I went to see The White Ribbon today. Went to the early showing, really early, 11.40am. Only time it was on down at the Ritzy.
It was about the right time to see a film like that. Going to the early showing gives you the rest of the day to get over it.
The film, lauded at Cannes, follows a cycle of violence and cruelty in a village in Germany about a hundred years ago. It shows the village leaders (a baron, a priest) using their authority mixed with Christian morality as a weapon with which to control and subdue the villagers. This unbending intolerance is repeated down the lines of authority, from the strongest to the weakest.
One scene of perfectly wrought unpleasantness follows another for two claustrophobic hours.
At the end of the film, the last image fades very slowly to black, and the credits roll in silence. No-one in the audience speaks. It is hard to know what to say. Everyone is agog, traumatised, hushed.
The audience pushes out of the auditorium, heads down mostly. It's not nice to look into someone else's eyes after that. You can't help thinking you might see something you had not previously noticed. Something unpleasant.
I spent the rest of the afternoon reading the News of the World and watching football as a sedative against the dark, Ibsen-like vision of Michael Haneke.
Sunday, 29 November 2009
Wednesday, 18 November 2009
Essex cultural life takes over the nation
Keen followers of Essex cultural life have been having a good run of it lately.
Stacey Solomon, 19, of Dagenham, is the last girl left in X Factor, and the prospect of romance with Olly Murs, also of Essex, is the talk of the trashy mags.
Brit-flick, Fishtank, set on the Mardyke Estate, Rainham, telling the story of what is known in those parts as a ‘gobby cow’, is winning awards left, right and centrte.
A quick glance at the football league tables shows Dagenham & Redbridge in their highest ever position, at the top of Division 2.
And this week , in addition to this great swirl of cultural activity, enters Peter White, 26, of Romford. This hitherto unknown unemployed man hit the front page of the Daily Express on Tuesday, under the banner headline:
OUTRAGE AT
‘PARASITE’
ATTACK ON
THE QUEEN
http://express.co.uk/posts/view/140813/Outrage-at-parasite-attack-on-the-Queen-
It turns out that young Peter was aiming to stand as a local councillor at the next general election in the very ward in which I grew up: South Hornchurch.
The hotblooded male had waded into the Queen on none other than Andrew Rosindell MP’s facebook page. The Romford MP thought we should have a day off next year to celebrate the Queen being on the throne for 300 years (or something). White thought not, and called QEII a parasite and, even more intemperately, vermin.
The brave, but foolish, Peter has now apologised for his honestly held opinions. His republican outburst has been snuffed out by that great defender of the monarchy, Andrew Rosindell (with help from his British bulldog).
Yes, Peter has been rattled and may never surface from his parents’ house again. But it shows, once again, that all the best things come out of that much-maligned conurbation that joins Dagenham and Romford and Rainham.
Stacey Solomon, 19, of Dagenham, is the last girl left in X Factor, and the prospect of romance with Olly Murs, also of Essex, is the talk of the trashy mags.
Brit-flick, Fishtank, set on the Mardyke Estate, Rainham, telling the story of what is known in those parts as a ‘gobby cow’, is winning awards left, right and centrte.
A quick glance at the football league tables shows Dagenham & Redbridge in their highest ever position, at the top of Division 2.
And this week , in addition to this great swirl of cultural activity, enters Peter White, 26, of Romford. This hitherto unknown unemployed man hit the front page of the Daily Express on Tuesday, under the banner headline:
OUTRAGE AT
‘PARASITE’
ATTACK ON
THE QUEEN
http://express.co.uk/posts/view/140813/Outrage-at-parasite-attack-on-the-Queen-
It turns out that young Peter was aiming to stand as a local councillor at the next general election in the very ward in which I grew up: South Hornchurch.
The hotblooded male had waded into the Queen on none other than Andrew Rosindell MP’s facebook page. The Romford MP thought we should have a day off next year to celebrate the Queen being on the throne for 300 years (or something). White thought not, and called QEII a parasite and, even more intemperately, vermin.
The brave, but foolish, Peter has now apologised for his honestly held opinions. His republican outburst has been snuffed out by that great defender of the monarchy, Andrew Rosindell (with help from his British bulldog).
Yes, Peter has been rattled and may never surface from his parents’ house again. But it shows, once again, that all the best things come out of that much-maligned conurbation that joins Dagenham and Romford and Rainham.
The pleasures of south London commuting
Some people hate their commute. Really hate it. They wake up in the morning and think, ‘not that again’. I can’t face another day of this. Miserable London, too many people. Moan moan moan.
But there is an exclusive club of people who really rather enjoy their daily commute. No, we are not masochists. We are the passengers on the X68 service which rolls in from the nether-regions of south London into the very heart of the city.
For those who are not familiar, the X68 runs from South Croydon, up to Russell Square. Nightmare, you might think. But note the ‘X’. This stands, if you will, for express. This service runs, and you’ll need to follow me closely now, nonstop, between West Norwood, where I pick up the service, and Waterloo.
No stopping for the people of Tulse Hill, Herne Hill, Camberwell, or Walworth. They can stick their thumb out; they can try to flag it down. But the X68 will roll on by, oblivious to their entreaties.
This divine route means the travellers on-board have something of a camaraderie. You have that feeling of being above the hoi polloi as they struggle onto trains and buses, all elbows and knees and bags and sweat and the hopeless struggle to avoid eye contact.
The X68 takes you back to the good old days, by which I mean those days which never really existed, of people sitting in comfort as they are taken swiftly to their desk job.
Naturally, the same faces are seen every day. A group of middle aged Asian men get on the bus and acknowledge each other with a look which says, ‘Oh, so you take the X68 as well, you wise old thing.’
At West Norwood Station, the stop after mine, the bus driver calls out: ‘Next stop, Waterloo.’ And on occasion, in those moments of rich humour for the commuter, a lady frantically gets to her feet, and calls out, ‘WAIT!’ And the rest of us quietly chuckle to ourselves and enjoy seeing someone scramble off of our pleasant double-decker.
These are the quiet pleasures of south London suburban living.
But there is an exclusive club of people who really rather enjoy their daily commute. No, we are not masochists. We are the passengers on the X68 service which rolls in from the nether-regions of south London into the very heart of the city.
For those who are not familiar, the X68 runs from South Croydon, up to Russell Square. Nightmare, you might think. But note the ‘X’. This stands, if you will, for express. This service runs, and you’ll need to follow me closely now, nonstop, between West Norwood, where I pick up the service, and Waterloo.
No stopping for the people of Tulse Hill, Herne Hill, Camberwell, or Walworth. They can stick their thumb out; they can try to flag it down. But the X68 will roll on by, oblivious to their entreaties.
This divine route means the travellers on-board have something of a camaraderie. You have that feeling of being above the hoi polloi as they struggle onto trains and buses, all elbows and knees and bags and sweat and the hopeless struggle to avoid eye contact.
The X68 takes you back to the good old days, by which I mean those days which never really existed, of people sitting in comfort as they are taken swiftly to their desk job.
Naturally, the same faces are seen every day. A group of middle aged Asian men get on the bus and acknowledge each other with a look which says, ‘Oh, so you take the X68 as well, you wise old thing.’
At West Norwood Station, the stop after mine, the bus driver calls out: ‘Next stop, Waterloo.’ And on occasion, in those moments of rich humour for the commuter, a lady frantically gets to her feet, and calls out, ‘WAIT!’ And the rest of us quietly chuckle to ourselves and enjoy seeing someone scramble off of our pleasant double-decker.
These are the quiet pleasures of south London suburban living.
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