I watched Werner Herzog's Nosferatu the other evening, and then I watched it again with the director's commentary. Not many directors' commentaries are worth listening to, but Herzog's always are.
It is, of course an extraordinary film, with the matchless Bruno Ganz playing Jonathan Harker and the incomparable Klaus Kinski as the vampire. Kinski was a notoriously difficult actor to work with, but somehow Herzog managed to coax some of his finest performances out of him. Actually performance is something of a misnomer, as he inhabits his characters rather than produces a performance. In the commentary Herzog says Kinski was, for him, extremely biddable and caused very little trouble; normally he would pick fights with crew members, and stage fearsome tantrums on a regular basis. His portrayal of the vampire has an extraordinary humanity, which is largely absent from other versions. Nosferatu here is needy, imprisoned by his ungovernable desires. He is acutely aware of his condition and of its implications. Kinski brings the vampire to life; there's an extraordinary scene in which Ganz as Harker, cuts his finger. The vampire knows that he must, and will, suck Harker's blood, but, at first, turns away, almost in horror and disgust with the knowledge, before suddenly pouncing. In the commentary Herzog states that Kinski performed the scene in a single take, and was entirely self-directed. Kinski seems to have understood the vampire on a visceral, instinctive level, producing an extraordinarily moving performance, giving the vampire a fragile, needy dignity and vulnerablity.
In the book, Herzog on Herzog, he states that, although he is actually on the screen for only 17 minutes, his presence dominates every single scene, such is his power, and that in the next 50 years no-one else will be able to produce a performance that comes close to it. I have to agree; Kinski is mesmerising.
Of course, as with all Herzog's films, music is central, and the film is meticulously scored, with beutiful and unearthly music from Florian Fricke, who scored several of his films.
Herzog talks about his motivation for re-making Murnau's famous 20s film, one of the classics of German Expressionism. He needed, at this point in his life, to reconnect with the roots of German cinema, as he puts it, 'a declaration of my connection to the very best of German cinema' and with the German cultural heritage, which had been so savagely breached by Nazism. He succeded triumphantly with this beautiful film, and went on to make Woyzeck immediately afterwards, using the same crew, and Kinski. So, the next one on my list!
Wednesday, 2 January 2008
Tuesday, 1 January 2008
The West Wing
I'm working my way through series 5 of The West Wing at the moment, as my son, another addict, and has the entire series on DVD has lent me both 5 & 6, and he needs them back soon to lend to newly-addicted friends. He's coming over from Ireland next week so I need to finish it then. So I'm furiously watching as much as possible.
Of course, I saw them when they were first screened on Channel 4, and when they migrated to More4, the digital channel. Apparently it achieved low ratings, but I'm also very aware that the following it attracted, small though it may have been, was passionately loyal. A long-running thread appeared on the Guardian messageboard which started at the beginning of the third series and continued until long past the seventh series, the last.
I have to say that I loved it from the start. It presents a picture of US politics as it might exist in an alternative universe. Jed Bartlet, the president, is a liberal, Democrat, Nobel prize-winning academic, surrounded by equally-liberal heartfelt Democrats who believe, above all, in the Constitution, to which they are dedicated to upholding. All of them have their faults - Bartlet's is a patrician arrogance, which comes from his impeccable liberalism, and some of the most entertaining episodes concern his principles coming up against reality.
One of my favourite characters is Toby, the Press Secretary; often conflicted, tortured, bad-tempered, but with his heart firmly in the right place, he gives the series a welcome acerbity.
The First Lady, is a card-carrying feminist, whose beliefs often clash with the realities of government, and some of the best episodes concern very real moral, political and ethical dilemmas. A solution is rarely found, and this is the whole point. In a democratic republic there are never any easy answers, and this is the series' glory. The best episodes dramatise unresolvable problems and compromises have to be reached; this is, and must be, always better than the alternative. The US is portrayed as the best form of government there is, with all its imperfections, a picture of government as it should function, not, of course, as it actually does.
The acting is top-notch; Martin Sheen plays Bartlet, making a character who might have been insufferable in other hands, deeply human. We don't always like him very much, but we see why he's President, the buck always stopping at his door.
Religion also plays a part, which would be unthinkable in this country - Bartlet, a Catholic, is often seen tussling with God, frequently arguing with Him, dramatising the very real battles between Faith and politics. This was seen most effectively in an episode when Bartlet, after the funeral of his beloved secretary, who was killed in an accident, standing alone in the cathedral after everyone else had gone, contemptuously lit a cigarette, then threw it to the ground, angrily stamping it out.
After four series, Aaron Sorkin, the originator of the series, left, and his sharp, witty scripts went with him. It was never quite the same after, but the remaining three series were still a treat, following the fortunes of the presidency as it gradually acquired 'lame duck' status. As the government wound down it all began to fall apart, and soul-searching, self-interested careerism and fear began to take hold among the staff, their individual destinies becoming compelling.
A new President was elected at the end, the implausible Latino Santos. I don't know anyone who didn't prefer his rival Republican, played with consummate finesse by Alan Alda.
Its lack of cynicism was what was most refreshing about it - instead of depicting politicians as venal and self-serving, they were idealistic, with the best of intentions, if flawed in their execution. I miss it badly, but the DVDs of the 7 series remain compulsive viewing. I always watch it with the subtitles switched on so as not to miss any of the dialogue, which is unparalleled anywhere else.
The most interesting Presidential election for years gets going in 2008, and Barack Obama, the most West Wing-like candidate imaginable, is one of the favourites. The West Wing has therefore become even more essential, and perhaps more realistic after the catastrophic Bush regime, which, with any luck, may seem a bad dream by this time next year.
Of course, I saw them when they were first screened on Channel 4, and when they migrated to More4, the digital channel. Apparently it achieved low ratings, but I'm also very aware that the following it attracted, small though it may have been, was passionately loyal. A long-running thread appeared on the Guardian messageboard which started at the beginning of the third series and continued until long past the seventh series, the last.
I have to say that I loved it from the start. It presents a picture of US politics as it might exist in an alternative universe. Jed Bartlet, the president, is a liberal, Democrat, Nobel prize-winning academic, surrounded by equally-liberal heartfelt Democrats who believe, above all, in the Constitution, to which they are dedicated to upholding. All of them have their faults - Bartlet's is a patrician arrogance, which comes from his impeccable liberalism, and some of the most entertaining episodes concern his principles coming up against reality.
One of my favourite characters is Toby, the Press Secretary; often conflicted, tortured, bad-tempered, but with his heart firmly in the right place, he gives the series a welcome acerbity.
The First Lady, is a card-carrying feminist, whose beliefs often clash with the realities of government, and some of the best episodes concern very real moral, political and ethical dilemmas. A solution is rarely found, and this is the whole point. In a democratic republic there are never any easy answers, and this is the series' glory. The best episodes dramatise unresolvable problems and compromises have to be reached; this is, and must be, always better than the alternative. The US is portrayed as the best form of government there is, with all its imperfections, a picture of government as it should function, not, of course, as it actually does.
The acting is top-notch; Martin Sheen plays Bartlet, making a character who might have been insufferable in other hands, deeply human. We don't always like him very much, but we see why he's President, the buck always stopping at his door.
Religion also plays a part, which would be unthinkable in this country - Bartlet, a Catholic, is often seen tussling with God, frequently arguing with Him, dramatising the very real battles between Faith and politics. This was seen most effectively in an episode when Bartlet, after the funeral of his beloved secretary, who was killed in an accident, standing alone in the cathedral after everyone else had gone, contemptuously lit a cigarette, then threw it to the ground, angrily stamping it out.
After four series, Aaron Sorkin, the originator of the series, left, and his sharp, witty scripts went with him. It was never quite the same after, but the remaining three series were still a treat, following the fortunes of the presidency as it gradually acquired 'lame duck' status. As the government wound down it all began to fall apart, and soul-searching, self-interested careerism and fear began to take hold among the staff, their individual destinies becoming compelling.
A new President was elected at the end, the implausible Latino Santos. I don't know anyone who didn't prefer his rival Republican, played with consummate finesse by Alan Alda.
Its lack of cynicism was what was most refreshing about it - instead of depicting politicians as venal and self-serving, they were idealistic, with the best of intentions, if flawed in their execution. I miss it badly, but the DVDs of the 7 series remain compulsive viewing. I always watch it with the subtitles switched on so as not to miss any of the dialogue, which is unparalleled anywhere else.
The most interesting Presidential election for years gets going in 2008, and Barack Obama, the most West Wing-like candidate imaginable, is one of the favourites. The West Wing has therefore become even more essential, and perhaps more realistic after the catastrophic Bush regime, which, with any luck, may seem a bad dream by this time next year.
Ballet Shoes
I watched BBC's Ballet Shoes on Boxing Day. I had to - Ballet Shoes was a major part of my childhood, as I suspect it was for many girls growing up in the 50s and early 60s. The cast looked good, with reliable performers such as Victoria Wood, Emilia Fox, Harriet Walter, the peerless Eileen Atkins, and the impressive and highly promising Marc Warren.
None of them disappointed, and the young actresses who played the Fossil girls were well-directed. The costumes and scenery were meticulously realised, and the accents were better than usual. The older generation, of course, were fine, but Fox and Warren did very well indeed, and the girls who played the Fossil sisters did as well as could have been expected.
My main gripe, though was the changes to the story. I realise that some had to be made, but these were tiresome. Warren played Mr Smith, a single gentlemen lodger who runs a garage - in the book, Mr and Mrs Smith are a couple. This allowed the creation of a spurious love interest for Sylvia, the girls' guardian, and we had to have a ridiculous wedding scene at the end. In the book Sylvia remains single, accompanying Pauline to Hollywood, but this was clearly unacceptable for TV controllers. Sigh......
I got my Puffin edition of the book out from my shelf of children's books (I never throw anything away!) and had a look. It's an incredibly matter-of-fact book, with few flights of fancy. It's based firmly on everyday life with enough wish-fulfilment to satisfy. For me, it was as fantastical as Harry Potter is to today's generation, bearing no relation to my life whatsoever. yet it was the descriptions of everyday life that I relished most. I do think reality is unnecessary for a great children's book and I devoured Streatfield's stories of girls (they were all girls) achieving stardom against the odds, reading them over and over again.
The production truncated a great deal, as I suppose it had to, but it was an enjoyable way to spend 90 minutes, though it's 9.00 start was clearly aimed at 50-somethings who knew the book. I can't imagine it would grab any of today's 12-year-olds - but who knows?
None of them disappointed, and the young actresses who played the Fossil girls were well-directed. The costumes and scenery were meticulously realised, and the accents were better than usual. The older generation, of course, were fine, but Fox and Warren did very well indeed, and the girls who played the Fossil sisters did as well as could have been expected.
My main gripe, though was the changes to the story. I realise that some had to be made, but these were tiresome. Warren played Mr Smith, a single gentlemen lodger who runs a garage - in the book, Mr and Mrs Smith are a couple. This allowed the creation of a spurious love interest for Sylvia, the girls' guardian, and we had to have a ridiculous wedding scene at the end. In the book Sylvia remains single, accompanying Pauline to Hollywood, but this was clearly unacceptable for TV controllers. Sigh......
I got my Puffin edition of the book out from my shelf of children's books (I never throw anything away!) and had a look. It's an incredibly matter-of-fact book, with few flights of fancy. It's based firmly on everyday life with enough wish-fulfilment to satisfy. For me, it was as fantastical as Harry Potter is to today's generation, bearing no relation to my life whatsoever. yet it was the descriptions of everyday life that I relished most. I do think reality is unnecessary for a great children's book and I devoured Streatfield's stories of girls (they were all girls) achieving stardom against the odds, reading them over and over again.
The production truncated a great deal, as I suppose it had to, but it was an enjoyable way to spend 90 minutes, though it's 9.00 start was clearly aimed at 50-somethings who knew the book. I can't imagine it would grab any of today's 12-year-olds - but who knows?
Wednesday, 26 December 2007
The Line of Beauty
The Line of Beauty by Alan Hollinghurst won the Booker prize in 2004 - I've just finished it, and found it very readable indeed. However, it seems to have had mixed reviews; as well as the Booker, an article in the Guardian described it as Little Britain meets Evelyn Waugh. I think that's unfair - it was much better than that, but I can see where it came from.
Hollinghurst makes no secret of his love for, knowledge of, and debt to Henry James, who is referenced throughout. The protagonist, Nick Guest, is a James scholar, engaged in writing up a PhD on James. I've never read any James, except The Turn of the Screw years ago - he's one of those writers whose work I've always kept at the back of my mind, unread, waiting for the space I hope I'll have in old age. I do know that his work is dense, with long, ornate sentences, and Hollinghurst has produced what I imagine must be a deliberate pastiche of James's style.
I found much of the writing thrilling, and gloried and luxuriated in the prose style. Some of Hollinghurst's sentences made me breathless with admiration at times, and left me smiling at their audacity and sheer style. The Guardian review describes the prose as 'restrained' - I couldn't agree less; it's anything but.
The novel is set in the early-to-mid 1980s, and follows Nick's fortunes, after he leaves Oxford. Just down from Oxford, he lodges in Kensington, at the home of the Fedden's, whose son Toby, is a friend from Oxford, and Gerald Fedden, Toby's father, is a Tory MP married to the daughter of a wealthy Jewish industrialist. Nick comes from a relatively humble, provincial background, so the book therefore offers an outsider's view of the comfortable middle-to-upper classes in London during the early-to-mid-1980s, as they became rich under the Thatcher government, becoming almost drunk on success and money. Nick is attempting to complete his PhD, and remains an aesthete, while all around him are philistines,building lucrative careers in politics or finance.
Few of the characters are likeable - the only one I warmed to was Catherine, Toby's emotionally and psychologically fragile sister, another outsider, who periodically supplies a caustic commentary on the excesses of her surroundings. There are several set pieces throughout the book - one of most delicious being the appearance of Thatcher herself at a party at the Feddens She's dressed in a lavishly-spangled jacket, prompting Catherine to comment that 'she looks like a country-and-western singer'.
Cocaine-snorting and gay sex sometimes dominate the narrative, becoming increasingly tedious, and this, I think, ultimately damages the book. It sagged horribly in the middle, I thought, but rallied at the end; I wouldn't have given it the Booker, but there is much to enjoy.
Hollinghurst makes no secret of his love for, knowledge of, and debt to Henry James, who is referenced throughout. The protagonist, Nick Guest, is a James scholar, engaged in writing up a PhD on James. I've never read any James, except The Turn of the Screw years ago - he's one of those writers whose work I've always kept at the back of my mind, unread, waiting for the space I hope I'll have in old age. I do know that his work is dense, with long, ornate sentences, and Hollinghurst has produced what I imagine must be a deliberate pastiche of James's style.
I found much of the writing thrilling, and gloried and luxuriated in the prose style. Some of Hollinghurst's sentences made me breathless with admiration at times, and left me smiling at their audacity and sheer style. The Guardian review describes the prose as 'restrained' - I couldn't agree less; it's anything but.
The novel is set in the early-to-mid 1980s, and follows Nick's fortunes, after he leaves Oxford. Just down from Oxford, he lodges in Kensington, at the home of the Fedden's, whose son Toby, is a friend from Oxford, and Gerald Fedden, Toby's father, is a Tory MP married to the daughter of a wealthy Jewish industrialist. Nick comes from a relatively humble, provincial background, so the book therefore offers an outsider's view of the comfortable middle-to-upper classes in London during the early-to-mid-1980s, as they became rich under the Thatcher government, becoming almost drunk on success and money. Nick is attempting to complete his PhD, and remains an aesthete, while all around him are philistines,building lucrative careers in politics or finance.
Few of the characters are likeable - the only one I warmed to was Catherine, Toby's emotionally and psychologically fragile sister, another outsider, who periodically supplies a caustic commentary on the excesses of her surroundings. There are several set pieces throughout the book - one of most delicious being the appearance of Thatcher herself at a party at the Feddens She's dressed in a lavishly-spangled jacket, prompting Catherine to comment that 'she looks like a country-and-western singer'.
Cocaine-snorting and gay sex sometimes dominate the narrative, becoming increasingly tedious, and this, I think, ultimately damages the book. It sagged horribly in the middle, I thought, but rallied at the end; I wouldn't have given it the Booker, but there is much to enjoy.
Richard Attenborough
I've just listened to a very interesting interview with Richard Attenborough on Radio 3's Night Waves. Obviously he's had a long, full and fascinating life (he's 84), but what interested me was the light and shade in his life. He didn't go into much detail but acknowledged the interesting contrasts between many of the characters he's played in his career, and the rather avuncular image he presents. He admitted he possessed a ruthless streak, which is hardly surprising for a film director, and he revealed a vulnerable, sensitive core to him, which manifested itself in feelings of inferiority to his parents, who sounded almost too good to be true, and of course to his illustrious brother, Sir David Attenborough, who has achieved virtually god-like status in British television history, culture and is seen as a national treasure, with good reason. In spite of Richard being granted a lordship and David being a mere knight of the realm, one gets the impression that Richard has always felt inadequte. Unlike his younger brothers he went to drama school instead of university, and it may stem from that - who knows?
A few years ago I visited the glorious BBC Written Archives at Caversham as part of my postgraduate studies in TV history during the 60s and 70s, and saw many of the memos handwritten by Sir David, who was then Controller of BBC-2 and later Director of Television. They revealed a steely side to his character, was clearly made of extremely stern stuff, and was an inspirational character to work for. His older brother has also achieved a great deal, but there is evidence of a thinner skin, which I found endearing.
Until middle age he was renowned for playing either spivs, psychopaths or cowards, such as Pinky in Brighton Rock; in fact his first screen appearance was a small part in In Which We Serve, as a humble stoker who is terrified by the bombardment, eventually drowning (if my memory serves me correctly) . The film critic Gavin Lambert once memorably described the film as perfectly representing the class stratification of Britain during World War II, with Noel Coward at the pinnacle, as the saintly ship's captain, right down to 'little Richard Attenborough cowering in the stokehold'.
Looking at his CV on the IMDB, I'm struck by the number of memorable films in which he's featured - Private's Progress, The League of Gentlemen, I'm All Right, Jack and many, many others - all illustrious examples of British cinema in the 40s, 50s, and 60s. His place in the pantheon of cinema history would be assured, but he ventured into direction in the 1960s, starting with The Angry Silence in 1960, and carved out a remarkable career, directing Oh, What a Lovely War, Cry Freedom, Gandhi, A Bridge Too Far and Shadowlands. His work has been dismissed by the snobbier branch of the critical industry as safe and middlebrow, but they are all films that have stood the test of time, and remain highly watchable.
However, I remain very fond of his spiv movies of the 40s and 50s - he really could do psychopathic menace better than nearly everyone, except perhaps Dirk Bogarde before he ventured into the realms of the highbrow.
There remains, however, a sunny side to his character, which is most evident when he talked about the immeasurable loss of his daughter and granddaughter in the Boxing Day tsunami 3 years ago. He has survived, and mentioned the fact that his daughter remains a huge part of his life, leaving him with much of value by which to remember her. I can't imagine the pain he and his wife must have endured, and must continue to suffer, but he maintains there is still much happiness remaining in his life, and much to celebrate. This tragedy seems all of a part to his life, which remains marked by, and defined by, darkness and light.
A few years ago I visited the glorious BBC Written Archives at Caversham as part of my postgraduate studies in TV history during the 60s and 70s, and saw many of the memos handwritten by Sir David, who was then Controller of BBC-2 and later Director of Television. They revealed a steely side to his character, was clearly made of extremely stern stuff, and was an inspirational character to work for. His older brother has also achieved a great deal, but there is evidence of a thinner skin, which I found endearing.
Until middle age he was renowned for playing either spivs, psychopaths or cowards, such as Pinky in Brighton Rock; in fact his first screen appearance was a small part in In Which We Serve, as a humble stoker who is terrified by the bombardment, eventually drowning (if my memory serves me correctly) . The film critic Gavin Lambert once memorably described the film as perfectly representing the class stratification of Britain during World War II, with Noel Coward at the pinnacle, as the saintly ship's captain, right down to 'little Richard Attenborough cowering in the stokehold'.
Looking at his CV on the IMDB, I'm struck by the number of memorable films in which he's featured - Private's Progress, The League of Gentlemen, I'm All Right, Jack and many, many others - all illustrious examples of British cinema in the 40s, 50s, and 60s. His place in the pantheon of cinema history would be assured, but he ventured into direction in the 1960s, starting with The Angry Silence in 1960, and carved out a remarkable career, directing Oh, What a Lovely War, Cry Freedom, Gandhi, A Bridge Too Far and Shadowlands. His work has been dismissed by the snobbier branch of the critical industry as safe and middlebrow, but they are all films that have stood the test of time, and remain highly watchable.
However, I remain very fond of his spiv movies of the 40s and 50s - he really could do psychopathic menace better than nearly everyone, except perhaps Dirk Bogarde before he ventured into the realms of the highbrow.
There remains, however, a sunny side to his character, which is most evident when he talked about the immeasurable loss of his daughter and granddaughter in the Boxing Day tsunami 3 years ago. He has survived, and mentioned the fact that his daughter remains a huge part of his life, leaving him with much of value by which to remember her. I can't imagine the pain he and his wife must have endured, and must continue to suffer, but he maintains there is still much happiness remaining in his life, and much to celebrate. This tragedy seems all of a part to his life, which remains marked by, and defined by, darkness and light.
Monday, 17 December 2007
Led Zeppelin
I was interested in Led Zeppelin's reunion concert the other day at the O2 arena (previously the notorious Millenium Dome). It's funny, but I think I would have enjoyed it. I saw Led Zep twice, in 1969 and 1970, the first time at a Blues Festival at the Recreation Ground in the middle of Bath. I know Bath pretty well now, as my mother moved there 20 years ago, but in those days it was way off my beaten track.
It was in the early days of open-air festivals - I'm a bit muddled about the dates. I remember giong to the Blind Faith free concert in Hyde Park, and finding myself sitting next to John Peel - was that 1968? Or 1969? There was the famous Rolling Stones free concert in Hyde Park, just after Brian Jones died - the one where Mick Jagger released all those butterfies and wore a dress. I was on my own there (it's a long story), and found myself near the front, so felt immersed in the whole event. It's funny how time has cast a patina over such occasions - it felt huge at the time, and was, but now it's legendary. I was 18 at the time so you don't think you're making history - it's just your life. What strrikes me now is the way an 18-year-old could wander into Hyde Park, and drift about in perfect safety. Also the absence of money-making outlets, just the odd ice-cream van. And, even with so many people, the ease with which one could get around. Ah, those were the days - I think the lack of commercialism is the thing I'm most nostalgic about.....
I can't remember who I went with to the Bath Festival, or how I got there, but I know I must have been with some friends from college. I can remember vividly being there, where I sat in relation to the stage - I can see it now. I found a website devoted to Led Zep which had some pictures of them performing, against a backdrop of Georgian terraces. The stage was ridiculously small by today's standards, and apparently there were only about 12,000 people there. The website brought back so many memories, and there was much that I'd forgotten. Lots of people had posted their own memories, and it was interesting to see how young everyone was. I was 17, and most were around that age. I suppose we really were the first generation to really get into music in such an obsessive way, so there wouldn't have been many people there who were much older.
It was billed as a blues festival and according to the website page dedicated to the event, all the usual suspects played, the bands who seemed to be there at every festival at that time; Chicken Shack, Keef Hartley, Fleetwood Mac, Blodwyn Pig, Colosseum, The Nice, John Mayall, Ten Years After and Taste. I wasn't actually particularly fond of any of this, but, as one did then, convinced myself that I was. I was distinctly underwhelmed by much of what I heard, as, by this time, I was becoming deeply enamoured of American music. Blues music seemed dull, and the fashion for extended drum/guitar/etc solos - many of them exceptionally tedious, had firmly taken hold. Led Zeppelin seemed no better or worse than the other bands, and I took little notice of them.
They did even less for me a year later, at the huge festival at the Bath & West Showground at Shepton Mallet. I'll do more extensive blog entry on that festival, and the one on the Isle of Wight graced by Bob Dylan, but I'll mention Led Zep. I a year they had become huge, and played (I think) for about 3 hours. It seemed the longest 3 hours of my life. I found them unutterably tedious, though I was in a tiny minority.
I disliked their music intensely throughout the 1970s, but sometime in the 1980s I came across Kashmir, and I thought, I like this - with its pumping powerhouse underbelly. There was a perfect description of it in a recent review by Pete Paphidis in The Times of their reunion concert at the O2 arena - Kashmir, he said, had a rhythm that sounded like the 'advancing of Martian tripods'.
I saw a recording of a concert Robert Plant did a year ago at the festival on TV, and I enjoyed it very much. Such is the passage of time - it does strange things. I find much of the West Coast stuff I liked so much in the early 70s pretty hard to listen to now, and Led Zep's stuff now has a power, strength and authenticity which somehow sounds good today - who would have though it?
It was in the early days of open-air festivals - I'm a bit muddled about the dates. I remember giong to the Blind Faith free concert in Hyde Park, and finding myself sitting next to John Peel - was that 1968? Or 1969? There was the famous Rolling Stones free concert in Hyde Park, just after Brian Jones died - the one where Mick Jagger released all those butterfies and wore a dress. I was on my own there (it's a long story), and found myself near the front, so felt immersed in the whole event. It's funny how time has cast a patina over such occasions - it felt huge at the time, and was, but now it's legendary. I was 18 at the time so you don't think you're making history - it's just your life. What strrikes me now is the way an 18-year-old could wander into Hyde Park, and drift about in perfect safety. Also the absence of money-making outlets, just the odd ice-cream van. And, even with so many people, the ease with which one could get around. Ah, those were the days - I think the lack of commercialism is the thing I'm most nostalgic about.....
I can't remember who I went with to the Bath Festival, or how I got there, but I know I must have been with some friends from college. I can remember vividly being there, where I sat in relation to the stage - I can see it now. I found a website devoted to Led Zep which had some pictures of them performing, against a backdrop of Georgian terraces. The stage was ridiculously small by today's standards, and apparently there were only about 12,000 people there. The website brought back so many memories, and there was much that I'd forgotten. Lots of people had posted their own memories, and it was interesting to see how young everyone was. I was 17, and most were around that age. I suppose we really were the first generation to really get into music in such an obsessive way, so there wouldn't have been many people there who were much older.
It was billed as a blues festival and according to the website page dedicated to the event, all the usual suspects played, the bands who seemed to be there at every festival at that time; Chicken Shack, Keef Hartley, Fleetwood Mac, Blodwyn Pig, Colosseum, The Nice, John Mayall, Ten Years After and Taste. I wasn't actually particularly fond of any of this, but, as one did then, convinced myself that I was. I was distinctly underwhelmed by much of what I heard, as, by this time, I was becoming deeply enamoured of American music. Blues music seemed dull, and the fashion for extended drum/guitar/etc solos - many of them exceptionally tedious, had firmly taken hold. Led Zeppelin seemed no better or worse than the other bands, and I took little notice of them.
They did even less for me a year later, at the huge festival at the Bath & West Showground at Shepton Mallet. I'll do more extensive blog entry on that festival, and the one on the Isle of Wight graced by Bob Dylan, but I'll mention Led Zep. I a year they had become huge, and played (I think) for about 3 hours. It seemed the longest 3 hours of my life. I found them unutterably tedious, though I was in a tiny minority.
I disliked their music intensely throughout the 1970s, but sometime in the 1980s I came across Kashmir, and I thought, I like this - with its pumping powerhouse underbelly. There was a perfect description of it in a recent review by Pete Paphidis in The Times of their reunion concert at the O2 arena - Kashmir, he said, had a rhythm that sounded like the 'advancing of Martian tripods'.
I saw a recording of a concert Robert Plant did a year ago at the festival on TV, and I enjoyed it very much. Such is the passage of time - it does strange things. I find much of the West Coast stuff I liked so much in the early 70s pretty hard to listen to now, and Led Zep's stuff now has a power, strength and authenticity which somehow sounds good today - who would have though it?
Wednesday, 12 December 2007
The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford
Saw this last night - it's been showing in only one cinema here, and it was packed, as I suspect it has been every night. I suppose its distribution company is trying it out and seeing how the word-of-mouth goes. I imagine that if (and that's a big 'if' as it's hardly standard Oscar fare) it gets nominated for Oscars it'll eventually make it to the multiplexes.
It's a demanding night out, at two-and-half hours, but the audience was obviously gripped. Hardly a muscle moved apart from the odd trip out for a toilet break. You can always tell if a film has captured its audience - it rarely happens, and when it does it's something special. There's a palpable stillness; you could sense the audience holding its breath.
The film looks wonderful, with cinematography by the celebrated Roger Deakins. It's set in a wintry landscape, in a country with new settlements springing up all over - a superbly-realised picture of a society in transition.
Jesse James is coming to the end of his career, but he's still a larger-than-life character, and Brad Pitt's performance gives him the requisite stature. Pitt is getting better and better as he reaches middle age and is now a considerable presence. Casey Affleck has been rightly lauded for his performance as Robert Ford and there should be Oscars all round if there was any justice. Pitt, however, gives the picture a stature and weight - he's tired and disillusioned, yet retains unhinged sociopathic behaviour which erupt suddenly and terrifyingly.
Affleck's Ford is a pathetic character, but dangerous with it. It's an unselfish performance - Affleck's achievement is to make him truly creepy, yet pitiful.
Not long before I saw this I watched The Long Riders, in which Stacy Keach played James. It was one of the first westerns to attempt a period flavour, with long coats and moustaches all round, and a sepia-toned visual aesthetic. Yet it remained in thrall to the outlaw aesthetic common in the early-70s, and, in the end, was a triumph of style over content.
Assassination was a far meatier affair - it's a meditation on the nature of celebrity, but it's far more than that. Philip French, who's reviews are always worth reading as his knowledge of film history is unparalleled, says it's also about the complex relationship between assassin and victim. He also mentions that a few weeks after James's death in St Joseph, Missouri, Oscar Wilde came to town as part of his American lecture tour, and wrote about the looting of James's possessions by souvenir hunters. He thinks it's a shame this wasn't mentioned in the film, but I I think it might have overloaded it. I've realised that I'll have to see it again, as I want to immerse myself in it once more - it needs repeated viewing. I feel sure that it'll grace the multiplexes eventually - after all, it's a Brad Pitt film! A real treat to see such a serious, subtle and perceptive film - great stuff.
It's a demanding night out, at two-and-half hours, but the audience was obviously gripped. Hardly a muscle moved apart from the odd trip out for a toilet break. You can always tell if a film has captured its audience - it rarely happens, and when it does it's something special. There's a palpable stillness; you could sense the audience holding its breath.
The film looks wonderful, with cinematography by the celebrated Roger Deakins. It's set in a wintry landscape, in a country with new settlements springing up all over - a superbly-realised picture of a society in transition.
Jesse James is coming to the end of his career, but he's still a larger-than-life character, and Brad Pitt's performance gives him the requisite stature. Pitt is getting better and better as he reaches middle age and is now a considerable presence. Casey Affleck has been rightly lauded for his performance as Robert Ford and there should be Oscars all round if there was any justice. Pitt, however, gives the picture a stature and weight - he's tired and disillusioned, yet retains unhinged sociopathic behaviour which erupt suddenly and terrifyingly.
Affleck's Ford is a pathetic character, but dangerous with it. It's an unselfish performance - Affleck's achievement is to make him truly creepy, yet pitiful.
Not long before I saw this I watched The Long Riders, in which Stacy Keach played James. It was one of the first westerns to attempt a period flavour, with long coats and moustaches all round, and a sepia-toned visual aesthetic. Yet it remained in thrall to the outlaw aesthetic common in the early-70s, and, in the end, was a triumph of style over content.
Assassination was a far meatier affair - it's a meditation on the nature of celebrity, but it's far more than that. Philip French, who's reviews are always worth reading as his knowledge of film history is unparalleled, says it's also about the complex relationship between assassin and victim. He also mentions that a few weeks after James's death in St Joseph, Missouri, Oscar Wilde came to town as part of his American lecture tour, and wrote about the looting of James's possessions by souvenir hunters. He thinks it's a shame this wasn't mentioned in the film, but I I think it might have overloaded it. I've realised that I'll have to see it again, as I want to immerse myself in it once more - it needs repeated viewing. I feel sure that it'll grace the multiplexes eventually - after all, it's a Brad Pitt film! A real treat to see such a serious, subtle and perceptive film - great stuff.
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