Short Story: Befriending A Fly

The Boy was reading something or other on the monitor, highlighting and unhighlighting words as he read them as he tended to do. A fly landed onto the screen - it appeared as a tiny silhouette on a screen of bright white. The Boy took little interest in it as he read.

Midway through whatever it was he was reading, the Boy's attention changed to the fly which was still idle where it had first landed. He moved the mouse cursor to where the fly was. It reacted straight away by moving slightly up the screen. The Boy moved the cursor onto the fly again and again it moved. 

This continued on for a short time. It was the first time the Boy had thought about the inner workings of a fly's mind. The fly eventually leaped (hovered?) onto the Boy's desk, below the monitor. The Boy put his finger down next to the fly, expecting it to attach itself like a spider would. The fly instead jumped (flew?) to the other side of the finger. The Boy started to alternate between putting his fingers to the right or left of the fly, always with the fly jumping over. The Boy felt like he had made a connection with the fly. 

The Boy then squished the fly with his thump, its orange-ish magma coloured blood oozing onto the desk, and the Boy got back to reading whatever it was he had been reading.  

Oh Spike, Where Have Ye Gone? - He Got Game (1998) Review

When the subject of baggage comes up in a discussion of art the answer is usually simple: ignore it. This idea that a piece of art you like can be tainted or ruined by the personality or views of the person who made it annoys me - it shouldn't change the words in print or the images on screen unless they too exhibit their creator's downsides. Which is why someone like Spike Lee confuses the whole argument - his films and his public persona, however overblown and exaggerated the latter has become, say the same thing. A supporter for black rights who's done more by making films than waving banners.

Yet the one sided-ness of the modern Spike Lee persona - the one that's become little more than a negative name drop for rappers - appears to be turning people off of his films which, ironically, boast as their best asset Lee's ability to see almost nothing in black and white. And understanding that there's no yes or no questions, and that any answers you do find aren't easy ones. One good example of this would be in (the go-to for Lee's best film) Do The Right Thing. Because in the end, who in that film really does the right thing? Every character, whether black or white, whether they started the conflict in that film or simply got caught up in the heat of things, appears to do wrong. Lee's reputation would have you expecting nothing but a two hour preaching session. Instead, your moral compass is chucked into the middle of a minefield. Do The Right Thing is Lee's clearest message on race, yet it's the mostly forgotten He Got Game that shows Lee's biggest look into everyday morales of right or wrong, or doing something for others versus for yourself.

Jake (Denzel Washington), in prison and still facing the majority of his sentence, is given the opportunity to get let out early if, in the short time he is given on the outside, he is able to convince his basketball prodigy son Jesus (Ray Allen) to go to college. The problem: Jesus wants nothing to do with his father and everyones constant touting of this as the biggest decision of his life isn't making him excited over the educational route. Supporting characters include Lala (Rosario Dawson) Jesus's girlfriend and Dakota (Milla Jovovich) a prostitute Jake runs into not long after getting out.

Like in most Lee films, like the whole issue of race, things look like they should be easy. If Jesus agrees to go to college then: he'll be getting a full time scholarship for free; he can have his shot in the basketball leagues; the money would help out his girlfriend and little sister; his father would get a lesser sentence; and from the way Lee (maybe over-) presents it, the whole nation would celebrate Jesus going to college. But Lee presents a of cast of characters where no one is making smart choices, or good ones: Jesus is confused by all the responsibility and may not even go to college; he later takes very little persuading to cheat on his girlfriend and blows off a conversation about her maybe being pregnant; Jake is unable to hide his intentions (that is, playing with his son's future for his own good) and for a man given a brief chance on the outside he still acts like a violent thug; and then there's all the universities and marketing men surrounding Jesus - like they've got the kid's best interests in mind.

In the end, like most Lee films, the answer to the film's original question ceases to matter. Lee knows (or at least knew) that the things people want worked out the simplest will become so cluttered that looking for an easy solution is nothing but deluded wishful thinking. The only thing someone can do is, well, try and do the right thing. This isn't a perfect movie. Like Lee's Summer of Sam (released a year later) the direction is overly flashy: the camera moving around too much and sudden editing cuts. But if Lee and his newest films are now nothing but caricatures of the energies of a good cause focused in the complete wrong place, then films from Lee's golden years should be even more craved as important relics from a filmmaker spreading the word that doing the right thing isn't usually the easy thing and that sometimes truths don't always sound as poetic and romantic as you'd think, in the case of He Got Game: that sometimes you just have to do things for yourself and have faith that others can manage their own happiness.

2014

Adults are STILL telling me about how fast their years are going by and they can't believe it's 2015 and OMG where has all the time gone? Yet despite 2014 being the year I officially (under some unknown force's authority) became an "adult" (that's 18) I had what felt like the longest year of my life. Until I looked at my twitter feed at New Year's I hadn't noticed how much people rate a year - all my friend's were writing "best year of my life so far", or "it was good, but nothing will ever beat my 2010". The consensus was generally positive - if I had bothered with twitter I would have probably just wrote "well that royally sucked".

I think the year felt so long because I changed so much. I turned 18. I started to go out drinking. (Although maybe not in that order). I finished my first year of Sixth Form; ended up quitting one subject from bad grades and keeping on the rest. Plus I fell in love for the first time. She didn't love me back. Those are how I picture 2014 - not in specific events but in things that just shifted my life. Which is probably why my image of the year is so murky. There was events too - I went skydiving (the first time I'd been in a plane, funnily enough); I "fired" my driving instructor because he was being a dick; and then I ended the year at a friend's house, sprawled drunk on a sofa and watching two other couples making out.

The last few months of the year are just a blur to me. I've suffered depression before but just powered through it, and for some weird reason always talked myself out of going to a doctor, but it's only as some mist faded and I could actually look back at those months when I realized how much I needed help. Because I couldn't see anything from this time. The days blurred together. What date specific things happened to me is lost. I just lay in bed, feeling tired but unable to sleep and thinking dark thoughts. I always used to agree with those descriptions of depression as a black pit that traps you and won't let you out for even the shortest vacation to the surface, but I realized I'd never really felt this until this dark period. I'd only experienced depression like a few spare weights attached to me at all times.

Which is my bit of reasoning why this year was the first time I ever bothered with the whole "New Year's Resolution". I'm not one for traditions so this was something I'd never done. I saw no point in saying "I'm going to quit chocolate" on the first day of the year when, if you really needed to quit it, you could just quit it straight away. But now I see the point. Doing shit is hard. I imagine quitting a comfort like chocolate is damn hard. I wrote down a list of things to do (someone of them done, some not) - going to the doctors about my depression (among other things), handing in some CVs and getting a job, asking my teacher's specifically about what I need to do and about work experience placements. It's all really hard. That's why you need a specific date, to make it official, so it's not just some random goal you've imagine up for yourself, told no one else about, then fucked up at and forgotten all about it.

I had good times in 2014, just not as many as I would have liked. Far too many bad times. Which is my way of saying that 2015 is going to be better, I'm going to make it better. That really, after a year, I just want to be a better person and be in a better place.

The Stone Roses: Made of Stone (2013)

The opening of Made of Stone is grand: Ian Brown walks through the stands of fans awaiting a gig; high definition camera picking up the beaming lights from all directions; all audio silenced and a soundbite of Alfred Hitchcock talking about happiness played over the top. It's one of those moments when all the elements that could go into film - visuals, editing, sound, the whole shebang - are firing full speed ahead and you can just watch in awe. You allow a moment of total sentimentality through your bullshit filter. I imagine for a fan truly immersed in The Stone Roses, you'd get this same feeling of full immersion and joy being part of the audience of their comeback gig, after nearly 20 years of silence. And director Shane Meadows succeeds in his job of giving the same feeling of awe to people watching at home in their bedrooms.

Watching The Stone Roses: Made of Stone made me ask: to enjoy a documentary, do you have to be a fan of the subject? At least know somewhat about it? Or are films like this, based on one artist, mainly for the fans? I realized the answer's no; the best of these movies treat you like a fan, and let you catch up if you're not one. My experience with The Stone Roses was giving a single listen to their first album (of two - and the only acclaimed one) and rarely playing their songs since. Not that I didn't like their music, just that I didn't have the context that Made of Stone makes it much easier to understand.

The film is part tour diary, part band history; Meadows includes his own fandom in the movie and from the feeling he gives, he seems to have just picked up a camera, a small crew, and followed the Roses with the confidence that magic would happen. Magic is subjective, but seeing a group of men who once trashed their guitars mid-gig and walked off stage, claiming they'd never work together again, rehearse together and re-find the rhythm in the lead up to their comeback is something special. Meadows structures the film showing the band's ups and downs reforming alongside the ups and downs of their original lineup. This isn't like a TV special - scanning the Roses' Wikipedia page will tell you more about how they formed; instead Meadows is interested in what a Wiki can't give you: showing the band back stage and in rehearsals and how the personalities bounce (and sometimes grate) off of each other.

The past footage of the Roses brings to mind funny anecdotes, not serious info videos. Out of all the interviews Meadows could have played, he chooses to include one where two members of the band sit gormless, not really sure of anything other than that they are in the best band in the world. You understand the personality and where the band comes from more than anything. I can't comment on how Made of Stone will appeal to a hardcore fan, but I'll say that, as an outsider, this is the sort of documentary that makes me want to go out and watch as many videos on bands I hardly know about as I can. Which I'd call a success.

Under The Skin (2014)

If watching movies is all about the "pleasures" they give you then you should at least be warned that the pleasures of Under The Skin aren't shared by any other movies that come to mind. If Hollywood has cracked the code of what audience's want - why the pleasures of "mainstream" movies seem to be the same to the point of painful boredom - then Under The Skin is in the much riskier business of searching out those unknown pleasures. What you could call the definition of a "film for film fans". Why I thought it was a great movie but wouldn't recommend it to anyone I know - this is one you have to find yourself.

The story isn't complex: a beautiful if not quite all there woman (played by Scarlett Johansen) drives around London, luring men back to remote locations that they don't seem to return from. I won't reveal anything else, because piecing things together is part of the movie (i.e. as much as it isn't part of most big Hollywood movies).

So what are the pleasures of this movie? It has a hypnotic quality - Mica Levi, who composed the music, gets the sound for this just right: a synth heavy score that sounds like a horror version of your favorite 80s sci-fi soundtrack; it just sounds like it could go on forever. There's so little dialogue; nothing gets explained; one image simply comes after the next and you make your own sense of it. If you find much story here then it's likely mostly stuff you applied yourself.

It's one of those movies that seems to very easily turn film fans into snobs (e.g. the first two paragraphs of this review) blasting people who didn't like it on how they didn't "get it" and should go back to Michael Bay movies. (Which irritates the shit out of me). You could so easily watch Under The Skin and not find any sense in it, which would make some of the longer sections - where the filmmakers hold the cameras for a long time on smaller, quieter moments - unbearable. If so, it simply wasn't for you.

There were bits that weren't for me either. The opening is drawn out; like the main focus of the filmmakers was making hard to understand. The visual light displays at the start of the movie weren't anything special (and pale in comparison to the fantastic, surreal images that come later). Sections involved real Londoners that didn't know they were being filmed, which was the film's main marketing gimmick, which is likely what made it feel underused in the movie. Yet if you do apply something to these images then there's great rewards here. Like looking into Johansen's performance as an imitation of a normal person, or the vileness of the final human character as compared to Johansen's character. Once again, I won't recommend; I'll just say I enjoyed it a lot.

Ida (2013)

If you've been injecting your yearly dose of best-of-year lists then you've already had Ida recommended to you many times. Below is the best argument I could come up with for why Ida isn't one of the best films of the year (but why so many people thought it was).

The story is simple, as is everything in the movie (its greatest asset): a young nun (Anna), before taking her vows, visits her aunt (Wanda) who she's never met. Wanda is the antithesis of a nun: she smokes and screws guys she doesn't know and gets jailed for drink driving. The two set out on a trip around Poland so Anna can find out about the parents she never met. 

It's easy to see why critics wanted to love this one (and why I'm sure some of them genuinely did): it's slow, pondering, black and white and its themes and main points of concern have to come from the viewer's head, because the movie is too polite to point them out. To stamp your giant critic stamper of approval on this one must say something good about film as a medium, and maybe even something about you as an intellectual too. And no one has questioned this because Ida is nowhere near as boring as the black and white nun movie your mind formulates when you hear the premise. The two main characters seem set for the same highs and lows as the average American feel-good road trip movie: two opposing characters going on a personal journey where they'll surely learn a lot about themselves from each other. 

Ida is only good in theory though. The emotional moments are there, only they're static. The filmmakers knew they had some weighty moments, some big things to happen, so they didn't seem to bother actually making them emotional. Same as the way the film was shot. Reviewers can't stop pointing out this film's "beauty" (and every other word their thesaurus tells them to write) and I won't argue with that. There's something static and cold about the cinematography: it captures the briskness of 60s Poland, and the cold indifference Anna seems to receive from almost everybody. But the framing, the exactities of every composition, which critics have been so excited to point out, are just as cold and static as the story becomes. There's mise en scene in real life, and I'd find it hard to argue that the best filmmakers make it seem like the frames they create - simple or complex - are just a lucky filmmaker landing on such a composition by accident, despite how un-accidental it usually all is. Characters in Ida stand awkwardly so the framing can look good and smart; it's a whole film that feels static and unmoving - a filmmaker who knows what is good, what's good story and good cinematography and good acting, but doesn't have the skill to work them in with any finesse. 

I didn't enjoy most of Ida (although it had its moments), only admired it as I imagine only someone really interested in film would. 

Endless Changes: On Starting Yet Another Blog

This is blog number four.

If you didn't get it from my first post, this is going to be a teenage blog. Which I've always thought means very little, because I possess weirder interests than any adult that I know, and probably bigger ambitions too. Below is me writing about starting another blog, a fourth one, and me trying to answer I imagine the only question you'd have for me which is "why? I mean, y'know, after no one read the first three?".

I've found it's not just on blogger where every few months I pack up and change things. Every now and again I need a new hair style, or I'll look in the mirror to pick a new thing to hate about my face for the next few months. Which is all crazy, I know, because I look at old things I wrote, not even old, just a few months back, and I think it's good. It's not holy-shit-is-this-James-Joyce's-long-lost-writing type good, but it's a lot better than I thought when I wrote it. It's like I can't like something openly or enjoy a part of myself without some distance. It's a problem. But the calendar just reset and here's the time for making amends, this time to myself. I used to only see the vulgar side in loving yourself, but now I see there is really something to it. You either have to be really stupid or deluded into thinking you're good enough to love, or you've been through enough hating yourself that you're smart enough to know that loving yourself is a good idea. It's as healing as medicine or love. So that's my New Year's resolution, to stop asking for something more, or something different.

I remember this brilliant Lou Reed quote that some publications wheeled out when Reed died. It's about art, but like anything worthwhile in art it's really about you and me and everybody:

“All through this, I’ve always thought that if you thought of all of it as a book then you have the Great American Novel, every record as a chapter. They’re all in chronological order. You take the whole thing, stack it and listen to it in order, there’s my Great American Novel.” 

Reed was such a messy artist. He has big masterpieces, like Transformer and his Velvet Underground work, yet he had screw ups too (just listen to something from the 90s) and he had weird stuff (he ended things with a Metallica collaboration). One discography that holds Berlin, Metal Machine Music and Sally Can't Dance. There's this myth about this "Great American Novel", or this perfect image of yourself and your life in your head, about it being perfect and cleaned up exactly as you like it. But really it's messy and weird. It just takes a long time to realize that those are the good parts.

You only focus on the bad parts of yourself but when all is said and done everybody else only remembers the good parts - and hopefully the weird, fucked up, oddball parts too. So this post was really about life and letting myself act like more of an idiot than I ever allow, but it's about blogging too and the fact that I'm hopefully going to write some good stuff here, but inevitably some shit stuff too, and stuff that won't really make much sense, but that hopefully in a year's time I'll be confident in myself enough to like it anyway and not scrap this blog for another one and put more impossible expectations into a blank canvas. Because as much as no-one ever complains about a blank canvas (even though they should) it's certainly not as good as one with some colour to it.

Charlie Ponders Important Things

Where I, Charlie, do indeed intend to ponder some important things.

At least stuff important to me. Which is a lot of stuff: my shitty ass school and grades and how it's all apparently going to affect the rest of my life. My family and my nowhere town in the north of England - and wanting to visit literally EVERYWHERE on Earth. Partying; "socializing". Getting drunk to the point of being sick. My friends and the people I love (and the many people/things I hate because I'm such a horrible bitter person). Chasing after girls (and hopefully eventually finding some success with that). Movies and wanting to be a film director - and moving away for uni soon and wondering if it's all the right thing to do. Music and being a cardigan wearing, pseudo-rebellious grundge kid turned hip hop fan - the only guy at my school to recommend Kanye West, Nirvana and Bob Dylan equally - and in my case "recommending" being forcing things onto people like an offended religious fanatic. Sitting in my bedroom reading David Foster Wallace and Lester Bangs and even a little Pynchon (and many more) and pondering whether I want to be a writer or just like to write. Hitting the gym. Fighting off what's nearly a sugar addiction. Masturbating a lot (possibly another addiction). Analyzing social situations too much and ticking all symptoms for a hypochondriac. Just anything and whatever.

So enjoy.