review

I Swear

I honestly think I woke up this morning with a new film added to my favourites category. John and I went to watch I Swear yesterday evening, and I don’t think I have been to a more powerful, rewarding film in a long, long time. It is the story of a man with Tourettes syndrome in the eighties, and as such it is essentially a film about disability and disability acceptance: we watch a young man with fairly severe Tourettes, John Davidson, growing up in a small Scottish town. It would be impossible not to find the amount of discrimination and bullying we see John face compelling, from the arrogant mockery he gets from other kids to loosing an opportunity to play football as a goalkeeper.

It becomes clear quite early in the film that John faces a hard, marginalised life. But where the film succeeds, rather magnificently, is in the emphasis it puts on the fact that all John really needs is understanding. He doesn’t need to ‘get better’, he doesn’t need a cure; all he needs is for people to understand his Tourettes (he refuses to call it a disability). He just needs people to understand that he can’t help his involuntary tics, they are just part of who he is, and are nothing to mock or worry about. As such, I Swear is one of the best pieces of disability representation and inclusion I have seen in a long, long time. It avoids the nasty temptation to make fun of John’s condition, handling the subject tenderly and with great humanity.

The film indeed opens with a shot of John receiving his MBE in 2019, a testimony to his fortitude, and all in all the film leaves the viewer extremely gratified and uplifted. There is sometimes a tendency for films like this to wallow in pity, but I Swear quite expertly avoids it, leaving the viewer uplifted, satisfied and enlightened. It is the story of a man overcoming horrendous persecution to achieve his potential, as well as his education of those around him to achieve enlightenment, and as such I now think it is definitely one of the ‘must see’ films of the season.

A Breaking Bad Film?

I suppose it is fair to say that it has been a bit of a rough week. Not just generally, where international affairs seem to be steadily progressing from bad to worse, but for me personally. Due to a bug or something I haven’t felt at all myself, and at one point was in fact beginning to get rather worried. However, I’m glad to say that has now passed – as I knew it would – and I once again feel like my usual, curious self.

One of the best things about this week, on the other hand, was that I’ve been continuing to enjoy Breaking Bad. As I wrote a few days ago, until very recently I was completely ignorant of it, I suppose having previously dismissed it as just another American mass entertainment franchise. Just a few days later, though, and I can’t get enough of it. I’ve been binge-watching it, and am already well into the second season.

I think it might well be the ‘something new’ I was looking for – after all, there are only so many times you can watch James Bond films or Star Trek episodes. It seems fresh and novel, like completely uncharted territory: new characters to get to know, as well as new ideas and themes to explore. To be honest, knowing there’s still so much to find out is quite a wonderful feeling.

However, I must admit that there is one nagging question which has already occurred to me: did Breaking Bad ever get a cinematic outing? Did it ever have a filmic manifestation? Obviously, I could simply google whether a Breaking Bad film was ever made or not, but the question nonetheless seems quite interesting in itself. For one, how might the highly complex characters I’m now watching being developed slowly over several seasons be translated into film? And how could you get the same balance of scientific gravitas and criminal transgressiveness?

Structurally of course, films and episodic franchises are very different things: one is self contained where the other is spread out over several hours. Yet fictions created as one can be adapted for the other, the obvious example being Star Trek. As a cinephile, I would be intrigued to find out if there ever was a film adaptation of Breaking Bad, or see what one might look like. It has a combination of academic intelligence and outright subversiveness I have never come across before – a dynamic which I would absolutely love to see transposed to the big screen. I’m now really looking forward to digging a little deeper.

And to think, all this came about due to my shave at the weekend!

One From Shives’ Heart

I think I really need to flag this Steve Shives video up today. As you may know, I’ve been watching Shives’ videos for a while: I think he’s one of the best film and TV analysts on Youtube, especially when it comes to franchises like Star Trek. In this vid, however, he discusses his adoration for Superman, particularly he earlier Superman films when he was played by Christopher Reeve. What interests me about this video is how, as Shives himself admits, he forgoes any in-depth discussion and instead just tries to convey his love and fascination with what he sees on screen. He knows that what he is watching is silly, campy and far fetched, but that somehow does not matter: Shives feels intrigued and compelled to watch. He does not use the term, but to me that is instantly recognisable as cinephilia, the discourse of filmic love I spent seven years analysing and writing about.

In a way this is cinephilia in it’s purest form. The way Shives picks out films, actors or just moments of film and speaks about them so adoringly is quintessentially cinephiliac. I was particularly struck by the moment when, two and a half to three minutes into the piece, Shives deviates slightly and starts talking about the moment he first saw Atticus Finch appear on screen. He had apparently been studying Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird at school, but this was the first time Shives had seen the film adaptation. Shives describes how he was struck by how Gregory Peck’s portrayal of Finch looked uncannily like he had imagined the character; how he had to stop himself ‘audibly gasping’; how amazed he felt at the sight of a character he had previously only imagined brought to life on screen. Shives might not use the term – or even know it – but what he is describing is a cinephiliac moment: a moment in a film when the viewer is absolutely taken by what they are seeing, although they can’t quite articulate why. It touches them on a deep, personal level; they feel compelled to explain and talk about it, even though it somehow seems to go beyond words.

To be honest I find it incredible to see one being expressed so clearly and obviously. Shives probably hasn’t read the literature surrounding cinephilia, let alone my zarking thesis, but this is a primary example of it’s development, and how it is emerging online more and more. The thing is, until Shives and commenters like him recognise what they produce as such, and start to talk about their love of film in and of itself, what they produce will always remain a form of fandom.

The Crucible

Something cool happened yesterday, which I felt a tad guilty about at the same time. Unlike last Saturday the sun was shining, so yesterday morning I had what I assumed was a brilliant idea and emailed the Globe theatre. I explained what happened, about my powerchair, the rain, and why we missed half the play, asking if we could perhaps go to another performance. A couple of hours later I got a reply asking for our booking details, which of course I gave. I soon got another email back, informing me that we could go to the performance that afternoon. For a moment I was over the moon, until John, who was by then in the room, told me that he couldn’t go because he had things he needed to do here. I instantly felt extremely guilty: going to see The Crucible had been his idea in the first place, and I should have checked with him before I sent the email.

By that time, however, there was no time to get into that: it was almost one and the performance would apparently start at two. I hopped onto a bus and set off for the South Bank, feeling rather guilty but looking forward to what I was about to see.

Arthur Miller’s Crucible is a fascinating play. As I said last week, it was a text I studied at A Level, but I had never seen it performed live. The spectacle I was witness to yesterday afternoon was incredible. It’s a play where tension slowly builds and builds until, in the third act, it’s almost tangible, with all the characters accusing one another of witchcraft. Their denial only results in more suspicion, escalating to a riveting, heart-breaking, almost unbearable denouement. The way it was performed yesterday was jaw-dropping, and I really felt for the lead character, John Proctor, trapped in a position he had no way of escaping. This was theatre at it’s greatest.

Of course, Miller’s play is famously an allegory for the McCarthy witch hunts of the 1950s, so that’s what I kept thinking about throughout yesterday’s performance: what are we actually watching, and what might it mean? You only need to turn on the evening news to see that there is a crucible now burning in America far more dangerous, more insidious than either Proctor or Miller could ever have imagined; and I think that may have been among the reasons why this play is being performed at the Globe this summer. The timing cannot be ignored. A play illustrating the first time people in America descended into embittered, suspicious anarchy is actually about the second; but what might it now say about the third? What worries me is that this time, there won’t be any rapturous applause at the end.

As the play ended and I started to leave the theatre, of course I felt deeply satisfied: it had been a fascinating afternoon. But I needed to make sure I did two things: first I got a copy of Arthur Miller’s play so I could reread it and study it more deeply; but I also asked if John could go, perhaps in a few weeks, since he couldn’t come with me yesterday, and I’m glad to say he can.

Rain Stopped Play

I’m sorry to say that I don’t have the entry I thought I would write here this morning. I was really, really looking forward to last night. A couple of weeks ago, John suggested going to the Globe Theatre to watch The Crucible, and of course I was up for it. It is a play I studied for A-Level English, and seeing it at the awesome Shakespeare’s Globe would be a treat. I was extremely keen to see how it would be performed, and how it might be used to make a comment on contemporary American politics. I knew, of course, that it was a play about the Salem Witch Hunts, but that Arthur Miller used that history to make a statement about the Mccarthy Witch Hunts of the 1950s. Could performing the play now mean it was being used to say something about what is happening in America at the moment?

We got to the Globe about 45 minutes early, and killed the time on our Ipads (who knew seventeenth century playhouses have Wifi?). To be honest, the sky had been grey all day, so I was a bit concerned about the weather. In due course we were lead out, and I was allowed onto a wheelchair viewing platform among the groundlings right in front of the stage. It wasn’t raining, the play soon began, and we were quickly absorbed into Miller’s intriguing historic narrative. However, about half an hour into the play, the skies began to open, gently at first, then gradually heavier and heavier. I was obviously in my powerchair – allowing it’s control to get too wet would be a disaster.

Unfortunately, as the weather grew worse and John and I became increasingly soaked, we had no choice but to call it a day and head home. It was a great, great shame. I had been really looking forward to the performance, but we only got about a quarter of the way through it. I was extremely disappointed to say the least: it was a great play in an incredible venue. Oh well, I suppose seventeenth century groundlings obviously didn’t have powerchairs they had to keep dry!

Life Is A Cabaret

I think it would be fair to say that my New Year’s Eve was astonishing, and one of the best I’ve ever had. I didn’t stay up for the fireworks – indeed, I was in bed by eleven, after one too many margaritas – but my afternoon yesterday was absolutely phenomenal. John and I went to see Cabaret at the Playhouse theatre, just off Whitehall. It was once again John’s idea, and I didn’t know much about the show; but as soon as I entered the performance space, I knew we were in for something truly special.

Over the next couple of hours, my jaw was almost constantly on the floor. Truth be told, I think I was vaguely familiar with Cabaret as it started to ring a few bells; yet what I found myself watching yesterday was unlike anything I had ever seen or experienced before. The text is set in 1930s Berlin, and is about people coming to terms with the rise of Nazism. One character is a writer from America; another is a jewish man trying to find love. There is a deep darkness at the core of the play, but around this core is a sort of frenetic jollity. The performance itself is full of action and energy, song and dance. When I say ‘full’, I mean you could barely get more into the room. John and I were sitting right next to the circular stage, and the performers were charging in every direction, sometimes so close that I could have touched them.

It was visceral, awe-inspiring entertainment. It was theatre, but it was unlike any theatre I had experienced before. The stage was at the centre of the room, but it was like the entire room was the stage. Thus the performers interacted with the entire space, both on the stage and off it, singing and dancing in a way that was utterly, utterly exhilarating. At the same time, there was an intense darkness to the piece, as the story being told to us was one of persecution and discrimination. The lyrics to some of the songs being sung were truly heartbreaking. There was therefore a discord or juxtaposition at the core of the piece, between the energy of the performance and the play being performed, which was profoundly unsettling.

Once again I’m struggling to sum what I experienced yesterday in one short blog entry. Such performances can never be translated into prose but have to be experienced for yourself. How J managed to get tickets at such a discount baffles me. But as I tried to get home yesterday evening, battling my way through the crowds of revellers and blocked off streets, I reflected to myself once again how lucky I am to live here, in this metropolis of theatre and music and life, where I can go to such amazing performances and events, just a tube line away.

What 2025 will bring is anyone’s guess, but simply being here fills me with optimism. The wider world might be currently standing at a precarious juncture, and indeed yesterday’s performance could be read as a nod to that. Yet what shows like Cabaret also tell you is that humanity always survives; good always finds a way to prevail, and good people will always find a way to show their friendship and love, be that through meeting for drinks in pubs, going to spectacular performances or going to places like India or Morocco. I don’t know what life will bring me next year, but then, life is a cabaret.

Happy New Year everyone!

The Duchess Of Malfi

I have another theatrical recommendation for everyone today- an absolutely fascinating one. John and I went to watch The Duchess Of Malfi last night. Once again it was his suggestion, and I had never heard of it. However, John told me where to go, and I met him at the Trafalgar Theatre on Whitehall at half past seven yesterday evening.

What I found myself watching was fascinating. It is essentially a seventeenth century play about a woman, The Duchess, who falls in love with Antonio, her steward, but her brothers, Ferdinand and the Cardinal, forbid her from marrying him. They hire Bosola to spy on her, and he eventually discovers that she is pregnant. The Duchess and Antonio then elope and have three children in secret. The thing is, I didn’t know anything about it before going into the theatre, so because the actors were all in modern costume, I was at a complete loss about when the action was set. The dialogue was a strange mixture of antiquated and contemporary, with even a few elements that iambic pentameter, so I was never totally certain what I was listening to. The performance was a fusion of such a vast array of elements that I found myself totally captivated: this was contemporary theatre at its finest, somehow seeming both Shakespearean and modern at the same time.

As I rode the Jubilee Line home last night, I once again felt overwhelmingly lucky to live in this awesome city, where I can go to a theatre of an evening and watch such beautiful, captivating things. I was left intrigued by the fusion of archaic and contemporary which had both baffled and fascinated me; and by the way in which the play seemed to transgress time, seeming both historic and modern at once. It had drawn me in, reminding me how fascinating such performances could be. Best of all, though, it left me ravenous for more.

The Buddha of Suburbia

Yesterday turned out to be one of the most culturally rich days I have enjoyed in a long time. Not only did I watch an interesting, if fairly repugnant, film yesterday morning, but in the evening John and I met at The Barbican to watch The Buddha of Suburbia. I must admit I hadn’t heard of the play before J suggested it, but it had been so long since I last went to a theatre – possibly before the pandemic – that I was fairly eager to take him up on the suggestion. It would certainly beat yet another Saturday night at home.

The Barbican is fast growing on me: I don’t know much about how that area of London came about, but it seems to be a vast complex of galleries, theatres and cinemas under my nose which I knew virtually nothing about. It hosts the type of avante-garde art which I often find fascinating, and thanks to the Elisabeth Line, I can get there in minutes.

Thus yesterday evening I met John outside the Barbican Theatres. Truth be told I hadn’t a clue what to expect, but had a feeling I was in for a treat. As we went into the space itself, I got the impression that this was something I had missed; something I hadn’t experienced for a long, long time. I seemed to have forgotten that theatre wasn’t just cinema rendered into 3d, but something completely different and far more visceral.

As luck would have it we got to our places just before the performance began. There was no curtain and the stage was open before us. Soon the action started. I don’t want to spoil anything in case anyone reading this intends to go, but The Buddha of Suburbia is about Indian Immigrants living in South London in the late seventies. I must admit that the plot itself seemed to drag slightly, especially towards the end; but what struck me the most last night was how the story was told. Apart from the intermission, there were no scene changes as such: The action took place in one long go, with the actors using the various spaces on the elaborate, three-dimensional set to represent the various places in the story. I found it utterly intoxicating: watching the cast members seamlessly weave throughout the set, performing their lines, interacting with one another, periodically breaking into dance routines, was intoxicating. I had missed this though I hadn’t realised it, but either way was suddenly very eager to see more.

As I rode the Elisabeth Line back to Woolwich last night, it struck me that I had just experienced what London was best at. It is a city of theatres, of art, of music, of performance. It is a melting pot of a thousand intertwined, fascinating cultures. Places like The Barbican are where London comes to life. The Buddha Of Suburbia brings part of it’s south eastern corner into it’s centre, and in doing so brings the entire sprawling metropolis to life on stage.