I woke up somewhere between the seventeenth and eighteenth row, with a numb leg and with popcorn sticking to my cheek. The feeling came back progressively as I sat up in the darkness, and a few shakes got me on my feet, where I was greeted by the white light of a blank cinema screen, seventeen or eighteen rows away from me. Yanking the popcorn off my face, my cheek stung. I was in pain for only a brief moment. The red carpet crunched, and the fibres of the fabric breathed under the weight of my body.
The aisle seemed like a safer place to stand. It was and it gave me chance to fully assess the situation. I took solace in waking in an empty cinema. The only disturbance was my deliverance, my mode of transit to this place, and the events that led me to being unconscious. It doesn’t matter, nothing matters when have reached an extreme sense of calm, and when your body and mind have been separated by time. What did she always say to me? You look like you are asleep with your eyes open.
Walking down the stairs towards the screen, I was definitely alive. The white light painted the first two rows with floating dust that I glided through, dirtying my exposed hands. I thought of my grandfather and the way he would use his cat, Prescott, to clean the kitchen sides, the cat meowing in delight as he did so. At the bottom of the stairs, the screen towered over me like I was the Earth before the Sun. I reached out to touch the screen, pressing my fingers into the material, and sudden scratches of sound escalated upwards, as though I had disrupted a resting animal.
Electricity ran through my arm to my shoulder. I released my hand. Two conflicting truths appear without warning. I have been here before, but this is all new. More investigation was required to understand my placement here, though my placement anywhere is still unclear. This empty cinema is a respite, where there are no requirements to think about the future or the past, which is naturally unreal and cursed, each fragment of memory connected by persistent remorse. Here, I can discover the answer to a burning question: where have all the films gone?
She once said, I don’t think I can accommodate you here anymore. I walked along a narrow corridor, and through a door to bright artificial light. Somewhat queasy, I hung onto the walls as I edged around the corners of the building, in search of another screening room. Is this the right moment to lose focus? Because my head is so full, and this cinema is so empty. I’m talking about getting out of bed early and reading as much from a classical literary work as I can, and subsequently yearning for a film in the afternoon, ninety-seven minutes will do, hopefully with humour and enough absence to allow napping, rising to see the denouement.
Last interviews are hard to obtain, and translating Proust is even harder. I take pride in my cascading emotions and my astute mapping of somewhere I have just arrived. Put a blank page in front of me and watch as I draw a scientifically accurate blueprint of this cinema. I am a debut worshipper of this place, and yet, I need to get back into the dark. Taking endless steps around and around, I am surprised by shortness of breath, and a screeching halt to the proceedings, represented by metallic shutters that confirm that I am indefinitely locked in. It turns out silence has a voice, and it says, you do not have to look away every time that you see me.
An epiphany holds on longer than you would expect and points me in the direction of a heavenly creature. I am transported below ground, interrupted by the sound of a passing train that breaks the vow of the quiet. It is a theatre now, a stage above the chairs, a gallery above the stage, golden curtains concealing a familiar white cinema screen. The room slants downwards, and if you are not careful, you will trip over and bloody your nose. I am reminded of my grandfather’s decision to believe that he performed heroic acts and not cowardly ones.
The silver numbers that label the chairs glisten under the screen, projecting stars onto the ceiling. It is quite the invitation to become melancholic, and fighting misery, I choose a seat on the fifth row, casting my feet on the chairs in front, and arching my neck back to look north. Blissful seconds move along, until a door creaks open in the northeast. I move my eyes to look and see piles of film cans looking back. With haste, I scurry over like an infected sycophant and leap into the reels of film, imagining them as a bed of pillows. Emerging, in agony, a maroon reel has attached itself to my forehead, using my excited sweat as an adhesive.
It played on its own from there, flying with angel wings to the projection room, neatly slotting into position. The ticking began and I returned to my seat. Blotches of ink splashed in the corners of the screen, signifying a beginning, and the title card read: THE JUNGLE. Then came the actors, choreographed in dramatic composition and dressed in the fashion of the 1890s. These people were poor and desperate, but in a particular way, they had comradery and commitment, maybe they were naïve, maybe they were unaware of their incoming desolation. It was a silent film with purposefully removed intertitles, meaning I only had the actions to rely on, and I expressed gratitude for the lack of plot by applauding completely alone. I closed my eyes to sleep.
My isolation was rudely ended when I had my second awakening. Two rows ahead of me was a man in a bowler hat that stretched tall to cover most of the screen. The film was still ongoing, depicting a scene in a slaughterhouse, where the protagonist was mopping up pig entrails. I tried to get the man’s attention but after three hey’s and three excuse me’s, he didn’t shift an inch, so I approached, hopping over the chairs. Sitting next to him he turned and instantly removed his hat. “Thank you,” I said. “That’s all I wanted.” The man smiled. He had a black pencil moustache above his mouth and thin grey hair that was combed back over a taut skull that made his eyes look incredibly fragile. “Wait,” the man said. “Aren’t you going to let me introduce myself? I’m Prescott.” “You’re my grandfather’s cat?” “Don’t be ridiculous. He died years ago, but it is peculiar that you decided to name him earlier.” “Well, I thought that calling my grandfather Prescott would be obscene.” “That’s true. Do you know anything about this film?” “Not really, do you?” “I know that it is one of the casualties of early cinema, that the director took the one reel of the film across the country to show to modest crowds. Then he lost it, and it was gone forever.” “Someone must have found it.” “I think that someone is you. Perhaps you’re the great filler of history, come to plaster over the black holes.” “I’m not sure about that.” “Remember what she used to say? You anaesthetise your thoughts with habits to avoid sad things.” “She did use to say that. It doesn’t apply here though, does it?” “You tell me. Are you ever worried that you have too many questions in your dialogue and not enough answers?” “I’m going back to my seat now.”
The film continued and somewhere in the third act the man, sorry Prescott, disappeared. He was aimless in finding a resolution to what seemed so simple when he began the journey, and with acceptance, he leant back in the chair as the credits rolled. Attached is a snippet from a review of The Jungle, written by Prescott in 1907:
The problem with the film is not in the lack of bindings or its inability to capture the brilliance of the novel, it’s in the constant need the director has for attention. Instead of letting go of the process and giving the film a room of its own, he keeps it trapped inside his psyche.
I thought it lacked depth too. Someone is nudging onto my arm, a teenager with a spotty face. Yes, I’m leaving now, does nobody watch the credits anymore? Are we so accustomed to the auto-play next routine? I can’t even get out of this wretched room because there is an array of elderly racists blocking the door, and part of me wants to barge through and let the circumstances of brittle hips present itself. Carefully I squeeze through them and keep tight to the railing as I head up the stairs to another group of doting customers to this historical and repulsive establishment. What did I just watch? I can barely remember as I push open the fire doors out onto the street, the sunlight hurting my eyes.
We grow our food here. Potatoes, onions, carrots, celery, and beans. They grow in the greenhouse by the water fountain, and in the garden at the end of the green path. I live on the other side. We grow more vegetables than those listed, and further details can be found in Catalogue B in the bottom filing cabinet. I was told to be selective. Eating meat is an option if you can wrangle it through the gates, but most of the residents are vegetarian, some vegan. We keep chickens for eggs, and they die of old age. I say we because Thorn is to be shared. Food is given to those who want it, and there are never shortages, thanks to a lack of wanting and the mathematical precision of the bookkeeping. Our days are quiet and uneventful, that’s why disruptions are so alarming. Eric appeared in the greenhouse glass in Winter, a year after Alice left the community. His figure was nothing more than a grey silhouette, the first time, nothing more than a floating entity fogging the glass. I saw him briefly, as I took a short cut through the greenhouse carrying Brussel Sprouts and a leather-bound book. It was a novel, called A Thousand-Year-Old Vampire. I have come back to the greenhouse to see Eric again.
Yesterday marked two years since I achieved residency, two years since Alice and I walked through the gates together. I’ve been dreaming about her, and they are not polite dreams. They are tormented nights of constructed arguments and pleas for forgiveness. I wake up sweating. We came to Thorn on a promise – the promise of tranquillity, and abandonment from the outside world. An autonomous, socialist structure, without an economy, elections, or levels of achievement. Everyone in Thorn is grateful for good deeds, but no rewards or plaudits will come. This does not remove the ego, rather, it leaves the ego without a home. I’m afraid I am being reductive, surely you have heard of our paradise here? We are on the coast, the sea breeze welcome in the Summer and biting in the Winter. It is the perfect amount of cold, often a knitted jumper and a shirt jacket are enough, often the sun is shining but you can still feel a chill, often you can see mist when you breathe, often a mug of coffee warms your hands, often the sky is strikingly blue. Summer, well, summer is hard to imagine right now. The town is a collection of wooden lodges that sporadically circle the meeting place – a stone building with frontal pillars and a triangle roof. Between the lodges are tall trees and coloured paths that intertwine gently to a final point deeper into the woodland to the House of Thorn, our holy site.
On arrival, you are given a duty to be carried out in your own time. The design of Thorn is for meditation, not busywork, for reading and sitting, for painting and silence, for walking and talking. Those who complete their jobs quickly are known as Bees, and those who complete them slowly are known as Cats. I was a member of the Bee category for a long time, whilst Alice was still here. They gave me Letter duty, which entailed keeping records on all the residents, logging basic needs requirements (food and drink, etc), and ensuring light contact between Thorn and the official government. When I was seen to have Bee-like qualities, I was given the extra duty to chronicle Thorn with rudimentary descriptions of events, crop growths, and obituaries, but I have neglected this practice for some time. Alice was tasked to the garden, and almost every evening I would walk from the clerical office in the Meeting Place, down the green path to walk home with her. I remember the smell of soil and her red cheeks as she closed the greenhouse door behind her. A smile or frown depended on the day, depended on the health of the plants, whether Alice had thought of her mother and her past life, whether she had forgotten the mistakes I had made. We wrote our application together. Alice was always better at those sorts of things, she knew how to express herself, she knew what her best qualities were. I’m still not sure that I have any. The application to achieve residency at Thorn is supposed to be an extension of your breath, you must write your major life events as though you’ve just dropped them all over the floor. Alice was good at understanding where I came from. It was my idea to leave common society for Thorn, but it was Alice that got us there.
The dream of Eric came after his first appearance in the glass. I was on a busy street in a hot country, barging past mounds of people late for an appointment or a class. There was a police incident in the road, holding back the waves of the crowd, and I pushed through determined to be on time. I came to an elongated building, that once inside, stretched forwards into a black abyss, narrowing and broken up by a series of checkpoints. Each point had an electric gate, and a guard with the face of Eric, who said nothing. I passed through each checkpoint after Eric gave me a full assessment with his eyes, until finally coming to an open space, a skateboard appeared under my feet, and I rolled further into the abyss as floodlights lit above my head. Eric’s films were a massive part of my identity before Thorn. His stories of love, religion, and betrayal were key to my understanding of the artistic transcending around us, that are existences have no stakes beyond heartbreak, loneliness, and sexual desire. There are no film screenings in Thorn. Eric’s arrival cast a long mysterious shadow over my wellbeing.
Alice was a Cat, not lazy, but leisurely. She could endure silence, sitting on the sandy bank beside the marram grass facing the sea, the wind brushing against her. I couldn’t reach her when she was in this state, she was somewhere else, and my worry that she would stumble over the cliff edge would be lost in the weather. On most days Alice would be in the garden, or greenhouse, reading books on plants, animals, ancient history or art, tending to the crops when the inspiration came to her. She received a package from the outside once, a novel. It was A Thousand-Year-Old Vampire, and quickly it was gifted to me, Alice had no interest in fiction, she couldn’t see the point in it. I still don’t know who gave her that book. The novel charts the life of Jean, a peasant in Northern France in the 12th century who is transformed into a vampire by a jealous teacher, then out of sexual rage turns his lover into a vampire too. They become mortal enemies, as Jean travels through centuries and cities, becoming a slave for witches, murdering innocents, falling in love again, and again, fighting in wars. I haven’t gotten to the end yet.
Alice was gone on a Sunday morning, my hand feeling the cold of her place in the bed. Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night thinking she is in the room with me, but my hands feel nothing but air. I was advised by the other residents of Thorn to make only a single enquiry into her whereabouts, in the form of an outward phone call to her parents. They did not answer. It was to leave the community behind and look for her, or scan the bottom of the cliffs, or try to ascend in the House of Thorn. I took to my duty, and took to my writing, degrading slowly into a Cat, washing my memory away. Then Eric arrived in the glass, and I dreamt. I could feel his presence on me, his haunting, the ghost on my back. He appeared in the corner of my eye when I entered a room, flickering across my retina, pushing anxiety into my stomach, then he would appear on the horizon out over the ocean wandering amongst the clouds. This continued for some time. I wrote him a letter in agony, it read: Eric, the new film is mesmerising. The colouring of the scenes is quite astounding, almost shocking. It’s a nice surprise. Don’t get me wrong your interiors have looked stunning in the past, but with the new film, it’s like a fresh style is falling out of your gut.
Has romance really treated you that badly? I can’t say that I’ve had similar experiences, no, not at all, it would be difficult for me to expose myself like that. The parameters of my love can be wrapped tightly with a ribbon. Your characters are so daring, and well, they are attractive, how can one so ugly expect the same kind of treatment. I think you would be described as ugly, now that you are old, now that your thinness is seen as frailty and not beauty. But you have your new film, you have a scene of white sailboats gliding over blue water, of elegantly painted doors, of invented couples walking through parks. This twilight creative expression is something to take with you into the afterlife, if you believe in that, or if you believe that art will be remembered, you have that too. I’m not entirely sure that 35mm print will survive a supernova. Anyway, I’m losing a minute of sleep each night, and by the time I’m your age I will not get any sleep at all, unless the worst is reversed. Is it raining where you are? It never seems to rain in your films.
I received no reply, and I have waited long enough. Today, I came back to the greenhouse and sat as Alice sat. Somewhere between asleep and awake, Eric’s face appeared in the glass. His face is tired, and droopy, like the face of a preacher who has lost his faith, like the face of a mother disliked by her children. I’m not sure when he died physically, sometime in the early 2000s, maybe, now he sits with me along curtain rings of the future, hanging over the sunlight. This appearance is a response to a letter that needed a reply before the calamity of the haunting, before I was watched over. Looming around Eric’s face is a mist, blending white with the greys on his head, floating towards me and wetting my hands with condensation. We’re surrounded by green plants with oval leaves that are growing close to my forearms, tickling. Eric speaks: It will be a tear the size of an extinct star, washing and engulfing over us, as though the earth was a ball plunging into a river. Physics cannot save you. The ball will drown.
Eric’s voice is trapped inside me. It hurt when Alice left but the pain is not strong enough to force me away, to send me back to the chaos of the regular world. Thorn was a service to her, the greenhouse and garden locked her in, the water lapping onto the shore was enough medicine to heal her mind. I have a lifetime left to give. This is a long time to be spent in partnership with Eric, and tomorrow I will visit the House of Thorn to rid myself of this parasite. I will write about my visit tomorrow evening.
An interview with a survivor of Thorn
We were young and naïve. Not so young that we had not lived, no, we had been educated and we had regrets. I know that I hated most of the choices I had made. We were not like the usual residents of Thorn; I think that’s why we were so well-liked. Iskra was, anyway. She was wonderful with her hands, which meant that she could make things and cook and be of service to the community. That was not the goal of Thorn, but there was an understanding amongst the residents about who was useful and who wasn’t. Most of us didn’t even worship at the House. Iskra did. I think she was praying for a child, which of course was not allowed, but we always dreamed of having a daughter. In the next life, or in ascendance. I tried to ascend once; it was laughable. I hadn’t been to the temple since I arrived, and one day I thought I’d give it a go. It was silly. I wandered around that ghoulish building lighting the fires, then sat cross-legged on the grave of our so-called almighty one and felt nothing. I sat there until my legs ached. Nothing. Iskra could have ascended, maybe she did. Before she died, she told me she wanted to stay with me. That made me cry, and it made my choice for me. It’s coming for me any day now. Do I think that fragile girl ascended? Who knows, the journey would have broken her bones anyway. That boy ruined it all in the end, he couldn’t handle her betrayal, or he couldn’t forgive his own betrayal. It doesn’t matter. He pretended to be at peace, pushed the sadness right down to his feet, ready to trip himself up one day. And he did.
I was a true believer of our community. The religion, I can take it or leave it. My wife is dead, I am childless, what do I care of what awaits me? I have lived long enough, and I lived within the correct proportions of my station. That’s the key. You can be a dreamer, and I was, but you must know the limitations of your life. That’s what Thorn was, an acceptance of what contentment really entails. Try listing them, wealth, power, belongings, sexual gratification, awards. Do any of them beat a blanket? I remember Iskra knitted a blanket for the two of us, it was a remarkable thing. It stretched across the both of us, covered our whole bodies, and we’d wrap it around ourselves in the Winter, sitting on our front porch, watching the walkers go by. They were always walking, that boy included when she left him. I can’t walk for long these days, but I try and make it to the sea at least once a week. Perhaps I want to collapse out there. (He laughs). I would take that ending.
The decision made by my friends was short-sighted. I see their faces at night, the ones that burned especially. What choice did they have? That ignorant boy, always going on about films. His downfall was not reading the scripture, as us oldies did. One line cost the whole community: At the sight of blood, run into the blossom to seal the wound. I’m glad not everyone took Thorn too seriously, and I’m glad that my wife was already gone. We had our fill, and we escaped the wretchedness of this thing around that us you call society. I was not blind, but I was a servant to Thorn, I cannot deny that. I would choose servitude to the cause over your lies and pretences every time, to the acquirement of a daily routine of removing stress and completing tasks. (He has a severe coughing fit.) One of your other guys asked me if I was happy to be finally free, if there was any relief felt at what the boy did, and I laughed in his face. It was only in Thorn when I was free.
Extracts from the Independent Thorn Incident Report
The cause of death for 50% of the residents that perished was the burning of their flesh, including the arsonist. The other 50% was drowning. Those that survived have been systematically interviewed, transcripts of the conversations can be found in Appendix 2.
The House of Thorn was set ablaze on March 19th at 12:05am. The fire spread to the entirety of the west side of town, an orange monster in perfect view from the east side. Those away from the flames ran to the sea and leaped off the cliff edge to their death. Their bodies collected on the beach in a manner that can only be described as a collection of plastic on a never-ending Pacific shore.
Without a doubt, a proverb, an utterly pathetic excuse for a starting place, a desperate beginning to trample over that flashing black line that is glaring back at me. I’m hesitant to call them conversations or encounters or details in a life that has been suitably boring since birth, and I’m hesitant to boast them as worthy. The hope is to be reasonable in the offer, to be kind to the reader, and open to the writer. What is there to be afraid of? The emerging mould beneath the left side of my bed? The inability to pay my rent? The virus? The compulsive tendencies of the everyday? In Shusaku Endo’s The Samurai there is a passage where the protagonist catholic priest bounds his wrists down before he sleeps, and another where a land baron gazes over his fields with a complete feeling of emptiness. I don’t think the two are connected, but I do take both passages to heart. And recently I have been trying to recall what I have read, what I have seen, who I have spoken to, what I have experienced, to take stock of the statistics of an existence that is constantly blurred by mental time travelling, and inadequacy. These rough lines are interrupted by brief moments of levity, pretention, and a hypocrisy that I’m attempting to stray away from, the sense that enjoying something is bad or embarrassing, or expressing emotion is weak, or repulsive. And it is all internal. Above my head is a measly chandelier carrying three hanging lights from a tall white ceiling. Behind my head is a window that is fronted by a decaying green plant, and a loose string to pull down the blinds, which have an annoying gap just where the sun rises every day. Outside is a rectangular yard with low perimeter walls, that is gated by a garage door that cannot be locked, shadowed by a group of trainers hung over telephone wires gently wobbling in the wind. Even higher than the laces are trees, trimmed back and drooping over the cemetery wall from their roots, their veiny undergrowth undoubtedly weaving around and bumping into rotting corpses, or more likely fragments of bones. This view is a new one. It comes after an extended period of being at the family home, after a melodramatic exit from the South of France where the interiors were darker and gloomy, but the exteriors much brighter and thrilling. The memory of living in a different country is like a dream, or the kind of nightmare that feels terrifying, but in reality, the situation is not plausible. I’m on the other side this time, where the houses blend from favela brown to old structures guarded by paths and gardens and degrees and professionalism. Those that wander the area are tall boys with floppy hair and a passive look in their eyes, side by side with pretty girls with blonde hair and thin waists. To be the eagle eye of social status, and metro stations, I think of an American class system of a credit score that fluctuates when Christmas passes, and you lose three points because you have not paid back your student loan yet.
Recollecting, in France, I am wearing black sports shorts with a champion logo that sit well above my knees, matching the colour of the hairs on my legs. Then it is ankle socks and dirty white trainers, and I suppose a t-shirt and an incredibly cheap digital watch. There are probably sunglasses too, and occasionally earphones to block out the shame of a fumbled French conversation, but often I like to hear the sea. The song is No Cure by Zoe’s Shanghai or Le Metro et le Bus by Lewis OfMan, I’m not sure, it depends on the season and the mood, two variables that come hand in hand. I’m reading Franny and Zooey by Salinger and it’s sad. Here, it’s grey joggers with the same trainers, and currently a knitted jumper and a green cap, glasses for vision too. The song is Dry the Rain by the Beta Band, and the book is a collection of Alice Munro stories about middle-aged women despising their gluttonous husbands and their sudden wide hips. It’s hard to relate to but there is some delight found in the prose. The sun can shine in both places and in both places my mind ticks over without breaks from the moment I check the weather app in the morning. Cloudy, trousers. Raining, waterproof. The decisions in a late Riviera summer are much simpler. I arrived in Nice in September of last year brutally unprepared and brutally naïve. The apartment I lived in had an extortionate rent and was owned by a French woman in her sixties, married to an American man a little older than her, who did most of the talking, though in all honesty his accent was tougher to understand than hers. It’s a studio on Boulevard Victor Hugo, three streets away from the promenade and that idiosyncratic pebbly beach, sandwiched between a bourgeois restaurant and the Portuguese embassy. The building reaches to about eight floors, and the apartment was on the second, one turn around a set of concrete stairs. It essentially has three tiny rooms, where the only door other than the front one is to the bathroom attached to the kitchen, which features an oven, a stove, a fridge, and a beautiful coffee maker. The kitchen leads into a living space with a sofa bed, a box tv, and a dining table that can be pulled out to seat four. Above the living room is a mezzanine level reached to via a creaky ladder that somehow houses a double bed, a chest of drawers, and a desk in a space about the size of a car boot. I spent a lot of time in this apartment, and I was never uncomfortable in its claustrophobic size. Two tall windows in the kitchen and living room looked out onto a private garden, and a large tree that was constantly cluttered with hundreds of singing birds. This was an annoying sound on a couple of occasions. Once the landlords had given me the keys, they introduced me to their other tenant upstairs, who I didn’t see again for the rest of the year.
I’m not sure I can compare that apartment to my current living arrangements. I loved that place, I loved the coffee maker, the short walk to the beach, the privacy, but the loneliness and dankness was remarkable. It got extremely cold in there, thanks to the sun facing the other way, and it was easy to get trapped inside, warped in a twisted agoraphobic depression. Here, I have flatmates. And here, I can buy bread without worrying about saying all the words wrong. What to include? I could talk about my weekly laundrette trips, on Fridays, when I knew a machine would be available because it was the day the homeless guys washed their sleeping bags. They kept to themselves and hardly ever said anything to me, and at the start of the year when I had money, I gave them the odd fiver. This was not sustainable, especially after doing my laundry became a luxury expense for me too. What not to include? A world-shattering break-up, perhaps, or a pestering Canadian neighbour, or the stories of a misogynistic Algerian classmate? This seems relevant to my wellbeing but not to my writing. I’m always fascinated by the lack of personal information in travel accounts, and it’s hard to separate a precise located experience from being gloomy about my ex-girlfriend the whole time. Yes mate, this pizza is great, yes, this jazz band is fun, yes, I do fancy you, yes its 29 degrees in March, yes, I’m actually speaking French to a French person and they understand, but do you think she misses me at all?
Some notes on the surrounding areas of Nice. Firstly, Menton, the last town of France before Italy, a sort of town of two sides: one being a crummy tourist spot that has a central high street that looks like it could be in Leeds, and the other side a medieval beauty of pastel coloured houses, and an elongated sandy beach with shallow waters under a mountainside that rounds in two moulds, intersected by the coastal railway. Secondly, Antibes, pronounced ‘ON-TEEB’, a small town a couple of train stops west of Nice, that is desolate and dirty in the winter, but has an English language bookshop. Thirdly, Cannes, further on from Antibes, and of course the home to the exclusive film festival, and a row of boutique stores that could sell one item a week and stay in business. The best way to discover the charm of Cannes, is to go right from the train station to the old town, where you can walk up a hill road past cute restaurants that have pictures of Brad Pitt in the window BECAUSE HE ATE THERE ONCE, YOU KNOW. Finally, Monaco, a city-state guarded by skyscrapers that have the appearance from a distance of growing like plants from the foundation to the peaks of the mountains that enclave the town. It’s a miserable place out of season, the impressive buildings going grey without sunlight, and everywhere is closed except during specific lunch hours.
Nice is the relatively big city in the middle of these coastal settlements, separated into rough outlined districts that are blended through an abstract T shape of the main shopping street bisecting the beach road. Elevating into a hillside from the ocean, the streets and buildings rise up into green humps, in a sort of messy Hollywood hills way. It’s not nearly as glamorous as that, especially when you cascade down into the higher density areas, away from the villas into the apartment buildings of even heights, creating a peculiar skyline of flatness. This living style is one of the great ideals of Mediterranean culture – apartments with balcony’s leaning over narrow streets glaring pink from a seemingly everlasting sunlight, casting shadows over parked cars, which in summer are on top of one another, blocking green lights and pedestrians. For the majority of the time I was in Nice, it was Autumn, meaning intense and sometimes terrifying rainfall, and then it was the Winter, meaning deceivingly cold days and unneeded French scarves. I found it funny, the parkas and the woolly hats when the weather could be described as moderate, but when it is seldom cold, when are you really going to start dressing? It is perhaps a gross misconception that the French are fashionable, they are certainly about a decade behind most trends in the south and prefer the outlandish rather than the sublime. Who am I kidding? The nature of Nice, and France, the people, the attitudes is misrepresented in my mind, thanks to dreading the thought of going to that awful university on the side of a mountain, and this nagging pressure that I was wasting my time there. I’m trying to remember what enchanted me about the place. The university was not all bad. I took classes alongside French students who were specialising in English studies, such as British history, and American popular culture. My other classes included an array of translation courses, usually taken with other students from abroad, who I had an inferiority complex with because they spoke French and I didn’t. They probably thought about me a lot less than I thought about them. I wrote essays on Edgar Allan Poe, John Milton translations, and Shakespeare, in a crash course of English literature, having an unfair advantage because I was born in the god forsaken land. And I took exams on 9/11 conspiracy theories, and the civil rights movement, which was all stimulating enough. The problem with the university was that it needed a makeover, having the appearance of a high school in Thatcher’s Britain, and logistically it was a shambles. Nevertheless, I was in three days a week, and often took liberties with my attendance to give myself time for more misery, more reading and more writing. Mostly misery.
In periods of extreme isolation, I would walk. I trekked to the university, not far, but a right turn away from everything sweet in Nice into inner city surroundings, the destination a sweaty summit after a brutal incline. I walked to the beach, very close, and rented a bike to ride all the way down the promenade and back. It’s a concrete slab heavily populated with dog walkers, skateboarders, and runners with their shirts off, fronted by the pebble beach covered in the Nicois sunbathing on the uncomfortable ground. The beach is much less grotesque than it comes across, the stones are fine to rest on, and the sea is lovely. There is a surprising step into the water from the rocks, but the turquoise colour of the water is a soothing touch to corrupted thoughts, and at night, the waves lap in black and white over an endless chill. It’s something. One evening, a friend and I bought the highest percentage beer from an off-licence, it was rotten, and drank it on the beach, watching the puddles of froth appear like cigarette smoke in a noir movie. The images are a memory. I walked to the Old Town daily, Nice’s crowning statement of tourism, narrow streets tightly cornered by decaying buildings, squeezing alleyways like a cat strangling a bird. There are people everywhere, wandering around with their heads and phone cameras up, cackling in American accents about THE MAGIC OF THE PLACE. The magic of repetitive restaurants and tacky gift stores, all in the guise of authenticity to woo the visitor. Wait until the season is over, and the streets are empty after 7pm, then the old town shines. Temporary art stores emerge, as do the vendors that survive the lack of tourism, and the cute bars owned by optimistic young men, and finally you can see what all the fuss is about. You can see the pretty architecture the chubby hands were snapping at, and you can enjoy Nice’s own distinct nightlife. Three bars captured our attention the most. First, a jazz bar, in the centre of Vieux Nice, that had a rolling cycle of bands that played between hip-hop and soul, and they were good. The drinks were expensive, and the toilets were haunting, but the music was good. Second, a French pub in English style, with cheaper drinks, and a karaoke night, and a vibe of IT’S ALRIGHT, IT MIGHT NEVER HAPPEN. Third, was a two-floor bar that required a knock to get in. Once you were approved by the forever smiling owner, you entered to see a dingy upstairs bar with little prospect, but if you followed the stairs down, you would find a narrow basement bar filled with people genuinely dancing. On offer would be the same songs every night and a shot that burnt your insides. Despite the occasionally sweeping dream of joy in the company I was with, I hated it in there. The best walk was the hike from the edge of Nice to the neighbouring small town of Villefranche-sur-Mer, that took you across the coastline. It hugged the cliff-side, starting on a rock face that protruded out onto the ocean, housing fisherman, and locals looking for a secluded place away from the tourists. Then the path weaved around the coast, through bushes that face the wetness of the shore, over jags in the earth and former gun battlements. Out of Nice, halfway through the walk, leisure yachts drift past you on the water, the captains giving a peculiar nod as they float by. I completed the hike several times, not for Villefranche-sur-Mer, it’s a nothing place, but for the view at the end of the path. Perched on a collection of yellow boulders, with water running between the gaps below, I scanned the scene of a sea inlet gated by mountains and luxury villas, dotted with boats in the marina, silent and unmoved. I liked it there.
What else do I remember? There was an attempted mugging, that failed, because they jumped me on a busy street and got shy, realising the amount of witnesses. There was the food, notably the pizzas, either a perfect Neapolitan from a place in the old town called Acqua e Farina, or a takeaway slice that could be eaten on the steps of the cathedral, drawing in the odd homeless man for a chat. And the croissants, exquisite yet cliched, from a bakery with a pink sign two streets down from the apartment. Then there were the two pilgrimages to the Henri Matisse museum north of town, past the homes with backdoor swimming pools, and beside a hotel that looks like The Overlook, the museum the main attraction of a culture centre that consists of a park, a café, and a site of Roman ruins. It’s free for students, and worth the aching legs, Matisse’s work lovingly exhibited on white corridors and several levels. THE CINEMAS. There was one across the street from the apartment, theatre style, with red cushioned seats and curtains over the screens. Each ticket was bought with courage in language ability, and each film an insight into title changes and translation. A Hidden Life was Une Vie Cachee, and Little Women was Les Filles du Docteur March. The summer was the end goal, the yearning and the dreariness of a retirement town purged by American agitators was an obstacle to overcome, but there would be no reward. It has taken a while to come to terms with peaking around the door at living in that place, seeing the planes glide over the ocean, hearing the cannon shot at twelve every day, tackling the annoyances of French grocery stores. And simmering over lost conversations with honest people, cursing my inability to grasp onto something whilst it’s happening.
That was somewhere else, without a pandemic and without any direction. Here, restrictions increase sentimental order, chaos found outside of the bubble. The photographs of Nice above my desk are from a week spent there in the July before I moved into the apartment. One of them is a shot of the main square, checkerboard flooring, lamppost sculptures and a fountain, shaded in stark contrasts of blue and pink. This area divides the old town from the new, the bookstore and the clothing retail, the clay and the steel, the single and the relationship. I see the shreds of an unreal scenario before me and publish this statement into a resolute heap of a wasted morning.
‘No one cares if you like the place, or hate it, or why. You are simply a tourist, as a skunk is a skunk, a parasitic variation of the human species, which exists to be tapped like a milch cow or a gum tree.’ – Robert Byron, The Road to Oxiana (1937)
The people are still here. Of-course they are. Even the wet and cold cannot keep the people away. Are there more Americans than Italians here? Or are they just louder? I am surprised to see a subcategory of the American tourist, one different from the bootcut jeans, blonde, slightly overweight group of young women finding their true selves in Europe. This subcategory falls somewhere between bro, jock and prep school, and they not all strictly male, though mostly. They are dressed shockingly well and appear to be in town for the beer rather than the culture, which in an American is very odd to see. I am a hypocrite. The bells are ringing at 18:40 for some reason, and I am on my second glass of wine. On the way to the apartment from the train station, I passed through the square where the great black and white cathedral complex sits. It is a three-dimensional chessboard, and a daunting monolith both night and day. Whilst straining my neck gazing up at the chunks of dome and rot on white, I contemplated when climate change would take it. It was a blessing to get this out of the way whilst in motion, rushing past remarkable human achievement to make the check-in time. The greyness of the sky made the bell tower incredibly ominous in its peering over the amateur photographers beneath it, sickened by the queue waiting to get inside its stomach. I imagine whatever is inside is worth queuing hours for, but there was no chance I was doing that. The wine is not great, and I picked it up from tiny supermarket on one of the narrow streets that sits below Piazza del Duomo, and making my way to the apartment I scouted for somewhere to get a pizza later on. I am in Florence, Tuscany, Italy.
The apartment is pleasant enough in its design, with white walls and oak furniture. It is in the shape of a fork – the left prong a narrow hallway to a square kitchen, the middle prong a small bathroom, and the right prong a spacey bedroom. The window in the kitchen is at an angle whereby the inside of the apartments across the way are fully visible, which is unsettling rather than alluring. It is clearly a place for a couple and not a single man. The wine really is not great, I think I may abandon it, close my laptop, and go for dinner.
I walked to one of the restaurants I noted as a possibility earlier. It was a cramped place that had no speciality, but it was quiet, affordable and had a welcoming décor. In my hand I carried The Road to Oxiana by Robert Byron, which is the ultimate cliché given what I’m writing, but my ego is not too large to not know that very few people deeply inspect the title of the book that you are reading, nor am I under any pretentions that the general reader is aware of the Everest of travel fiction. The most striking thing about the book is the description Byron puts into everything he sees, with such detail and poetry, however he is documenting the middle east in the 1930s, not a honeypot in the twenty-first century where Assassins Creed and Instagram exists. There is a sadness to a world uncovered, touched all over, and violated, but it may allow for new avenues of description, such as selfie stick sellers or families wearing surgical masks because of the Coronavirus. I cannot believe Microsoft Word is not spellchecking that. It was not only Eastern Asian’s paranoid about air pollution, but whole groups of Europeans, and North Americans looking like they were heading into a seven-hour triple bypass. When walking past them, fear of not having my own mask would arise for a fleeting moment, then I’d go back to stressing about my usual problems. It became more concerning when I saw a sales assistant in the Gucci store wearing a branded mask. Those stores are horrifying enough already.
In the restaurant I was surrounded by some interesting diners. Ahead of me by the window was a group of four – two slobby bald men with two attractive blonde women ten years younger than them, eastern European, who gave me a few ‘pathetic young man on his own’ looks. To the left of me was an American couple, the guy keeping his baseball cap on, asking odd questions like: ‘What’s in the Ravioli?’ I wished Tony Soprano was in the restaurant too. When eating alone, you can drift away into other people’s conversations without them knowing, and usually you are irritated by what you hear. Though even the thought of hearing back my own conversations makes me want to die. The pizza was fine, got better as it got cooler, and its best quality was that it cut well under the knife into neat slices. I made the common mistake, albeit a happy one, of choosing somewhere in an unfamiliar city that looked accommodating and was, more importantly, cheap. Florence is certainly a town with somewhere to walk after dinner, and I walked a little drunk through a couple of the main centrepieces. At night these grand attractions are surrounded by far fewer people, and still visible thanks to floodlights attached to the buildings opposite them. An attractive couple was stood in front of the old chapel of Il Duomo in perfect composition, and I tried to take a photo of them, then they moved, and I awkwardly acted like I was taking a photo of something else.
Travelling alone is a peculiar experience. I did not feel lonely, but I did crave the ability to share what I was doing with someone. Having your own routine and schedule is relieving, and there is zero pressure of being bored or going somewhere disappointing. With no-one to talk to, however, you find yourself thinking a lot, and I probably wrote this thing a thousand times over in my head, and probably massaged a few Wagyu cows of doubt to greater levels of muscle density too. The Friday night after dinner walk was better than the Saturday night one, because I was more optimistic, there were fewer people and there were a couple of buskers that I spectated that were not terrible. Food digested, I felt like sleeping. A couple of doors down from the apartment is a night club, and at four am when it closed, I was woken up by the leaving customers. In a daze I thought it was the morning and got up. My watch told me it was four and for a moment I was genuinely lost somewhere. I went back to sleep.
The beginning of a tour outside the window was my alarm clock around mid-morning. People interrupting my peace again. I had decided I would explore the town via bookstores, which in Florence creates a lovely circular route that touches the corners of the city centre. Some of these bookstores were glorified stationary stores, and one of them was essentially an elderly guy’s office where it was possible that I had walked into an estate agent’s by mistake. Nestled on an alleyway is a bookstore that has a large collection of English language books, and I picked up a book of Virginia Woolf essays and Gravity’s Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon. I was satisfied and ended my bookstore route. The truth is I struggle to get excited about historic landmarks, or museums, and they are always a bit disappointing. This led to a rather aimless session of wandering.
I have been thinking about why I decided to take this trip. There does not need to be a reason, but I want one. Perhaps it is because of the solo trip Greta Gerwig takes to Paris in Frances Ha. It turns out to be a bit of a depressing catastrophe in the film, and my trip would probably end in the same fashion, at least emotionally, and what will I have learned? The discovery of a new place is arbitrary if you take nothing away from it, whether that’s good food, an original photo, or whatever. As of right now, it has solidified a few things in my mind, rather than create new ones. It is like a twisted form of confirmation bias: yes, I am sad, yes, I am worried, yes, I think sightseeing is basically meaningless, yes, tourists are annoying, yes, pizza. It could be because I wanted to write something like this, though really the inspiration only came when I got to Florence. Keeping in constant transit to take your mind off things is a flawed hypothesis and it takes constant activity instead. Walking around a town alone does not provide this, and on the second day I slipped into a deep melancholy. Only the destinations of grandeur could save me, which meant going to Piazza Della Signoria, somewhere I frequented as it was a couple of roads down from the apartment. The Palazzo Vecchio’s clean brownness is less disconcerting than the Duomo. Its clock, an angel at the top of the tree, shows the wrong time. At its foundations are a collection of sculptures, men and women alike locked together, statue of David-esque, and a freebie view at some of the heritage of the town. To truly respect the artistry, I ate a sandwich sat below one, dodging photographers, and shifting my eyes from the square to the palace. The focaccia and speck did not match with the soft cheese, but I have had lunch in worse places.
Geographical locations rarely let me down and the river in Florence is about the only thing I saw and thought: wow I am glad that I am looking at this. Naturally, the infamous Ponte Vecchio (old bridge) is littered with people, but still remains pretty. The river water is green, and the flow appears artificial, like they are pumping a limited supply of water in from the grassy banks. It expands through many bridges and does manage to weed out some of the crowds, as the other side of the bridge has to be where the people in the know go, surely. That’s the thing about Florence, there is no separation, no districts or areas that divide class or age and it is all close in together, which makes it difficult to find the best spots on first arrival. Resisting the urge to throw myself off one of the bridges, I returned back to the apartment where I wrote most of this, hence the confusing tenses. Fuck it. Did David Foster Wallace care? I mean he hung himself, but in his writing, what rules did he play by? None of it matters. There is this Vaccines song called No Hope on their second album Come of Age, and it’s a great tune about being in your early twenties, anxious about where your life is and where it’s going. I like the song because it has the line ‘I find my life ever so moving,’ indicating a self-awareness of the self-pitying, I’m special my experience means something, that I think about and write about constantly. It is this built-in romanticism of a chosen one mentality where the whole world is on your shoulders, when really it is not that deep. I headed back out in the evening because I was thinking too much. I had done some research on where to get the best pizza and settled on a place not far from the apartment. It was a buzzier vibe than the restaurant the night before, and a much better pizza. Eating it, I actually felt like I was enjoying something.
I had a second glass of beer because of my change in mood, and a queue began to form at the door to the restaurant. A good sign, and a good time to leave, so I finished my drink with a couple of big gulps to free up a table. It was raining somewhat heavily outside, and there was a deep puddle in the crevice between the path and the road. My shoes were already filthy. There is some cover where the market resides in the daytime, and at night it’s illuminated by the fluorescent sign of an H & M, a shop that gives me PTSD. A presumably homeless painter was sat on a stool in front, taking shelter from the rain, leaning his canvas on a limestone pillar. I watched him work for a while, then ventured back out into the rain. These towns full of people continue to puzzle me. I often wonder if normal people with normal jobs live in these towns. There must be some – there are universities and offices. I feel bad for those people. The florid ideal of living in Florence would soon be crushed by the daunting realisation that the endless stream of tour guides never ends, and only increases year by year. Florence is effectively a massive outdoor museum. I did not get a feeling of real life in the town until my six am walk to the train station to leave back to France. This is where I saw regular dog walkers, and people still faded from the night before. Until then, it had been an insight into the world of taking a photo of your husband in front of old shit, and I had seen enough of it. Take me away.
I have an answer as to why I took the trip: It was an exercise of progressing time, progressing moods. Running scared rather than escaping. I do not want the power to go back in time and change things, I want the power to go forward in time, to a point of non-dwelling. What I have to remind myself is to make the time useful.
Sam Mendes returns from the world of James Bond (after the absolutely awful Spectre) with a World War One movie, in memory of his grandfather who fought in the conflict. It’s an Oscar favourite, the kind of film that ticks across several categories, and its being sold as a triumphant achievement in filmmaking that has to be seen on the big screen. The chances of the film falling under its own weight, and ‘one-shot’ style, were very high going into this one.
It’s 1917, and two young soldiers who have already seen their fair share of action are given the mission to get behind enemy lines to pass a message on to a commanding officer. That simple, effecting plot, pushes the film forward with great force in the film’s opening. Before learning how insane the job is, Blake (Dean-Charles Chapman, Prince Tommen from Game of Thrones) picks partner Schofield (George MacKay, Captain Fantastic, Pride) to go with him, and they set off in haste after receiving the orders from a chubby Colin Firth. The commanding officer they need to get to is in charge of a company that is unknowingly walking into a German trap of great armaments, and it is a company Blake’s brother is a member of. And so, despite Schofield’s hesitations they rush to jump over the trenches into no man’s land. This set up allows for a thrilling first twenty minutes, where the two men hurry through the trenches, the Steadicam pulling in front of them. Going over the front line, the stress of moving across no man’s land is inevitable, and Mendes evokes a lot of tension with his fluid camera, like the mission they are on, however, this has a time limit.
The one-shot, unedited, constant rolling picture is thankfully not a gimmick here, at least for the first half of the film. It is a very effective technique when characters are walking towards something, and there are variations in height and scenery to keep it interesting. Probably the most mind-boggling shot of the film is in that first sneak to the German line, where the camera goes down into a crevice, tracking the two men across a body of water. It is an exciting build-up, that is unfortunately let down once they have made it past the German trenches. Not to say the film is particularly dull from there on, but certainly the highlight of the film is that gripping, daring hop over the front line. Then comes the one cut in the film, that’s right, an obvious unhidden cut in a one-shot movie. This is not a problem; however, it does signify a big slice down the middle of the film. In this second half, Mendes slips into one of his classic characteristics – over-sentimental, florid imagery that comes across as incredibly pretentious. Schofield dashes through a film set playground of catholic church iconography, that looks so fabricated that it cannot repeat the tension of the opening act. Then the energy of the Steadicam is lost in a silly and melodramatic central scene that stops the plot dead in the tracks.
Mendes’ emotional connection with the story is obvious, and what he does manage to capture is the absolute horror of war, at times replicating the same feeling that The Thin Red Line does – the feeling of fear and hopelessness of the soldiers. This is a respectable viewpoint to take, though it leads to a flawed film, whereby Mendes floats too long in mushy motifs and makes the one-shot idea pointless for a good chunk of the runtime. Luckily, he has crème de la crème of Hollywood cinema Roger Deakins shooting for him, meaning there are some extraordinary shots towards the end of the film that stop the film from being boring. The inclusion of the odd huge star popping up throughout the film was welcome as well, which is usually distracting, but here it added some gravitas, and a new lease of life at times when it really needed it. George Mackay does his best with some awful lines of dialogue, and Mendes should have really kept the focus on the camera rather than the actor. It is possible to achieve empathy in a war movie, rattling along, not worried about having scenes of quiet to prove it cares about the people too.
The forceful nature of those quiet scenes really tarnished the anticipation of the initial conceit of the film and leaves it nowhere near greatness. It is one of those films, where it’s curious to wonder about those who have been completely amazed by it. The film has a fine pacing and fine message, and is expertly well constructed, but there is nothing extraordinary about it. Its nomination in Best Editing at the Oscars is a strange one (one in your face cut, and a few covert ones) and its nomination in Best Original Screenplay is even stranger. The script is a bad one, and a World War One film working on the memories of a family member is not entirely original concept, whether Mendes (and Krysty Wilson-Carins) penned it from scratch or not. Although it is hard to dog on a film this noble, it is another example of a product sold to mainstream audiences as a filmmaking feat, where really it is just extremely unremarkable.
Something fresh that filmmaker Greta Gerwig brings to the Little Women story, in the new adaptation, is the elements of meta. Her screenplay weaves in biographical details about Louisa May Alcott, the original author of the classic novel, creating a sense of reverence for the writer that establishes the real-world accomplishments of the source text. It is a wonderful notion, that doubles the meaning of the work, in both a fictional and historic manner. Aside from that, Gerwig presents a further meta about writing and directing, whereby the plays of Shakespeare are discussed in the film in terms of work that managed to be both poetic and popular. Little Women 2019 is the perfect example of a repeatedly told story, that is newly remarkable because of talented authorship, and the reach to artistic achievement in a sellable mainstream affair.
The undeniable brilliance of the original story is important, and it’s why the book keeps getting adapted, and why it keeps working. Writer and director Greta Gerwig is faithful to the material, and never really messes with the intricacies of the plots, just plays around with the camera, setting and character. Saoirse Ronan stars as Jo March in an utterly gorgeous performance, splitting the timeline between childhood and adulthood, hued memories and bleak realities. Her sisters are all given as much development as she is, in slightly less time: Florence Pugh as Amy, Emma Watson as Meg, and Eliza Scanlen as Beth. Their mother, played by Laura Dern, is a piece of all of them, in her clothes and the shades of colour in her hair. In a film full of moving scenes, it would easy to overlook the quieter moments where the sisters are bickering in their family home, talking over the top of each other rhythmically, all written exactly by Gerwig. This is when you fall completely into the setting and are happy to stay there. Across the road, in a much larger home, lives Theodore ‘Laurie’ Laurence, again beautifully performed by Timothee Chalamet, who lives with his austere grandfather, played by Chris Cooper. In contrast to the warmth of the March house, the Laurence manor is far more masculine and impersonal, only brought to life when the girls visit. One of the stunning extracts of the film is when Laurie is stood on a chair undergoing a teaching lesson from tutor John Brooke (James Norton), when he spots Amy outside the window, saying to John excitedly: “There’s a girl out there.” Soon all the sisters are in the study, catching the boy’s infatuation, bringing a spark to the spacious mansion.
It is in this scene when the little details of acting and directing prowess are ever-present. Jo gallops into the room inspecting the vast collection of books, and Laurie tracks her with his eyes, in love with her of course, Chalamet has it all over his face. It’s a look we have all given, and Chalamet’s recreation on screen is a constant, building this mesmerising chemistry he has with Ronan. Their movements seem almost in sync, dancing together, rubbing each other’s hair, embracing tight and long, agonising for Laurie and comforting for Jo. If you know the story, then you’ll know that at the heart of the romance is this pair, how perfect they seem for one another, yet it cannot work out. Ronan and Chalamet’s time on screen together encapsulate this, and the inevitable confrontation they have is truly astonishing cinema. Due to an excellent screenplay that loses all silliness and exaggerated chivalry, the crescendos confession from Laurie and subsequent rejection from Jo is neither melodramatic nor pretentious, instead feels contemporary and honest to life. Thanks in part to the tactility, and closeness to their friendship, where it is an absolute joy to see Jo punch Laurie on the arm whenever he is being particularly stupid. Away from the bonds between characters, the film has modern sensibilities because of the style of the players when they are viewed singularly, such as Jo’s hairstyle, or the way Laurie wears his American Civil War era clothes. Even Saoirse Ronan’s running has a twenty-first-century beat to it, like the way Gerwig runs herself in Frances Ha. All of that being said, it is in the editing where Gerwig really brings the story to the now, and the choice to have two narratives side by side throughout is an effective one, being bound only by the families it has the impression of separate readings. It traverses as expected from a New York trained indie filmmaker, whilst keeping tight with the time period, and it is difficult to not be seduced by its charm.
There is genuine and sincere poetry in this film. It has ideas on female recognition, love, contentment, childhood, and writing that are fledged out to a base level. The film is funny and heart-warming, treats its sadder moments with respect and allows each character to act out in meaningful ways. And it is all packed into a story that is important to so many and will be seen by huge audiences across cinemas all over the world. Greta Gerwig has achieved poetry in the mainstream, with subtleties and intelligent casting, matched with a cinematographer (Yorick le Saux) who gives energy to each shot and lighting choice – every time it cut to a new location, I was excited to see what my eyes saw next. I think we are lucky to have a film like this, one with such magic. I do not believe the film is radical, nor groundbreaking and I’m not about to try and understand the complexities of a feminist message. Little Women is ultimately about a level of compromise, and you do not have to squint hard to see Gerwig herself sacrificing a perhaps more impactful protest by succumbing to the pressures of producing a film that can be easily adored. When you have a film this special, that imagines impossibly strong emotive reactions, at least from myself, you get a free pass into greatness, placed into a column titled: what makes life worth living.
Martin Scorsese’s new movie is coming out on Netflix, could you believe it? The master of all masters relying on vomit-inducing exploitative true crime friends wanking twitter meme creating cinema killing Netflix to get backing to make what he wants to. Uncanny and welcome to those dealing with French cinemas unpredictable schedules, and so myself, AND I’M SURE many others delve headfirst into one of life’s contradictions, watching an auteurs vision on your laptop, begrudgingly, as you stew in popular streaming hatred. Can’t wait. It has prompted a little look back on said director’s filmography, combing through the hits to find the ones that have been missed by my selective, compulsive brain. After Hours, 1985, a cult hit known for being the Tim Burton debut that never was, taken on by a man who had won the Palme D’or with Taxi Driver and solidified bankable critically loved status with Raging Bull (he didn’t quite receive GOD-LIKE status until after 1990’s Goodfellas I should think). At the time, the hacks probably saw it as a strange choice, however that could be the awful spin that Marty has of being a gangster man, I mean the guys made a musical. In the 80s it could have been an obvious turn for a man with his hands in production companies’ deep pockets, back in the day when skillful filmmakers got access to trouser storage (WHERE ARE YOU DAVID FINCHER?). Anyway, instead of contemplating on the OBVIOUSLY trampled on ground that is Scorsese’s career, why don’t I egotistically relate an odd movie from the 80’s to stressing out about logistical paperwork and phone sims, as a kind of self-therapy, repulsively introspective way of showing that I can only write about myself.
The film is about a guy who meets a girl in a coffee shop, by her interrupting his reading to tell him how much she loves the book. It’s an incel’s fantasy. She covertly gives him her number, he calls her when he’s home, she invites him round, he accepts, and then a nightmare of a late-night ensues for the guy, Paul (Griffin Dunne), as he effectively bombs around Soho, NYC, trying to get his end away. Actually, it’s more like he’s doing the exact opposite, but when the opportunity arises to get his end away, he certainly attempts to seize the opportunity. After a while, he familiarly gets the feeling of just wanting to get home, because he gets stuck in a logistical misunderstanding dungeon whereby everyone in the neighbourhood hates him and the subway fare has suddenly increased. Dunne is an everyman for sure, part of that beautiful era where leading men were 5 foot 7 twitchy dorks, crossing over from the seventies into a decade of muscle tight Stallone’s. He can’t believe his luck that an attractive girl wants to hang out with him, until he discovers the catch, and tries to swiftly get away from her. Kafkaesque would be an understatement and the horror of the uncomfortable situations are where the films protein is, yet it’s the latter stages when it becomes overwhelming where I found myself relating the most. In the final third, Paul screams to the skies ‘I JUST WANT TO LIVE!’ and sat in my apartment I had a flashback break of trying to find a working printer in an underfunded French university, or filling out a grant form, or arguing with an American landlord over the phone, or panicking that I’m getting charged by the second for my English phone sim whilst living in a different country.
It’s not an anxiety issue or a mental problem, it’s the stuff that gets in the way of life and it is annoying. Paul is dealing with suicides, burglars and pseudo Femme Fatales, I’m dealing with slow replies to urgent e-mails. I think the term is subtext, and I AM absolutely convinced that After Hours is about being stressed about life, and menial irritating tasks that add nothing of value to comfort or satisfaction. Paul has a boring job, he’s a word processor (RIP), and the one chance he has to do something exciting is crushed by dull problems, such as losing his keys or GETTING HIS HAIR SHAVED INTO A MOHAWK IN A TERRIFYING PUNK CLUB. The razor blade to the skull is when it bubbles to a far greater worry, a far greater fear that definitely wasn’t in the zeitgeist back then like it is now. Scorsese makes timeless, eternal works of art of course. I’m talking about climate change, the planet is screwed with no-one making meaningful policy changes to stop it, thinking about a future of swimming to a job you don’t like rather than walking to it. It’s compound stress on top of all the other pointless shit, and it’s about the only thing worth getting worried about. The longevity of the human race and the legacy of what you leave behind trumps the fear of death, and what you’re going to do with a media degree when you hate journalism and working for other people. It’s kind of a twisted relief, and with some complexity, the paperwork takes your mind off the graduating, then the graduating takes your mind off the paperwork, and then the polar bears going extinct takes your mind off the inevitable half of century in the workforce and then dementia at the end of it. At least we have films by great directors about grimy city settings, and sub-cultures you’re not a part of, swilling at the bottom of a glass, created by artists that can develop these worlds in their minds and restrict access to those clad in a suit and tie. After Hours is a film of its time, because I think New York City isn’t a constant crime-ridden Halloween anymore? I don’t know. The film can be attributed to representing those lovely first world problems, lovely privileged and BORED day to day issues that make living unbearable and the relentless end to it much more inviting. Also, the lighting is gorgeous and it’s shot better than any film that has come out post 2000.
The vertical line is blinking and the only thought running around the room, exterior from any kind of mind space is that the black hole created by god is a sex joke. Or instead a point of insertion into the discovery of planetary desire or the foundation of human drive, rather than an example of any kind of creation humour. Perhaps even assigning this idea shows the sickness of the society that physics, chemistry, and biology created, and not the divine one himself. He only dreams of being that funny. Science is the canvas and art is the paintbrush, someone must have said – what if the English language was the canvas and Robert Pattinson was the paintbrush, a tool held onto softly by the warm hands of Claire Denis. That is a simple imagination hovering above a tangible and ultimately pointless object and still, we are dying to know what happened beyond the white light. Prose guessing your way through digital celluloid has about as much meaning as peeling an orange and eating it, only to digest the fruit and then defecate its remains. Actually, it’s closer to peeling an orange, throwing it at someone who does not acknowledge its existence then eating it, before vomiting it all back up over the same person who will continue to ignore your cries for attention. The conclusion to HIGH LIFE has inspired something however, and now staring at the orange, you can only wonder its sugar content and what pesticides cover its skin.
There is a sweetness to the red-carpet photos of Robert Pattinson holding the baby that played his daughter in the film, a sweetness that is doubled when you discover the child belongs to one of his close friends. That sweetness is present in the film but seldom in that imagination hanging over it. It’s not a radical take to note the danger of R Pats in HIGH LIFE, his character Monte is a celibate and a part-time pacifist, which is a much scarier version than the killer he may have once been. The later scenes with his grown-up daughter are like one setting plays where there is a gun in the top drawer, except the upper-class characters haven’t been adulterous, they’ve been floating through space alone for more than a decade. And they’ve been off-camera too, away from prying eyes and a judgemental western audience whose only experience of incestuous stories have been on fantasy television shows and porn websites. It is certainly a twisted thought, and an animalistic brazen view of Monte, who is our unfortunate hero. Denis’ intentions may have been accidentally cruel on this new platform for her output, and yet they are honest and true in Pattinson. She cast him based on his intelligence, the kind of intelligence where Pattinson can deliver with clarity whatever is thrust upon him. This is a total contradiction of course, it is not about clarity, because Denis does not show us the future once they have passed the white light. Under final assessment, the predicted denouement would not indicate an evil, lustful Monte due to the brightness of Denis’ final shot. It is far too heavenly.
Death for Monte would be a release, whilst death for his daughter would be a strange beginning. With this explanation her journey into the world would be a short one, shorter than those flies that are born, mate and perish in a single day. The drifting space shuttle is hardly anything more than a womb, a holding cell before heading into general population. Take solace in the peace and dread the incoming small talk. Monte can keep his daughter’s innocence by guiding her into the sub-molecular hole he’s been avoiding, and it seems she wants it as much as he does. The step of the pier is a peculiar notion and they must know something we do not, Denis pressing down on the naivety of consciousness. Our ego and our need for our feet to touch the ground is questioned when all you can hear is the running of a depleting water supply. This is when the sick jokes and the sick epiphanies about ejaculation and restraint are thrown out of the window. The chances of there being a fuck room in the next level of reality are slim, and it won’t really matter when sexual organs disintegrate as you do. Pessimism, with the white light turning into an infinite black one, is an easy road to go down here. It’s a clear answer and a dull one which is not Denis’ style.
Optimism is misjudged, the poetic potential of a happy ending is rarely visited. Denis’ masterpiece BEAU TRAVAIL enjoys a credits scene that rides the line, bobbing up and down in the middle. Here, she slaps R Pats on the back and tells him to start walking. It is all sensory and emotional. Writing like this only occurs because of the success of the film, and the proverbial pasta is being thrown incredibly hard at the wall here. The orange has become dilute, drowning in a tap water of paradoxical inferences that have a longer reach than what the text is potentially offering. And this is an offer from Denis, and Pattinson and Juliette Binoche, edging her blouse further down one failed attempt at an American accent at a time, trying to collect sperm cells as the writer, director throws them all onto the table, not carelessly but with an accuracy that could cut through an eight inch wall with a side of A4. Plotting is a nuisance and cinema is a distraction, the white light theories shattered when the income peaks at one point two mil, leaving the discourse in disarray, colliding against familiar enclosed walls. Would it be cliché to say that none of it matters when the maker cuts to credits?
‘I think you’re foxy and you know it.’
‘I think the painful doom that is meandering towards Earth is really killing my hard-on.’