reviews

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.

Of Morris Dancing, Cricket And Zombie Apocalypses

In a way, yesterday was one of those pleasant days which I just spent trundling around the Borough of Greenwich, but it resulted in three quite interesting things to record here this morning. I set out at about eleven, after a good breakfast and plenty of coffee. It was already quite warm, so I was keen to get some fresh air, heading through Kidbrooke, over Blackheath and then down into Greenwich. Greenwich Market is always bustling on Saturday mornings, but yesterday it was heaving, and I could barely move for all the people as I navigated my way through it towards the river.

Once by the Thames, though, I found something which struck me as very peculiar: a Morris Dancing festival! Morris Dancing is something I associate with rural England and small towns and villages, so to suddenly happen upon such an event there, in the shade of the masts of the Cutty Sark, was quite a surprise. There were several groups of performers dancing, so I stayed to watch a few of their rather impressive routines, reflecting to myself that it was probably worth blogging about, before continuing my walk.

From Greenwich I continued along the River up to the O2, and then decided to head up to Charlton to see if there was a cricket match being played in the park. I still have extremely warm, happy memories of watching cricket in Charlton Park: it is a fantastic spot for the sport, with it’s wide green fields and friendly little cafe, all overlooked by the majestic Charlton House. I was very pleased to find a match already in play yesterday afternoon, with none other than the Mighty Eights, a team I have grown to know and love over the years, batting. From there, it became clear that the afternoon would just be a matter of sitting there, chatting to my friends, watching the cricket, and sipping non-alcoholic beer. If you ask me you can’t get a better Saturday afternoon than that.

However, the day was far from over. Unfortunately I had to miss the end of the match as I was eager to get home ahead of what promised to be an interesting evening: John and I had plans to go to a zombie apocalypse! That is to say, we were going to go watch 28 Years Later, Danny Boyle’s new film. I’m not usually a fan of zombie horror films, but John seemed keen to go, and I still think Boyle is a demi-god for what he did in 2012, so I thought I’d give it a go.

What I found myself watching, though, was far from pleasant: the film was scary, unnerving and grotesque, set in a post-apocalyptic Britain where people have to stave off ‘the infected’ with bows and arrows. I’d like to review it properly, but to do that I’d need to give it at least a second viewing. It’s a frightening, disorienting film full of unnecessary gore. What I will say, though, is that it is chock-a-block with iconography and references: religious references, references to films like Kes, and even – although I’m not completely sure – a few references to Tolkien. For example, there is one shot if a group of people walking in file, silhouetted, over a brow of a hill, recalling the similar, famous shot in Peter Jackson’s adaptation of Fellowship Of The Ring. Also, the main protagonist of the piece, a young boy called Jimmy, is always shot wearing a pendant on a necklace around his neck, recalling Frodo wearing the Ring.

Going deeper will, however, have to wait for another time. The day is starting, and the coffee is brewing. Yesterday was a great day at the end of an awesome week. It can only make me wonder what next week will bring.

Queuing for Pretentiousness

Oasis and the fact that tickets for their upcoming tour have gone on sale was on the news this morning. Inspired to blog about it, I just checked my archive, and my opinion of the band hasn’t changed since I wrote this entry: Liam and Noel Gallagher are still two talentless, arrogant wankers. What gets to me (in a mildly annoying way) is the obviously fake adoration they’re currently receiving. The beeb’s breakfast show I was just watching showed fans queuing outside ticket offices, as if it was somehow equivalent to a Beatles or Queen reunion. The thing is, many of the people there were obviously too young to have been alive when Oasis were actually together; either that or just wanted to tap into the band’s Northern chique, faux-anti-establishment brand. In other words, this didn’t have anything to do with wanting to listen to music, but was entirely pretentious.

Then again, I suppose the same accusation could be levelled at me when I was so enthusiastic to get tickets for Monty Python Live in 2014. Given that I wasn’t alive when Python first aired in the Seventies, was I just going with the Python-are-great vibe? Was I being pretentious, claiming to tap into a culture which I thought was trendy and fashionable? I don’t think so: although I was born post-Python, I had grown up in a household full of Monty Python References. I remember my dad singing The Lumberjack Song when I was little, not understanding why he would work all night and sleep all day. I remember being told about spam, and the song Jesus sang when he was on the cross. Most fondly of all, I remember watching Michael Palin’s travel programs on Sunday evenings. Thus when they reunited eleven years ago, my enthusiasm was entirely heartfelt and genuine. Those guys were and are legends and cultural icons; watching them live will always be one of the highlights of my life. My only regret looking back is that I didn’t get tickets for my parents to see the show too, as they were even bigger Python fans than I was.

Now, however, Oasis are trying to tap into the same kind of nostalgic vibe Python exhibited, but the difference now is that it is entirely superficial. These ‘fans’ don’t actually like Oasis, as much as they want to be seen to like Oasis. They seem to be under the gross misapprehension that being an Oasis fan makes you an anti-mainstream rebel, when the irony is that you can barely get more mainstream than these two generic, nauseating, unoriginal twits. Anyone genuinely into rock music would be queuing for tickets for the plethora of other actual rock concerts happening across the country this summer. But instead they put on their stupid hats and sunglasses, and try to imitate the mannerisms of two Mancunian wankers who never had a shred of musical talent in the first place.

DVDs Still Rule

By rights I should love streaming: it makes films and television programs so easy to watch. All you need to do is sit down at your computer, and you can now watch virtually anything you can think of, no matter how obscure. There is no need to muck around hunting down rare videos or DVDs, and no need to store them on shelves and put them into drives whenever you want to watch them. From my perspective, streaming should be awesome.

The thing is, I still don’t think it actually is. Of course, as I wrote here, streaming has many advantages, especially if like me you can’t physically use things like DVDs. Yet it seems to me that the rise of streaming has brought about an entirely new paradigm in how we consume film. Before now, if you wanted to watch a specific film, you just either went to the cinema or bought a video or DVD from a shop. It would then be yours to keep. It wouldn’t matter which shop you bought it from or the chain of cinemas you went to; the same films were available anywhere.

What bothers me these days, however, is the way in which certain streaming services are effectively the gatekeepers of certain films or programs. Instead of owning a film on disk which I could then watch whenever I wanted, Ad Infinitum, these days to watch certain films you have to subscribe to certain streaming services. The only way you can maintain access to that film is to keep up your subscription to the streaming service it is hosted by, of which there are now several.

I can’t help thinking that this is a fundamental change in how we consume and access film. Whereas we might previously have had a shelf of videos or DVDs alongside our shelves of books, to watch certain films we now need to be subscribed to certain streaming services. They are now no longer texts which we can get off the shelf whenever we want, but the products of streaming platforms without which we cannot access certain films. In a way this renders them products, like forcing people to keep buying bottles of water when previously it had been always available through taps.

A couple of days ago I bought all three seasons of Picard on DVD. I have seen all the episodes before of course, and it was little more than an impulse buy. Yet I think the purchase is something I will now cherish. Obviously, to watch the episodes I will need to ask someone to put them in my DVD drive. Yet simply to own them as a physical artefact, just as I own box sets of James Bond and The Lord of the Rings, is something I find very satisfying: simply to know the episodes are there, ready for me to access and indulge in whenever I want, without having to update a membership or keep paying a subscription, gives me a sense of contentment.

I love film, of course: I love how it really ignites the imagination, taking us to a plethora of different places. I love how different directors use it to express their selves and say different things. Yet instead of being the expression of directors, film now seems to be the product of online platforms, without which we cannot watch certain films. This renders them commercial products rather than works of art; pieces of entertainment to pay for rather than meaningful expression of thought. 

Pulp Fans And Outsidership

I was just watching BBC Breakfast News as usual, and came across something which really, really got on my nerves. They were running an item on Pulp, Jarvis Cocker and Britpop, about how it was so influential and the legacy it left, especially on places like Sheffield. Towards the end of the piece, they quite predictably interviewed a few fans: what I found so annoying was how such fans saw themselves as outsiders. They were saying how, to be into a band like Pulp, you had to be a bit weird, strange or unusual, gleefully emphasising how different and abnormal they thought they were. The thing is, the people saying this were white, male, able-bodied and (I assume) straight. Sorry, but I couldn’t help getting rather wound up by that. They obviously belong to the most mainstream, advantaged cohort of people there is; one which faces the least discrimination of all. Liking a certain band or genre of music does not make you an outsider, yet they seemed to regard theirselves as oddities swimming against the mainstream current.

As someone who faces various kinds of discrimination every day, down to being unable to get where I want to go due to places being inaccessible for wheelchair users, to hear such a person trumpet how ‘different’ he felt he was, really felt like a piss-take. He would know nothing of the kind of persecution a member of any real minority faces. But then, these days it seems to be culturally fashionable to be a member of a minority: nobody wants to be seen as a member of the advantaged, privileged few, so rather like Monty Python’s Four Yorkshiremen will jump at anything that makes them seem hard done by, persecuted or different. The thing is, liking the music of a certain band, and being educated in a special school alongside seven or eight quite disabled young people, are hardly the same thing.

Ocean with David Attenborough

It was turning into quite a dull day so this afternoon I decided to take myself up to the cinema to watch Ocean with David Attenborough. I was, of course, extremely eager to watch it, although a (small) part of me was hesitant as I tend to associate Attenborough with the BBC, and he didn’t work with them on this film. However, what I found myself watching a couple of hours ago was truly, truly remarkable. First of all, Ocean is a beautifully shot piece of non-fiction cinema: some of the scenes we are treated to as an audience are jaw-dropping. More to the point, it is a highly compelling film. As many others are noting, unlike Sir David’s TV work, this film has a clear agenda: in large part it is about the damage we are doing to the oceans, mostly through over-fishing. We glimpse the ruin trawlers inflict on the seas, which it would be hard not to find compelling. In this sense it was clear to see why this film could not have been made by the beeb as it couldn’t have had such an overt agenda. At the same time it does not go too far or slip into dogma: it is not anti-fishing, but emphasises how balanced, sustainable methods could benefit everyone.

However, the aspect of the film I was most drawn by was how it highlighted Attenborough’s own incredible career. We are treated to clips of him diving as a young man fifty or sixty years ago. This allows the film to highlight how much the oceans have changed over that time, and how they also have a remarkable capacity to recover if we allow them to. Thus we are treated to a view of the oceans very much through Attenborough’s own wise, compelling eyes, and the film is all the richer for it.

The vast majority of us have spent our entire lives with David Attenborough on our television screens, treating us to insights into the natural world nobody else comes close to. I think I have said here before that I regard him as the greatest broadcaster ever. To my knowledge this is his first foray into cinema, and the result is an absolute pleasure. If I had a single criticism of the film, however, it is that it does not touch upon how the damage we are currently doing to the seas has it’s underlying roots in economics, or what causes it socio-economically. The issue is essentially one of capitalism. After all, people are compelled to catch fish to make a living; if this motivation was got rid of, surely over-fishing would be far less of a problem. The only way the issue of over-fishing can be dealt with is if we address our appetite for seafood. The film does not focus on this broader aspect of the issue though, but seems to shy away from the underlying economics. That aside, we are treated to a wonderful piece of natural history cinema – one which I would passionately encourage everyone to go and watch on the big screen as soon as you can. David Attenborough has treated us to yet another delightful insight into the world around us; but then, we expect nothing less from this great, great man.

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!

Das Idioten and Disability Rights

Just before breakfast this morning, I was talking about film with John: we were checking out some of Mark Kermode’s reviews, and his interview with Lars Von Trier cropped up. Von Trier is a director I first came across at university, but he hadn’t crossed my intellectual path since then. However, his name rung a bell as the guy who directed Das Idioten.

I vaguely remember trying to watch Das Idioten back in my room at university, but being so appalled by it that I gave up about twenty minutes in. This morning, though, I decided to give it another go: uni was over fifteen years ago, and I was kind of curious about it. Luckily, I found it on Amazon, and put it on while enjoying a delicious omelette.

Having just finished the film, it would seem that I have a lot of work to do and a lot to write. Watching as both a cinephile and disability rights activist/blogger, Das Idioten is a highly, highly problematic film, as provocative as it is troubling. It’s essentially about a commune of able-bodied people who see imitating people with learning difficulties as a form of social rebellion or even art. I mean, where do I even begin with that? The characters – and, by extension, the director – seem to think that what they are doing is socially right and justified, rather than a crass, repugnant form of mockery of one of the most oppressed sections of society. The film framed it as commentary or political expression rather than discrimination.

I have known people with conditions like severe autism or PMLD who behaved in the way the characters in the film were trying to imitate. Many live difficult, confused lives barely being able to comprehend the world around them. To see such people being mocked, imitated and caricatured as they were in the film was gut-wrenchingly vile. Yet, when they wanted to, the characters were shown to revert to their normal, able-bodied selves, as if ‘spazzing’ was just something they could step in and out of. They were then shown to use this behaviour to manipulate others into things like paying for meals. The problem is, there seemed to be very little criticism of this repugnant behaviour, but instead the film seemed to present it as somehow political or artistic.

Let’s put it this way: if this film was focussed on any other minority – if these people were shown to be mimicking black or gay people for example, and justifying it as political activism – there would rightly be public outrage. Why, then, should I as a disabled man allow it to go unchallenged? Das Idioten may be about thirty years old, but when viewed in the light of contemporary civil rights activism, there is a hell of a lot which can and should be said about it. The question is, where do I start?

First things first, I need to go for a walk.