Short Stories

Slums Drums and Capoiera Website Live

2010-08-28T12:46:00.003+01:00

Finally the long awaited Capoeira documentary - "Slums Drums and Capoeira."

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The Prostitue - Part V

2010-05-19T15:36:00.003+01:00

Clarissa seemed remarkably calm despite the interruption, which is more than can be said for Mayor Arbuckle. He was forced to make his way out to the door of the bathroom, with nothing more covering his modesty than a Stetson, his spurs clinking on the floor as he shuffled along and locked himself inside. Quaid marched into the room, and in no uncertain terms, grabbed the whore, who had managed to slip on negligee, which did little to cover her modesty. She faced him calmly and bravely, more his equal than any of the women of the village had ever been. He grabbed her arm forcefully and threw her onto the bed, much to the shock of the wives who huddled behind him like a gaggle of scared chicks. “This is no place for a heathen whore,” Quaid bellowed, his voice heard all along the hallway and into the main bar of the saloon. Clarissa appeared neither frightened, not insulted. “Such a grand lynch mob reverend,” she quipped, “whoever said the church was a place of forgiveness?” She lit a cigarette and drew on it deeply.
“The house of God is forgiving of the penitent, not those who gain from indulging in it. How dare you question this forgiveness? Get out, else we will have you thrown out by cart this very evening,” the reverend retorted, her indifference seeming to drive his rage ever further.
“Reverend,” she said slowly, “all I do is provide a service. And in that way I am very much like you. You might say that we are both needed by the people of this town.”
“I do not make financial gain from the act of sin!” he screamed.
“You should try it reverend - you might do far better than in the rickety old church,” she said, putting out the end of the cigarette in an ashtray at the bedside. It is not often that a man of the cloth is moved to violence, but at these words, the Reverend could contain his anger any longer. He reached up and slapped the harlot, clean across the face. Gasps arose from the women behind him. A moment of silence descended onto the room, as Clarissa looked back at the Priest. Their eyes met in mutual disdain, and with that, he grabbed her by the hair, and forced her towards the doorway. His violence continued as he threw her along the long corridor, much to the amazement of the other guests at the inn, and the men folk who had gathered rather shamefacedly behind their wives. The wives were more stunned by this act of aggression than the men, and the most astounded person was the reverend Quaid himself. And yet the barrage did not stop until the harlot was lying in the dirt in front of the saloon. “Get a cart and drag this whore into the desert,” the good Reverend Quaid heard himself shouting towards the livery. No one dared disobey, and so a cart was brought forward and the woman loaded upon it. Clarissa herself had experienced far worse in her life, and was not so much shocked at the violence of the churchman, but fearful of the baying crowd he had excited. As the cart drew up, there was no need for force; she stood, simply by her own force, rising onto the cart with as much dignity as her tattered clothes would allow.

She lolled from side to side, looking almost at rest as the carriage navigated the divets and potholes in the dusty road. The shouts of the women folk though more vitriolic than ever faded form her hearing, and became more an undecierphabale din, than any particular words. The barbs of the abuse concealed in the cacophony did at points fly out a dig at her pride, but only momentarily before they faded back into the mindless sound coming from the crowd. The cart headed on, driven by one the slaves who had known the delights of Clarissa. He bowed his head in shame as he drove her in the direction of the town boundary. The crowd followed for a while, ensuring that she might not get off the carriage and return to the saloon unseen. But as the carriage arrived nearer the edge of the town limit, she bade the driver stop, resting her hand gently on his muscular arm. The horses we braying as she stood and the entire crowd went silent, as through the act was unthinkable enough in itself. And into this silence she began.
“I do not bear any man in this great town any evil, despite the humiliation and the shame that.”
“How dare you speak of shame?” the Reverend Bellowed from the head of the crowd.
“I dare, reverend, because I know that your town will suffer far worse than I have, and when all is done, the townsfolk of Goodson will not be able to show their faces in any church or chapel across the whole of the mid west, without the memory of this day haunting them.”
“Get her out of here,” the reverend bellowed at the driver, confident in his victory, and the restoration of faith to the good town.

And so it was, with this last exchange that the whore who had taken up residence in the saloon was spurned from Goodson. This was a particularly great day for the women of the town, who now felt that they might be able to return to their conjugal duties and satisfy both themselves, and the men folk who toiled for them so hard on the fields and in the barns. They were sure that now their men would return to them with an ardour reinvigorated and restored by the demonstration of loyalty that they had provided to them.

Unfortunately, the hopes of the women did not become the reality of life in the town. Take Molly for example, who would retire to bed early after putting the children to bed. Each night she would ask Stephen, “Will you come to bed darling?” and each night Stephen managed to come up with excuses about the strain on his back, the soreness of his limbs, and the general malaise that had recently taken over him. And she was not the only one of the wives, who had to face such answers from her husband. Indeed all of them, to the last faced such a host of answers that it became impossible to reason what could be the cause of such a mass drain on the towns libido. Indeed, when some the women did finally manage to coax the men into enacting their desires, they found that they were resignedly lack lustre to the task, and though they were acting out the motions with a total lack of passion that the women craved so dearly. So it seemed that the woes of the women had multiplied further until there seemed that nothing could be done. And not even that nothing could be done, but that they could not surmise through all their chatter, and gossip, their banter and bellyaching, the reason behind the behaviour of the men. The reverend for his part was of no use in this most important matter, since his was the restoration of Godliness to the town, and he would simply shrug his shoulders, palms towards the heavens and say that God’s will be done. Indeed he urged the women not to pressure the men, since this was often a source of anxiety that could lead to an inability to perform in any case.

This all led to a tension in the town, even stronger than when Clarissa had been in residence at the saloon, for at least then the men would still engage passionately with the women. But now the dearth of relations was taking its toll once more on the wretched women of the town. The reason for the action (or lack thereof) of the menfolk came to the attention of the women quite by accident. It was brought about as a result of Molly’s rather unsavoury tendency to drop eaves at the faintest possible opportunity, combined with Mayor Arbuckle’s voice which had a habit to boom and bellow, and though wonderful for the church choir and for the town fete, proved useless in times where discretion was the order of the day. In this particular case, the Mayor had cornered Reverend Quaid as he walked from his office on Main St to the local area courthouse, where he was to give a character witness for some old case that is neither pertinent nor interesting. “Reverend Quaid,” he bellowed across the road, much to the start of the preacher, who was inspecting the shoes on his horse with the smith.
“Good afternoon Mr. Mayor,” the reverend beamed through the hot and uncomfortable sun of the mid western summer. “Reverend, will you walk with me a while. There is something that troubles my mind ever so, and I hoped that you might be able to assuage it before it becomes a more…physically substantial problem.”
The intrigue alone was enough to get the Reverend to leave the horse and fall in step with the Mayor. They began the walk up to the local courthouse, which sat at the very far end of the town from the blacksmiths.
“I’m am always in the service of the servants of the Lord,” Quaid replied, “and I wouldn’t be doing my duty if I was to let one of the good flock flounder without lifting a finger.”
“Well, you see reverend…its kind of…well, it’s a rather personal issue you understand.”
“Say no more,” the Reverend chuckled as he quickened his step.
“I shall endeavour to help in any way I can, and I assure you, I am nothing if I am not discreet.”

“Well you see Reverend…It’s a rather embarrassing sort of problem.” Arbuckle leaned in conspiratorially, trying his best to whisper, “The kind that’s mighty tough to be able to discuss in polite conversation.” The reverend noticed the large patches of sweat that had begun to radiate from the Mayors underarms, and decided that despite the heat this must be an issue that was concerning the Mayor gravely, because only the slave boys on the field would sweat the likes he was seeing now. He decided that out in the street, with the passing of the residents was perhaps not the best place to discuss such a seemingly delicate situation as was obviously irking the Mayor. “Perhaps, Mr Arbuckle, you can do with a brief rest, here beneath the back porch to get out of the sun, “ he suggested, pulling the Mayor off Main street into a little alley that let to the back of Grant’s general store. A few young boys were smoking cigarettes in the alley.
“Why that’s a fine idea Reverend, and you always are so full of fine ideas,” he said, wiping his rotund face with a handkerchief. The Reverend began to run through some of his favourite chapters of the good booking, wondering which one would provide him with the moral direction that the wretch clearly sought. ¬¬“Perhaps you might be seated and collect your thoughts Mr. Mayor,” he said soothingly, as the boys took note of the men and sauntered off to loiter about in another alley. They found two old apple boxes at the back of the store and arranged them so as to be able to sit comfortably in the shade.

And all this while, Molly was inside Grant’s grocery store and chatting away gayley, as she shopped for her weekly needs.

“What is it that brings you here Mrs Molly,” Grant asked smiling inanely, “not that I’m complaining’ you understand,” Grant would never have complained, due to his keen fondness for the young Molly, which, on some of the lonelier evenings he would imagine might become more than simply fondness. Indeed the thoughts proved mighty incendiary to his ardour and would amount to an excitement that, were other people in his presence prove more than a little embarrassing.
“You’re always more than welcome, and I don’t see so such of you since you got that little negro boy,” he said, already feeling his mind drift from the inventory on the counter to thoughts of a more stirring nature.
“Pah,” she replied, “that little nigger went and got himself a frightful bout of something or other, and he’s stuck up in bed while good folk are working the length of God’s day,” she replied, a slight edge of ire in her otherwise good natured tone. “Now tell me, do you have any more of that soft soap that you carried last week? I just found the perfume of lavender was so lovely.”

“I think we have it up in the store room our back,” he absently replied, still deep in the thoughts of Molly’s slip such.
“Would you be so kind as to pop in and grab me a couple bars?” Molly asked. And the question hit him like a bolt from the blue, for it would force Grant to stand from behind the counter, and so not spare his ardour, which was not throbbing from becoming noticed by the God fearing lady. His mind raced as to a way out of this predicament, but not wanting to disappoint the lovely lady, he felt compelled to reply sooner rather than later. “I’m such an old coot and a fool that last week, I tripped and near put my back out. I’m under strict instruction not to stretch it, and I’m afraid the box of soft soap is right up on the top shelf in the store room.”

A Review of ‘Public Enemies’ Dir: Michael Mann

2009-07-05T01:22:00.003+01:00

Michael Mann has been one of the few directing voices coming from Hollywood in recent years. His immutable, high-octane style, invariably genre films have earnt him a reputation as a stalwart of action films internationally. It was with enthusiasm that I went for a late night viewing of Public Enemies, starring Johnny Depp. And with a measure equal to my expectation was I let down by the subsequent two and a half hours of celluloid that ran through the projector.

Though perhaps film is a flawed description, since most of the film was in effect shot digitally on the F23 camera, much to its detriment. The lush design, costumes and locations were severely let down by the poor camera quality and jerky camera operating. This is not to question the use of handheld films per se, but only when story requires it. Thus during the opening sequence this is completely excusable, but not during subtle romantic sequences such as the date between Depp and Cotillard early on in the film. Most objectionable, however, in regards to the camera work, is its function to distract the audience from the story and characters, rather than augment. This left me constantly wondering whether this movie was shot on a miniDV camera rather than supposedly state of the art digital cameras.

In regards to the screenplay, while the lack of exposition serves the mood and setting well, there is little character movement, and the Dillinger character is written with little of the forgiving Robin Hood personality of his legend. Coupled with a thin romance with a character who feels more like a plot device than a human being, and we have little scope for character empathy.
This is not to say that the acting is at all bad. The performances are well above par, with a notable comment for Stephen Graham (of This is England fame) as the psychotic Baby Face Nelson. Christian Bale is usually dry, but he never has been much of an actor anyway, and Depp naturally provides screen presence and charm.

Unfortunately by the time you are aware of the acting its too late. A sad disappointment from an usually able crafts-mann (pun intended).

The Prostitute - A Short Story - Part IV

2009-07-02T22:22:00.005+01:00

Over the following days Jacob tried desperately not to discuss the events of that night. And yet his zeal, his ego and youthful indiscretion conspired against this intention. One afternoon, when at dice with a few of the other negro boys, the discussion turned inevitably to women, and indeed the stranger, who for the second week running hadn’t attended church. His revelation to the other young men was met with slack jawed awe or incredulous jeering, and continued until Clarissa ambled past the crowd of them, and into the telegraph office where they had congregated. A sombre silence fell over the boys as she walked past, and it remained a moment too long after she had walked past, for they had all seem distinctly the rather unsubtle wink that she had flashed Jacob as she passed. And once that moment of silence had passed, the jeering and back slapping began.

In the days that followed the other negro boys, or at least those with sufficient access to funds each made their right of passage to the room at the end of the long wooden corridor. And so the spark of rumour as fired on by the hearsay on the street corners between the Negros. Naturally it didn’t take long before the white farmers heard about the exploits of the young negros, and though many men tell themselves that theirs is not the ilk of such women, the stories recounted by the young boys beggared belief. And still they continued to church on Sundays, and the sermons from Reverend Quaid, and so days passed. Eventually the weakest among the farmers succumbed to temptation, hardly able to believe the debauched stories of the young negro boys. The first of these was Stephen, the blacksmith, whose small workshop sat opposite the saloon and so provided him no end of temptation until it was all too much to bear, and he made the homage to the Clarissa’s door.

And when it rains, so the saying goes, it pours; Stephen had made the trip, and recounted the events of strange lotions, the smell of cinnamon, vanilla and spices to the other men. This inflamed their curiosity and ardour to the point of no return, until slowly, over the next few months, nearly all of the men of the town made the journey into that, now notorious boudoir. This did not go unnoticed by the Reverend, whose disapproval became palpable at his weekly sermons. His focus on the story of Jezebel fell on dead ears, for men in the throws of such excitement are quite deaf to the preaching of the pulpit. Nor had the situation passed the wretched wives, whose loyalty bore into their hearts like daggers, and yet dared not confront their husband, but milled upon the subject at the weekly sewing circle.

Finally, after several months of this quiet façade, the wives gathered resolved that some action must be taken, and Molly was appointed the most appropriate to lead the action. As such Reverend Quaid was invited to the sewing circle. Quaid was a hawkish figure, with narrow spectacles that perched on the end of a thin and distinctly sloping nose. His beady eyes inspired more fear than admiration in the congregation, and his booming sermons on hellfire often led to the tears and bawling from the younger children.

“We must do something, “ Jenny ventured, “I haven’t been with Thomas for nearly three weeks,” she admitted, her cheeks flushed in equal measure with embarrassment and frustration. Jenny was the most recently wed of all the wives, the, nuptials having been completed only three months earlier, and presided over by the Reverend himself. For his part, Quaid’s presence at the sewing circle made the wives feel that a powerful ally had arrived among them, who might be able to help them win back the affections of their husbands.

So it was schemed, that they would make their way down to the saloon that very night, united and in a large group, for in this way they might be able to exert more pressure on the whore to leave the good town. And so they gathered themselves with as much spirit as they might muster and made the long and dark walk to the saloon. The sight of such a great many women caused any witnesses to pause and gawk, for these were women on a mission and who would only be stopped by God or the devil themselves, and woe betide any devil that crossed such a righteous mob. And so it was that they entered the saloon, fire in their eyes. This was no little shock for Old man Walker and his now many patrons, who say drinking and at cards in the wide space of the saloon. Quaid marched boldly to the bar, and demanded to know where the wanton woman was staying, and after much argument and making a riotous scene forced his way up to her room. Then followed a ridiculous scene, wherein Quaid burst into the room, only to find the mayor of the town, Mr Arbuckle, in flagrante with the tramp – much to dismay of his poor wife who was among the throng of the ladies at the door.

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The Prostitute - A Short Story - Part III

2009-07-02T00:35:00.005+01:00

Jacob ran the errand to the hardware store though he was distracted by the events of the afternoon for the rest of the day. Such was his distraction that on his first run he came back with the wrong nails and was sent back, whereupon he purchased the wrong quantity. His mind circled, the smell of the perfume filling his mind more potently than a fever. As the evening drew in, Abraham noticed the distraction in his brother, but his illness had stolen his strength, and was forced to bed to recuperate. Jacob waited until late into the night, when he was sure that everyone would have been off to bed. The scent of her had been something not of his world, and his youthful energy wanted to take up the invitation. He gathered his small savings, and made his way quietly down to the saloon.

As he entered the half dozen patrons who were left in the bar at this hour were taken aback. Jacob, for all his bravado shyly scuttled through the bar, amid the sharp looks twelve eyes, fixed upon him. When asked what his business was, he revealed her was there to see Miss Clarissa. The barman dutifully called up, announcing the guest, a vicious frown growing ever deeper on his brow as he did so. He returned staring at the negro teenager, a look of disdain and envy in equal parts. Finally he nodded slowly, and the boy climbed the stairs and to the room. As he arrived, he knocked gently, with no answer. He knocked again, a little louder, and jumped at the answer that came from within, “It’s open.” His heart was beginning to pound much as it had done earlier that afternoon, and yet this time it seemed to fill him with an excitement that he had not experienced in his young life.

He crept to the door at the end of the long wooden corridor, and stood outside it. An age passed, his heart pounding so hard that he was sure she might mistake it for a knock and beckon him to enter. Finally he summoned all the strength in his arm to reach up and rap the three knocks at the door. Pause, and then her voice worked its way through the wooden door, delicate and soft. “Come in.” He turned the white door-knob, and stepped slowly into the room.

It was a simple room, clean and homely, with flower decorations on the bedclothes, a small side table with a basin and jug, and a dressing table. A small window looked out over the main street beneath, and the room was lit by the yellow gas light of the street outside. The dressing table contained all manner of jars, lotions, potions and so many bottles that it was a veritable apothecary. And strangely, the room was empty. At the far end, opposite the large bed, was a door that led to the bathroom, and a light crept from it into the bedchamber. It was the bathroom, and the sound of bathing could be heard, along with a gently hum of a female voice. Jacob stood in the room, almost at a loss as to what to do, for he daren’t touch anything or be as bold as to sit on the only chair. He shifted uneasily from foot to foot, looking at that point like a child about to be admonished by a stern teacher. His only comfort was the sweet serenade that was being hummed out to the warm night. “Hand me a towel, wont you,” came the interruption, breaking the spell that had caught his mind in it’s grasp. Suddenly shocked he looked around frantically for the towel that was laid out carefully on the fresh sheets. He grabbed it and stepped towards the bathroom door, sticking it through the askew door, in a somewhat ridiculous act of modesty. For her part, Clarissa was used to this false moment of guilt, and let it fall aside much like the water that dripped from her luscious skin.

She stepped out of the round tub, and carelessly dripping onto the floor, crossed the small bathing room to grab the towel nonchalantly from the intruding hand. As she took it, she let her hand come into contact with his, a warm and delicate touch. Shocked at the contact Jacob was excited into boldness, and peered into the bathroom. From behind the door, his view was partially obstructed, but he could make out the curve of her hip, bare and flickering in the candle light that filled the bathroom. Water ran down the skin in rivulets, caressing the firm curves beneath as it made its way down her slender legs, gathering in a swelling pool on the wooden floor. Once she was adequately dry, she turned and made her way out to the bedroom. Jacob was frightened back into the bedroom, as through being attacked by a wild animal. “Don’t look so scared puppy dog,” she calmed, her hair up and patches of wetness still flecking parts of her skin. She stepped towards him, taking his hand that trembled lightly into her calm grip, and led him over to the cool crisp sheets.

No description of the events that took place that night would ever do them justice, and as so it is suffice to say that it was there, among the cool sea of flower patterned sheets at the old saloon, Jacob became a man.

...to be continued....

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The Prostitute - A Short Story - Part II

2009-06-30T20:32:00.013+01:00

Some of the men speculated that she was a rich widow, making her way out to California. Other, older and more logical fellows surmised that she was far too young to be a widow, and that she must be an orphan heading to make her fortune. This would have been a logical notion, except for the fact that her obvious affluence, and fine garments suggested that she was anything but a poor orphan. And so the speculation continued through the week, with much expectation for Sunday's service. Goodson was the kind of town that all attended the Reverend's services, dutifully on Sunday's, and this was to be no exception. Indeed it was the only real opportunity that the whole town got to meet, and catch up on gossip and for the children from the adjoining farms to take a break from the work of the warm spring to play. Naturally all were expectant that this new young thing would attend, especially the bolder younger men, who were keep as mustard to get to know whatever they could about her.

And so it was that Sunday rolled in. Jake was in his finest shirt, lovingly ironed that morning by his wife Molly. Their children stood bathed and beaming, the perfect image of cherubic beauty. Stephen was there, his wife Alma standing by his side. Indeed the whole town was there, filing into the pews and awaiting the Reverend. The weather was hot, and the reverend kept the sermon short, for the heat normally bothered the worshipers in the stifling church building. His this Irish accent bellowed through his weekly reading, bouncing around the whitewashed wooden walls and into the ears of the whole town. The only problem was that this week, the town was rather distracted. It was not that they had no interest in Mathew’s gospel, or the Reverend's message that asked the people of the town to do as Jesus did, and resist the temptation faced before him, even in the face of such hunger in the desert.
It was just that the young lady from the saloon was distracting them. But this was a distraction by proxy, for as the town had gathered at the church, she has remained simply in the saloon. It was her absence that has led the congregation to distraction, and by the end of the sermon not one of the congregation could recall any of the sermon recounted to them, such was the strength of whispers, accusations and gossip that had run through the pews on the hot June morning. Even after the service, as they all took lemonade and the children played in the courtyard, the gossip had brought an infamy about this mysterious woman, even before anyone even knew her name or purpose.

Now this infamy had a simple result, for that evening, nearly all the men filed into the saloon, now with a viable subject about which to converse. Some surmised that she must have been ill, and that the warm season was not treating her well. And when she did not descend they all left, certain that this indeed must be the reason to explain her absence from Church.

Another many days passed, and one cool afternoon Jake sent Jacob with an order for nails and some timber into the town. He knew that Jacob, being younger at just eighteen would most likely mill about with the other negro's on similar errands in town. He knew equally well that Jacob was partial to a brief game of dice with them if the opportunity arose, but on this occasion he had no choice, since Abraham had fallen ill with heatstroke. Jacob was partial to the moments of pleasure that a slaves life would yield him, and being more inquisitive and more cock-sure than his older brother, had a lower threshold for temptation. So when he noted the now notorious young lady, taking a walk in the shade down by the stream, he was could not resist the chance. He skipped his way down until he was level with her, deciding that if no one else in the town would talk with her, he would have the guts to be the first.

"Mighty hot for a stroll if you excuse my for sayin'," he ventured by way of small talk. He grinned with such disarming mischief and good humour that she could not help but break into a smile herself.
"I make it a point never to talk about the weather," she replied cutly but still smiling, "for the weather comes about every day, and as such is never novel enough to warrant thought. And besides, if one remain a prisoner of the heat, then one might not leave the house for near enough two months at this time of year." He voice was refined for the most part, but at moments seemed to be affected with a twang of a country girl made good, not that Jacob noticed. Having dropped in step with her, he was now distracted by her full and prominent busom, elevated by the tight whalebone corset, and showed off the curve of her round hips beneath. The light, white dress she wore gently brushed the golden earth as she walked, staining the edges.
"Well...I s'pose....," he managed though his eyes were making a sinner of his soul. They walked on a little in silence. She was untroubled by his presence. The warm wind rushed and blew a ghostly life into the surrounding trees, their leaves caressing one another in the afternoon sunlight.
"Ma'm," he asked, suddenly taken by a bout of shyness. "The town's all talkin' and well...." he paused, at a loss as to the phrasing of such a delicate subject with someone wholly unknown to him. She smiled broadly, sensing his sudden awkwardness. "Yes?" she said encouragingly. He summoned the courage, and yet it was the courage of a child about to take a spoonful of medicine. "Why wasn't you at church on Sund'y?" he blurted. "Was you ill?" he added, almost to excuse the boldness of the preceding question. They walked on in silence, until it became excruciating. Jacob's nerves got the better of him, and he began babbling just to fill the overwhelming silence, "..'cause o' the folks is sayin' that you is sick wit' summin' and the others thinkin' that you is a heathen..." She stopped walking, the simple action cutting his words short. She turned to him slowly and gazed into his boyish face. Beads of sweat were gathering on his brow, glistening in the sunlight, as he looked back at her. "What do you think?" she asked quietly, her breasts gently rising with her breathing. The distraction was too much for the teenager, who had already lost his train of thought. "Er...um...I...I...," he managed, until she raised a slender white finger and placed across his full lips. "Bring a present for Ms. Clarissa this evening and I till tell you all about what I was doing," she whispered, leaning into him, so that her firm breasts touched his chest gently. He sensed the sweet smell of fine soap rise from her finger tip. After what seemed like an eternity she removed it and, replacing it with a soft and slow kiss from her perfumed lips. "Now you better be on your way," she said, staring at him with only the faintest semblance of a smile. He turned, his heart pounding in his chest so loud he was sure it could be heard across the water. After a long gaze over his shoulder, he began to bounce back up to the path into the town centre.

....to be continued.....

Michael Jackson and Me

2009-06-27T16:03:00.005+01:00

A strange thing happened to me yesterday. I woke up and Michael Jackson was dead. It was the strangest feeling I have had for a very long time. Obviously I understand that he was a human being, and that his end would come sooner or later, and undoubtedly sooner than my own (his being thirty years my senior), and yet there was a surreal atmosphere that pervaded the reality of the event. I am now living in a world without Michael Jackson. This dawned on me most vividly as I sat watching a tribute doc to his life on T4.

My own relationship with Michael started as far back as I can remember. As a four year old I recall being mesmerized by the moonwalk, attempting to emulate it (to no avail) with my brother on the carpet of my parents apartment in Tehran. All this left us with was frustration and carpet burns. I remember spinning and strutting and yet sure that somehow, no matter how much I practice I would put in, be unable to do it like Michael. We went through the Thriller experience while I was young, and then through Billie Jean and all the other hits of the eighties. This was while I was still living in Tehran during the Iran-Iraq war. My parents would tease me as a child, and ask me to preform my own rendition of the Jackson dancing at parties when guests came round; my own childish version of the routine.

Then coming to London, the relationship continued, through the best way I can describe it is as a long distance affair. I was, I must admit most into Michael in the late eighties, when Bad and Smooth Criminal were the pinnacle of Jackson in my memory. I recall the first birthday party to which I had been invited, a classmate called Juan Pablo Lopez. It was the first time I had been to a birthday party outside my immediate family. I was 10 years old, and I have a vivid recollection of making a Michael Jackson mix tape, it was a black casio tape, with a white labe written in green ink, which was eventually played in the latter half of the party, and by my persistent request.

My uncle owned a pizzeria in Camden through these years, and between 11 and 13 I would make random trips up to hang out there and play through his music collection. The Michael Jackson greatest hits album was always a favourite. This was when I first discovered Dirty Diana, huddled beneath the cash register and endlessly flicking through the tracks of the CD, much to the annoyance of the customers.

Then there were the videos of the nineties. Of greatest note to me was the morphing sequence at the end of 'Black and White', ending with the camera pulling out to show the artifice of the video makers construct. I also loved the drama of the young boy arguing with his parents about the volume of the music at the start of that video; a the non sequiter that somehow attached me to the video in shared and universal adolescent experience. 'Scream' was another favorite, though I suspect that for the hormonal teenager that I was Michael was playing second fiddle to Janet's bikini and breasts.

And from this point Michael really feel off my radar. I recall his trip to the Oxford Union to talk, not because I was there, but because of the queues that spanned from the Union, along Cornmarket Street and all down Broad St, a distance of at least half a kilometer.

Sporadic reprisals have sprung up over recent years, but for me the core of the Michael Jackson that I knew ended in the early ninties. His most important tracks to me were 'Bad', and 'Smooth Criminal', simply because they somehow defined that period in my life, moving to London, and yet still being able to bring Michael with me.

And this is the genius of Michael Jackson. Just looking at the facebook posts when the news broke, you realised that everyone has their own, personal relationship with him. Peter Morely commented on the Newsnight special about the different faces of Jackson, and yet it is somehow so much more personal than that. Everyone can chart the interconnection of their own life with Michael Jackson, and knowing that no matter how old you are, Michael Jackson will still be Michael Jackson. And this was why its was so strange that Jackson is no more. He was timeless, and not of an era, and in this was he actually became his icon, Peter Pan.

I must admit, that as i sat on the couch watching the various videos play through from the eighties onward, a tear did creep into my eye for the sense of loss, not of a musician or a celebrity, but of a part of my youth that he so strongly represented.

The Prostitute - A Short Story - Part I

2009-06-26T01:13:00.014+01:00

In the wide open plains of the United States at the turn of the 19th century there sprung up a great many little towns. These were made up of good, wholesome folk who believed that theirs was the lot of God. And Goodson, Kansas was no exception. Laid out about 200 miles east of the Appalachian mountains, the small community had come out west seeking their fortunes. Resolved in their wholesomeness, they moved in and built a church, a town hall, and a post office through which the new fangled telegraphs could run and all manner of other necessities needed for a prosperous young town to possess. They also built a saloon, which also doubled as the local inn, so as t allow weary travelers on the road to California food and accommodation. As the size of the congregation grew, so did the diversity of the people. There were the original farmers, who were there to plough the land and sow the cotton that was the basic commodity of the village. Farmers like Jake, a middle aged man with a wife and young daughter. He would toil away in his fields with his slaves, Abraham and Jacob during the hot summer days, and at night he would return home to his wife's home cooking. Later, once he had eaten a simple meal of corn and sometimes meat, he would tell his young daughter stories until she faded off into the warm arms of sleep. Then there was Stephen, the smith who sweated over the blazing coals to show the horses and nags of the farmers. He supported his family, two young sons and spent his free time teaching them how to fish in the river that ran through the village. There were also a great many other men who lived in the village, until the total population reached to over two thousand souls, each of good and wholesome stock.

Indeed the village was full of men like Jake, who were working their fields and making a life for themselves, safe in the knowledge that they were living well before God and man alike. Reverend Quaid, an Irishman who had left home to spread the word of God and look after his lambs presided over the congregation. An austere man of later years Reverend Quaid believed in the simple code of the Bible, and the virtue of hard work. He read to congregation from the scripture on Sunday mornings, and heard their confessions in the afternoon, absolving them of any transgressions that might come about through moments of weakness. He did this for Abraham and Jacob, even despite their being coloured, because Quaid believed that they were still creations of God, and so worthy of his forgiveness, as he did of Jake and Stephen and all their wives and children. And so the town prospered and grew and all was well with Goodson.

Then one day, as the sun was setting and the cool breeze whistled through the main street, a peculiar carriage drew into the village, and set still in front of the inn. This was not unusual in itself since the residents were used to having lodgers come through their small corner of the earth. But they were shocked at the young lady who disembarked that balmy evening. She was dressed in the finest Parisian fashions, with a bonnet of bright crimson such that made all the wives right green with envy. When she sashayed into the saloon for the first time her figure caught all of the men so unaware that a moment of silence descended over the usual din of good cheer. She was a young little thing, no older than twenty but despite her few years she had a fierce fire behind her cobalt blue eyes that none of the men could have imagined. Her fine hips were shown off through the luxurious dress that she wore, and skin so pale and cool it might as well have been made from the finest porcelain.

She took a room at the inn, and had her numerous cases taken up, whereupon she paid the saloon owner in crisp cash notes. And there it was she stayed for the first few nights. She would come down in the evenings, dine alone in the restaurant on whatever food the menu provided, always polite in her manner. And after the fourth night of her stay, word had got out among the men of the town that a creature in such fine linens and of such beauty was staying at the inn that it was like an angel had been lost from heaven itself. They crowded into the saloon just to get a glimpse of her, in the manner of teenage boys. This was much to the gratitude of old man Walker, who had found his business a little quiet since Reverend Quaid had joined them at the Church. She spoke with no one except for Walker, and only to order food or deal with practical issues arising from the tedium of daily life in Goodson. This naturally led to the rumour mill in the town to start slowly turning its rusty cogs, until, only after seven nights of her staying the gossip ran like a summer fire through the congregation.

......to be continued......

A Review of 'The Girlfriend Experience' - by Steven Soderberg

2009-06-25T00:56:00.004+01:00

Steven Soderberg is one of those annoying directors whose aim is to make as many different kinds of films as possible in an attempt at not being pigeonholed. Coming straight from his epic 4 hour marathon in the two parts recounting the life of Che Guevara, he turns his attention to the exploration of a far more personal nature in exploring the life of a high class prostitute.

Chelsea recounts episodes in her life to a journalist, and through the non linear style that Soderberg relied on in the 80's, we are brought deep into the world of a modern escort living in New York City. The thought provoking insight explores the way in which a prostitute must administer herself as a business, keeping accounts, and investing in clothes, and appearance etc. This is paralleled through Chelsea's ambitious boyfriend, a personal trainer who is looking to expand and make it big through various entrepreneurial ventures.

And so Soderberg's comments on the modern economy are brought to the fore through the ironic similarity between the businesses. The references to money, investments, accounts, as well as the management speak that pervades the piece makes the screenplay resonate with a unity that is coherent and fresh. The most interesting element is the exploration of the relationship between Chelsea and her clients, compared to that of her boyfriend, and asking how the emotional strain of unending sexual (and sometimes non sexual) encounters affects an aspiring young business woman in the modern city.

Surprising perhaps is Soderberg's casting of Sasha Grey, the adult film actress in the leading role. Her screen presence is captivating to look at, but leaves the audience in two minds about her acting ability. Her staggered and often cold delivery might be the work of genius, delivering a genuine pathos to a calculating characters. On the other hand, this might simply be showing up an inability to act at all. Unfortunately the acting of the boyfriend, played by Chris Santos is equally mediocre, particularly in a cringe worthy scene when he confronts Chelsea about her decision to go away with a client.

Additionally worth noting is the photography, with highly stylised night interiors, lit in reds and warm tones, the overall look is often obviously digital (the film was shot on the Red Camera) and at points this is distracting from the action, drawing the audience out of the characters.

With these in mind, I would still recommend this as a thought provoking and insightful film. The resonance with the economy and modern life in America is playful and the parallel brought about in the choice of the escort industry perceptive and subtle.

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A Review of 'Antichrist' - by Lars Von Trier

2009-06-23T23:58:00.006+01:00

Von Trier is the provocateur of the cinema. His comments have earned him a reputation that is closer termed notorious than anything else. Upon the conception of the notion of 'Dogma 95 ' he traveled to Cannes and spent his time throwing fliers espousing the ten rules of Dogma films, only to return within two years to win the Palm d'Or. Indeed his is the only mainstream film company in the world to have produced hardcore sex films.

As such it is no surprise that his new film, Antichrist is one that has divided opinion, both among critics and fans. A distinct departure from the Dogma style, the tale is of a couple attempting to come to terms with the grief arising from the death of their son. They retreat to 'Eden', a small wooden cabin in the woods, where the therapist husband begins to try and help the traumatised woman.

The best description of the film is relentless. Trier uses all elements of the film makers arsenal to carve into the audience emotions; it is clear from the level of his control that he has mastery of his medium. Throughout the viewing (or perhaps ordeal is more appropriate) the audience is controlled and brazenly manipulated through the use of the camera, producing poetic images of haunting beauty and composure. His score ranges from opera to subtle resonant rhythms that serve to increase the tension between that audience and the film, as does the beautifully intricate sound design.

His exploration of the human psyche using the poetical imagery that he chooses is unlike any of his other films, and seems to try and match the biblical title of the piece. His use of medieval references, both in image (Hieronymus Bosch, ravens etc) and in the story add to the sense of menace that he conjures. The film draws emotion and reaction from the audience kicking and screaming.

However, the most interesting element of his work comes not from the relationship between the film and the audience, but more between the audience and the film maker. And in this Trier's ego is completely transparent to the audience. And I would expect nothing less from a man who has referred to himself as the, "the greatest film maker in the world." His name appears for a moment too long at the start of the film, and running through the piece are continual references to his own presence, through cards denoting the various acts of the film. All of these, coupled with the violence of the reaction that he elicits left me partially resenting him as a film maker. But it was more that I resented being manipulated emotionally at the whim of someone who was not even present in person.

This is a disturbing film, but a testament to the power of reaction that can be drawn from an audience by a skilled film maker who knows his craft, even despite his ego.

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The Humanisation of Gordon Brown

2009-06-21T13:43:00.003+01:00

In Saturday's Guardian Gordon Brown changed. For the first time he shed the outward persona of an automaton, and became a human being; one that breathes air and drinks water. His open acknowledgment of the weaknesses of his leadership, as well as the open reference to the toll that the last month has taken on him emotionally have made him infinitely more likeable.

Brown has been unlucky. His ascension to the premiership for which he has worked so hard came at the worst possible time, and yet when left to his own proactive agenda his results are positive. Within weeks of his coming to power, a potential terror threat outside Tiger Tiger was foiled, and he rode the wave well for a few months. He was the first international leader to actually take any action in regards to the economic collapse and has led the way in terms of G20 meetings on the subject. But his problem is also his biggest asset. He is dry and boring, and therein lies the irony.

In a modern culture fascinated with Peter and Jordan, Big Brother, and X Factor, we need our politicians to have a personality to compete for our attention. Because attention to politics is hard. They are often talking about nonsensical things such a fiscal policy and whips and chairs and however many other Whitehall babble that we need translators to even understand what the hell they are saying. The irony I mentioned comes from the fact that the most boring ones are probably the best politicians. They are the best at coming up with a decent plan and then making that plan into a reality. This might not translate well into a smarmy smiles, the likes of which David Cameron seems to have honed at Eton, but at least gets something done.

But this is no declaration of support for Brown per se. His lack of personality leaves his position as an influential statesman wanting, which is fine because that's why Obama was conceived. But in terms of making people like him, his cold 'business like' attitude to the way in which he is presented makes him seem oddly inhuman. And so it is this that his PR department have finally identified. After nearly 2 years of his government, they worked out that they need to make him look human.

And the best way of making someone look human, especially a politician is to show them addmitting they have personal real feelings. Yes - feelings - those things that we normal humans function with on a day to day, but which politicians carefully repress in public so as to best serve the country.

If I have the option I would rather be best served by a human being. And if this means that once in a while I know how he's feeling then fair enough.

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A Review of Shirin - by Abbas Kiarostami

2009-06-20T12:00:00.007+01:00

For the best part of thirty years, Abbas Kiarostami's conteplative narratives have been pioneering the cinema that comes out of Iran. Hindaries of the film medium.

The consists of a series of mid shots of female actresses, all s most recent outing Shirin, which screened at the EIFF yesterday is no less bold in pushing the bouwatching a film in the cinema. We never see the film that they watch, but are carried into it through the sound and dialogue that we can hear haunting them. At first glance this might seem to be a slow and exceptionally tedious film, but somehow the reflections of the story is so hauntingly vivid, that the film takes on a driving narrative that keeps the audiuence gripped.

As well as following the off screen narrative in minute detail, painted through the meticulous sound design and beautiful score, the film resonates with the audinece on so many levels that it is no exaggeration to refer to it as genuis. By construtin the story of Shirin is the epic poetic tradition, the language of the 'film' draws us into that tradition of oral storytelling that is so often lost in the modern world. Indeed the flickering effect in the faces often have a tinge of a flame, a primal human sense of storytelling being evoked throughout.

We also find ourselves, the audience, becoming self aware, and reflecting ourselves in the faces of those staring beyond is. One becomes aware of their gestures, their positions in their seats, and how they must look when observing this film.

Within these reflections comes the humanity of the characters presented. All of different ages and seemingly different classes, we are left to surmise about each face through the detail of their clothing, and the nature of their reactions to different parts of the story. The fact that he has chosen exclusively women, as well as a female narrator in the shape of Shririn, we are able to see how they empathise with the woes that she relays, and as such we refelct more on the world and relationships of these women. In this way, the sublte trickle of a tear becomes so much more personal and visceral.

And yet the dimension to the piece continues, in the evocation of the images of the Old Masters. Watching the portraits on is reminded of famous portraits and specifically Dutch masters - the details and contrast of film matches the detail in the oil world of Vermeer and Van Eyke, among others. This compounded with parts of the melodious soundtrack produce something akin to video art, where we are simply watching projections of faces to music, and unifiying ourselve with them through it.

The greatest irony of the film might be said to be the strength of the narrative, that we never see, and yet are always fully engaged and entertained. At the film ends, one realises that through the entire story that we have experienced vicariously through these characters, we have been fully satisfied, and richer for the experience. The simplicity of the execution belies a complexity so multi dimensional that one might even regret the fact that it does not last longer.

Shirin will never be a mainstream film, and nor is it intended as such. However, the reflection that Kiarostami gives us on humanity, women, cinema, art and sound is so rich that for all those who take the time to invest and engage with it will reap the most wonderful cinema experience - certainly that I have had for a long while.

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A Review of 'Empire' by Niall Fergueson

2009-06-18T01:28:00.006+01:00

Niall Fergueson's history of the British Empire tells a great story. Beginning with the bucanneers and the pirates of the 17th Century, whose sole purpose was to plunder and pillage to fill their pockets with Aztec gold, all the way through to the vestiges of modern empire today.

He takes us through the various eras during which the Empire expanded, notably through the puritans colonisation of North America by men like Penn and Henry Morgan, along with the initial forays into India in the late 18th Century. While painting the contextual and historical picture for the reader Fergueson panders to the 'pop' historian in him, through focussing on such universally appealing topics as the War of Independence, the economoic impact of salvery, as well as the Indian Mutiny of 1857 and the Boer War. However his prosaic style and interesting factual tit bits allow the reader to immerse themselves into quite a long and detailed history quite easily.

His analysis focuses on the economic implications for the empire, and how the political administration reinforced the economic solidity that the multple markets of the Empire provided. One would expect nothing less from a recently elected professor at Harvard Business School, where he is now focussing on the history of economies (his most recent book is entitled 'The Ascent of Money' and is a history of the modern economic system).

His thoughts on the fundamental reasons behind the loss of the US for the British, as well as the lessons learnt subsequently through allowing colonies a modicum of self governance with the construction of local councils is fascinating reading. The best example of this is perhaps his analysis of the aftermath of the Indian Mutiny, in which Viceroy Cadogan began using the local princely states within India as 'puppet' governments that would deal with local issues, hence providing a familar face for the locals to support, while the Viceroy and the East India Company continued its economic agenda. The establishment of the Commonwealth, through which goods and services could be traded at the direct benefit of the colonies placed the first paving stone into the road to independence.

All the while he always returns to the economic - providing fascinating insight into how the Empire was administered through fiscal policy and taxation. Most notable of this was that during the peak years of Empire from 1870 - 1900, when the British Empire became the largest Empire known in history, the UK still only spend a relative 3% of its GDP on the total defence budget. Compared with todays amounts (roughly 7%) this is amazing, considering that the Empire now consists of a scattering of far flung islands that most British citizens can not even name.

He cites the reason for the breakup of the Empire as the massive economic debt that arose after the Second World War, in so far as Britain was forced to sell the Empire to repay massive loans built up in wartime. But perhaps his most interesting idea comes in his conclusion. From a fiercely pro-Empire paradigm he argues that in the modern world, the United States presents the natural follower of Britain in terms of the next great imperial state. The globalisation of business and their technological advantage, as well as military strength would facilitate this were it not for one thing - their mindset. Since the United States was born from the liberation of a people from the 'shackles' of oppression (symbolised neatly by the shackles beneath the feet of the Statue of Liberty) - the very idea that they would 'oppress' through Imperialistic intentions is anathema to them. Their brand of 'export democracy' suites their modern puritanism far better than the wanton exploitation of other countires for its own direct benefit. Get in - establish a democracy - get out.

Perhaps it might be more sensible for the United States to wake up to the fact that it is in the running as the next great Imperial power, and step up to the plate. But then the danger is that the people to whom they bring democracy, may not understand, need or want the style of government practiced in the United States, and difficult as this may be for an American to understand, it may still be true.

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The Hands

2009-06-17T01:33:00.005+01:00

They touched a small gas blue flame at the age of three, and taught him the fear and wonder of pain. It was with these that he played cricket with his father - leg spin, out for 25 and returned in abjection to afternoon tea. The nails were bitten to shreds, slowly and methodically, one at a time from right to left until he had finished his final exam. They were not always this creased. The smooth domes at the heels were used to knead play dough - flour - her.

The scar on the top of the third knuckle left hand, short and curved like a sickle was a fight with Tom Garver in the fourth form - he lost, and spent the following three hours in the nurses room. Garver sat next to him. The nails picked at one another in a reflex that soothed when all around him burnt. The dirt dug deep beneath the nails, as he clawed the trench that saved his life out of mud thick with blood and fear.

The hands built a house for her. They hammered and sawed and tiled until sweat ran down them in rivulets attesting to his love. And in that home they lived an ethereal lifetime that breezed away like the seeds of a dandelion. With the tips of the coarse digits he felt the softness of her etched themselves into his memory, and as they glided further the deeper the memory became.

They shook in fear as they held the babe for the first time, until she had to remove it from them. They played cricket once again, for the first time in years, but this time on the losing team. This defeat was shameless and proud.

Dirt began again to fill the nails again, and the roses grew taller and stronger because of it. And all the while the creases cut and folded the skin into leather, soft and papery. The domes crumbled slowly and with a dignity befitting the giants they once were.

And when the day came that comes to all men, one hand lay out on the bed, vaguely pointing at an object unknown, and the other sat in repose upon the stillness of his chest.

Vicky Cristina Barcelona

2009-02-20T19:36:00.004Z

Vicky Cristina Barcelona

Woody Allen is a muse of relationships. His most prolific work of the 1970’s were all representations of his perception of the illogicality of human relationships. By peppering them with a pleonastic wit and the persona that he honed in the comedy clubs of New York he creates wonderful insights into the human condition and how it affects our relations.
In his most recent outing, and a notable return to the comedy genre he flexes these muscles once more, but to rather a cynical conclusion. The basic outline is really quite simple, two polar opposite American students, take a summer long break in Barcelona to expand their horizons. Vicky, a graduate student is engaged to a man who is the most logical match for her, while Cristina is sexually forward and uninhibited by the conventions of relationships, and there in lies the rub. Their world changes when they meet and are romanced by a Bohemian artist, and enter into his tempestuous relationship.

The piece leaves the audience with a sense that the happy ending of so many romantic comedies is a fallacy, on a par with fairy tales. The element that left me uneasy was the stark presentation that happiness, or more to the point the lack of it is an inevitable part of ones character, and that regardless of this, will not change. A sense of unfulfilment pervades the last act. The inevitability of disquiet, even when one is made aware of it, rings home long after the end credits roll.
That is not to say that the film is not funny i.e. it is funny. There are several amusing scenes presented through Vicky, brilliantly playing the character that we would imaging Allen would cast himself – if only he was 40 years younger, female and stunningly charismatic. Her dialogue, that neurotic quasi-logical rambling that Allen has made his own over the last quarter century, leaves the audience in no doubt as to the writer.

The film is erotic, with one of the most charged seduction scenes of recent cinema, aided in no small part by Scarlett Johansson’s sheer screen presence. But the outlook that relationships are dysfunctional, even in the most unconventional examples (as in Cristina’s case ) leave the audience with a sense of reflection on their own relationships. And that’s not what I want from a film. I want to leave the theatre feeling like I could take on the world, get the girl take her home and have wild passionate sex to an appropriate soundtrack forever. And while the soundtrack is indeed appropriate for the film, the other emotions that Allen touches on show a cynicism in his twilight years more profound than any others.

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The Problem with Arabs

2009-02-19T19:38:00.005Z

The BBC documentary series on Iran and the West has provoked a great insight into middle eastern politics for me. The main point of note being that there is a state in the middle east that has been functioning as an 'outcast' for want of a better word, and this situation has been the status quo for nearly 30 years.

The power of Iran as a state is growing further and further in a completely troubled region. Barack Obama's policy change to engage in direct negotiation with Iran demonstrates that there is a need on the part of the Americans for a relationship to exist. Iran has lived with economic sanctions since the hostage crisis of the mid eighties, and so has been forced to develop economic alliances with countries other than the west. The most notable of these include with Russia, with whom they have always had a cordial relationship (most of Iran Air's spare parts come from Russia) but now also China.

The agreement to build a gas pipeline through the old Russian soviet states to service an economy that has been growing steadily at an average of 7% is no small venture. Add into this the fact that according to the world statistics from the Economist China has the largest economic surplus in the world, while the US has the largest deficit(and this was before Obama's rescue package), and we see a shift in the balance of power emerging that pivots through Iran. In effect by galvanising relationships with other states, the Iranian regime has served to stabilise itself out of the furore of the mid eighties.

Now, with the US still in dire need of oil, and a military strike on Iran out of the question in the current climate the stalemate looks set only to develop in the advantage of the Iranians, because they dont actually need the Americans.

This is not to say that Iran is a booming economy and does not have any problems - ask anyone on the streets in Tehran about life in Iran and most of them will begin a hushed rant that has been ongoing about price rises, low wages and the cost of fuel. But the point is that they are functioning as an independent state, without the need to do business with the West (or so the propaganda would have us believe).

The reason for this position of influence is that there is a unity in the fact that they are Iranian, a common denomiator that brings them together. This supersedes Islam and the Shia theocracy and all other elements of their political demonisation. They demonstrate intransigence, and deviate only when it is politically useful, and only ever as far as they need. The feeling of fellowship among them is one that is felt by all Iranians, even those that live in diaspora.

The problem with the Arab states is that they have no such unity. They are divided by their geography, their language (Saudi Arabic and Morroccan are very different) and by their own ultimate goals. As such they can never function effectively as a nation. They are not a nation.

If the middle east wants to assert any kind of authority in the ever shrinking globalised world, then they must become united under a common banner, with common goals on which they act unanimously. They would be wise to take a lesson from the Iranians.

2009-02-12T20:35:00.002Z

new years ongoings

2009-02-12T20:30:00.002Z

i have finished at film school and now pondering what the world holds. Am writing at the moment. A screenplay that I have been screening over and over in my mind for the best part of a year, but writing the bastard is a total chore.

but the lifestyle is wicked - except when i am not being threatened in the library by some weird dudes, and avoiding the pikey guy who smells of piss is a bit of a chore...however, life goes on.

Also planning on a screening of the film soon...when the bastard is finally finished....aaarrrgghhhh!!!!

i think i might get an office??? hmmmm

projects still in progress

Yellow Belly End (post)
Kid (post)
The Secret Society of Piers Gaveston (development)
Capoeira Doc (post)

Completed

Antiperspirants Anonymous
My Sister Jodie

kodak pitch

2008-10-19T23:57:00.004+01:00

pitching ad ideas tomorrow for the kodak competition - meeting all afternoon with pinballing ideas around 4 heads on the second floor of the national film school. we are pitching retro porn based idea for kodak but animation is in danger of falling apart for lack of colourist - will also pitch an 'antipersperant anonymous' for lynx - might work.

a level maths is draining my mind and energy levels.

Olswang

2008-10-15T23:21:00.006+01:00

i am sat in a large board room, wooden varnished tables reflecting the grey sky of a london afternoon. the grey of the sky is matched by the domes and towers outside the widescreen window. lawyers from Olswangs come in, and in turn go through the minutiae of legal contracts - exclusivity - credit - contingents and so on and so on until they are just mumbling drone like clones of one another.

two crows are playing outside, swinging between our building and the next, prancing over the gargoyles heads in full awareness of their arrogance.

"the parties to the interparty agreement consent to residual payment, precedent on previous finance contracts drawn up, to be divided parri passou pro rata in relation to their equity stakes"

i sit and wonder if we are even speaking english as double dipping causes chuckles and net profits are doled out from imaginary recoupment schedules

in the middle i get phone calls - meet a composer at lunchtime - call a location at tea time - see if we can find a 16 year old who looks 14 - need one for My Sister Jodie!! Promo needs to be shot soon - october 27 - maybe - perhaps - will it?

projects in progress:

kid
yellow belly end
capoeira doc
my sister jodie promo
kodak ad

will i still be there? i enjoy the grey of the city

Analysis of Men and Masculinity in Iranian Cinema

2008-10-15T23:05:00.000+01:00

20 Fingers

20 Fingers tells the story of the development of the relationship between Mania and Bijan. This film is shot in a dogma style on DV format and consists of 7 scenes, which are all single long takes with only two actors. The scenes chart the development of the relationship between Mania and Bijan, exploring different elements of the male/female relationships from their infancy.

The dialogue heavy script begins in a dark car, driving through the countryside, and starts with the couple of the kinds of things young couples talk about. As the scene progresses they become more intimate, until it becomes apparent that the man (Bijan) assaults Mania, in order to check her virginity, and as such breaks her hymen. She is upset as to how she will explain this to her parents, and he justifies it by saying that it was something that he needed to be certain about, being the highly conservative character that he is.

The next scene takes place in a cable car, and the couple have an argument, based on the previous evening, where Mania had danced with another man in at a party the previous evening. Here Bijan expresses jealousy and so demonstrates the start of the frays in their relationship.

The third scene is that of an argument, where the couple are riding on a bike, and have quite a heated argument, where Bijan disapproves of Mania’s desire to have an abortion, and this quickly becomes a very heated played out in the street.

The next scene is a discussion between the couple about infidelity, and the ability of a couple that Mania knows to deal with the infidelity of the woman in the relationship. By this point it is clear that Mania is unhappy and is pushing the boundaries ordinarily expected for a woman. Bijan in unable to deal with her notion that the woman may have been justified due to lack of attention from the man.

In the following scene, which takes place in a restaurant, the couple discuss gender, and Mania’s desire to have been a boy when she was younger. Thus the couple explore the possibility of the others gender.

And the final two scenes, show the deterioration of the relationship through squabbling and bickering in regards to other male family friends who Mania has been seeing. Eventually they arrive to a point where Mania reveals that she has been sleeping with a woman, and so marks the end of their relationship.

Untitled

2008-04-28T13:26:00.001+01:00

Sepideh sat with her head on her hands, watching the body of a dead cockroach slowly become dismembered and removed by a colony of ants. In the background the sound of her mother getting ready for the impending departure. They were going to Aunty Shirins and every time they did that meant dealing with Ali. Ali was her elder cousin, and every time they went to visit she would have to play with him. This was never an appealing prospect.

She focussed on the ants; the meticulous columns that they formed from a hidden laid, shuffling limbs along like a factory line. Slowly, after the legs were removes, the main body of the cockroach rose from slumber. At first it crawled, motionless, propelled by an army beneath, a brick from a great pyramid. Then it began to gain speed as little bits shot off, a particularly contentious Ant deciding to work on their own. But all led to the lair for some gruesome, unknown purpose.

Her trance was broken by her mother who lifted her by the shoulder. “Come on child – what kind of lady spends her time staring a horrible little insects. Bodo – get moving.” She rose reluctantly and bud a melancholy farewell to the ants.

**

The sound of Aunty Shirins doorbell always made her shudder. The pleasantries of greeting the family one hasn’t seen for a long while made her feel ridiculous. She endured the cheek pinching and incessant comments about how tall she has gotten, questions about her school and how she finds her homework. Then she must stand around while all the grown ups gush over one another, and she becomes the focus of attention. She notices her mother’s makeup, which she wears so rarely that she looks clownish under it all. There is sickly smell to it. “Please do come inside; our house is yours,” beams Aunty Shirin as they enter. From the hallway with the line of shoes they pass into the guest reception room where the smell of recently removed sofa covers can be tasted. More smiles, greeting, hugging – the moment is approaching. She tries to forget it by looking at all the ornaments in the vitrine. Aunty Shiring has gathered a strange collection of dolls and china. There are Spanish flamenco gypsies with beautiful ered dresses twirling to a tune only they can head, a pink Barbie doll still in its case and various china cups, all with decorated with different flowers. She compared it with her plastic tea set, from which her menagerie of plastic animals have their tea parties.
“Sepideh!!” he mother called, the forced grimace of cordiality etched among her makeup. “Come and see Ali – its been so long.” she announced urging Sepideh along. She wondered whether Aunty Shirin ever played with these plates. She trotted over, little tiny steps moving her body like the ants, she being the dismembered cockroach. Her eyes focussed on the peacocks in the carpet as she approached him.

Ali stood at the table, a piece of chocolate cake in one hand and a brand new catapult in the other. He winced and then tried immediately to make the wince into a smile. No luck. “You two must have so much to catch up with,” the adults cheered. “Why don’t you head out into the Bagh to explore?” It was a rhetorical question. The children’s displeasure was simultaneously expressed, from Sepideh in the form of a sigh, and from Ali by a rather more vocal objection.
“I always have to look after her.” Aunty Shirin looked at him reproachfully, the daggers in her looks cutting him back into line. Indignance returned to him. “OK fine – come on,” he muttered and led her away from the grown ups, who were now seating themselves and already discussing boring things. “Have a nice time, and be careful down by the stream.”

**

The field that led down to the stream was full of tall grass. Its dance with the wind shimmered in the afternoon stillness. Crickets chirped, the only sound of the afternoon. Shafts of sunlight beamed through the tall stems. Ali walked ahead, and Sephideh followed him at a distance. She had tried to walk level with him as they left the adults but he had turned to her; “I don’t want anyone knowing you’re with me, so you walk 20 paces behind me,” he scowled.. His tone confused her, because no one was in this part of the garden, and all of the adults knew they were together anyway. She obeyed, and followed trying not to make much sound. They waded through the sea of gold, the sound of the stream rippling in the distance. Sepideh looked around at the world around her, wondering how many ants there were here.
Suddenly Ali stopped abruptly in the distance, and ducked down, submerging himself into the grass. Sepideh stopped to watch him. He crept his way through the grass and behind the tall walnut tree by the stream, imitating a soldier in a movie. She ran up to join him. He seemed to have forgotten his earlier command, and now accepted her behind him. Through a gap in the grass he pointed out a fat wood pigeon, pecking at the seeds which had fallen from the nearby trees. “Watch this,” he whispered to her as he fished a shiny ball bearing from his trouser pocket. He loads it into the catapult with practised care, his soft fingers caressing it nimbly. Drawing back the elastic of the catapult, he took aim. The pigeon pecked on oblivious. Sepideh watched, her face an equal measure of confusion and curiosity – he pulled the elastic back so far she was sure it would snap. The sound of crickets and stillness filled the apprehension in them both. He exhaled and released the ball, feeling the power of the elastic thrust forward from his grip. The ball bearing shot through the air, almost carving the afternoon with its power. It hit the bird square between the wings. Instantly the calm of the afternoon vanishes into the flailing of the brid, writhing in the clearing where it pecked just moments earlier.
Both children ran to where it struggled. The futile efforts to take to the air calling them to it. The stood over it, Sepideh in quite contrast to Ali’s screaming; “Eww, that’s disgusting.” They watched on as it continued to writhe, slower now as exhaustion began to burn its muscles. A moment passed. “ Come on, lets go down to the river,” Ali said, more a suggestion than a command. She looked at him quizzically.
“You mean you’re going to leave it?” she asked. “Like this?”
“Well what do you expect me to do?” came the indignant reply. He had already begun to put distance between himself and the bird, looking back at her.
“Why don’t you finish what you started?” she asked innocently, naivety pouring out with the words themselves. The flapping continued below her, trickles of blood pouring from the wound. The mishappen wing looked grotesque in the sun.
“If you want to kill it, then why don’t you do it yourself?” he glared back at her indignantly. The birds chest heaved now, trying to put some air into its burning wings. She looked at Ali for a moment. Then she looked at the bird at her feet. A moment passed as she pondered. Then she moved towards him. He seemed satisfied and turned to continue down to the stream. But she didn’t reach him. She began to lift various rocks from the path looking for one. Once Ali realised that she was not following him he turned and watched her, as she found a rock from the side of the path. Her strength faltered slightly as she tried to lift it, the weight of the stone causing her to rock unsteadily. Her frail arms shook with mass, taking both hands to hold the stone as she waddles back to the bird. It’s motion was sporadic now tired, exhausted, yet with the brightness of life still fresh in it’s eyes. She lifted the rock above it as far as her arms could. Ali stared wide eyed at the little girl before him, her looked back at him, meeting his gaze with humanity, and the hope of forgiveness. Then she released the; it rock fell from her arms, its weight driving half the bird into the brown earth below, cutting its intermittent motion into lifelessness. She was breathing hard now, the weight of the rock and the action bearing its vengeance on her small body. The look that passed between her and Ali then felt different. He did not speak. Even the crickets seemed to have lost their words. As he looked back with jaw hanging, the catapult that he held slipped from his grasp, it’s fall cushioned by the soft grass. Then he began to run, back to the house, leaving Sepideh by the carcass and the river.

The Chess Set

2008-04-28T13:25:00.000+01:00

Since beginning secondary school two months earlier Tariq had found the chess club his refuge. So he had wanted the marble chess board from the instant that he had laid eyes on it. Even from the distance he could imagine the cool feel of the pieces under his fingers on a hot afternoon. His mother, however, had felt a complete lack of connection for it, having never bothered to learn the game, and admonishing his father for teaching him useless ‘time wasting skills’ as she referred to it. “First its chess, and soon he’ll be gambling and smoking,” she would complain. Besides which she was more concerned with the lack of water in their hotel room.

They had been in Isfahan for three days now visiting relatives. They had been on numerous picnics in the grounds of various mosques, wandered the narrow streets, marvelled at the clay buildings and generally exhausted his mother. Father was used to walking around, his job in the oil refinery made him used to climbing long ladders and examining pipes. He would walk on ahead of everyone. But mother, who worries generally was having a far harder time of it, especially since the strike at the water processing plant started. The hotel in which they were staying had been affected first, and the whole city was now getting up in arms. She was felt obliged to keep an eye on the bellboys as they ferried water up the room. They had spent the third afternoon walking in the great square, and it was there, in the covered labyrinthine bazaar that he saw it.

The boards sat a round an old man, whose long white beard emerged from beneath his amameh. He had noticed the board because it sat beneath the glimmer of a sodium lamp, lit from above it looked regal and holy at the same time. He had asked the price from the old seller, and reasoned that he would afford it if he saved his allowance for six months. But he wanted an advance from his parents to buy it now, as he had never seen a board like it. His father was quietly contented by his sons enthusiasm, but his mother was neither impressed nor interested. Upon their return from the bazaar that afternoon his constant topic of conversation was the chess board. He asked about it incessantly for the rest of the day. After several hours of incessant chatter about the board, much to his father’s delight, his mother finally agreed. Her mood had been lightened by the news of the end of the strike. She counted out the money for him, reminding him that he could forget about his pocket money for the next few months. She handed him an extra thousand tomans and told him to get a cab.

He ran excitedly through the hotel lobby and out into the street, dark now and crowded as the street hawker began to take up their positions outside the hotel. He was accosted by several as he came out. Cars jostled behind them in the street as the rush hour traffic began to descend and it was among them that he thrust his arm into the air. Almost immediately there was a cab in front of him, the corpulent driver sitting with a cigarette poking out from under the sharp bristles of his moustache. “Can you take me to Bazaar, and wait a sec while I buy something and then bring me back here? I need you to wait for me,” he said as he tentatively opened the door of the car. The driver looked at his suspiciously, the smoke curling from the end of his cigarette and diffusing through the cab. “Why not,” he said finally, “but only if you pay me half on arrival and half on return.” They agreed the fare and Tariq got into the cab. The drivers attempts at small talk irked Tariq; his interest in the fact that Tariq spoke Farsi with an English accent belittled him, or so he felt. The one sided conversation eventually petered out into the din of the evening traffic. The excitement of the purchase was filling Tariq with each moment.

As soon as they arrived, the boy shot out of the car. He bolted through the huge square, crossing the vast polo field that was once used by the great Shah Abbas in a sprint, and ran entered the Bazaar from the entrance by the palace of Ali Qapu. He ran through the maze, dodging the barrow boy and carts loaded with various goods. On one corner a man stood with a hawk on his arm, not that Tariq could spare the time to stare. Eventually navigating through the noise and bustle of the Bazaar, he finally arrived at the old mans stand. He walked up slowly and approached the old man, who was dozing, a cup of mint chai getting cold before him. After a brief haggling session, done more as a formality than for any other purpose he had bought the object of his desire. He waited impatiently as the old man carefully placed each delicate piece into its elegant wooden box, each piece taking its own position in the velvet lined casing. Once it was wrapped and in his hands, he began the journey back to the cab driver.

The driver was waiting with all the other cab drivers at the taxi rank, smoking another cigarette down to near the nub. He stared, almost glaring at the boy walking towards him. His huge paunch sagged over the cusp of his belt, forcing his waisline down under the weight as he stood. Tariq jumped into the front of the cab, oblivious to the driver and more absorbed in the white package in his hands. The driver flicked the butt away and got back into the car, wriggling on the beads that lined his seat before starting the engine.

They drove in silence, the boy absorbed in his new toy, and so not noticing when the car turned from the main road. It crept along the narrow alleyways, getting further and further from the high road, which was illuminated for the upcoming Eid festival. Slums passed the outside of the window, and still Tariq remained oblivious. Slowly but very surely the world that he knew outside the car was vanishing, and he too taken by the board to notice. Eventually, he lack of car horns awoke him from his trance. “Is this the way we came?” he asked, looking out of the rear window.
“It’s a shortcut,” the driver replied. He seemed to be getting comfortable for a long ride. The alley’s darkness closed in on them. After a great while of quiet the driver began to speak. “You know young man, normally when we take people on a return journey, the custom is to pay for the first leg up front. Tariq noticed his beginning to fumble for something with his left hand in the car door, fishing for something as he manoeuvred. “ One time, there was this opium addict who jumped into the back just about where you’re sitting now. He wanted me to drop him at a place uptown, which just between you and me, is where most of the dens are. It’s a real nasty part of town. Now it’s not my job to worry about what people get up to with their bodies, so I agreed to take him. Bearing in mind that it was late and I really wanted to get home to a nice gormeh sabzi, but I thought what the hell, he’d be paying me for it.” Tariq shifted uneasily in his seat. The driver continued his anecdote, “So I drove all the way across town. When we arrived I stopped the car outside this den, and this guy tells me he’ll just be a minute, goes inside. I wait and wait and wait for 45 minutes in the street, all the pimps and addicts coming in and out of all these buildings.” He continued to fish in the door. Tariq listened to the story while looking out around for some landmark, anything that might guide him back to the hotel. The driver found what he was looking for, Tariq noticing a rectangular block in his hand. “ And so eventually I got tired of waiting around, so I went in there, and held this knife to his throat and I said, ‘give me the money that you owe me or I’ll slit your throat right here and now.” As the words flowed from his mouth he was holding the knife to the boys throat. He breathed deeply. The driver looked at Tariq and they paused. The chess set felt cold beneath his fingertips, its weight pressing down onto his lap like a block of lead. The cold of the knife blade, the heat from the drivers hand, and thick black hairs on his arm all etching themselves into his memory, perhaps his final memory. The darkness of the night became liquid, and he felt like he was drowning in it.

After a moment the driver chuckled, as though reminiscing on a joke from his school days. He withdrew the knife and returned it to its place in the car door. They drove on in silence for a while, the crunching of the old gears reverberating the in hot vehicle. Tariq quietly removed a piece from the set and held it in his had, a rook perhaps. It’s cool stone warmed in his palm. The car turned, and as if with a flourish they appeared at the front of the hotel. The driver was full of smiles now, his fat face creasing into a a wide grin and hollow dimples. “But then again you can always tell the good ones from the bad,” he said, as he stepped outside and opened the passenger door, rather like he might for an old lady or his wife.

Tariq did not remember paying his, or his offer of a guided tour of the city after that. He only recalled the weight of the board in his hands, and the doorman asking if he was alright.