Losing our Religion 4 – 1

"All I know most surely about morality and obligations, I owe to football." Albert Camus

The United Kingdom is not a laic country. It has a religion and it is called F’dom. Its worshipers observe the commands of their faith at least every Sunday, if not more frequently. Approximately ninety percent of the population professes faith in F’dom, and the minority of non-practicing infidels are either subversives or intellectuals. The upper classes cynically pretend to be adepts, though in fact they disdain F’dom, or else are simply indifferent. They are happy for the poor to be distracted while not in their employment.

F’dom has much in common with previous forms of worship known to Northern Europe, both Christian and pagan. It has left its mark with audacious structures of architecture the length and breadth of the country. It has its own symbols, traditions and idols, although its most distinctive emblem – a white flag with a red cross upon it – once purportedly adorned the Christian martyr, dragon-slayer and holy Saint George. Its sacred rites can only be performed by a small elite endowed with powers far surpassing those of common mortals. Many believe these elite to be gods, and as such their every need (libations, licentiousness of every kind) is accommodated by the mortals. Worshipers occasionally try to emulate their gods’ prowess, and while they may experience fleeting sensations of omniscience and invincibility, they are quickly reminded of their mortal limitations and return to their lives of serfdom, happy to have experienced something beyond the mundane. Only the gods themselves know the true extent of their powers and their weaknesses, and they mischievously exploit each others’ shortcomings to the amusement and consternation of the mortals.

The gods communicate with sounds and gestures and hence station themselves above common language. The gods’ manifestations, however, often inspire lofty words and rhetoric from amongst the mortals, and rumour has it that the Bard himself was an early adept of F’dom. Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more ... The game's afoot: Follow your spirit, and upon this charge ... F’dom is indeed a beautiful religion that venerates aesthetic male beauty more spectacularly and sublimely than any of its ancestral forms. The adult male is thus idealized and idolized by young boys, who learn to crave the power of the gods, and by young girls, who are initiated to the corporal and visual pleasures of mankind.

Every fiftieth passing of the moon, a party of eleven high practitioners and some worthy followers set off upon a pilgrimage (which is in fact a crusade) with the intention of spreading the F’dom doctrines to Moor or pagan lands ignorant of the true ways of F’dom. At such times, almighty passions are spent and great victories are won. It has been known, however, for crusades to end in calamity resulting in much pain and anguish for the mortals, who believe the gods have forsaken them. This can lead to ugly scenes whereby the mortals turn on the gods, only to recant and repent upon realising that their lives are entirely meaningless and absurd in their absence. These episodes lead to a prolonged period of melancholy and introspection.

(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A58Ts3JWl8o)

Paradise LOST

JUST A QUICK WORD to say bravo to Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse, head writers on the television series Lost. Bravo on such a well-crafted ending to a superb series!

In retrospect it seems obvious that the final sequence should return to the beginning; that the last image should mirror the first as seen in the pilot. Obvious, but nobody seemed to predict it. Ahah, to understand the creative process you need the reflexes of a writer, not the couch critic!

I came late to the Lost cause – I watched the first episode a couple of months back, and then subsequently lost a week of my life watching all episodes up through season six. And I don’t do television. So bravo on creating a smart, thought-provoking contribution to popular culture – that is so rarely seen on mainstream networks. All those clever-clever references to Rousseau, Hume, Lock, Steinbeck, the Others... we got ’em. If I ever teach philosophy, Lost will definitely be on my curriculum. (There is actually a collection of scholarly articles on the series “The Island has its Reasons,” some iffy, some pretty solid.)

I do half wonder if the bulk of its mainstream audience was not more interested in the nerdy details of the smoke monster’s powers and the flash backwards, sideways and time travel continuum rather than the Bigger Picture, but so what..? One of the show’s greatest feats is seamlessly blending a semi-realist aesthetic (yikes, we survived a plane crash!) with a fictional, fantasy narrative. In doing so it meshes together the two central strands of cinematic fiction which since the beginnings of cinema - the Lumière brothers filming unsuspecting passengers getting off a train (wow!) and Méliès sending his clay man to the moon - have been considered opposing forces. And it works ...

Personally I was more gripped by the survival/reality aspect of the first few series and would have taken the drama further in that direction. And my one unanswered question is; where and when did they went to the toilet? Hmm... I have a few other gripes too. At times the drama was painfully melodramatic, and the music score was oh-soooh-way over-the-top, cringe cringe. But full credit to the actors, especially Josh Holloway for making “son of a bitch! I’ll be damned!” sound as if that wasn’t written by ABC censors! (Although Charlie’s favorite expletive “sodding” was last used I think in the UK in 1989 ...)

But being damned, of course, turned out to be what it was all about. Damned, lost, and finally redeemed. One blogger lambasted the series for being “Bible TV” and while the series draws on very diverse mythologies and philosophies, it is astonishing how many theological references there are: the 23rd Psalm, Jacob and his twin (Isaac?), notions of the soul, afterlife and purgatory. Jack’s father is called “Christian Shepherd” (“seriously?!” laughs Kate ...) Yes, quite seriously as it happens.

I think this is highly revealing about where American drama and thought is at the beginning of the 21st century – still asking the God question, and framing it in distinctly Existentially-Christian terms. Sartre may be “discredited” in the eyes of postmodern theoriests, but Huit Clos (which in view of the Lost finale surely offers the closest literary analogy) stubbornly refuses to bail out of the hatch.

Lost is a Homeric story-telling epic for the modern day. I would not go as far as to say television has risen from the dead, but there is hope. Bravo!

Dissertation writing is ...

... being a LION in a CAGE!  ROAH!! ROAAHH!

Why i PREFER LA to San Francisco

This comes from someone who made a film called Hell (A) (about LA being, er, hellish...), so I advise the reader to use discernment. Cela dit ...

- LA is possibly one of the most multi-cultural cities in the world. Mulatto is the majority; it is beautiful, it is everywhere and it is the future. SF is diverse yet segregated, and in its central districts, white.
- LA has CHARM, contrary to popular belief. It is an all-American charm; made of dreams for dreamers. It is the life at the end of Death Valley. If you travel WEST, you arrive in LA, that’s the rule. And you are escaping the EAST, which is cold, cramped and full of bankers, or some other repressive regime.
- Fine, read ‘LOSER’ for ‘dreamer.’ BUT it’s kind of OKAY to be a loser in LA. Most Angelinos are interesting misfits who have come from all-hither. Being a loser gets you kudos. And anyway dude, you’re so going to make it, like tomorrow.
- Within the States, LA is universally detested. Is that a negative?
- Nobody walks in LA. Which admittedly is BAD for pollution, but it does cut down on NOISE POLLUTION! The majority of idiotic, mind-bending conversations are thankfully contained within the four doors of a black hybrid. In SF these conversations occur less frequently, but they happen on the street.
- Surpisingly, as a part-time cylist I find it safer to trot the twenty miles to the supermarket in LA, than the two miles in SF. The roads are wider, and there are far fewer of us competing for the mini lane!
******************************************************
- In San Francisco, there is only so much freezing sunshine you can enjoy in May. I’ve heard it gets colder! LA is hot, straight down the line.
- San Francisco has charm, but it is a borrowed charm. Borrowed from the Victorians, the Irish, the Italians, the Chinese, the Japanese, et al. So WHAT IS IT?
- It’s not OKAY to be a loser in SF. You live in the Golden Gate Park, smoke cheap weed and wear clothes last washed in 1973. It’s OKAY on the other hand to be a yuppy (entrepreneur), très 1980s. Or work for a not-for-profit, which unfortunately means you will be poor.
- Anecdotal prejucice. Since living in SF, I have suffered two feverish hallucinogenic trips. I’ve honestly no idea what triggered these trips; as far as I know it could have been the tap water in my apartment! In the last one, I travelled to the edge of space at warp 15. It was scary...

Oh, what noble mind is here o'erthrown! I'm an eternal malcontent. With this post, I return to the Old Country for the rest of year. American Airlines – please deliver me to a mid-Atlantic island, like in 'Lost.' Adieu Amerique, I will actually miss you.

But I’ll be back.

Bridge under bars (a visual poem)

Beautiful, but caged in,
You graceful, grand old thing.
Everybody loves you.

Towering and noble,
Upwardly mobile,
You are the gateway to Japan.

Brazen and gaudy,
Cheap and bawdy,
You ruin my plans.

I want to cross you
But I am frightened I will stop half way.
My efforts wasted. On you.

Hell, you're worth it.

A Trip to "Hove-the-Wook"

I took this photo in the few hours during which the protest banner "SAVE THE PEAK" morphed back to its more famous incarnation, "HOLLYWOOD". Aside from the flutter of emotion at seeing my hometown (Brighton and Hove) take on such international import, there is a sweet irony here too. Back in the 1896 at a time when Hollywood was not yet even a light refraction in the pioneers' early cameras, a certain George Albert Smith Esq (1864 - 1959) of Hove, England, patented a camera and projector system. Smith's neighbor James Williamson (1855-1933) ran a chemist's shop which supplied photographic services and equipment. The pair created numerous short films between the years 1897 and 1908. Smith is credited with the invention of the "close-up", as well as being the first to successfully devolop a color film process, Kinemacolor, and to use double-exposure to achieve special effects.

The fledgling "Brighton school of film" was badly affected by patent disputes, and eventually died around the time of the first World War. "Hovewood" transitioned to Hollywood, and the rest is history ...

A Single Man in San Francisco

Don’t you just love city cinemas to provide that unique movie-going experience? The AMC at 1000 Van Ness did not disappoint. It is a landmark high-rise 1920s building brimming with San Francisco eloquence and history. For decades it housed a Cadillac distribution center, later a music studio and iconic 1950s showbiz radio station KFRC. Nowadays the upper floors of this building are occupied by movie theatres, with the top floor affording a stunning city view of downtown and the Civic Center. The building could not be more emblematic of California – the car, showbiz, cinema.

Few things at the time being other than my cousin’s dog (and dear friends!) can make me pine for Los Angeles, although Tom Ford’s debut film A Single Man succeeded. The attention to wardrobe is, as one might expect of the fashion designer, exquisite and the décor and sets, the sixties campus, the “glass” house, beach bar and the automobiles are stellar. Colin Firth, looking extraordinary like a vintage Michael Caine, finally gets to put his trademark stiff Englishness to good theatrical use in his role as Professor George Falconer, a British university professor in California in the grips of an existential depression upon the loss of Jim, his beloved partner of sixteen years.

The film excels at ambiance, and this alone makes this a captivating work of cinema in way comparable to the period 1960s television drama, Madmen. This is camp at is most subtle brilliant best, and incidentally it is of noteworthy that the decade has become the era-of-choice for nostalgic trips into the postwar era.

Despite (maybe in part because of) the character’s stiffness, there is a very tangible pathos in the angst experienced by George as he embarks on his self-willed last day on earth, tinged with subtlety and a realism which makes this film one of the rare examples of a movie adaption that is equal to the work of literature.

My one quibble with Ford’s creation, and this is quite a big one, is the permanently over-aesthetized photography. While this works beautifully in the trailer, it is often excessive and at times pretentious. The extensive flashback scene between Jim and George in the deserted beach plays like a spot from Jean-Paul Gautier. In fact, it is the lack of harmony between the visual styles which irks the most; often the color hue will vary within the same shot, and whatever the artistic merit this gives the impression of a director still unfamiliar with his medium.

For a first time directorial effort, however, this is a truly fantastic film and it will interesting to see if Mr. Ford can bring other stories to the silver screen. And on a slightly provocative note, when next will a heterosexual love affair be able to compete with the beauty, style and rawness we have become accustomed to in gay cinema?