The 50-second silent film L’Arrivée d’un train en gare de La Ciotat (The Arrival of a Train at La Ciotat Station) from 1896, made by Auguste and Louis Lumière.
The apocryphal story continues to do its rounds – people fleed from the cinema because they thought a (black and white) train was fast approaching the screen and in danger of smashing the audience into smithereens, they soon-to-be cinemagoing versions of William Huskisson MP at the opening of the Liverpool and Manchester Railway.
The events of the public screening sound bonkers, but then we often think that our precursors – Luddites and all that – were idiots.
Viewing Apocalypto (2006), a frenzied masterwork in the vanguard of breathless chase cinema, the appearance of the conquistadors at its end (circa 1511) and the utterly perplexed reactions of the Mayans to these alien entities/shapes/unexplained phenomena had me immediately drawing parallels with the Lumières’ screening.
The jaw-dropping final sequence of Apocalypto (2006), directed by Mel Gibson.
Though the audience of the Lumière picture had of course seen trains before, they had never been subjected to their projections – if not screaming from the cinema I would expect they would be at least baffled, astonished, by the incident. As for the Mayans, I’d like to think the Spanish ships of their time will be the alien spacecraft (or accompanying ‘alien’ object) of ours.
1896 and 2006, documentary and fiction, are fleetingly both linked by this phenomenological dynamic and unsure relationships between subject (Mayans/cinemagoers) and object (ship/train), the questioning of whether what they are feeling is ‘real’ or not.
By all accounts, no one scurried away from a black and white train, but it’s a convenient precedent. These days, for example, we run from the likes of Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice (2016), not because we question the very being of what we see, but for we seek more arresting phenomena – watching paint dry being one of them.
At high tide and with the waves chopping into the promenade, Portobello Beach is transformed from the plain, dreary sandpit typified by dog walkers and Strongbow-guzzling city dwellers lazing on towels with their tits out into something with urgency and vitality, a bit of drama for the afternoon. There’s nothing quite like pissing in the sea as the waves are thrashing. I like miserable scenes and I do most enjoy a good storm.
There’s a link now online to the absolutely stunning documentary Dark Days (2000), about New York City’s mid-’90s homeless community living in Freedom Tunnel, an abandoned part of the Amtrak underground. The subjects themselves use 16 mm gauge cameras to document their endeavours, and the film also serves as an introduction to DJ Shadow’s groundbreaking ‘trip hop’ album Entroducing (1996). With Hoop Dreams (1994) and The Cruise (1998), it’s one of the best documentaries from the tail end of the pre-digital age.
Groundhog Day (1993) is almost a quarter of a century old, continuing to make critics’ top ten lists of the ’90s and beguiling new audiences with its curious, magisterial melange of comedy, drama, and allegory, its unsolved puzzles still fuelling intense debate amongst filmgoers.
The broad consensus is that Phil spends just shy of 35 years in Punxsatawney, Pennsylvania, and in this time becomes a master of all before him, a clairvoyant, and dare I say it, a god. Such speculation makes me wonder how long it would conceivably take to get into that zone of total spiritual dedication on multiple fronts, of achieving exceptionalism. It is very seldom that the polymath within us comes to the fore, and a person is very rarely a master of multiple spheres.
The widely held view, first propagated by Malcolm Gladwell in his book Outliers: The Story of Success (2008), is that it takes 10,000 hours of work to master something, to reach peak performance as a disciplined ‘expert’. Gladwell, building upon earlier research by K. Anders Ericsson, uses The Beatles’ extensive time spent in Hamburg (1960-1964) as his example, arguing that their more than 1,200 performances and 10,000 hours of playing time indelibly, crucially, enabled greatness. This ‘deliberate practice’ is a key determiner to achieving esoteric outcomes, but not the only component.
“No one – not rock stars, not professional athletes, not software billionaires, and not even geniuses – ever makes it alone.” – Gladwell.
Here Gladwell emphasises the fundamental importance of environment and upbringing in the realisation of potential, contrasting the fortunes of ‘underachiever’ yet ‘Smartest Man in the World’ Christopher Langan (IQ 210) and Albert Einstein (reputed IQ 150). Social and family connections and the mobility afforded the individual are conducive to ‘making it’.
David Epstein, author of the The Sports Gene (2013), separates innate ability – the hardware – from the software which refines, expands upon that talent, the software being many hours of downloaded practice and learning.
Phil’s software would be his evident intelligence and ability to ‘rote-learn’ circumstances, his hardware the seeming infinity he can utilise to perfect whatever he wishes to perfect – time is his kinship, the ultimate software.
Phil has peculiar hobbies.
A recent Princeton study, this a grand analysis of 88 studies on deliberate practice, concluded that practice resulted in only a 12% difference in performance. And if we look at Frans Johansson’s book The Click Moment (2012), he convincingly argues that only areas with ‘super stable structures’ afford a significant improvement in performance from deliberate practice, these stable structures in rules-based fields such as chess and classical music. This would explain Phil’s excelling at piano, at ice sculpting, and as a medical practitioner (illustrated by his expert Heimlich manoeuvre).
The dark core of the movie for me is this eternal conundrum – what happens in the (widely accepted) years and chapters that the viewer doesn’t see? It takes us to deeper, more foreboding possibilities, that it is more than a simple appropriation of the 10,000-hour rule that enables Phil’s eventual success and spiritual exaltation. We certainly see Phil at his lowest ebb – after Rita’s many rejections he ends his life in numerous ways, clearly unwilling to reside in his own personal hell anymore.
Phil starting not to give a fuck.
Would he not succumb to carnal temptation that the viewer hasn’t seen but is given glimpses of? We see him rob, seduce a local woman with lies, kill the Groundhog, assault an insurance salesman. Would he not go one further and murder, torture, … rape? This is something that some film reviewers have alluded to, and I must confess the topic has occupied many a conversation amongst friends.
The selfess acts Phil performs, all which seamlessly collide to set him free of Groundhog Day, may even be a meticulously prepared plan to go forth anew with a ‘free’ lifetime’s worth of skills and knowledge, and with Rita’s love attained.
Phil is so winning.
That such a family-friendly, PG-rated movie is open to these disconcerting interpretations is testament to its longevity. Phil’s eventual mastery is the product of calculation, dark impulses, sheer hard work, and yes, an inherent goodness; not for nothing has the picture been labelled ‘Capraesque’.
Ideas for a ‘Day after Groundhog Day’ movie are welcomed.
There’s been a lot of justified hullabaloo of late regarding ‘Fake News’ and the role of images – of dubious authenticity – in driving a news agenda. Politics, it seems, is truly the art of media manipulation and Photoshop now more than a mere meme creator. I’ve yet, however, to see anything to trump (pardon the pun) this Stalin cracker from back in the day:
Stalin and NKVD head Nikolai Yezhov, whitewashed once in Koba’s bad books.
Why bother defending your actions (the Great Purge) when you can simply rewrite official history? Stalin is the gold standard here. Ridiculous.
The Paris of Last Tango appears exactly as I remember it – grim, filthy, unforgiving, and indifferent. This uncaring squalor is manifested in the perversion practised by the characters, they upending all social mores and societal constraints. Almost as alarming is how cut off Marlon Brando’s Paul is from the outside world – it’s given him nothing but pain so he rejects it, and he himself confesses he has no friends or contacts worth having. The ‘man is an island’ feel of it, rather than sordid butter episodes, is what captivates me. This is of course by no means the central theme of the film, whose intention (I think) is to essentially piss on bourgeois conventions, but as artfully as possible; that Bertolucci marries some of the most sumptuously shot scenes with such animalistic content is no accident.
It is, though, the loneliness of the tale, the feeling that no one will ever know the travails of someone like Paul, that lingers most. His story has no indexical appeal – a chewed stick of gum on the underside of a Parisian balcony is the departing evidence that he was there, the connect between his end and the mysteries of his past (Schneider’s Jeanne intimates as much in her last lines as she prepares for police questioning).
In countless bars I’ve had drunken chats with innumerable ‘over-the-hill’ old codgers equipped with the most captivating and heartbreaking of evocations: a hazy trip with a childhood sweetheart to Amsterdam in the ’70s, riding the metro system with an ex-wife in Communist Moscow, a fleeting romance in Hong Kong circa 1964. The stories appear more than authentic enough, but they merely die with the teller.
I simply do not think I could cope without legitimisation through documentation – my travelling escapades are accompanied by articles, Instagram snaps, Facebook updates, WhatsApp messages to friends, and hundreds of photos, from beer glasses and buildings to cheeky street photography of stray dogs, traffic, and panhandlers. My view of unexplored regions is so tainted with media that I can’t separate myself from it – there is no solipsism on my voyages, and I disseminate any new city (for me) as a shared experience. My extended saké binge in Tokyo wasn’t just me getting wrecked in Tokyo; I brought along for the story Sofia Coppola, Yasujirō Ozu, and Ryuichi Sakamoto’s Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence (1983) theme. I must integrate myself into these narratives, extend their percolation, contribute my own little testament for the annals.
Chilling at Shibuya Crossing, 2015.
When people do go ‘off the grid’ as Paul does, we presume there is something really wrong with them, that they’ve done a Christopher McCandless; conversely, they are far more interesting, these nebulous figures unencumbered by our social media definitions. Were I a devoted wanderer of the East in the pre-digital age, I can’t imagine the pain of losing my copious rolls of film; it would render the whole trip without worth, an extended vignette banished to the fragmentation of my own memory. Moreover, it is through the photographic form that I continue to revisit, and even reimagine, the places I’ve seen – the photo has become the memory.
In something Straight Outta Bernstein’s haunting girl-on-the ferry story in Citizen Kane (1941), I twenty years ago at Nantes train station exchanged a wave with a woman on the platform as my train departed. Not a month goes by without me thinking of that elegant MILF with her lustrous blonde locks and catwalk boots. I do now wish I could have taken her snap or somehow exchanged Facebooks, as creepy as it sounds. She is but forever a fading, distorting memory. Call me, babes. Whoever you are. X.
I must confess, I do find many an American Civil War snap to be an absolute hoot. As insensitive as it is considering the carnage of the feud, they, not Union Army general-in-chief George B. McClellan, remain for me the real mystery of the war (see U.S. Grant observation). A combination of obscenely long exposure times and the photographer and subjects’ conscious imitation of the stylistic conventions of painting results in the most otherworldly, seemingly out-of-place actors and scenes ever captured in conflict.
Lincoln and ‘chums’.
It’s as if smiling would impart a lack of gentlemanly elegance, or worse, a madness recorded for posterity. The classical aesthetic is at total odds with the haphazard, improvised nature of the battles and campaigns that claimed the lives of an estimated 620,000 men.
Lincoln and McClellan.
I picture generals halting their chatter of logistics and supplies to stare passively into space in a kind of Victorian ‘Mannequin Challenge’ whilst the bloke with the big fuck-off camera got his photo. Ghostly (or alternatively ghastly) images, they are utterly bizarre to behold.
The Trainspotting of ’96 was made in that allegedly esoteric Britpop era of New Labour, swaggering Gallaghers, and unshackled chemical exploration, when the last honking remnants of Thatcher’s Britain (or Major’s) were ebbing away; a new cultural discourse on the horizon, things could only get better. I read an article (somewhere) a few weeks ago that pondered whether Trainspotting was a product of that alchemist epoch or actually created it. It’s a movie synced to its time, yet it doesn’t feel dated. Boyle’s expressionist, almost magical realist style – Gabriel García Márquez meets ’80s Edinburgh – is without gimmicks. Every tour de force shot or bravura sequence has a purpose, serving to express his characters’ experience of heroin and hedonism.
The sequel is strong. It nails how much both Edinburgh and our sensibilities have mutated over the past two decades. The essentials of modern living have altered – now it’s Facebook and Instagram and not the Compact Disc Player and big fucking televisions. Sensations are less corporeal, more about building a social narrative – it’s surface appearances and their validation that brings happiness, not the materialism of yesteryear. Edinburgh is no longer the destitute hellhole of old but a gentrified cluster of hamlets, with some no-go areas still hanging in there. I was in Niddrie last week and I must confess I experienced ‘The Fear’ – it was like another world, an urban toilet with trolls. Left behind the express train to post-modernity, you’ll never see this ‘non-place’ – as Marc Augé would put it – in a travel guide.
Mr. Francis Begbie in a toilet ….
There’s a sadness to proceedings, that these now middle-aged blokes look back on the shite times in a nostalgic sense, like the Ossis did (and still do) the GDR. Spud and Begbie especially wax lyrical about the rough ol’ days as if they were less a perversion and more an idyll. Familiarity doesn’t always breed contempt.
The new film has so much energy, is so visually dynamic, and the characters imbued with so much zest that it can’t be missed. And Francis Begbie is one scary bloke.
It was only when I left Bangkok that I actively investigated the human rights issues plaguing the country. As risible as it sounds, when I was there I was so stuck in the bubble of expat life and ingrained in the culture, that I didn’t pay attention to what was happening around me – the military overthrowing a popularly elected government, Martial Law, anyone who criticised the Royal Family getting chucked in the slammer; that and rampant poverty. I even worked in a Catholic Primary School owned and operated by some of the most right-wing Monarchist creatures I’ve ever met – they were essentially Southeast Asian versions of Franz von Papen. I guess I was so grateful for my own slice of Apocalypse Now that I accepted the lunacy of the environment.
My crib.
My neighbour.
Something that’s troubled me recently is the extent to which one can ignore the human rights abuses of a host country, choosing to discard the unpalatable for the pursuit and pleasures of adventure. I piss around a lot on Instagram, and I am daily presented with the most apolitical of travelogues, almost completely divorced from reality.
In the often trumpeted ‘Cradle of Civilisation’ that is the Middle East, ladies are lashed for the temerity of being raped as jet-setters sip club sodas on trendy rooftops. On another popular page, ‘fearless’ folk hit North Korea for the banter, which consists of karaoke in an empty Pyongyang hotel bar. Meanwhile, government agencies bug your room and the peasants starve to death in Kim Fatty the Third’s death camps.
It’s gotten to the stage now where ignoramus tourists (us interlopers) shuffle around Tiananmen Square bereft of a Scooby that there was a rather … significant uprising there back in ’89. Perhaps the lone protestor halting the column of tanks was from a movie (Tank Man).
Tank Man at Tiananmen Square.
In all of this I am reminded of George Bernard Shaw singing Stalin’s praises and spunking all over the Soviet Union as if it were a utopian Animal Farm minus the pigs. As famine raged in Ukraine, hundreds of thousands rotted in the Gulag system, and the Lubyanka Prison accommodated nightly executions, Shaw sat down for a cosy meeting with the “Georgian gentleman”, and shortly afterwards spat out his unforgettable statement: “I have seen all the ‘terrors’ and I was terribly pleased by them.” Such a contemptible act borders on intellectual bankruptcy, and worse, appears the deliberate propaganda of Mephistopheles himself.
The Holodomor.
By mingling with such repressive societies, the argument goes, we open them up to progressive politics and liberalism. One should respect their unique way of life, and not expect to transplant our values on them. This rubric also maintains that ‘responsible tourism’ contributes greatly to the economic well-being of the oppressed, especially if you stay in family-owned lodgings and buy from small businesses.
Dir: Martin Scorsese (2016).
A movie I saw recently, Martin Scorsese’s Silence (2016), sort of channels this we-know-best zeal, though this through the lens of religious imperialism. In the film, two 17th-century Jesuit priests travel from Portugal to Japan to locate their mentor and spread their faith. At first dedicated to protecting the persecuted local Christians from the authorities, they end up doing more harm than good, inflicting untold misery on the local believers.
That age-old question, wholly prescient in our era of regime change, is whether seeking to convert a ‘backward’ country is more or indeed less beneficial to the oppressed there; will it deliver them more freedom or extend their subjugation, with us as an additional (colonial) overlord?
And it’s not like we in our ivory towers are without our own glaring deficiencies. What is the Electoral College in the US but the manifestation of a gerrymandered, rigged franchise? And what of the colourful catalogue of miscarriages of justice that stain our judicial systems, or even the wanton spying practised illegally for years by surveillance agencies? Democracy ain’t what it says on the tin.
Map of ‘freedom’.
So the prevailing dogma is that you can see these retrograde places but just keep your mouth shut. Boycotting won’t help and neither will donning your missionary garb. I’d like to say I’ll pass on these countries out of a sense of misguided morality, and reserve my travel to Google Images. But I’m just too selfish to not tick these maligned countries off my list. My ‘moral compass’ doesn’t outweigh my curiosity/vanity. I’ve reached that jaded stage in my life where I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I shape nothing. Or maybe I can help a few folk (with generous tipping) on my way to some Instagram hits.
The Mongol Rally is a non-competitive, frankly ridiculous summer car rally from London to the Siberian town of Ulan Ude. The rally used to conclude in Ulaanbaatar but now for monetary reasons beyond the understanding of this author, the caper merely passes through Mongolia. It’s still called the Mongol Rally, though ….
Anyway, the three fundamental rules are as follows:
The car must be a smatter of shite, with an engine size limit of 1 litre.
You are on your own (no support team).
Teams need to raise at least £1000 for charity.
Photo: Erik MacKinnon.
It’s a dangerous, DIY mode of travel. One must be creative, daring, and blessed with a stoic fortitude that the three to four week, 10,000 mile quest demands. Folk have been hospitalised, stripped naked and robbed; many arrive home skint. And sadly, a bloke died whilst passing through Iran a few years ago. There’s a sense of autonomy in the endeavour, and an undeniable romance – you’re an ersatz Marco Polo in a falling-to-pieces Volkswagen Beetle. FYI: I’ve personally had gnarly dreams of journeying from Mogadishu to Cape Town in the farcical Mutt Cutts Van (’84 Sheepdog) from Dumb and Dumber (1994).
Photo: Norrbet at Globotreks.
It’s almost as if it’s too easy to travel these days, that ‘anyone’ can do it. This is true, and the vainglorious elements within us have us chasing down more difficult, testing, and unusual pursuits – how else to explain all the death-from-selfie occurrences on outback mountain tops? There is, though, no better story at a shindig than announcing to friends and neighbours that you’ve just driven to Siberia in a Ford Fiesta. Planes are for the masses, clearly. I verily anticipate the hipster-infused travel craze of 2018 – from Hamburg to Volgograd on a Segway, each participant armed to the fucking teeth with a bag of green tea, a 35mm SLR, and a typewriter.