Not had many opportunities to update the blog recently, for reasons I will reveal later, so in the meantime I'm just going to add a few diary entries from the week before last. Off to Dublin this afternoon, so I'll blog on that next week, but here's what I was up to in the run-up to Valentine's Day ...
(10/02/09): Met in the BFI on Southbank with Ruth for a quick bite to eat at benugo, picking cheese & chard cannelloni from the menu. Then went to the nearby Studio to watch a late showing of Waltz with Bashir, an Israeli animated film depicting an ex-soldier’s journey to recover the memories surrounding his role in the 1982 Sabra and Shatila massacre in Lebanon. The subject matter was a true eye-opener for me, knowing little about the Lebanon War and Israel’s role in supporting Lebanese Christians, known as the Phalangists, against Lebanese Muslims and the Palestinian Liberation Organisation (PLO) in South Lebanon. The film has a powerful, comic book noir style and a seductive soundtrack, exploring the theme of memory, and specifically how the brain can play tricks and keep hidden painful episodes that result from trauma. Eventually, by listening to the tales of other veterans reminiscing about the war, the main character (director Ari Folman’s alter ego) begins to piece together his actions in the run-up to the massacre. As he hears of how the Israeli Defence Force acted as facilitators to the Phalangists, by setting up watchposts and throwing up flares during the night so that the slaughter of hundreds of defenceless Muslims could take place, his own participation becomes clearer too and one particular memory unfolds into a powerful finale using live news footage of the massacre. This moving ending left everyone shocked and glued to their seats several minutes after the film ended. Apart from highlighting the strange workings of human memory and the travesties that result from religious violence, the film also pointed to how playing a passive or “neutral” role during a time of war is a mark of moral cowardice. I’d be surprised if Waltz with Bashir doesn’t win the Best Foreign Language Film award this Sunday at the Oscars.
(11/02/09): Night in alone while Ruth’s at the Skylon drinking cocktails and eating tapas, so I decide to finish my book, The Third Policeman by Flann O’Brien. Opening reminds me of James Joyce’s Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man, in the way the writing style tries to mimic the patterns of an adolescent boy’s thoughts, but events then start to get very strange. Only at the end of the book does everything make sense, but in the meantime we get a picture of hell set in provincial Ireland, where the policeman are obsessed with bicycles and eternity is down a lift shaft. Very funny in parts, especially when the narrator explores the wacky theories of an obscure academic called De Selby, who believes that the blackness of nightfall is caused by noxious gases, but also frightening at the end when the twist in the plot is revealed and the main character realises he has to repeat the same surreal journey ad infinitum.
(12/02/09): Eat Katsu Curry at Wagamama on Southbank with Ruth & John, then head to the National to see Richard Bean play England People Very Nice, on immigration in London’s East End. Stuffed with witty punchlines but devoid of depth. Most of the audience seem to enjoy the parade of un-PC stereotypes, with French Huguenots, the Irish, Jews, Bangladeshis and Cockneys all lambasted in turn, but somehow the laughs seem weak and I can’t join in the mirth. Not to paint myself as some kind of black prince of sorrow, but my objection is that I don’t come to the theatre to laugh at tired and worn out clichés about other ethnic groups, but instead to have any such notions challenged and explored. Danger, not comfort, please. Plus the characterisation was weak, and the love story between an Eastender and Indian restaurant owner failed to either move me or seem credible. The play’s central theme is that Englishness is not a fixed entity, but constantly evolving with wave after wave of immigration, as each is first met with ignorance and hatred but eventually assimilated. Fair enough, pretty old hat really, but maybe useful to school children as an introduction to London’s immigrant history. Where the play does seek to challenge though is by hinting that the most recent wave of immigration, Asian Muslims, somehow marks a break in this pattern of assimilation, heralding a multicultural yet divisive society. But isn’t it too soon to make such a judgment Mr Bean? Maybe just stick to the comedy, and leave the national stage free for more subtle and challenging playwrights.
(13/02/09): After a relaxing day working from home and watching a few episodes of HBO's Rome, I met Ruth and my parents at the Millenium Dome before going into the smaller indigo2 venue to see Erroll Brown's Farewell Tour. Having grown up on the hits of Hot Chocolate, I thought it would be a nice treat for the parents to get tickets, and a good opportunity to try out the new facilities at the indigo2. Apart from the overpriced drinks (£4 a pint), it's a well-designed live venue with a good intimate feel. The night's entertainment measured pretty high on the cheese scale - "like listening to Magic radio", as Ruth said - but we were on our feet and dancing at the end as Errol banged out the hits, first "It Started With A Kiss", then "I Believe In Miracles" and the grand finale of "You Sexy Thing". Thanks for the memories, Mr Brown.
(10/02/09): Met in the BFI on Southbank with Ruth for a quick bite to eat at benugo, picking cheese & chard cannelloni from the menu. Then went to the nearby Studio to watch a late showing of Waltz with Bashir, an Israeli animated film depicting an ex-soldier’s journey to recover the memories surrounding his role in the 1982 Sabra and Shatila massacre in Lebanon. The subject matter was a true eye-opener for me, knowing little about the Lebanon War and Israel’s role in supporting Lebanese Christians, known as the Phalangists, against Lebanese Muslims and the Palestinian Liberation Organisation (PLO) in South Lebanon. The film has a powerful, comic book noir style and a seductive soundtrack, exploring the theme of memory, and specifically how the brain can play tricks and keep hidden painful episodes that result from trauma. Eventually, by listening to the tales of other veterans reminiscing about the war, the main character (director Ari Folman’s alter ego) begins to piece together his actions in the run-up to the massacre. As he hears of how the Israeli Defence Force acted as facilitators to the Phalangists, by setting up watchposts and throwing up flares during the night so that the slaughter of hundreds of defenceless Muslims could take place, his own participation becomes clearer too and one particular memory unfolds into a powerful finale using live news footage of the massacre. This moving ending left everyone shocked and glued to their seats several minutes after the film ended. Apart from highlighting the strange workings of human memory and the travesties that result from religious violence, the film also pointed to how playing a passive or “neutral” role during a time of war is a mark of moral cowardice. I’d be surprised if Waltz with Bashir doesn’t win the Best Foreign Language Film award this Sunday at the Oscars.
(11/02/09): Night in alone while Ruth’s at the Skylon drinking cocktails and eating tapas, so I decide to finish my book, The Third Policeman by Flann O’Brien. Opening reminds me of James Joyce’s Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man, in the way the writing style tries to mimic the patterns of an adolescent boy’s thoughts, but events then start to get very strange. Only at the end of the book does everything make sense, but in the meantime we get a picture of hell set in provincial Ireland, where the policeman are obsessed with bicycles and eternity is down a lift shaft. Very funny in parts, especially when the narrator explores the wacky theories of an obscure academic called De Selby, who believes that the blackness of nightfall is caused by noxious gases, but also frightening at the end when the twist in the plot is revealed and the main character realises he has to repeat the same surreal journey ad infinitum.
(12/02/09): Eat Katsu Curry at Wagamama on Southbank with Ruth & John, then head to the National to see Richard Bean play England People Very Nice, on immigration in London’s East End. Stuffed with witty punchlines but devoid of depth. Most of the audience seem to enjoy the parade of un-PC stereotypes, with French Huguenots, the Irish, Jews, Bangladeshis and Cockneys all lambasted in turn, but somehow the laughs seem weak and I can’t join in the mirth. Not to paint myself as some kind of black prince of sorrow, but my objection is that I don’t come to the theatre to laugh at tired and worn out clichés about other ethnic groups, but instead to have any such notions challenged and explored. Danger, not comfort, please. Plus the characterisation was weak, and the love story between an Eastender and Indian restaurant owner failed to either move me or seem credible. The play’s central theme is that Englishness is not a fixed entity, but constantly evolving with wave after wave of immigration, as each is first met with ignorance and hatred but eventually assimilated. Fair enough, pretty old hat really, but maybe useful to school children as an introduction to London’s immigrant history. Where the play does seek to challenge though is by hinting that the most recent wave of immigration, Asian Muslims, somehow marks a break in this pattern of assimilation, heralding a multicultural yet divisive society. But isn’t it too soon to make such a judgment Mr Bean? Maybe just stick to the comedy, and leave the national stage free for more subtle and challenging playwrights.
(13/02/09): After a relaxing day working from home and watching a few episodes of HBO's Rome, I met Ruth and my parents at the Millenium Dome before going into the smaller indigo2 venue to see Erroll Brown's Farewell Tour. Having grown up on the hits of Hot Chocolate, I thought it would be a nice treat for the parents to get tickets, and a good opportunity to try out the new facilities at the indigo2. Apart from the overpriced drinks (£4 a pint), it's a well-designed live venue with a good intimate feel. The night's entertainment measured pretty high on the cheese scale - "like listening to Magic radio", as Ruth said - but we were on our feet and dancing at the end as Errol banged out the hits, first "It Started With A Kiss", then "I Believe In Miracles" and the grand finale of "You Sexy Thing". Thanks for the memories, Mr Brown.
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