A bookish appeal. Dedalus Books, the independent UK purveyor of esoteric international literature for 25 years, is in danger of losing its Arts Council funding. It would be a real shame if the publisher went under.
Please take a moment to join Ali Smith, Tibor Fischer et al in signing this online petition:
http://www.gopetition.co.uk/online/16111.html
Another way to support Dedalus is to buy something from its unique back catalogue, sooner rather than later, before it’s too late. I’ve just put together an Amazon List of my own recommended Dedalus titles, including their splendid Finnish Fantasy anthology.
More details in the Guardian here.
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Recent adventures: met with Laurence Hughes and visited the Millais show at the Tate Britain. Quite a rollercoaster selection, from the fascinating to the overly familiar, to the commissioned portraits and shamelessly commercial (the Pears Soap advert), to his lesser known intricate drawings and sensitive landscapes. Didn’t realise Millais had such varying styles in his Pre-Raphaelite prettiness, what with those famous depictions of ladies in wistful Bronte-esque poses, equating loneliness with long tousled hairdos.
And then there’s his contribution to the era’s fashion for outrageously idealised portraits of children, the so-called Fancy Pictures. As an unkind friend of mine once described, ‘They’re called Fancy Pictures because if you see enough at one time, you fancy you’ll be sick.’
There’s only of a few of those though, mercifully, and the exhibition succeeds in contrasting the works Millais did purely for money, with the ones he considered his real works of art. And the good stuff – not least the gorgeous Highland snow scenes and vibrant colours of the coats and dresses in his portraits – makes you want to burst into spontaneous applause.
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Fosca mail:
From: Stephen, Alexandria, United States
Message: It’s a forlorn hope I realise, but it would be wonderful to see Fosca here in the US. I’m sure the band would be welcomed in New York, DC, Boston, San Francisco etc? Would you even consider a visit to the US if it were at all possible?
If it were possible, definitely. But Fosca would need backing from major labels or publishers to fund US touring. I’m happy to go touring if the practicalities are accounted for. Which is the case in Sweden, where the label But Is It Art Records is booking us a small tour.
The Stockholm date has already been announced:
Wednesday 26th March: Stockholm Landet, LM Ericssons väg 27.
With Friday Bridge.
Here’s the rather nice flyer:
And here’s the kind of email that reminds me why I bother:
Fosca has meant so much to me since I first heard ‘The Agony Without the Ecstasy’ live [at Sweden’s Benno festival] in 2001… I went straight to the Pet Sounds record store the day after the gig, bought On Earth to Make the Numbers Up, and went to the nearby café. There I sat with my discman and a cup of tea… It is one of the best experiences of discovering new music I have ever had.
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Thanks to all those who sent me Christmas cards. Particularly those whose contact details I’ve managed to lose somewhere amid the changing of computers and my general hopelessness. So if you’re reading this, Johnny Johnson, and Jason & Sam, please get in touch…
Have just seen I’m Not There. Or, That Bob Dylan Movie Without Bob Dylan But With Cate Blanchett, as it might as well be known.
(acutally, Dylan himself IS in the movie. Right at the end. Like The Beatles in Yellow Submarine.)
I really like the bits of Mr Dylan’s work I really like, which I’m pleased to say coincides with the bits I really like in this film. It sounds like one of the quips spouted by Cate Blanchett’s Dylan. What do I think of I’m Not There? I really like the bits I really like.
I’m not too bothered about the whole entire Dylan life and works, though I appreciate he’s one of the few songwriters whose cultural importance crosses the boundaries of mere music. He is the original Crossover Artist, in so many senses. Trad folk to protest song, critical to commercial acclaim, folk revival to 60s pop & rock, acoustic to electric, non-practising Jew to Born Again Christian, lyricist to poet. He can’t sing, and yet he really can. He looks odd, and yet he looks fantastic. He is distinctly himself, yet he’s had distinctly different phases in his life. His words and interviews tempt accusations of being pretentious, being a fake, being a traitor, and yet he comes across as profound, untouchable, soulful. Mr Dylan is a mass of contradictions, confusions, and slippery reinventions. Arguably far more so than Mr Bowie.
I’m Not There is pretty much Velvet Goldmine 2: This Time We’ve Got The Songs. Both films (by director Todd Haynes) have the same musical montage format, the same use of surreal interviews, the same nerve of writing their own narrative rules. And both draw on techniques from classic European cinema (Bunuel, Godard, Fellini), not so much in homage, but because they don’t make ’em like that anymore. Certainly not in the US, where arthouse currently tends to mean quirky, kooky, wordy, intimate. And above all – non cinematic.
It’s fashionable at the moment to avoid surrealism, unless you’re making a film in subtitles. Otherwise you run the risk of what’s happened to David Lynch and (more quickly) Wes Anderson. Their latest works really should have critics praising them from the rafters. Instead, the press have equated these directors’ latest leaps of imagination as too imaginative, tarring them as self-indulgent and self-parodic. And that dreaded recommendation: ‘for fans only’.
On paper, Mr Haynes runs the same risk he did with Velvet Goldmine:
‘Excuse me, Mr Haynes. Do you have a license for this use of surrealism and montage?’
‘Yes, Officer Critic, I have it here somewhere. It’s the songs of the iconic musician who’s inspired the movie.’
‘Oh, I see. Yes, that would work. A nice handrail for people to grip amongst the oddness. The back catalogue as roadmap. Every critic likes a Bowie song or two, don’t they. Well, apart from those young ones at NME who’ve got it in for Morrissey. But I digress. It’s clearly about Bowie, so you do need the songs.’
(awkward pause)
‘Ah, you’re not going to believe this, Officer. There’s a note here under the dashboard. David Bowie has withdrawn permission for me to use his songs. All of them. Even cover versions.’
‘Bit of a blow. So what are you going to do?’
‘Well, there’s always T Rex, Lou Reed, New York Dolls…’
‘Not really the same, though, is it?’
‘No. Sigh. Still, Bob Dylan’s okay about doing the same with him. I told him I’m going to have him played by lots of different actors, including a small black boy, that extremely intense and serious guy who plays Batman – he’s going to play Dylan when Dylan’s extremely intense and serious – plus a confused-looking Richard Gere, and a blonde Australian woman. He said fine, here’s the songs.’
‘Conclusion?’
‘Bob Dylan is officially nicer than David Bowie. At least, nicer to me. Being nice isn’t everything, but it can help when you’re trying to explore new territory. Look at Michael Palin.’
Whatever the reasons behind Mr Bowie’s decision to deny Mr Haynes, there’s no doubt Velvet Goldmine would have been more artistically successful with his songs included. And I’m Not There just wouldn’t be the same without the Dylan songs.
[Side Note: On his entertaining BBC Radio 5 slot, film critic Mark Kermode has a Julie Burchill-esque tendency to boast he’s the opposite of all the other critics. He slates The Queen, but praises Basic Instinct 2. Tackling I’m Not There last week, he pointed out it’s about time people realised Velvet Goldmine is severely underrated. Much of its poor critical reputation, he said, was down to music journalists. ‘And music journalists, bless them, know nothing about films’. The following week, Kermode was on holiday, replaced by Andrew Collins. Who is a music journalist turned film critic.]
The other handrail is Ms Blanchett’s casting and performance. It matters that it’s not just any woman, and that she’s playing not just any man. Ms Blanchett has a unique position: she’s glamourous and beautiful enough to appear on the usual magazine covers, but she also commands a high level of respect from all quarters of the press.
I saw a recent paparazzi feature where Ms B was photographed in the street, pasted alongside similar shots of other famous actresses and singers. The captions were typical, passing judgement on what these ladies were wearing, whether it was a mistake or a good thing, whether they were looking too fat or too thin, and what condition their skin was in. The usual stuff.
Only with Ms Blanchett, the caption read something like, ‘We could say something unkind about her dress, but everyone has too much respect for Our Cate, don’t they?’
I found this very interesting indeed. A gossip magazine, not known for its restraint, finding a boundary to keep from. They’re more likely to print a sticker poking fun at a disabled child (Jordan’s son in Heat Magazine, leading to complaints from their own readership) than comment unkindly on a photo of Cate Blanchett. Certainly not in the same way as they judge her fellow Oscar nominees Angelina Jolie, Halle Berry, Kate Winslet, Nicole Kidman and Keira Knightley.
So why does Ms Blanchett get this unusual level of Dylan-like respect and untouchability? I think it helps that she started off playing Queen Elizabeth 1st, and then the Elf Queen in Lord Of The Rings. Become associated with queens, and people are more likely to behave themselves in your presence, as if you were an actual monarch. Just ask Judi Dench and Helen Mirren.
It also helps that Ms Blanchett’s beauty has an uncommon but magnetic quality about it. She’s not beautiful in a threatening way, but in an intelligent, aloof and enigmatic way. She’s also on that hallowed list of women whom husbands are allowed to fancy without too much gnashing of teeth:
‘Darling, I’m leaving you for a thin blonde who appears on magazine covers.’
‘Who is the hussy? I’ll tear her apart!’
‘It’s Cate Blanchett.’
‘Oh, fair enough. Can I come along?’
Johnny Depp is on a similar list. For both sexes.
Cate Blanchett also has a genuine tabula rasa quality, careful not to let her own personality interfere with the characters she plays. And yet she manages to keep an air of modesty in interviews, rather than reel out the usual actorly answers about motivation and research, the pain of immersing oneself in the role and so on. All actors have outsized egos, yet she manages to keep hers in check, remaining aloof and intriguing rather than dull.
On top of which, she’s arthouse compatible. See also Tilda Swinton, currently travelling in the opposite direction, from Derek Jarman to Disney’s Narnia and George Clooney.
So getting Ms Blanchett to play Bob Dylan makes complete sense. Particularly when she gets to do my favourite Dylan. The ‘gone electric’ dandy of 1965-66, with the best songs (note to proper Dylan fans, please do NOT email me long rants about this!), the best suits (chucking out jeans in favour of shopping in Carnaby Street), and the best hair. Dylan at his sexiest and – those words again – most stylishly decadent. And he gets the best jokes, shouting at Christ on a crucifix ‘I prefer your earlier stuff!’
The Blanchett Dylan is the only one in the film that takes on proper impersonation, as opposed to just interpretation. Just as well: too many men impersonate Dylan too easily. I’d argue that from now on, only women are allowed to do Bob Dylan impersonations. Let it be so.
I also love the idea of the ‘Judas’ Dylan having performed a U-turn on his own gender as well. That by going electric, he’s literally emasculated. Just like a woman, as I’m sure it’s been said.
And though I know the character is male, I also love how the film equates a butch, androgynous woman with being stylish, godlike and funny with it.
[Side note: This week, I’ve also been to the V&A to see the Lee Miller exhibition. Another Queen Butch, Ms Miller was beautiful in that aloof, almost transgendered way. She lived several lives too, from commercial model to Surrealist muse, to bohemian photographer, sending back stills of the Holocaust to Vogue, snapping herself washing in Hitler’s bathtub after the Allies had liberated Munich. You can imagine Cate Blanchett playing Lee Miller. ]
For me, I’m Not There is what creativity should be all about. Playing to your vision, never pandering to the audience. Cate Blanchett should play more men – she does it better than many biologically male actors. And Ben Whishaw, the pretty fellow who plays the Rimbaud Dylan, should play a few women. Though I understand he’s going to be Sebastian Flyte in the new Brideshead Revisited, which is girlish enough for most. Not a part Vinnie Jones is likely to audition for.
If it were down to me, there’d be more casting against gender and race in movies full stop. Now, this isn’t me being deliberately perverse. I just see the world this way.
Idly scanning a news site a few weeks ago, I saw the headline ‘ACTOR FREEMAN TO PLAY MANDELA.’
‘Yes, that’s such a brilliant and provocative idea,’ I thought. ‘The actor from The Office and the Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy movie, playing the South African leader. Casting a white Englishman, known for his Everyman-ish qualities, to take Western audiences through the experience of being on the other side of colonialism, imperialism and racism. A white Mandela (or blacked-up in post-modern, satirical reference) who transcends race, who keeps both sides happy, fighting for reason and humanism without blame. And being very decent and lovable about it, like Martin Freeman does. Makes perfect sense. Excellent idea.’
Then a few seconds after these thoughts – you’re probably ahead of me – I realised the headline meant Morgan Freeman, not Martin. So that’s a insight into the way my brain works.
Anyway, all humour aside, everyone knows what Morgan Freeman is going to be like as Mandela. You can already see the trailer in your head, if not the whole movie. I don’t actually need to see the film. Whereas I’d definitely pay to see Martin Freeman as Nelson Mandela. Just as I paid to see I’m Not There, to see Bob Dylan as a small black boy, and as a woman.
And I really liked the bits I really liked.
Back to whatever it is, then. Who am I again? Dickon Edwards? Well, it could be worse.
New Year’s Eve 2007 was a heady DJ stint at the Last Tuesday Society Masked Ball, 1AM-3AM. I deliberately timed my journey so midnight would see me alone on a tube train. Out of sheer curiosity, really. Complaining about a cliche of enforced jollity is now a cliche itself, so that’s no use. Getting an offer of DJ work sorts the problem without favouring one set of friends over another. Work can be an alibi from the terror of decision. Problem solved.
Would there be a countdown over the tube train’s PA speakers? Would revellers charge through the compartments and hug everyone at the stroke of Big Ben? Actually, no. I did hear a countdown to midnight over a radio speaker, but it was the one in the driver’s compartment, just about audible through the locked door to the first carriage, where I was sitting. So now I know Tube drivers wish each other Happy New Year over their intercoms, as they work through the night. Indeed, on the only night of year when the trains don’t stop running. God bless them for that.
Found my way to the Arts Theatre, which by now was resembling the opening scenes of the movie Bright Young Things. People draped over packed staircases everwhere, all in elaborate masks and dinner dress. I was handed my own free bottle of champagne, plus a glass, plus payment in advance (always a plus), and left to get on with DJ-ing. Can’t really complain with that.
That Nicole Kidman version of ‘Diamonds Are A Girl’s Best Friend’ from Moulin Rouge sounded too cluttered after all. I even checked the decks in case another song was accidentally playing at the same time. That sums up Moulin Rouge – like several records (and indeed films) all playing at once. Like the film, the music demands absolute surrender, not joining in. But the rest worked fine: Garland, Sinatra, Minelli, Bassey.
Became a bit of a drunken idiot after I finished, talked a lot of rubbish to strangers, finished the champagne, tried dancing with the prettiest person in the room, forgot how to stand up and dance at the same time, ran away, woke up at home with mysterious bruises. So, a New Year’s cliche after all. But it suited me fine.
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Photo of Mum in the Suffolk Free Press here. Radio Suffolk are putting her on a show where she has to choose her favourite records. She asked me, ‘What’s my favourite records again?’
Which seems funny at first, and very Mum, but it does make more sense than carrying around a personal Top Ten list in your head all the time. Or in the case of Room 101, your least favourite things. The more one thinks about it, the more silly it is. You don’t HAVE to have a Favourite Film Ever, or a Favourite Song Ever, to get through life. But lists – and their more glitzy cousins, awards – are always interesting, and TV schedules and magazine supplements would have an awful lot of space to fill without them. In 2007 there was a programme celebrating the anniversary of the BAFTAs. An award that gave itself an award.
What you’re meant to say graciously (and rightfully) about awards is that it’s not about winning, it’s about celebrating what’s on display. Awards and Best Of lists are filters and signposts to help make sense of the crowded menu, to pass on recommendations, alert people to something they might like. Just as Mum’s MBE is on one level a celebration of quiltmaking, hardly the most hyped craft in the world.
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List Culture is now mixed in with Feet Of Clay culture, to the point where BBC3 has just broadcast something called The Most Annoying People of 2007. The show was in two parts, each lasting over two hours. As if it was Schindler’s List. Which in a way, it was.
But this time there’s a sense that even those steeped in such celebrity love-to-hate worlds are themselves getting cold feet (of clay). At the end of the Extras Christmas Special, Ricky Gervais (also on that BBC3 list) finds his thinly-veiled autobiographical character undergoing a career low: appearing on Celebrity Big Brother. He breaks down, and makes a speech to camera about it all:
If it all stopped, people wouldn’t take to the streets going ‘Oh quick! I need a picture of Cameron Diaz with a pimple!’ They wouldn’t care, they’d get on with something else. They’d get on with their lives… And f— you, the makers of Big Brother. You can’t wash your hands of this. You can’t keep going, ‘Oh, its exploitation but it’s what the public want.’ … And f— you for watching this at home. Shame on you. And shame on me. I’m the worst of all.
All of which is opening Mr Gervais up to accusations of hypocrisy, given his own love/hate obsession with celebrity, but I admire him for it.
It also reminded me of Stephen Fry’s appearance on Room 101 a few years ago, in which he put the show itself onto the list of things he most dislikes, thus cancelling itself out. Why spend energy and time celebrating dislikes, when you could spend it on the things you like instead? There’s letting off steam, there’s cathartic release, and there’s moaning for its own sake.
If 2008 could see more contribution per se, rather than grumbling as a contribution, if there could be more celebration of contributions, of liking things honestly, without resorting to gushing or craven comparisons (eg ‘I love Amy Winehouse because at least she’s not Jordan’), of ignoring and boycotting annoyances rather than celebrating how you dislike them, it wouldn’t be a bad year at all.
Gossip itself is natural enough. From Lives Of The Saints through to biographies of Ted Hughes through to Heat magazine, it’s all curiosity of a kind, it’s all finding out what happens next. Just with varying levels of dignity, pettiness and mean-spiritedness. Tabloid gossip is oral history by undignified proxy.
Indeed, Mum’s craft goes hand in needle with generations of women sharing tales of personal folklore, family goings-on, errant relations and so on. The novel and movie How To Make An American Quilt plays on this, being less about the fabric of quilts than the fabric of relationships and telling tales. I’m not saying the Daily Mirror’s 3AM Girls should put out an embroidered version of their gossip column, but… actually, that would be fantastic if they did.
Of course, much of this advice (moaning about moaning) is me advising myself. Here’s hoping. And here’s to a year of contribution and creation.
