorto d'Agnello, but that could be bollocks. My Italian is not as good as I thought. When asked how I was, despite having made the same mistake previously, I tried to be clever by saying that I was as healthy as a fish, the equivalent to being fit as a fiddle at home. I announced that I was a saint like a peach.
This is very much the younger sibling of La Dolce Vita. Black and White and featuring beautiful well dressed people including Marcello Mastroianni (who featured in that other film) and the amazing looking Claudia Cardinale. This is a film about making a film. Ordinarily that would be reason enough for me to hit the eject button (I site Adaptation Adaptation, as an example of a film about making a film which is clever but leaves me feeling like I've been taken advantage of), but this for me is a mind-blowing piece of art.
I often think about the film I might write. As this film progresses I realise that, if I were able, this could be it.
There is the recurring idea that if you are not part of something, you are against it, you cannot exist satisfactorily without attaching yourself to ideas, principles or causes, without believing in things, "....happiness consists of being able to tell the truth without ever hurting anyone..." so says Guido the confused film-maker.
I notice that I have been enjoying films about people in crises; American Beauty and Citizen Kane (which I will be posting about soon) for example. They are quite theatrical (both the latter films were made by first time directors whose previous experience had been the stage). This surprises me a great deal. If you had told me that I would love a meandering, sometimes surreal wander about the very staged life of film maker experiencing a mid life crisis, I would have told you that it was more likely that DFS's sale had ended. At one point it even plays about with being a musical. As for what attracts me to this so much, I suppose that self recognition seems to be the most likely candidate. I am therefore exposing myself to accusations of being fanciful, but I can pick the elements I aspire to, as well as recognise those facets that I might be less happy about, but that does not diminish my identification with themes, even if I don't exist in the 'A' list stratosphere. Perhaps the whole idea is helped along by some small references such as the fact that it was released in the year I was born and that the leads drive about in a Porsche 356, not to mention the Italian thing.
Imagine being offered the chance to watch a film that was made by a film maker with no script who decided to go ahead and make a film about a film maker asked to make a film with not script and without a plot, about a film maker who has been asked to make a film that has no plot, and there you have it. Despite all of this, I kept wanting to know what was going to happen next.
A mucilage is a secretion or bodily fluid. The word comes from the same origin as the more familiar mucus.
Is that BA's new corporate identity or just some mucilage on the fusilage?
It was Good Friday morning, before seven, I got up (carefully) and decided that some light entertainment was in order. I selected my still celophane-wrapped Midnight Run dvd from the shelf and proceeded to enjoy the next couple of hours. There are some films which are haute cuisine and not the sort of things that one might want to consume too often. Then there is the classic hamburger, pefectly cooked, delicious relish and crispy chips; this is one of those. I have seen it often enough to have become familiar with its foibles which are most easily forgiven, I imagine that I will watch this many more times.
Robert De Niro is honest but hard done by bounty hunter Jack Walsh and the under-rated Charles Grodin plays Jonathan Mardukas, an accountant who has embezzled $15 million dollars from the mob (and given it to charity). It is essentially a road movie as the pair of them are chased across America from New York to L.A. The Grodin character is laconic, well meaning and prone to offering Jack advice about how he should change his life if he is to avoid an early grave. Jack is resigned to a lonely slightly self-ptiying existence; one that might be tempered by the big pay-off he will receive if he delivers "the Duke" to his bail bondsman in L.A. Their relationship is what the film is about and where most of the humour comes from.
It is directed by Martin "Beverley Hills Cop" Brest, but whilst that earlier film was very much of its time, this one seems to have side-stepped such a limitation. The story is comfortably well enough thought-through, not to distract from the set pieces and the interaction between members of the superb cast. Yaphet Koto who you might remember as Mr Big and Kanaga in the only properly funny James Bond film, Live and Let Die is the permanently exasperated FBI Agent Alonzo Mosely, (did you know that Live and Let die was written by the director of Eddie Murphy's first stand up movie, Dilerious)? Dennis Farina, always funny and scary in equal measure (he played Ray Barboni in Get Shorty), is as scary and funny as usual as mob boss Jimmy Serrano.
There are at least a couple of images that reappear in some shape or form in other films; there is a version of De Niro's "I am talking to a dead man" line, which he later uses in Heat and Dennis Farina announces rather prophetically that he is going to smash his telephone into someone's head; we actually have to wait for Get Shorty for him to do that to Gene Hackman's Harry Zimm. John Ashton (one of the LAPD foils for Eddie Murphy in Beverley Hills Cop) reappears here with great affect (as Marvin Dorfler, Jack Walsh's main competition).
This film always makes me laugh out loud, I am waiting like a child wanting his favourite bedtime story for my favourite jokes but, call me a sentimental piece of moist tissue, it also manages to move me a little every time I see it, that's probably the De Niro factor.
As I wended my way through my copy of Alan Bennett's Untold Stories this week I encountered the word "enfilade" which I am reliably informed means either a "volley of gunfire directed along a line from end to end" or a "suite of rooms with doorways in line with each other". In order to help it settle in the word section of my brain, in a place where I have the slightest chance of retrieving it when needed, I have decided that as part of this new and ongoing feature, I will supply (for my own benefit) a sentence incorporating the word of the week.
"An enfilade of piss arced from behind the bush into a noisy puddle beneath the streetlight".
Ayrton Senna once said that he felt that "we are all seeking emotions".
This evening as I prepared dinner, I listened to All of this and Nothing by the Psychedelic Furs. Normally I would have Channel 4 News on. Actually it was on, but the Furs provided the soundtrack. Can I suggest that if you would like to view current affairs from a tangential angle that you try listening to some of your favourite music whilst watching the news. There was a report about the relationship between China and Japan with footage of war, as well as statesman doing what they do, (I don't know very much about him, but as premiers go, I would have to say that Mr Koizumi, the previous Japanese Prime Minister was a cool one). Anyway, songs that move you, played over footage of people killing or getting one over on each other, move you more, take it from me.
The fact that I spent most of the day unblocking a drain might be relevant and my tuna with ginger, spring onions and teryaki sauce was delicious in case you were wondering.
One morning last week I woke quite early and decided to have a cup of tea. As the kettle warmed up on the stove, I considered the day ahead whilst dangerously multitasking, getting the tea bag out of the cupdboard, milk from the fridge and so on. The kettle was almost ready when I was suddenly aware of a big flame on my right hand side and quite a bit of smoke. My dressing gown was on fire. One acts quickly in these situations and very quickly I was doing my naked version of the hakka on top of the combustible garment. Gemma arrived on the scene concerned that a "girl had broken in" on account of the scream that had woken her.
There seems to be an elemental pattern to my early morning traumas, I might be due to wake up spattered with mud.
A few moments ago I was to be found in the Murasaki Restaurant in the Seven Dials area of Brighton enjoying a Shogiyaki Don and a green tea. However, things might have been very different.
Last night I was rudely awoken by a the burglar alarm of a nearby house. I trust that nothing was in fact stolen except for a few hours of the collective sleep of a number of the inhabitants of the Clifton Hill conseravation area. On consulting my trusty alarm clock I discovered that this was occurring at about 12.30am. An hour or so later having tossed and turned I rose to have a cup of tea and as it transpired four rice cakes topped with Green and Black's chocolate spread. This was my first mistake; I believe the potent dose of refined sugar did not encourage my body to lapse back into unconsciousness, especially with a slug of classic boxing highlights mixed in for good measure. At about 4am I clambered back into bed but didn't manage to string together more than an hour or so of slumber at a time before getting up at about 7.
I was on the back foot slightly this morning, as a man was coming to my house at nine to make a hole in the ceiling in the hall, for the purpose of creating access to the roof space. This was a disruptive process, so much so that I had to leave the house. By midday (having visited Waterstones and Fopp) I was a bit cold and hungry and buckled quite easily under the influence of my own persuasive powers, retiring to the aforementioned Japanese cafe to seek solace and nourishment.
Whilst there I decided that I might as well investigate the possibility of visiting Japan later in the year for a holiday, something I have thought about for a number of years. The waitress was unable to share very much in the way of tips however as her English I find, isn't very well tuned to the western ear, there were some acutely embarrassing moments to go along with my pork and pickled vegetables.
But I was not put off and it would appear that burglar alarm plus loft hatch leads to Kyoto curiosity. To be continued.....
I am supine on the floor, I feel heavy, I can smell burning sage and there is the slightly acrid taste of osha root in my mouth. Soon however, I am floating way above the earth, in space. In due course I am confronted by a dark, perfectly shaped oblong obelisk which has emerged from nowhere. It is hard-looking, wet; water runs down its surface, it is difficult to guage its size but it is probably about ten or twelve feet tall. It is similar to the icon which features in 2001 A Space Odessey.
A beautiful woman emerges from the monolith, she has long dark hair and looks like she knows everything. There is calm everywhere. She says nothing but from her look, I know there is no point in worrying about anything, ever, because I am part of something I don't begin to understand. I feel grateful but whilst I like the idea that I have been singled out, I suspect that I have been given this gift because I need it.
This weekend's dvds were V for Vendetta and The Death of Mr Lazarescu. The former is the dystopic Wachowski Brothers (of the Matrix fame) thriller featuring a highly cheesed-off man called "V" who, dressed in a Guy Fawkes mask throughout, makes it his business to do a bit of serious boat-rocking in the dictator-led Britain of the near future.
The second is the Romanian film which won the BBC4 World Cinema award earlier this year. It would be hard to find two films which contrast in style more, as this film has an almost documentary feel, hand held cameras and a budget that probably wouldn't buy you a nice coat. Mr Lazarescu is a man in his sixties, living in a cold, filthy and anonymous apartment in Bucharest, he is not feeling well and decides to try to do something about it, initially ringing the doctor before knocking on the door of his neighbours across the landing. Slowly he gets himself nearer and nearer to a diagnosis and potential treatment. What links his interactions with the various health professionals he encounters as he tours the city's hospitals throughout the night, in the back of an ambulance, is the lack of respect he is shown, because he smells of alcohol, but also because he is old and increasingly unable to converse with anyone (due to his condition). For a long time it is only the paramedic who first arrives at his cat infested flat who fights his corner, after that.........
Meanwhile back on a set bedecked with beautiful scenery and featuring the beautiful Natalie Portman we are in full on comic book, surrealist, multi-million dollar budget familiarity. Ms Portman plays Evey Hammond, a secretary at the BTN (British TV Network) who for one reason or another finds herself aiding and abetting the enigmatic Mr V. I am not sure if it is because it is set in London but there is a bit of an "episode of the Bill" feeling about some of it. That aside, just as the Matrix does, it succeeds most effectively in getting you thinking about the human condition, particularly with regard to an increasingly controlled post 9/11 world. Within the people-power theme, there is a sub plot revealing how Evey experiences the liberation that comes with losing the fear of death. This is my favourite part of the film, and not just because NP gets her head shaved.
So there we have it, the problem is that we spend our lives under the shadow of death, our decisions hampered by it, but at the same time, in denial of it. Then, when it looms on the horizon, despite its inevitability, there are often only scant preparations made which mean that you are relieved of your dignity well in time to make you last days miserable.
There is humour in both these films. I am surprized by how my attention was held for two and a half hours of Mr Lazarescu's death; mesmeric and revealing. V for Vendetta is high paced and full of philosophy, too much for one sitting perhaps, there are a lot of words; "verily this vichy soise of verbage is most verbose" the main protagonist admits at one point. Not one to watch with someone who is alergic to aliteration.
The Death of Mr Lazarescu****
V for Vendetta****
Before I get into things I wish to place a request with the cosmic ordering system that I can meet and have a chat with Alan Ball, the writer of this film......thanks.
Lester Burnham, (Kevin Spacey) is 42 and entering a bit of a mid life crisis. The wheels have come off, his job has no meaning for him, his wife Carolyn, (Annette Bening) is on the brink of an affair and his daughter Jane, (Thora Birch) has no respect for him. Now watch what happens and how it affects him and his family and his new neighbours, the Fitzs.
This is a spectacular piece of work in regards to just about any aspect of film making that you might wish to measure. But as is often the way, it comes down to a couple of amazing moments which the whole films hangs on; in this case speeches by Lester's drug toting young neighbour Ricky Fitz, and towards the end of the film by Lester himself, elements of which have been borrowed from each other. The first takes place whilst Ricky shows Jane "the most beautiful thing he has ever filmed."
"It was one of those days when it's a minute away from snowing and there's this electricity in the air, you can almost hear it. And this bag was just, dancing with me. Like a little kid begging me to play with it. For fifteen minutes. And that's the day I realized that there was this entire life behind things, and this incredibly benevolent force, that wanted me to know there was no reason to be afraid, ever. Video's a poor excuse, I know. But it helps me remember... I need to remember... Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world I feel like I can't take it, like my heart's going to cave in".
There is much iconography in this movie. Hands feature a lot, as well as reflections and mirrors and confined spaces. Lester is seeking to escape from his restricted life, but not to a place of irresponsibility, to a place where he can be himself.
This is a beautifully realized film with fantastic performances, Anette Bening is scarily effective, Mena Suvari who plays Jane's friend and the subject of Lester's infatuation is mesmerising, there is great imagery and brilliantly chosen music but above all, I love this film because I once had a similar experience to the one Ricky describes and as he said himself "it helps me remember".
Film 4 showed this movie last night. I am a fan of Michael Mann but whilst this is every bit as stylish as Heat, it hangs together better as a complete entity.
Tom Cruise (who I am not usually bothered about) plays a hitman, Vincent, in town for the night to do a spot of contract killing. Jamie Foxx is Max, the unwitting soul recruited to drive Vincent around for the duration. Max is a disenfranchised, nice guy, taxi driver who starts to realise that, up against Vincent and perhaps in the rest of his life he needs to take a stand. Vincent, on the other hand, is surfing along on the edge of his confidence and power, doing "what he does for a living......indifferent", causing havoc.
Sometimes aspects of a character in a film remind me of people I know and this for me is a sign of a great performance. Rarely has it happened to the extent that it does in the case of Vincent (not sure what this says about people I know).
This a black comedy; the bullying of Max by Vincent generates much tension and even amusement, odd pairings in other films like Midnight Run and Planes Trains and Automobiles come to mind. The imdb page for the film features much of Vincent's wisdom and ascerbic one-liners.
One dead body already in the boot of the car, two cops approach, "Don't let me get backed into a corner, you don't have enough trunk space", he warns Max.
My predictions seem to be on target post this first race of the season........(click here for more).
Captured in its natural habitat in rural Alberta last year, I was pleased with how close I was able to get to this one.
I spoke to someone about this film over the weekend. They said that they couldn't understand what motivated the main character to do what he did.
In the Scritti Politti song, the Sweetest Girl, there is the line "she left because she understood the value of defiance".
In this atmospheric and stylised but handsome film we learn about Titto, an immaculately dressed, middle-aged, lonely guy who lives in a smart hotel by a lake in Switzerland and is suffering from the consequences of decisions he has made and circumstances he has found himself in, which appear to have trapped him.
Much of the interpretation is left to the viewer but whilst decisions have consequences and whilst they may have a permanent impact, defiance does have an intrinsic value as does doing things for reasons of your own.
From the opening shot of the helicopter with a statue of Jesus dangling from it crossing a sunlit and optimistic Rome, it is iconic and beautiful to look at. I could watch it again without the sound. Although in black and white and made in 1960, it has avoided attaching itself to an era or even a genre.
Stunning and beautiful imagery and players reside within a wandering and dreamlike but compelling narrative. We follow cosmopolitan Marcello, a writer, as he experiences an almost cartoon existence of partying interspersed with rediculous and sometimes horrendous events. We watch as he tries to make sense of it all.
Easy to gaze at for its two and three quarter hours, it is engaging, amazingly contemprorary and even very funny.
The head end of my bed is against a pretty Victorian (but blocked off) fireplace. I use the mantle as a shelf; typically I have my alarm clock there so I can simply reach up and turn it over to see what time it is. I have been a bit dry in the throat lately, this morning at what turned out to be 6.30 I poured a glass of water over my face, pillow and bed clothes.
p.s. For a split second I was quite shocked and actually wondered what the hell was up with the alarm clock.
I have tried to read this book three times now and have failed to finish it every time. Yet I would have to say that it is one of my all time favourites.
Beautifully written (I always want to take notes, maybe I will one day) it tells of the complications that exist beneath the surface of the aparently perfect lives of two wealthy couples who spend their time travelling from one posh hotel in Europe to another in the early 20th Century. Everything is not what it seems. I reckon that I have been unable to finish it for the same reason that I could not eat everything I was offered at Il Caldora restaurant in Pacentro (in Abruzzo); it was absolutley delicious but there is only so much you can eat.
He knocked gently, the door opened a little. He tapped again and after a moment called the name of the person he was expecting to meet throught the gap. Nothing. He crossed the threshold, there was a strong dank smell, stale tobacco with a note of unwashed people in prolonged confinement. A hoover stood in the hallway looking sheepish, he passed it and found himself in the living room.
He wasn't that surprised to see the mess, nothing was in its place, furniture, clothes and bed linen were strewn everywhere and there were mugs and glasses and piles of loose change on any available flat surfaces. Cigarette ends were hunched up in nooks and against chair legs like little battle victims.
In the kitchen, everything was everywhere and everywhere was filthy. A baby's bottle with a solid green lump of mould occupying the bottom half, open cartons of milk, no crockery at all in the cupboards, instead it formed precarious towers perched on odd corners. More cigarette ends and the dead bodies of some suspiciously foreign looking bugs.
He stood and allowed himself to absorb the scene. He had been aware since the beginning, nine months ago, that this guy had problems. He had been relieved when they had agreed to terminate their agreement and had talked about arrangements for making sure all the loose ends were tied up. He had seen vans come and go over recent days, taking away various things.
Tucked into a cranny in the hoover he found two sets of keys (including a bent one) and a post-it note; "truly sorry about the mess, hope the money left covers it".
Post script:
I will need to be more careful about choosing my next tenant and less willing to take the gamble that I always knew it was, to give the flat to a guy who'd just arrived in the country from Uganda with a 6 month old baby and no job. (The baby had had the good sense to return to Uganda some time ago).
Strangely I was not so much annoyed as sad (and ofcourse relieved); but escaping from one mess by fleeing to another is not escaping at all.
That morning I lent him the hoover and whilst I was confident that there would be work to do after he had left, the idea that renting a carpet cleaner for a morning would deal with it, proved to be wishful thinking.
There was nearly £20 in loose change, over £5 of which was in one and two p's, lying about the place.
When the fridge was moved, a little clutch of those international insects woke up and dashed off in all directions. I think I would have impressed Mr Flatly.
If you want harrowing, might I suggest that you look no further. That said it is a stunning and in the end life affirming thing. The performances are brilliant and I also like the dignity of the various pianos which seem unfazed by all the bad behaviour going on around them.
My DVD included a "making of" extra. Mr Polanski reminds me of someone I used to do a lot of business with, I have often wondered how come I had not encountered another Terry, so it added a little something to the experience for me to be comparing these two larger than life characters with their powerful energy, still faces and steely, sometimes intimidating demeanour. Cheeky and funny too though (certainly my friend is and I would guess so is Mr Polanski).
Two or three weeks ago on a Tuesday, I headed off for Scotland. As I left Brighton I slotted my recently purchased Simple Minds Greatest Hits CD into the player and "Don't you forget about me" sprang into the car. I was immediately transported to the Odeon in Leeds. You may know that that song features in the film The Breakfast Club, it always reminds me of going to see it and knowing throughout that I was going to be dumped by my girlfriend of the time, on the way home. I wasn't that depressed about it and could see that there was a certain art in the whole thing; I reckon the film inspired her to ditch me and it helped me to understand why.
By early evening I was sitting in the reception of a BT building in the centre of Leeds. From there Dominic and I drove to Harrogate, passing the previously mentioned cinema on the way, for a rendez-vous with Guy and his 42 inch TV which (until Dominic changed a setting) produced a picture in which everything and everyone had a green hue. The following morning after having enjoyed a very amusing evening in the Hotel du Vin and the Drum and Monkey, I had a poached egg on smoked haddock at the increasingly Stepford Wives Betty's. They have aparently refurbished again, the designer incorporating a mildly discomforting level of perfection. I felt out of place next to a table of two elderly couples; both the men wore matching silver hair and blue v necks and both the old ladies could have been confused for each other except that one was slightly more stooped. My mobile rang and this exacerbated the situation, an employee was immediately dispatched with a "no mobile phone policy" message for me. Their Full English Breakfast is £9.95.
I had some errands to run in Glasgow before I checked into the airport Travelodge. It was not busy but most of the rest of the guests seemed to be teenagers with plastic bags full of bottles of booze; whilst I checked-in the receptionist was telling a girl that she had had her vodka delivered to her room. That evening I had haggis at the bar in Rogano's.
Next morning I thought I'd just drive about a bit and see where I ended up. Entirely without intention, I found my self at the Kelvin Hall and so parked up and wandered about, ultimately reaching the recently refurbished Kelvin Gallery and Museum. I enjoyed a half hour in there, it made me realise that when I miss London sometimes, it is actually cities that I need a fix of, not neccessarily that particular one. Glasgow is quite unusual. The grid pattern streets, the handsom architecture, the optimism and grit and the culture define it quite distinctly. I didn't like the look of the cafe in the Gallery and went across the road for a brew before continuing my tour and then heading through the dark and the rain to Lochgilphead to stay at my mum's for a couple of nights. 
A highly dangerous room in the Kelvin Museum & Gallery
All that driving can leave space in your head which is readily filled up by all sorts of notions. I find it a bit surreal that all these roads are occupied by people sliding along, their bottoms just above the surface, at ninety miles an hour. In order for me to get about I have arranged for myself to be accompanied by a tonne and a half of metal, leather, glass, rubber and carpet. This and many other similar devices hurtling about, in the control of variously affected beings seems inefficient at least and probably quite funny to the children of three or four generations from now; if they can forgive our profligacy.
Speeding along the A74, bright sky, occasional fluffy cloud, lines of pylons threading across those ancient hills, I couldn't help feeling that the days of enjoying Scotch Pie, baked beans and Scooby Doo are not just gone from my life due to the passage of time, but I felt like I'd rubbed my eyes and the reality of what it has and will all cost was starting to reveal itself to my imagination. I wondered about the liklihood of us all looking a bit like we were on Guy's TV quite soon.
Then last week I had a good couple of busy days at work and I have aparently drifted quite happily back into worrying about things like whether to go to my usual Indian or to try something different. (They gave us free drinks at the Indian; so feeling good about that one).
For some time I have been in the market for a manual beard trimming type device. On Jermyn Street this week, after a certain amount of traipsing around, I procured one of those old fashioned clipper/scissor hybrid things that used to be evident in barber shops when I was young. I was concerned that they wouldn't work well when the operator was trying to cut his own hairs but that concern proved to be unfounded. This morning, Gemma commented that my facial hair appeared to be much longer than yesterday, (when I had used the machine that looks a bit like a prop from a film about Victorian surgery, for the first time). "Yes,I think it's stubbled in length", I replied. Sharp would seem to be the word of the moment.
Doctor: So how have you been feeling?
Patient: Well, to be honest I do seem to be under pressure a lot, my job is hard work, I think I am stressed, not sleeping well, I'm bloated all the time, even though I take Yakult.
Doctor: Mm.....I'm going to recommend that you look at this DVD. It is available without prescription but I will warn you, it is nevertheless, very powerful. Don't expect there to be much reaction at first but after a while you will start to feel the effects; you might feel a little unsettled but it should help you to see things in a clearer perspective.
Patient: Are there any side effects?
Doctor: You may feel quite sick and emotional for a while, you would be best to avoid taking any other drugs at the same time.
A week later.
Doctor: So how did you get on with the medication?
Patient: It was quite difficult to swallow, but I can see now that my condition is self inflicted and that the consequences of going along with things that I don't believe in could be be tragic and permanent, what should I do?
Doctor: Good question.
I had a vague memory of seeing this film in the 80's but sitting down to watch it again this weekend I didn't recall anything about it, which made it all the more enjoyable. Set in a poor part of Provence it describes how people can behave when they want something badly and how they can readily lose sight of what is important; you might call that greed but it could just as well be a metaphor for the world in general.
You want to hug Gerard Depardieu who plays the ex tax collector who inherits a farm with no water supply and brings his young family to the country, committed to enjoying an idyllic pastoral existence. Daniel Auteuil is brilliantly abhorent in this film as the flawed young peasant, Ugolin. With his uncle "Papet", Yves Montand, the brains behind the scheme, he conspires to get hold of the land that Jean de Florette has inherited. He has conceiled the source, the spring which is the one thing that will make the land viable; which for Ugolin, unlike Jean, is not necessary for his survival. Every time that Ugolin thinks that Jean has given up the ghost because of some new obstacle or other, his opportunity to snatch the land is taken away by a new idea or the renewed enthusiasm of Jean.
This film is a work of art, the visual beauty, the build up of tension, the reality created by the the film makers and the performances of the actors, particularly Daniel Auteuil.
The climax sets up the sequel Manon des Source in a compelling way; I can't wait for it to arrive from Love Film.
At odds with the lyric in that Stranglers' song, the clouds are interesting here today (and not just in Sweden). From my study I have been watching various showers and other meteoroligical phenomena chasing each other across the sea. I can also see the Palace Pier and its various "rides". On a day like this I wonder why anyone would want to have themselves hurled about and blood draining levels of "g" inflicted upon themselves. As I contemplated that big arm that spins round in a vertical plane with a pod full of nausea at each end I found myself thinking about my first trip on a big wheel. When I was about 5 or 6 I lived in Glasgow. Around Chirstmas time there would be a fair and circus at the Kelvin Hall, maybe there still is. Only recently did I realize that that absolute temperature scale and the conference venue were linked. Lord Kelvin must have been quite someone, scientist, businessman, benefactor and so on. Anyway, his hall is big enough to fit a fair and a circus in it at the same time. The only problem with this event was that my mother would try to persuade my brother and me to have a sleep in the afternoon so we had enough energy to stay up late; this, in my opinion was not a successful strategy and inevitably lead to angst. The best example of this was in 1974 when we had a holiday in Ibiza; there was to be a firework display in the town which would be visible from our apartment roof. I was ten and my brother seven, as the pyratechnics would be happening later than we would usually go to bed, we were despatched for one of those (albeit rare) afternoon naps which, in this particular intance, I remember escalating into a great deal of waling and gnashing of teeth. Later I met a girl from the next door apartment who had been waterskiing earlier in the day. When I asked her "how was your water-ski"? She replied to my utter embarrassment, "how was your sleep?" Anyway, back in the Kelvin Hall and this particular year the clowns, the undoubted highlight of the whole show, arrived with a car which they drove about the ring and sytematically destroyed. Entertainment that for this young person, could not be improved upon. Consequently, every subsequent visit to a circus anywhere was a disappointment as there was never another vehicle. I am not sure if it was the clown car year, but I agreed on one occasion, to go on the big wheel with my Dad, actually, I must have persuaded him to take me on it as I don't reckon he was that excited about it himself. Up until then, the most daring thing I had attempted had been the all too ephemeral experience of a ride down the helter skelter sitting in a folded-up front door mat; ten seconds wondering if the end was just round the corner, and then a grazed leg. Not brilliant compared with the likes of "Oblivion" at Alton Towers or better still the roller coaster that is entwined around and through the New York New York Hotel in Las Vegas (properly violent). So, once on board the big wheel, despite the fact that is was relatively slow, indoors and not in a force ten gale, I buried my face in my dad's tweedy coat and cried the entire time.
