Friday, 7 August 2009
Stalker
Andrei Tarkovsky's magnum opus, Stalker, is the Russian director's second foray into science fiction after Solaris. It seems a simple film. A Stalker guides the Professor and the Writer to the Zone, a place where your innermost desires come true. However, the film is far from simple. Some critics have seen the film as prescient, the barren wasteland of the Zone suggestive of the surroundings of Chenobyl, whilst others see the film as having poltical parallels with the history of East and West Germany. Tarkovsky himself even said the zone might not exist. Perhaps our endless searching for meaning is futile, an apophenic search leading us astray. Instead, for me, Tarkovsky is dissecting cinema itself. The use of sub-monochromatic and lucid colour, the apparently normal surroundings that have 'mystical qualities', long, musing shots and ending that leaves the audience with jaw ajar trying to piece things together, all lure us into making something meaningful of Stalker. Instead maybe we should search for the Zone within ourselves where we can revel and take great enjoyment in cinema for just being cinema. This is what cinema was made for.
Monday, 3 August 2009
Mesmerising Media
During the past week or so I've watched some fascinating cinema: Quentin Tarantino's Reservoir Dogs, Ingmar Bergman's Through a Glass Darkly, Jean-Luc Godard's Vivre sa Vie and James Marsh's Man on Wire.
Tuesday, 28 July 2009
Londinium Episode 3/3
Sunday, the day of the Sabbath, or otherwise a day to explore dissident, inconoclastic, shocking art. Rising later than usual, we walked bleary eyed into the kitchen, tasty bacon sandwhiches were prepared by Jesse, sustaining us for another busy day and trip back to Dronfield. Pulling our Ouyster cards swarvely from breast-pocket (me and Joe had the hang of it now), we jumped on the red bus to St. Paul's Cathedral. The day was dark but the rain was holding out; the tranquil interior of St.Paul's made us glow. We couldn't see the entirety of the building with it being a Sunday but the part we saw was impressive; many candels decorated the interior making me feel welcome, warm. After wandering around St. Paul's we made our way to the Millenium Bridge to walk across the turbulent Thames to the Tate Modern Gallery.
Art, a bizarre world. As Oscar Wilde noted, 'all art is quite useless' but it is the uselessness of art that makes it so useful. For what other medium can challenge, shock, stir, break boundaries, expose, as much as art. Much different to literature, you experience a work exactly as the artist intended; it is not diluted or transfigured by the imagination as words are. You see what you get. In some ways you could say art and literature are polar opposites. Art is 100% the artist's vision; no imagination is involved only when it comes to interpretation. On the other hand in literature words are flexible; the imagination shapes the words. I was looking forward to the Poetry and Surrealism section, being a big fan of Chirico, Magritte and Dalí. Somehow I just find what the Surrealists tried to do incredibly interesting. Influenced by breakthroughs in psychology, particularly the works of Freud, the surrealists make us look at the world through the prism of our subconscious. Whether it be the melting clocks of Dalí, the beautiful nudes stalking stange landscapes of Delvaux or self-referential paintings of Magritte, we traverse the backwaters of our mind, always finding small nooks and crannies we thought never existed. Highlights in the surrealism section were Magritte's The Sleeper and Nash's Landscape from a Dream. In this section we saw a small film by Maya Deren called Meshes of an Afternoon, Deren's answer to Hollywood film convention where the rule book is ripped up and the world of dream is allowed to run uninhibited. It was very enjoyable. The music was incredibly eerie and the cloaked ghost-like figure with a mirror face was shocking.
Some art was just too bizarre: women cutting letter holes in the vaginal area of their trousers 'to make a statement', a naked women covering herself in blood and rolling around in feathers, artists performing disturbing rituals or crucifixions with animals... Are these artists just out to shock? Or does their work mean something more profound? It may take me a while to see where the genius lies but I'll try. I much preferred the huge palm tree with naturalistic wallpaper surrounding it, garangutan mops and 30 pieces of silver sculptures. The classical model of Venus was funny next to a pile of dirty washing, illustrating how much society has moved on. Another highlight for me was the Russian propoganda section. You can really see how the harsh, cutting reds, blacks and whites convinced the Russian populace Russia was utopia- of course the total opposite from what it was. Other sections we explored were Manga and Andy Warhol.
A big blue bag. Unaccompanied, alone. There's a bomb in it. Oh, no it's Joe's bag. Quick, go and tell him before he causes a bomb scare. Just another day in the life of Mr Polshaw...
We left the gallery, brains tingling with the varied art we saw. On to the red bus, we rode to Kings Cross. Me and Joe gave Jesse a hearty handshake, thanking him for a busy, rewarding, adventurous weekend. Thanks a lot Jesse, London was lovely.
Art, a bizarre world. As Oscar Wilde noted, 'all art is quite useless' but it is the uselessness of art that makes it so useful. For what other medium can challenge, shock, stir, break boundaries, expose, as much as art. Much different to literature, you experience a work exactly as the artist intended; it is not diluted or transfigured by the imagination as words are. You see what you get. In some ways you could say art and literature are polar opposites. Art is 100% the artist's vision; no imagination is involved only when it comes to interpretation. On the other hand in literature words are flexible; the imagination shapes the words. I was looking forward to the Poetry and Surrealism section, being a big fan of Chirico, Magritte and Dalí. Somehow I just find what the Surrealists tried to do incredibly interesting. Influenced by breakthroughs in psychology, particularly the works of Freud, the surrealists make us look at the world through the prism of our subconscious. Whether it be the melting clocks of Dalí, the beautiful nudes stalking stange landscapes of Delvaux or self-referential paintings of Magritte, we traverse the backwaters of our mind, always finding small nooks and crannies we thought never existed. Highlights in the surrealism section were Magritte's The Sleeper and Nash's Landscape from a Dream. In this section we saw a small film by Maya Deren called Meshes of an Afternoon, Deren's answer to Hollywood film convention where the rule book is ripped up and the world of dream is allowed to run uninhibited. It was very enjoyable. The music was incredibly eerie and the cloaked ghost-like figure with a mirror face was shocking.
Some art was just too bizarre: women cutting letter holes in the vaginal area of their trousers 'to make a statement', a naked women covering herself in blood and rolling around in feathers, artists performing disturbing rituals or crucifixions with animals... Are these artists just out to shock? Or does their work mean something more profound? It may take me a while to see where the genius lies but I'll try. I much preferred the huge palm tree with naturalistic wallpaper surrounding it, garangutan mops and 30 pieces of silver sculptures. The classical model of Venus was funny next to a pile of dirty washing, illustrating how much society has moved on. Another highlight for me was the Russian propoganda section. You can really see how the harsh, cutting reds, blacks and whites convinced the Russian populace Russia was utopia- of course the total opposite from what it was. Other sections we explored were Manga and Andy Warhol.
A big blue bag. Unaccompanied, alone. There's a bomb in it. Oh, no it's Joe's bag. Quick, go and tell him before he causes a bomb scare. Just another day in the life of Mr Polshaw...
We left the gallery, brains tingling with the varied art we saw. On to the red bus, we rode to Kings Cross. Me and Joe gave Jesse a hearty handshake, thanking him for a busy, rewarding, adventurous weekend. Thanks a lot Jesse, London was lovely.
Monday, 27 July 2009
Londinium Episode 2/3
10:15 am. Our morning was kickstarted with crispy, butter-laden muffins prepared by Jesse himself: ne plus ultra. Feeling resoundingly positive, perhaps up there with Berlusconi after wooing another scantily clad women, or not quite, we made our way to the red bus. Ouyster cards at the ready, we made our way to the British Museum.
'What! It's huge,' I seemed to say every second, always commenting on the biblical scale of London. Indeed, the building of the British Museum is that monstrous, it is enough for God to declare it a mansion. The main entrance hall is so impressive, the Queen would call it modest. Still in awe of the scale, we walked, or more accurately hiked, to Egyptology. In the entrance hall was the Rosetta stone, a stone with formal Egyptian hieroglyphs at the top, Demotic, an informal Egyptian language in the middle and Greek at the bottom. Thomas Young, the great polymath who dabbled in subjects as varied as light and materials science helped to piece together Egyptian heiroglyphs, transcribing the language in 1822. Unlike the pictorial beauty of Egyptian hieroglyphs, I was surprised to dicover the jagged, violent, complex Assyrian hieroglyphs. I knew nothing of the Assyrians so it was intriguing for me. In fact it seemed that the British Museum provoked a child-like curiosity in me, a part of ourselves that is sometimes hard to unlock but when allowed to flourish is transcendental. It's a bit like Newton's anology: we walk along the beach discovering smoother and smoother pebbles but the ocean of discovery lays before us. All we can do is allow our child-like curiosity to direct us to a smoother pebble and maybe if inspired, we can throw our pebble into the sea, ripping a hole in the unknown...
After Egypt we took a look at Greece and Rome. As Jesse remarked it was 'everything you expect of history' with finely sculpted models not wearing much, grand temples and elegant carvings. Somehow the Greeks and Romans don't harbour as much mystique as the Aztecs, Myans, Egyptians or Assyrians. However, probably the highlight was Asia upstairs. 'Greece and Rome is everything you expect from history but when you get to Asia you are just like what the fuck' Jesse observed, summing up the eccentricity, obscurity and wild dogmas of Asia. In Asia there were three-legged frogs (to match the other three-legged frog on the Sun of course), fearsome lawyers that judge your life's merits and downfalls, the four-armed Shiva dancing on the God of ignorance and huge glowing buddhas. Bemused, we left the Britsh Museum through the grand entrance hall wishing we could stay longer.
The Science Museum was our next port of call. In the space section downstairs we were in our element. There was a mock-up of the Eagle, a J-2 engine used on the second stage of Saturn V, the orginal Apollo 10 capsule and other space related wonders. Of course it was an apt time to look at the space section, coinciding with 40 years since man walked on the moon. I stood for a fleeting moment, imagining looking at the big blue Earth through the window of the Apollo 10 capsule. Apollo seems so long ago... The days of reaching out into space, the visionary charisma of JFK, all to the soundtrack of Jimmi Hendrix or the Grateful Dead seems intangible, a glowing light that shines perhaps all too brightly as we fly over the landscape of the past. After the groundfloor we went upstairs to Maritime and Mathematics. There was a liquid model of the economy, a Japenese abacus, cloud chambers, mathematical tools and posh drawings using spirograph (or so they looked). Culminating our visit to Science Museum by eating out on the grass as the sun warmed our faces, the National History Museum loomed next us, our next venture.
Again on a par with the British Museum, the entrance hall of the Natural History Museum is impressive; Darwin, now moved to the top of the stairs to celebrate the anniversary of the Origin of Species, sits, poised above the giant diplodocas skeleton (it was huge but yet everything was huge). The compass of our curiosity directed us to Dinosaurs, so we followed. The dinosaur section is organised well as you go over a walkway observing fossils from overhead, encounter a terrifying tyranosaurus-rex and weave your way through small interactive exhibits. It seems everyone loves dinosaurs. Perhaps, it is the mystery surrounding their mass extinction, the many years ago when they stalked the planet or simply because they scare the hell out of your parents as a child. After laughing at oddball extinction theories (cataracts, mass-suicide, you get the picture) we headed over to Mammals.
I think at this point I can be excused to comment on the pretty large nature of the Blue Wale; it was ginormous, monstrous, incomprehensible. It probably isn't worth talking about what else we saw in Mammals, the Blue Wale is king: arteries you can swim down, a huge jaw to filter krill, a tongue weighing as much as an elephant and hitting the scales at 100,000 kg.
We staggered out of the Natural History museum, ending our trilogy, mouths watering awaiting Jesse's Jamaican jerk chicken. Arriving back at Jesse's we got to work preparing tea. Joe peeled potatoes, I cut potatoes and Jesse marinated the chicken, bizarre squelchy noises emanating from his side of the kitchen. We had a lot of potatoes but didn't find it hard to finish them. I'll just use the excuse that we're growing lads. Feeling full after enjoying a delicious meal, Joe donned the yellow gloves and got to work washing-up. That's what happens when you can't cook! Ending the night in style we watched Se7en, then an episode of Firefly before going to bed at 3am.
'What! It's huge,' I seemed to say every second, always commenting on the biblical scale of London. Indeed, the building of the British Museum is that monstrous, it is enough for God to declare it a mansion. The main entrance hall is so impressive, the Queen would call it modest. Still in awe of the scale, we walked, or more accurately hiked, to Egyptology. In the entrance hall was the Rosetta stone, a stone with formal Egyptian hieroglyphs at the top, Demotic, an informal Egyptian language in the middle and Greek at the bottom. Thomas Young, the great polymath who dabbled in subjects as varied as light and materials science helped to piece together Egyptian heiroglyphs, transcribing the language in 1822. Unlike the pictorial beauty of Egyptian hieroglyphs, I was surprised to dicover the jagged, violent, complex Assyrian hieroglyphs. I knew nothing of the Assyrians so it was intriguing for me. In fact it seemed that the British Museum provoked a child-like curiosity in me, a part of ourselves that is sometimes hard to unlock but when allowed to flourish is transcendental. It's a bit like Newton's anology: we walk along the beach discovering smoother and smoother pebbles but the ocean of discovery lays before us. All we can do is allow our child-like curiosity to direct us to a smoother pebble and maybe if inspired, we can throw our pebble into the sea, ripping a hole in the unknown...
After Egypt we took a look at Greece and Rome. As Jesse remarked it was 'everything you expect of history' with finely sculpted models not wearing much, grand temples and elegant carvings. Somehow the Greeks and Romans don't harbour as much mystique as the Aztecs, Myans, Egyptians or Assyrians. However, probably the highlight was Asia upstairs. 'Greece and Rome is everything you expect from history but when you get to Asia you are just like what the fuck' Jesse observed, summing up the eccentricity, obscurity and wild dogmas of Asia. In Asia there were three-legged frogs (to match the other three-legged frog on the Sun of course), fearsome lawyers that judge your life's merits and downfalls, the four-armed Shiva dancing on the God of ignorance and huge glowing buddhas. Bemused, we left the Britsh Museum through the grand entrance hall wishing we could stay longer.
The Science Museum was our next port of call. In the space section downstairs we were in our element. There was a mock-up of the Eagle, a J-2 engine used on the second stage of Saturn V, the orginal Apollo 10 capsule and other space related wonders. Of course it was an apt time to look at the space section, coinciding with 40 years since man walked on the moon. I stood for a fleeting moment, imagining looking at the big blue Earth through the window of the Apollo 10 capsule. Apollo seems so long ago... The days of reaching out into space, the visionary charisma of JFK, all to the soundtrack of Jimmi Hendrix or the Grateful Dead seems intangible, a glowing light that shines perhaps all too brightly as we fly over the landscape of the past. After the groundfloor we went upstairs to Maritime and Mathematics. There was a liquid model of the economy, a Japenese abacus, cloud chambers, mathematical tools and posh drawings using spirograph (or so they looked). Culminating our visit to Science Museum by eating out on the grass as the sun warmed our faces, the National History Museum loomed next us, our next venture.
Again on a par with the British Museum, the entrance hall of the Natural History Museum is impressive; Darwin, now moved to the top of the stairs to celebrate the anniversary of the Origin of Species, sits, poised above the giant diplodocas skeleton (it was huge but yet everything was huge). The compass of our curiosity directed us to Dinosaurs, so we followed. The dinosaur section is organised well as you go over a walkway observing fossils from overhead, encounter a terrifying tyranosaurus-rex and weave your way through small interactive exhibits. It seems everyone loves dinosaurs. Perhaps, it is the mystery surrounding their mass extinction, the many years ago when they stalked the planet or simply because they scare the hell out of your parents as a child. After laughing at oddball extinction theories (cataracts, mass-suicide, you get the picture) we headed over to Mammals.
I think at this point I can be excused to comment on the pretty large nature of the Blue Wale; it was ginormous, monstrous, incomprehensible. It probably isn't worth talking about what else we saw in Mammals, the Blue Wale is king: arteries you can swim down, a huge jaw to filter krill, a tongue weighing as much as an elephant and hitting the scales at 100,000 kg.
We staggered out of the Natural History museum, ending our trilogy, mouths watering awaiting Jesse's Jamaican jerk chicken. Arriving back at Jesse's we got to work preparing tea. Joe peeled potatoes, I cut potatoes and Jesse marinated the chicken, bizarre squelchy noises emanating from his side of the kitchen. We had a lot of potatoes but didn't find it hard to finish them. I'll just use the excuse that we're growing lads. Feeling full after enjoying a delicious meal, Joe donned the yellow gloves and got to work washing-up. That's what happens when you can't cook! Ending the night in style we watched Se7en, then an episode of Firefly before going to bed at 3am.
Sunday, 26 July 2009
Londinium Episode 1/3
Belated I know but I will now sketch out my trip to London that I took from the 17th-19th July.
Me and Joe left the quiet comfort of Dronfield on the 43 bus at 9:13 am. As per usual I was in a rush, thought I was going to miss the bus, but thankfully got out in time for our journey into Steel City. Using my alter ego, Joshua Russell, I managed half fair. We arrived in Sheffield mildly fatigued but eager to explore and muse in London, however our mood was dampened when we hit capitalism, full on in the face; the ticket office was staffed by a grizzly old bloke looking as if he could match Dracula for his phobia of light, but we persisted; persistence wasn't enough though for the price to cut through the air with the force of a nuclear bomb: £60! Shocked though we were the ticket salesman had an air of glibness, the sort of look that all old people adore when they gain some sort of superiority over the young. Eventually reaching monetary sobriety we grabbed a sandwhich (don't get me started on station prices), adjusted our bags from cutting into our shoulders and walked over to the train. Whilst walking down the carriages I discovered how borgeoisie Britain is; nearly everyone has to live a contrived existence, with reserved seating, stern predictability; there is never any sense of spontaniety or adventure. Everything must be set in stone, everything must run like clockwork. Finally we discovered some unreserved seating, placed our bags on the floor and settled ourselves in for the 2hrs 30mins trip into London. Whilst Joe listened to the Smiths I pulled out a book of Ginsberg's poems, remaining enthralled for most of the way. We talked quite a lot about our busy Mon-Fri in Dronfield, physics, metaphysics and anything curious that suddenly occured to me. Time passed; landscapes flashed past the window; the confectionaries women walked down the aisle as if about to meet her end in an incinerator at the end of the carriage; we talked; we talked somemore; I went for a pee; I ate my sandwhich and hay presto we arrived at St Pancras (no not St Pancreas), London. Then we got off the train, the smell of oil and brute engineering filling the air. Friday was about to really begin.
Jesse was there to meet us, standing out from the crowd in his archetypal luminescent hoodie, a beacon to a hedonistic weekend. We warmly greeted him then rapidly got whisked away into the complexity of London's transport system. Ever prepared, Jesse had bought us oyster cards and trained us in the art of oyster card use. Apparently it wasn't a pass for a seafood restauraunt! We got the bus to Jesse's modest, inviting house in Hackney, bordering with Islington, dropped off our bags then set out to meet Jenny. After picking up the Enterprise we waddled to the tube and headed to Greenwich Park and the Royal Observatory. All of us walked through leafy, remarkably peaceful Greenwich Park, admiring a moments peace from franetic chaos. At the observatory high up on a hill we had panoramic views of London, a great way to see London in all its glory for the first time. After taking in the views we went around the Observatory's museum looking at telescopes, timepieces and the 0 meridian line. The Royal Observatory felt like a great place of progress, of endeavour, of reaching out, of satisfying human curiosity. Concluding our trip to the Observatory we staggered down the steep hill wondering if the Cutty Sark was repaired after a fire. Unfortunately it wasn't, so we checked out what other boat rides were on offer. We decided to get a boat that went on a trip on the Thames from Greenwich to Westminster. Sadly we missed the previous boat so had about 30 mins to kill. Filling the time, we drank Coca Cola from a glass with four straws, perhaps illustrating the preciousness of a drink, even though it probably ruptures your own personal economy. We boarded the boat and went upstairs so we could get impressive views as we cruised down the Thames. On our cruise we saw the Tower of London, Tate Modern, Millenium Bridge, London Bridge, Tower Bridge, London Eye, Shakespeare's Globe Theatre and Big Ben. Also we nearly had a heart attack thanks to the tannoy that was located in close proximity to my crotch: 'WARNING!! DON'T MIX ELECTRICITY WITH WATER' or some such drivel blurted out of the speaker.
Arriving safe and sound in Westminster, if not feeling like we had spent an Icelandic winter in the buff, we walked around the imposing gothic buildings. I was surprised to be informed of a man that has camped outside the Commons since the begginnings of the Iraq War! Yes, we all have the right to protest but what really is this man trying to achieve. Yes, he is fighting for freedoms and human rights but surely he must realise he is not going to achieve anything. The war happened. We can't change it. Unfortunatly, the forecast looks as though a hasty solution is impossible, so I advise this man to look to a brighter future rather than allowing his life to slip away under the steady gaze of uncaring politicians. Post musings around the Commons, we went into Trafalgar Square, where Nelson stood over us, poised, unfliching, mightily taking whatever the weather threw at him. We dabbled in the National Gallery for a short while, looking at old paintings that don't seem to move me as much as modernistic works, then made our way back to a Turkish restauraunt. At first I was unsure whether Turkish food would be my thing but I found it delicious. I've never eaten so much. Joe decided to try spiced turnip juice at the restauraunt at the point when mentioned made the waiter look like he had seen the end of time itself. I tried a bit and it was odd; warm, tongue-tingling, with a taste you wouldn't know what to safely drink it with. We sadly left Jenny after the Turkish restauraunt, we said our good byes and wished her well docking with the sci-fi convention on Saturday.
Thinking our adventurous Friday was over, me, Joe and Jesse made our way back to Jesse's house. However, on our way we heard live music in a bar that caught our ear. I bought a bottle of Becks and Jesse and Joe had pints. We waited a while for the next turn and they proved to be noisey yet mellow, discordant yet melodic, jazzy yet metal! An odd mix! There was an amusing moment though when a guy claiming to be Spanish approached Joe, shouting and screaming how the world had conspired against him. Additionally, there was a man that thought he was the invisible man walking into a wall in the toilet, hoping if he tried hard enough the wall would give him the benefit of the doubt and let him through. After our drinks and the finale of the music, peppered with amusing antics from alcoholics, we went back to Jesse's and watched highlights of T in the park. We went to bed in the early hours. I didn't dream.
Stay tuned for Saturday and Sunday.
Me and Joe left the quiet comfort of Dronfield on the 43 bus at 9:13 am. As per usual I was in a rush, thought I was going to miss the bus, but thankfully got out in time for our journey into Steel City. Using my alter ego, Joshua Russell, I managed half fair. We arrived in Sheffield mildly fatigued but eager to explore and muse in London, however our mood was dampened when we hit capitalism, full on in the face; the ticket office was staffed by a grizzly old bloke looking as if he could match Dracula for his phobia of light, but we persisted; persistence wasn't enough though for the price to cut through the air with the force of a nuclear bomb: £60! Shocked though we were the ticket salesman had an air of glibness, the sort of look that all old people adore when they gain some sort of superiority over the young. Eventually reaching monetary sobriety we grabbed a sandwhich (don't get me started on station prices), adjusted our bags from cutting into our shoulders and walked over to the train. Whilst walking down the carriages I discovered how borgeoisie Britain is; nearly everyone has to live a contrived existence, with reserved seating, stern predictability; there is never any sense of spontaniety or adventure. Everything must be set in stone, everything must run like clockwork. Finally we discovered some unreserved seating, placed our bags on the floor and settled ourselves in for the 2hrs 30mins trip into London. Whilst Joe listened to the Smiths I pulled out a book of Ginsberg's poems, remaining enthralled for most of the way. We talked quite a lot about our busy Mon-Fri in Dronfield, physics, metaphysics and anything curious that suddenly occured to me. Time passed; landscapes flashed past the window; the confectionaries women walked down the aisle as if about to meet her end in an incinerator at the end of the carriage; we talked; we talked somemore; I went for a pee; I ate my sandwhich and hay presto we arrived at St Pancras (no not St Pancreas), London. Then we got off the train, the smell of oil and brute engineering filling the air. Friday was about to really begin.
Jesse was there to meet us, standing out from the crowd in his archetypal luminescent hoodie, a beacon to a hedonistic weekend. We warmly greeted him then rapidly got whisked away into the complexity of London's transport system. Ever prepared, Jesse had bought us oyster cards and trained us in the art of oyster card use. Apparently it wasn't a pass for a seafood restauraunt! We got the bus to Jesse's modest, inviting house in Hackney, bordering with Islington, dropped off our bags then set out to meet Jenny. After picking up the Enterprise we waddled to the tube and headed to Greenwich Park and the Royal Observatory. All of us walked through leafy, remarkably peaceful Greenwich Park, admiring a moments peace from franetic chaos. At the observatory high up on a hill we had panoramic views of London, a great way to see London in all its glory for the first time. After taking in the views we went around the Observatory's museum looking at telescopes, timepieces and the 0 meridian line. The Royal Observatory felt like a great place of progress, of endeavour, of reaching out, of satisfying human curiosity. Concluding our trip to the Observatory we staggered down the steep hill wondering if the Cutty Sark was repaired after a fire. Unfortunately it wasn't, so we checked out what other boat rides were on offer. We decided to get a boat that went on a trip on the Thames from Greenwich to Westminster. Sadly we missed the previous boat so had about 30 mins to kill. Filling the time, we drank Coca Cola from a glass with four straws, perhaps illustrating the preciousness of a drink, even though it probably ruptures your own personal economy. We boarded the boat and went upstairs so we could get impressive views as we cruised down the Thames. On our cruise we saw the Tower of London, Tate Modern, Millenium Bridge, London Bridge, Tower Bridge, London Eye, Shakespeare's Globe Theatre and Big Ben. Also we nearly had a heart attack thanks to the tannoy that was located in close proximity to my crotch: 'WARNING!! DON'T MIX ELECTRICITY WITH WATER' or some such drivel blurted out of the speaker.
Arriving safe and sound in Westminster, if not feeling like we had spent an Icelandic winter in the buff, we walked around the imposing gothic buildings. I was surprised to be informed of a man that has camped outside the Commons since the begginnings of the Iraq War! Yes, we all have the right to protest but what really is this man trying to achieve. Yes, he is fighting for freedoms and human rights but surely he must realise he is not going to achieve anything. The war happened. We can't change it. Unfortunatly, the forecast looks as though a hasty solution is impossible, so I advise this man to look to a brighter future rather than allowing his life to slip away under the steady gaze of uncaring politicians. Post musings around the Commons, we went into Trafalgar Square, where Nelson stood over us, poised, unfliching, mightily taking whatever the weather threw at him. We dabbled in the National Gallery for a short while, looking at old paintings that don't seem to move me as much as modernistic works, then made our way back to a Turkish restauraunt. At first I was unsure whether Turkish food would be my thing but I found it delicious. I've never eaten so much. Joe decided to try spiced turnip juice at the restauraunt at the point when mentioned made the waiter look like he had seen the end of time itself. I tried a bit and it was odd; warm, tongue-tingling, with a taste you wouldn't know what to safely drink it with. We sadly left Jenny after the Turkish restauraunt, we said our good byes and wished her well docking with the sci-fi convention on Saturday.
Thinking our adventurous Friday was over, me, Joe and Jesse made our way back to Jesse's house. However, on our way we heard live music in a bar that caught our ear. I bought a bottle of Becks and Jesse and Joe had pints. We waited a while for the next turn and they proved to be noisey yet mellow, discordant yet melodic, jazzy yet metal! An odd mix! There was an amusing moment though when a guy claiming to be Spanish approached Joe, shouting and screaming how the world had conspired against him. Additionally, there was a man that thought he was the invisible man walking into a wall in the toilet, hoping if he tried hard enough the wall would give him the benefit of the doubt and let him through. After our drinks and the finale of the music, peppered with amusing antics from alcoholics, we went back to Jesse's and watched highlights of T in the park. We went to bed in the early hours. I didn't dream.
Stay tuned for Saturday and Sunday.
The Ninth Configuration
The Ninth Configuration, a film by William Peter Blatty, celebrated author of The Exorcist is a metaphysical yet realistic film. Set towards the latter years of Vietnam in a castle used to treat insane soldiers ,Colonel Kane, the newly appointed psychiatrist, is assigned the task of curing the mentally plagued- a mean feat when there aren't only soldiers but a psychotic astronaut, Cutshaw, to cure. What sets this film apart from the rest is that it is a smouldering couldron of ideas and poignant imagery: in Kane's dreams he deliberates how there must be a God when he is stood on the moon and a crucifix looms before him, one of the insane is performing Shakespeare's works with dogs, another fulfils his dream by painting the roof of the castle, Cistine Chapel style. However, for all its rampaging imagery, The Ninth Configuration, at its heart, is deep. Dissimilar to most films that hold faith in a dark light the film perhaps shows the necessity of faith in a brutal world. For how, as Kane muses, can life have spontaneously spawned from the primordial seas? There must be more. Life arsing from chance seems improbable, bordering on the impossible. Or is faith a cop out? Should we embrace the arbitrary? After all, modern physics is governed by quantum mechanics, pure probability. Einstein was wrong: God, it seems plays dice with the universe. But as The Ninth Configuration perhaps provokes, it is important to note it is God who throws the dice.
Saturday, 25 July 2009
Moon
At last a film that provokes as much as 2001. Moon, a film by Duncan Jones, starring Sam Rockwell as the isolated Sam Bell and Kevin Spacey as the ever-reliable computer, Gerty, does something a science fiction film should- not be science fiction. In Moon the desolate lunar landscape is purely a backdrop, nothing more, serving to deepen Jones' exploration of aloneness, sanity, love and ethics. Unlike science fiction cliché, Jones is wanting to do more than explore outer space, he is wanting us to look to the inner space, what it means to be human, what makes us tick.
Moon is set in the future when energy is produced from mining helium-3 on the moon. Each person who moves to the moonbase has a term of three years and Sam Bell is coming to the end of his time on the moon. Whilst out on the surface, Bell shockingly crashes his lunar vehicle, however, luckily Bell is awoken again inside the moonbase, unscathed, or so we think... Noticing something 'live' is on the lunar surface Bell gets the urge to go outside but Gerty disallows. Overriding Gerty's ubiquity, Bell finally manages to explore what is 'live' and discovers himself, Moon's monolith. What then follows is a look at human values and how important it is to comfortably seperate humanity from science. Far from an indictment of science, Moon, in the tradition of H.G. Wells and Isaac Asimov is warning where rationality could lead us; we should cherish what it means to be human, always holding the hand of science but never embracing it. As Fyodor Dostoyevsky mused: ' If everything on Earth were rational, nothing would happen'.
Moon is set in the future when energy is produced from mining helium-3 on the moon. Each person who moves to the moonbase has a term of three years and Sam Bell is coming to the end of his time on the moon. Whilst out on the surface, Bell shockingly crashes his lunar vehicle, however, luckily Bell is awoken again inside the moonbase, unscathed, or so we think... Noticing something 'live' is on the lunar surface Bell gets the urge to go outside but Gerty disallows. Overriding Gerty's ubiquity, Bell finally manages to explore what is 'live' and discovers himself, Moon's monolith. What then follows is a look at human values and how important it is to comfortably seperate humanity from science. Far from an indictment of science, Moon, in the tradition of H.G. Wells and Isaac Asimov is warning where rationality could lead us; we should cherish what it means to be human, always holding the hand of science but never embracing it. As Fyodor Dostoyevsky mused: ' If everything on Earth were rational, nothing would happen'.
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