Today's issue: cum militibus circumfudimus; movies; art at the National Gallery; appropriation;
On Sunday I went to yet another protest. You'll remember I was feeling a bit glum about the whole idea. I mean, standing up and shouting is "important" but won't basically change anything. Politicians et al won't listen - it's purely a symbolic act. The problem with this protest is that it was important, one of the ones in which making a visible symbolic act was incredibly meaningful. And also, by it's very nature, ludicrously dangerous. The English Defence League and Stop Islamification of Europe were protesting against a mosque in Harrow. So the good guys were going along to protest against them. The idea that walking straight into a potential street fight would be the most effective protest I'd ever attend was pretty demoralising. It was all Spirita's idea, and I was to meet her up there. She suggested we could be Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. I warned her in advance that I couldn't swim.
Still, the tube journey to Harrow was lovely - right to the end of the Bakerloo line, up in the cold north - practically the Arctic. There were fields, trees and a huge wide sky - I read up on representations of cinematic violence. When I arrived, there was a sign up from the Mosque leaders politely asking the anti-protest to go home and not cause a fuss:
Spirita showed up at about 1, and we got very cold while chatting to the other protesters. Some media were on top of a building. There was a rally, with loudspeakers, and people wittering about how socialism was the only way. Apparently, the mosque had had letters of support from just about everyone - local Rabbis and bishops, Sikhs, Hindus, Humanists, the police, councilmembers. Very soon after this, Spirita had to leave - Sundance runs off to Bolivia with Etta and abandons me all on my own! What a fine pal. She suggested we could be Mr Orange and Mr White instead, which made me feel slightly better. At two, the lefties - probably now about 100 surged away from the mosque towards the barriers put up by the police in a huge car park. The idea was both teams would be corralled separately, and shout at each other over a wall. For the edification of concerned parentals, though it makes for a less dramatic story, I confess I was standing very much at the back. There's making a point and then there's being ridiculous. I was a good way away from the clumped crowd and ready to dash at the first sign of trouble. I'm not taking a punch for anyone.
Kickoff arrived at 2 - by which time I was perched on a wall away from the action, holding a placard and mentally trying to write an account of the day in the style of Caesar. This is a project I may still try - no one writes Latin prose quite like Caesar. After about fifteen minutes, I went to see if I could spot any fascists. I know they exist, intellectually, but I still felt a sense of curiosity - like viewing rare butterflies or something. The good guys were stretched about 3-men deep, so it was easy to get between them. About three meters away was the other corral, containing about 12 of the villains. It was hard to identify them for sure at first because they looked terribly ordinary. It's not like I expected them to have wings and horns, but all the same.
No, just caps and hoodies. They weren't shouting or anything - just shuffling shamefacedly and chatting with the police. Between the two corrals were six policemen with german shepherds. In keeping with the tone of the day, they weren't yapping ferociously and straining - one had rolled onto its belly and was having a nap.
At this point, everything became very clear. Via a loudspeaker, it turned out the baddies had claimed they would have 1,500 with them - which explained the huge police prescence. According to another single serving friend, there had been previous attacks on this particular mosque which had got very out of hand. It got very cold, started raining and I figured the point had been made and left them all to it.
Even with the request to stay away, I'm glad I went - it was nice to be out in the air and quite a lot of fun, and things didn't turn violent so no harm done, eh?
Calypso and I have seen the Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus, and I'm pleased to report it isn't bad - in fact, it's really rather awesome. Beautiful, daft, dark - a tad random, but Gilliam does manage to hold it all together in a way I didn't expect him to. Also, some beautiful shots of Dark London. On the way home we discovered the Sherlock Holmes premiere had been going on. We asked the police, who told us we'd just missed it - but they encouraged us to take one of the huge cardboard posters that had been decorating the barriers. We spent the Tube home cooing about cravats! collar studs! canes! and the thing now has prize of place in the lounge. We are also considering going to see the film dressed as Victorians.
That was Monday - Tuesday was yesterday. I walked down to the National Gallery in the evening to see The Hoerengracht, a new installation based on Amsterdam's red light district. It's somewhere between the world's best A-level art piece and Disney's Pirates of the Carribbean. They have recreated a few streets, complete with bollards, bicycles, street signs, and Amsterdam's famous windows through which girls solicit clients walking past. It's brilliantly tawdry - the girls themselves are all dressed up shop dummies, each placed in a Fassbinder-esque room. You get a real sense of personality from all of them, even little things like the designs of their rooms. Everything is sticky - the installation has been thoroughly glooped, so it resembles something between a car crash and murder scene. Sometimes it looks like tears, other times rain, other times blood. It's uncomfortable, atmospheric, beautiful. In fact, the only thing it didn't inspire me to do was go get myself a prostitute. Even though some of the mannequins were inviting you in, and the act of looking at the art, of course, transformed into audience into unwitting voyeur, it didn't really look appealing. Particularly this woman (can't remember her name - they were all named), who had something horribly desperate about her. I also did some more carol singing in Trafalgar Square, with another churchy charity.
On the way home, Calypso and I appropriated a broken street bollard as found art, and it is now in the hall. That's what students are meant to do, right? Get drunk and pinch stuff? Unfortunately, while Calypso was fairly tipsy, I was both stone sober, and the one technically doing the appropriation. We've lit it up from the inside and it's now pointing up the stairs. Spirita believes, although it is an "effective use of the Space, we should probably recontextualise it on the street". Pretty edge and BarleyThink - get a piece of street junk and transform it into art, then put it back on the street so everyone thinks they're looking at street junk, when actually it's art. Ha! To my mind, however, the thing is obviously beyond repair - the base is misshapen, far from square. It's obviously been hit by a car, and I don't think fibreglass can be recycled. I would sort of like to inform the council that it's missing however. I don't know who I'd phone, though, just like I didn't last week when a hole in the road was SPEWING SMOKE. We have named it Magwitch.
To celebrate it's arrival, we had an impromtu party - lit up the room with sleazy lighting (Hoerengracht was still on the brain), dressed up and put jazz on - starring Spirita as Michael Yorke. After dinner, Calypso and I watched Guns of Navarone. I'd half forgotten how much I adore it. Unfortunately, the disc froze just as our heroes were surrounded by armed Nazis. The DVD player was a free one, so I suppose I shouldn't complain too much, but it was an inconvenient place to stop. We kept going on a laptop, and it occured to me for the first time that I am able to have an accurate guess at the year of a film from the style of violence presented. I've been reading this book by Stephen Prince about "Classical Hollywood Violence", and I must say it's fantastic. Expect a blog about it soon. All about what movies of different eras did or didn't show but from a purely stylistic perspective. This occured to me when Brown stabbed a Nazi, and both characters and the knife were clearly in shot, with no obscuring framing or anything.
From that alone, I figured it couldn't be any earlier than the 60s - and indeed turns out it was 1961.
It also occured to me that, while The Sea Wolves would be exciting - remember, reuniting the key cast of Guns of Navarone and sending them to Portugal? - war movies often tend to be massacres.If either got killed off I would be immoderately distraught,
Twin Peaks continues to be good. We've drawn a map of the characters so we can keep track. I think it's Donna and James on current evidence, but is probably going to be ultimately someone we haven't met. Calypso thinks its Diane.
On Sunday I went to yet another protest. You'll remember I was feeling a bit glum about the whole idea. I mean, standing up and shouting is "important" but won't basically change anything. Politicians et al won't listen - it's purely a symbolic act. The problem with this protest is that it was important, one of the ones in which making a visible symbolic act was incredibly meaningful. And also, by it's very nature, ludicrously dangerous. The English Defence League and Stop Islamification of Europe were protesting against a mosque in Harrow. So the good guys were going along to protest against them. The idea that walking straight into a potential street fight would be the most effective protest I'd ever attend was pretty demoralising. It was all Spirita's idea, and I was to meet her up there. She suggested we could be Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. I warned her in advance that I couldn't swim.
Still, the tube journey to Harrow was lovely - right to the end of the Bakerloo line, up in the cold north - practically the Arctic. There were fields, trees and a huge wide sky - I read up on representations of cinematic violence. When I arrived, there was a sign up from the Mosque leaders politely asking the anti-protest to go home and not cause a fuss:
Our message to the young people who will be attending is not to fall into the trap from those who clearly want to provoke you into an angry response. Foremost, our message is: if you want to help, then stay away on the day. We have the fullest confidence in the Police to safeguard the mosque. If you are to attend we request that you are not disruptive. We should be open, proud of our faith and behave with the correct Islamic etiquette at all times.Which was beautiful, and almost talked me into going home. But as I was there, I figured I should have an explore. I have never seen so many cops in one place - about 20 around the station itself. I went to see what was going down at the mosque and passed 41 police vans on the way. This naturally made me a little unsettled, but I figured I should find Spirita first. In front of the mosque itself were the usual crowd of nuts - misshaven lefties, various socialist newspapers, students from Harrow college. I made some cool single serving friends - including a Brief Encounter fan and a woman who'd had her teeth bashed out by fascists in the 70s. There were probably around 30 anti-protesters, flags and placards and the rest, and not a sight of the other team. It was 12:30, and apparently they were due to arrive at 2.
Our message to anti-fascist groups is that we respectfully ask that you do not organize any counter-demonstrations. We value the goodwill of others but believe that a counter demonstration only sows more discord on the day.
Spirita showed up at about 1, and we got very cold while chatting to the other protesters. Some media were on top of a building. There was a rally, with loudspeakers, and people wittering about how socialism was the only way. Apparently, the mosque had had letters of support from just about everyone - local Rabbis and bishops, Sikhs, Hindus, Humanists, the police, councilmembers. Very soon after this, Spirita had to leave - Sundance runs off to Bolivia with Etta and abandons me all on my own! What a fine pal. She suggested we could be Mr Orange and Mr White instead, which made me feel slightly better. At two, the lefties - probably now about 100 surged away from the mosque towards the barriers put up by the police in a huge car park. The idea was both teams would be corralled separately, and shout at each other over a wall. For the edification of concerned parentals, though it makes for a less dramatic story, I confess I was standing very much at the back. There's making a point and then there's being ridiculous. I was a good way away from the clumped crowd and ready to dash at the first sign of trouble. I'm not taking a punch for anyone.
Kickoff arrived at 2 - by which time I was perched on a wall away from the action, holding a placard and mentally trying to write an account of the day in the style of Caesar. This is a project I may still try - no one writes Latin prose quite like Caesar. After about fifteen minutes, I went to see if I could spot any fascists. I know they exist, intellectually, but I still felt a sense of curiosity - like viewing rare butterflies or something. The good guys were stretched about 3-men deep, so it was easy to get between them. About three meters away was the other corral, containing about 12 of the villains. It was hard to identify them for sure at first because they looked terribly ordinary. It's not like I expected them to have wings and horns, but all the same.
No, just caps and hoodies. They weren't shouting or anything - just shuffling shamefacedly and chatting with the police. Between the two corrals were six policemen with german shepherds. In keeping with the tone of the day, they weren't yapping ferociously and straining - one had rolled onto its belly and was having a nap.
At this point, everything became very clear. Via a loudspeaker, it turned out the baddies had claimed they would have 1,500 with them - which explained the huge police prescence. According to another single serving friend, there had been previous attacks on this particular mosque which had got very out of hand. It got very cold, started raining and I figured the point had been made and left them all to it.
Even with the request to stay away, I'm glad I went - it was nice to be out in the air and quite a lot of fun, and things didn't turn violent so no harm done, eh?
Calypso and I have seen the Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus, and I'm pleased to report it isn't bad - in fact, it's really rather awesome. Beautiful, daft, dark - a tad random, but Gilliam does manage to hold it all together in a way I didn't expect him to. Also, some beautiful shots of Dark London. On the way home we discovered the Sherlock Holmes premiere had been going on. We asked the police, who told us we'd just missed it - but they encouraged us to take one of the huge cardboard posters that had been decorating the barriers. We spent the Tube home cooing about cravats! collar studs! canes! and the thing now has prize of place in the lounge. We are also considering going to see the film dressed as Victorians.
That was Monday - Tuesday was yesterday. I walked down to the National Gallery in the evening to see The Hoerengracht, a new installation based on Amsterdam's red light district. It's somewhere between the world's best A-level art piece and Disney's Pirates of the Carribbean. They have recreated a few streets, complete with bollards, bicycles, street signs, and Amsterdam's famous windows through which girls solicit clients walking past. It's brilliantly tawdry - the girls themselves are all dressed up shop dummies, each placed in a Fassbinder-esque room. You get a real sense of personality from all of them, even little things like the designs of their rooms. Everything is sticky - the installation has been thoroughly glooped, so it resembles something between a car crash and murder scene. Sometimes it looks like tears, other times rain, other times blood. It's uncomfortable, atmospheric, beautiful. In fact, the only thing it didn't inspire me to do was go get myself a prostitute. Even though some of the mannequins were inviting you in, and the act of looking at the art, of course, transformed into audience into unwitting voyeur, it didn't really look appealing. Particularly this woman (can't remember her name - they were all named), who had something horribly desperate about her. I also did some more carol singing in Trafalgar Square, with another churchy charity.
On the way home, Calypso and I appropriated a broken street bollard as found art, and it is now in the hall. That's what students are meant to do, right? Get drunk and pinch stuff? Unfortunately, while Calypso was fairly tipsy, I was both stone sober, and the one technically doing the appropriation. We've lit it up from the inside and it's now pointing up the stairs. Spirita believes, although it is an "effective use of the Space, we should probably recontextualise it on the street". Pretty edge and BarleyThink - get a piece of street junk and transform it into art, then put it back on the street so everyone thinks they're looking at street junk, when actually it's art. Ha! To my mind, however, the thing is obviously beyond repair - the base is misshapen, far from square. It's obviously been hit by a car, and I don't think fibreglass can be recycled. I would sort of like to inform the council that it's missing however. I don't know who I'd phone, though, just like I didn't last week when a hole in the road was SPEWING SMOKE. We have named it Magwitch.
To celebrate it's arrival, we had an impromtu party - lit up the room with sleazy lighting (Hoerengracht was still on the brain), dressed up and put jazz on - starring Spirita as Michael Yorke. After dinner, Calypso and I watched Guns of Navarone. I'd half forgotten how much I adore it. Unfortunately, the disc froze just as our heroes were surrounded by armed Nazis. The DVD player was a free one, so I suppose I shouldn't complain too much, but it was an inconvenient place to stop. We kept going on a laptop, and it occured to me for the first time that I am able to have an accurate guess at the year of a film from the style of violence presented. I've been reading this book by Stephen Prince about "Classical Hollywood Violence", and I must say it's fantastic. Expect a blog about it soon. All about what movies of different eras did or didn't show but from a purely stylistic perspective. This occured to me when Brown stabbed a Nazi, and both characters and the knife were clearly in shot, with no obscuring framing or anything.
From that alone, I figured it couldn't be any earlier than the 60s - and indeed turns out it was 1961.
It also occured to me that, while The Sea Wolves would be exciting - remember, reuniting the key cast of Guns of Navarone and sending them to Portugal? - war movies often tend to be massacres.If either got killed off I would be immoderately distraught,
Twin Peaks continues to be good. We've drawn a map of the characters so we can keep track. I think it's Donna and James on current evidence, but is probably going to be ultimately someone we haven't met. Calypso thinks its Diane.
Comments (3)
I am reminded of the rather pathetic NF/anti-NF demo vaguely fictionalised in that great unpublished novel "Stuff I weished I had known when i was thirteen"...
Tip for freezing DVD's. It may be too hot - especially if you've had it on pause. Take it out, wave it around in the air to cool it down, try again...
I adore your entire paragraph about Magwitch. (Note for posterity: he is named such because we will probably need to hide him if anyone official comes to visit).
NN2, I think it's just a very finicky DVD player - but we'll give it a go anyway!
I don't THINK it's Diane, but I really really hope it is. Or at least that she's a fictional construct who is secretly controlling them all. I expect it of Lynch. Si-len-ci-o....!
(WOTD: hypiguw, talsted)
Diane? Pah! She's a red herring. I think it's the Log.
(and the DVD player today protested about the animated menu on a disc. Nice as it is to discover it shares my prejudices, was still a little unnerving)