The Double

While I waited in a queue to use the bathroom at Bruges rail station a man approached .He asked if I recognised him from our time studying together at the University of Antwerp. I didn't recognise him and had never attended the University of Antwerp. He continued to look at me intently as I told him he must be mistaken. For a moment he seemed unconvinced by my explanation. Then he smiled, said he had obviously confused me with someone else and bid me good day.

As the man walked away I had a moment of uncertainty. Had I attended Antwerp University unknown to myself? The moment passed as I watched the man disappear into the crowded station.

The idea of the double is a abused conceit.In Dostoyevsky's book through to the French film The Double Life of Veronique a character experiences an existential crisis when they meet their double. It is a cliche employed in everything from science fiction to student films.

For a moment in Bruges train station it was not a cliche.As my interlocutor quizzed me I had a fleeting sense that he was right and I was mistaken. In a parallel existence I wondered what we studied together and why we hadnt kept in touch. My double should look him up sometime.

 

A Grin Without a Cat

I went to see an exhibition of the work of the late (and great) Chris Marker. Marker was a visionary French film maker . He worked across many media including installation art, interactive media ( CD-roms and suchlike ) and cinema. He found fame with his science fiction film La Jetee which was eventually remade in Hollywood with Brad Pitt and a starry cast.

The exhibition was wonderful - I will return to the Whitechapel gallery before it finishes in June.It takes the viewer on a journey through Marker's obsessions - travel, film, revolution and war. His visual essays contemplate history, memory and political failure.

Marker was an enigma. He changed his name and declined to be photographed. He adopted the image of a cat as his avatar . He is also disproved a dictum of Orson Welles . Welles famously said that you needed a pen to be a scribe but an army to be a filmmaker. Marker created his films from the solitude of his studio in Paris and embraced the new media of the video camera and computer.

Although he was an outsider he was not a misanthrope. His vision was humane and quizzical . One of his pieces noted the young Fidel Castro was not a confident public speaker . He had a habit of aligning the microphones in front of him to claim his nerves as he spoke at public meetings . He tried the same trick when speaking in Moscow but was bemused to find the microphones were fixed and could not be moved. He still tried to move them anyway.

As I watched one of pieces I noticed a young student slumped in one of the bean bags provided for the exhibition audience. As he watched students from the 60s and 70s protest the Vietnam war on screen he absent mindedly played with his smart phone. A man from that 60's generation walked up to the young man twice and glared at him. The young man ignored him and continued to play angry birds or whatever on his phone. It struck me as something Mr Marker would have found fascinating. In this instance the cat would have allowed himself a grin.

 

Indie Cindy

I was looking at a newspaper web site and saw an article in their culture section. A rock band from university days had reformed. Not only had they reformed they had released an album after a hiatus of 20 years.

The Pixies were an art rock combo without compare. They produced four albums then split before fame . Their sound was borrowed by Nirvana who gained the renown and fortune that alluded them . Their exotically named lead singer Black Francis went solo and their pin up bass player Kim Deal had success with another combo called the Breeders.

The new album Indie Cindy was streamed on the web site. I listened and to my surprise it was good. It had some of the strange electric ferocity from 20 years ago together with the maturity of age. What was interesting was the comments accompanying the album stream. Many followers were disappointed that it did not sound exactly the same as 20 years ago.

In most forms of music artists usually produce their best work as they get older. The youthful work of Bach, Beethown or Miles Davis does not compare to their later work. In rock the reverse is assumed. The rebellion of youth gives way to the tedium of dad rock.

On the face of it the argument is trivial or an indictment of the musical form. An artist gains experience with age and reflects on the medium as he or she produces a body of work. That is the argument.That said I watch footage of the Rolling Stones and find it amusing that grandfathers preen themselves and sing of street fighting men. It's not funny enough to pay £100 or so to view the merriment live though.

 

Simeon Stylites

I spent a weekend in some luxury paid for by the kindness of others.

I have never been used to luxury. My background is farming folk from County Tyrone . The idea of expensive hotels and champagne would be science fiction to my grandparents. A friend's flight was once upgraded to first class. He told me that it is better never to fly in the gilded aviary of first class than have to return to the cramped cages of coach. I have never flown anything other than economy and regard business class and first class prices with amazement.

When I think of self abnegation I think of Saint Simeon Stylites. I was introduced to him in the Bunuel film Simon of the Desert. According to Wikipedia he was a Christian saint who lived between 388 and 459 AD near Aleppo in Syria . The son of a shepherd he developed a Christian zeal and entered a monastery before the age of 16. He spent the last 37 years of his life living on top of a pillar. He escaped the blandishments of the world from the vantage of a fifty foot high pedestal .

Simeon was famous in his time.He did not completely withdraw from the world and drew pilgrims to his vantage point. Visitors were able to ascend the pillar to speak to him. He wrote letters and instructed disciples. He demanded austerity from himself but his teachings were compassionate.Bunuel the atheist treated him with fondness even though he found him ridiculous.

There is a median between the love of the worldly and contemplation of what lies beyond. It's fitting that the only contemporary figure who has perched on top of a pillar has been the magician David Blaine.

 

In Bruges

We went to Bruges with my wife's parents and my sister in law and her husband .It was to celebrate my father in law's birthday.

My sister in law and her husband both work in finance . They arranged bookings and did not skimp. For this Irishman it is a faintly alarming to stay at a four star hotel. Luxurious but alarming nonetheless .

Our image of Bruges had been crystallised in the sweary form of the film In Bruges . If you have not seen it I can recommend . Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson play disgraced hitman holed up in Bruges after a bungled assignment. Ralph Fiennes is their employer in town to clean up the mess. It was written and directed by Martin McDonagh. Mr McDonagh is a successful playwright and writes funny knife like dialogue . Colin Farrell has never been better as the neophyte hitman Ray. His detestation of his hiding place raised invective to an art form. The contra was in the form of the world weary Brendan Gleeson . His character Ken loved the history and culture of the Flemish City and the grandeur of the Church of Our Lady. I was inclined to the latter viewpoint.

By way of homage we had beers in the hotel were they filmed. We found the city laid back compared to the frenzy of London . The waitress at our hotel took last orders before closing time then forgot to serve drinks in her rush to go home. The chap piloting the tour boat cheerfully quoted from Ray's less than complimentary description of his home town.

Everybody enjoyed the trip. It is a relaxing place to visit and we would return. It would be a magical locale in autumn or winter. Enough eulogy. I will give the last words to Mr Farrell's character Ray as he hovers between life and death :

"But then, like a flash, it came to me. And I realized, f*** man, maybe that's what hell is: the entire rest of eternity spent in f*****' Bruges. And I really really hoped I wouldn't die. I really really hoped I wouldn't die."

 

Under my skin

I arranged to meet an old friend from university at the weekend. We are both cineastes so a film accompanied drinks and food.

My expectations for the film were low. Recent product from hoorah for Hollywood had been dispiriting . The independant sector was little better with a tattoo of violence or hard core to hide the emperor's new clothes.

Under the Skin was a labour of love for a chap who shot Radiohead promos and commercials for the black stuff. His previous features were interesting - a gangster film with a lobster tanned Ray Winstone and a film about reincarnation with Nicole Kidman . In the latter the character believes her dead husband is resurrected in a twelve year old boy. The scene were they bathe together is uncomfortable and has to be seen to be disbelieved.

Under the Skin is loosely based on a cult book . The narrative is an alien roaming Caledonia preying on lonely Scotsmen. ET takes the form of Scarlett Johansson. She prowls Glasgow streets in a transit picking up men with the promise of favours. Secret cameras follow the actor as she stops and chats up unsuspecting Glaswegians. She is disguised in a black wig and a fur coat. No-one recognises her .

The fate of the men is horrifying but this is not a horror film. It is an unsettling mixture of social realism and metaphysics and its execution is flawless. It is sui generis, very beautiful and deeply unsettling. Ms Johansson proves herself a courageous performer and a fine actor. The otherworldly is aided by the incongruous images of a celebrity walking Glasgow streets unrecognised. With little dialogue she realises the awful loneliness of living and breathing a finite life.

When I left the theatre I was at first underwhelmed. It seemed like a short film stretched to a feature. But I could not get the mood and the images out of my head. They burrowed to my subconscious and made the day seem utterly alien.

 

Ambition

I am enjoying a peripatetic work life . I spent two weeks with a city firm on a property purchase followed by a short stint in Tring providing holiday cover. In two weeks time I will be in John Betjeman's favourite locale Slough followed by a stint in Chelmsford.

I am sure the life of a footloose contractor may wear thin . For the moment it provides the writer with much needed variety after a desultory working experience. As a contractor you meet new faces and experience different environments. It is close to the life of a jobbing barrister traveling from one brief to another.

I have an agency touting my wares instead of a barrister's clerk . I have had a good experience with them to date. My agency jockeys have been friendly and efficient. One called during the week with an attractive offer.A city firm was looking for a property lawyer immediately with interviews next week. They were offering a lot of money . The relationship was to start with a short term contract. If it worked the contract would lead to a permanent role. I was given details. The details included buzz words like "boutique" and "high net worth".

To my surprise I had no interest. I thanked the agency and informed them I was not looking for a permanent role. There is no such thing as a free lunch. The more expensive the lunch the greater the demands. I will look for a permanent post again. But for the moment I am enjoying my life as a legal migrant.