Oh for the love of c*ntext

Something hit me the other night. I realised I was a cultural sheep. Or rather, I realised I was unable to form an opinion on my own. Sort of.

Let me explain. I was watching Cloverfield – I’d never seen it before – and I enjoyed it. I hadn’t expected to be, but I was gripped. I didn’t care that it’s plot centred on a group of whiny young Americans, and offered absolutely no explanation as to how a giant Godzilla-type creature found its way to Manhattan – an hour in I realised that I was genuinely enjoying this film.

Then I realised, I was enjoying it mainly because I hadn’t expected to.

Which is ridiculous on so many levels. How can you expect not to enjoy something? How can you then be objective when you actually do see it? How is it ok to have an opinion of something without even seeing it? Is that your fault? Is there a way round this… and so on down the rabbit hole.

Stop whining - it's a good film. I think.

The really farcical thing is that because my expectations were so low, my opinion of the film is now basically null and void. I enjoyed it because I thought it was going to be shit and it surprised me ever-so-much by kindly not being completely shit. What a backhanded compliment. It’s like fancying a girl because your mate described her as being disgusting – barely better looking than a slug and you meet her and she’s ok. She’s actually got legs and everything. That doesn’t make her good looking.

Or does it?

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder after all. So me being the beholder, it doesn’t matter what conditions have been set – if I find that girl, that film, that song beautiful then sobeit. I almost convinced myself then.

Make love to me Roc?

Errrr pass?

I genuinely expected Cloverfield to be the worst film ever. Why? A couple of reasons:

1)    It’s gimmicky viral marketing campaign made me assume that the film was all style and no substance. A sort of the-lady-doth-portest-too-much sort of thing. LOOK AT ME I’M A NEW TYPE OF FILM WITH A HAND HELD CAMERA AND EVERYTHING. Not all that what it’s cracked up to be. (You know like a rapper who tells you how he’s raped loads of women and killed loads of other gangstas – you haven’t mate. You’d be in jail if you did. Even if you hadn’t been caught you’ve basically just confessed so you’re obviously lying unless it’s the most genius bluff of all time. Anyway I’m massively digressing.) Point is too much gimmicky marketing tends to lead to a huge disappointment in the actual film.

2)    All the critics that I respect (and they do exist) pointed to a 6/10 film. And I have no time for 6/10 films. So I steered clear.

And therein lies a huge problem. I basically followed the words of others and came to a conclusion before I’d seen the film. Now listening to critics (pros or not) is a fair way to judge if you’re going to spend your hard earned cash at the cinema. But allowing those opinions to cloud your judgement if and when you actually do see it is really very silly.

So now I think Cloverfield is a good film. And maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it is rubbish. Maybe it’s completely average  - but I’m really not the person to ask.

I am a victim of my own mentality, but also of a pressured cultural society. The fine line between art and garbage means we tread as carefully as a bird on the wire, making sure we fall on the right side of the line.

What makes art (and I’m loosely including Cloverfield in this genre – I liked it after all) so appealing is its objectivity. If I had a penny for every time I had the conversation and someone says ‘but it’s myyyyyyyyyy opionion. That’s what I think, it can’t be wrong’ I’d be a gazillionaire. But sometimes don’t we need a guiding hand ? What if I never read a paper or watched TV again? Would I still be able to distinguish between the good and the bad?

I read a book once (Peace Like A River by Leif Enger) that I’d never heard of (author included) and loved it. Then I panicked. What if I was wrong? What if this was an awful book but I’d just been caught in a certain frame of mind and enjoyed it? If I read it again, would I still enjoy it?

So I lent the book to a friend (hello Debs) and fortunately she loved it. Now we’ll skip over the fact that she also loves Heat magazine and America’s Next Top Model (ANTM to you and me), the fact she enjoyed the book was enough for me. It gave it gravitas. It was a real book as confirmed by someone other than me. Phew.

So I recommend reading Peace Like A River and watching Cloverfield – but don’t take my word for it. I’m an unreliable source.

Inspiration is all around us....and in the past

Last night I went to this:

http://youngcreativecouncil.com/

A fantastic event with various speakers talking about the things that inspired them and made them who they were. As I strolled through town afterwards I racked my brains thinking of what would have made my list. Everything from the mundane to the grand; the world changing to the pointless and the vast to the tiny ran through my head. I was seeking inspiration to work out my inspiration. Oh irony.

Inspiration is everywhere around us and nowhere in between. It’s that feeling that makes all the hairs stand up, that transcends you from the tube, the train, the cinema, the couch to a place where you realise what being human is all about.

I’d hate to label it. To say that it’s quantifiable  - that I could find inspiration if I just looked for it. That would be mundane. You can’t set yourself up to inspired. Well you can but it’s not the same. The moment you first heard that song, saw that film, met that girl – that ecstasy cannot be recreated.  You can’t say ‘I’m going to Paris to be inspired’ – it’s too contrived.  It defeats the object.

But you can remember being inspired. And you can remember what inspired you. What moved you in a way you’ll never, ever forget. That’s the difference between nostalgia and memories. Nostalgia (and I should be quoting another source for this but I can’t for the life of remember where I heard it) literally means pain from an old wound. When we talk about nostalgia (oh I’ve remembered it’s from Mad Men – cheers Don) it’s referring to the wound in the heart created by that memory. Re-visiting it is re-opening that emotional wound.

So inspiration can come from memories. But the nostalgia is what happens when the inspiration fades and is perhaps most powerful emotion of all. So while I can’t say that I know what will inspire me in the future, I know what inspired me in the past – because the wounds will stay open forever (or until I become a hardened old bitter man – close race).

So things that inspired me in the past, that moved me? That made stop think, change my life, the way I think, fall in love? Too many to mention – almost:

Por La Cabeza.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JAKjXHctkGw

Famous for its appearance in Schindler’s List, this piece of music is stunningly moving, captivating, charming, alluring and sexy. It moves all over the place in a short space of time, wandering along filled with passion and intensity.

Interestingly, it seems sampling began in the 1930s, this melody borrowing heavily from Mozart’s Rondo to great effect (take note Eminem – I heard your sampling of Hathaway - it’s pathetic. What happened to you?).

Por La Cabeza is a song about the story of guy with a horse racing addiction entwined with women troubles (it never rains…). I’ve no idea when I first heard it but a little digging online tells me that its 2 composers died side-by-side in a plane crash in 1935 – adding even greater poignancy to the drama.

Tezcatlipoca

Twitter’s great. Don’t care what anyone says. My friend at work tweeted this link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L7a8hmoOsx0

One man animated and produced this, marrying animation with classical music ala Fantasia (in this case Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake). Watch in awe. It’s a beautiful story, with a soundtrack to match. I’m responsible for about 100 of its YouTube hits. Engrossing does not do it justice.

American Gods by Neil Gaiman

I read this book a year ago and I haven’t stopped thinking about it. It’s not Tolstoy but it’s a wonderful, evocative story about human gods and an anti-hero caught up in a universal conspiracy. As an aside I haven’t spent much time in the States but this book made me yearn for places I’d never been. It’s romantic, wistful and brilliant.

Hampstead Heath

Vast, vast acres of woodland, hills, lakes and paths in north-west London. It’s incongruous to its surroundings but its mystery and intrigue is incomparable. Running through it as the sun rises or sets is as cathartic a process as you’ll find in this town.