Culture - January

Books read:

Gabriel Garcia Marquez - 'One Hundred Years of Solitude'
William Shirer - 'The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich' (non-fiction)
George Orwell - 'Burmese Days'
Jean-Paul Sartre - 'Existentialism and Humanism' (non-fiction)

The last two-and-a-half months of my reading has been taken up with wading through William Shirer's mammoth tome 'The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich' which, at 1150 pages, stands as easily the most imposing book I've ever approached.

That said, the scale of the book is easily justified by the vast weight that the subject matter imposes upon the world in which we live today, and with Shirer's insight you have just about the most engrossing and comprehensive chronicle of Nazi Germany (he was a foreign correspondent in Germany throughout much of the Reich and attended the Nuremburg Trials).

I was often completely captivated by the clear-sighted documentation of all aspects of the Third Reich; from its psychological and philosophical underpinnings through German history; to Adolf Hitler's meteoric rise from the Viennese gutters, a disaffected soldier of WWI to the embodiment of megalomaniacal Fuhrer. I was often blindsided by the level of sheer political genius that Hitler demonstrated in managing to brainwash not only the entire German nation but also most of the world to accepting and acquiescing with his twisted ideals. This is a staple historical text that, despite its intimidating heft, really should stand as essential reading for all generations.


Films watched:

'Moon' (Duncan Jones)
'The Castle' (Michael Hanake)
'Primer' (Shaun Carruth)
'Blue is the Warmest Colour' (Abdellatif Kechiche) (at the Prince Charles Cinema, London)
'12 Years a Slave' (Steve McQueen) (at the Ritzy Picturehouse, Brixton)
'Harold and Maude' (Hal Ashby)
'The Third Man' (Carol Lombard)
'The Wolf of Wall Street' (Martin Scorsese) (at Ritzy Picturehouse, Brixton)
'Midnight in Paris' (Woody Allen)

I went to see 'Blue is the Warmest Colour' knowing little about it apart from that it was the '3-hour French lesbian film' that had won the Palme d'Or at Cannes.

Perhaps it was the resonance with my own emotional state at the time, but I can scarcely think of another film I've seen that captured so accurately the exhilarating high of falling in love, and the suffocating low of subsequent loss.

The two lead actresses were completely believable, and the set-pieces fine-tuned to perfection - the heady cocktail of mutual attraction slowly diluting as the inevitable doubts and antagonisms drift to the surface.

Much has been made of the explicit and prolonged sex scenes; in particular, the actresses' lasting hostility towards director Kechiche who they accuse of exploitation. My own feeling on the matter is that, undoubtedly, the main scene could have been considerably shortened and probably others omitted entirely.

However, in my view the explicit nature of these scenes was not the result of lecherous intent, but instead served as the passionate primer for the gut-wrenching emotional torpor of the café scene in which the girls are reunited after a couple of years apart. They so nearly yield to the overwhelming physical desire that persists between them, and yet the ice of painful reality and circumstance resolutely refuses to thaw.

I just wonder whether the pivotal potency of the scene - demonstrating the heart's love held back by the mind's restraints - could have been quite so total had the earlier scenes of unbounded love been subject to those similar restraints. It is a scene of unparalleled heartache and, I admit without any shame, I found myself joining them with my tears.

This month I also went to see Steve McQueen's '12 Years a Slave' and Martin Scorsese's 'The Wolf of Wall Street'. Some might see it as specious to do so, but I actually see them as being oddly aligned in some fundamental ways.

Both are films holding a mirror up to the despicable practices that humans have inflicted upon one another; the worst facets of humanity taking centre stage - on the one hand, subjugation and barbaric cruelty, on the other, excessive greed and self-indulgence on a morally-bankrupt scale. Both are excellent films, whilst not being particularly enjoyable.

'12 Years a Slave' is necessarily tough, relentlessly so. Last month I wrote a piece about 'Come and See', a film in which the most unspeakable horrors of Nazi Germany are laid before you as an affectless tableau, with the audience being invited to literally 'come and see', and draw their own conclusions.

The only slight detraction I had with McQueen's direction, as scene after scene of sickening brutality unfolded, was that it wasn't quite affectless enough; it felt at times too well-primed for a precise and unambiguous emotional impact.

It set me wondering afterwards as to whether it was as good a film about slavery (a universally-acknowledged evil), as 'Shame' was about sex addiction (a relatively unexplored personal affliction)? It's a quandary I'm still mulling over now.

'The Wolf of Wall Street' on the other hand, layers orgiastic vice upon sickening wealth upon moral decrepitude like some awful calorific lasagne to such an exhausting 3-hour extent that by the end of it I felt like I myself had taken an overdose of Quaaludes.

It forces you to wallow in the filthy excess of it all with little-to-no remorse or redemption offered. Unlike the mafia gang in 'Goodfellas', DiCaprio's Jordan Belfort and his pals are hilarious whilst also being quite impossible to warm to on any human level.

With such an illustrious canon of films behind him as Scorsese does it's impossible not to hold anything new up to scrutiny against them; and whilst it more than punches its weight, it can't touch the likes of 'Taxi Driver', 'Raging Bull' or 'The King of Comedy'. That said, it's enough that he's still capable of producing work of this standard, that ruffles so many feathers, and long may he continue in the same vein.


Albums played:

John Grant - 'Beyond Pale Ghosts'
John Grant - 'Queen of Denmark'
Blanck Mass - 'Blanck Mass'
Mogwai - 'Rave Tapes'
I Break Horses - 'Chiaroscuro'
Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds - 'From Her to Eternity'
Broken Bells - 'After the disco'
Bruce Springsteen - 'High Hopes'


Theatre:

'American Psycho: The Musical' (at Almeida Theatre, Islington)

It is a curious place that Bret Easton Ellis' modern classic 'American Psycho' resides in the cultural firmament. With its all-surface-no-feeling sheen, graphic depictions of ultra-violence and long monologues on the artistic merits of Genesis and Whitney Houston; it's a work that, 23 years since its release, still startles with its immediacy and penetrating resonance.

In the internet age, where hardcore sex and violence are omnipotent and only the merest of finger-clicks away, perhaps we have all become a kind of pseudo-Patrick Bateman, the digital embodiment of the shallow abstraction he proclaims himself to be.

The morphing of the book into a stage musical seemed, at face value, to be misguided, and yet as soon as it got under way it all seemed like a perfectly logical progression. The Almeida Theatre on Islington's Upper Street is an intimate one, and the use of the tight stage was expertly choreographed, as were the numerous dance numbers that were often incredibly funny (the 'business card song' in which various font types were set to lyrics was a personal highlight).

As Bateman, Matt Smith did a creditworthy job, however, since Christian Bale gave such a consummate portrayal in the film version (so much so that I think he might actually be Patrick Bateman!), you can't help but feel Smith's performance to be anything more substantial than an accomplished and honed impersonation.

The first half was excellent, lively and fun, but once it got into the second it quickly began to flag. At the same point in the novel, the notoriously violent sequences begin stacking up, and whilst the movie was a great screen adaptation it did much to dilute many of the most excessive sequences. Limited to the physical time-and-space of the stage, the play had no option but to dilute the violence still further which caused the narrative to stagnate and veer off into the embellished side-plot of Patrick's relationship with his secretary Jean, before limping to an insubstantial conclusion.

Overall, it was well worth seeing; a valiant and brave attempt at a tough source novel, and probably did the best it could within the confines of a stage musical, which, although providing a fresh interpretation, failed to elevate the source material to a veritable stand-alone piece and instead seemed content to honour it as a persistently relevant cultural artefact.