David Couldrey's Blog: Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow, page 2
October 31, 2012
An Adventure Story (Continued)
Dear Hal,
You remember the number of times we sailed around Cape Horn together and stood captivated on the bridge looking at the sparse magnificence of the ice?
And the birds, do you remember the birds, Hal? One of them, the bravest, flew out to us and landed on the boon. She had a look around and flew back to the ice. I remember that so clearly, it seems like it was yesterday.
Well now you’ve stood on the ice and looked out to sea. Was there a boat passing Hal? Did you think of me?
An adventure has to start somewhere Hal, and that seemed as appropriate a place as any.
So now you’re taking a well-earned break aren’t you? I can just see you lying down now with this journal in hand. The back of your left hand is supporting the side of your head and your legs are bent a little. Am I right Hal?
I miss you brother. Rest up – you have a long journey ahead of you.
Always yours,
Abd el Daar
To be continued...
You remember the number of times we sailed around Cape Horn together and stood captivated on the bridge looking at the sparse magnificence of the ice?
And the birds, do you remember the birds, Hal? One of them, the bravest, flew out to us and landed on the boon. She had a look around and flew back to the ice. I remember that so clearly, it seems like it was yesterday.
Well now you’ve stood on the ice and looked out to sea. Was there a boat passing Hal? Did you think of me?
An adventure has to start somewhere Hal, and that seemed as appropriate a place as any.
So now you’re taking a well-earned break aren’t you? I can just see you lying down now with this journal in hand. The back of your left hand is supporting the side of your head and your legs are bent a little. Am I right Hal?
I miss you brother. Rest up – you have a long journey ahead of you.
Always yours,
Abd el Daar
To be continued...
October 30, 2012
Shelter From The Storm
It is one of those little coincidences that as ‘post-tropical storm’ Sandy made landfall, I had just been reading the following passage from John Steinbeck’s Travels With Charley:
“…And about that time hurricane Donna was reported tramping her way out of the Caribbean in our direction. On Long Island’s tip, we have had enough of that to be highly respectful. With a hurricane approaching we prepare to stand a siege…
…The wind struck on the moment we were told it would, and ripped the water like a black sheet. It hammered like a fist…The trees plunged and bent like grasses, and the whipped water raised a cream of foam…”
The tradition of natural disasters in American literature is something of a leitmotif. At Leeds, I remember taking a module called ‘America Inundated: Floods and other scourges in US fiction’, where we looked at brilliant novels like Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God and Cormac McCarthy’s The Road.
What holds these novels together is the belief that in the midst of danger and widespread destruction, the protagonists of these stories manage in some regards to transcend the difficulties of their circumstances and rise to the challenge.
That is what we can hope to see as the East Coast rebuilds - communities coming together to help out the victims of this disaster. Our thoughts are with them as they recover and I would like to close with a word from Aesop:
“The little reed, bending to the force of the wind, soon stood upright again when the storm had passed over.”
“…And about that time hurricane Donna was reported tramping her way out of the Caribbean in our direction. On Long Island’s tip, we have had enough of that to be highly respectful. With a hurricane approaching we prepare to stand a siege…
…The wind struck on the moment we were told it would, and ripped the water like a black sheet. It hammered like a fist…The trees plunged and bent like grasses, and the whipped water raised a cream of foam…”
The tradition of natural disasters in American literature is something of a leitmotif. At Leeds, I remember taking a module called ‘America Inundated: Floods and other scourges in US fiction’, where we looked at brilliant novels like Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God and Cormac McCarthy’s The Road.
What holds these novels together is the belief that in the midst of danger and widespread destruction, the protagonists of these stories manage in some regards to transcend the difficulties of their circumstances and rise to the challenge.
That is what we can hope to see as the East Coast rebuilds - communities coming together to help out the victims of this disaster. Our thoughts are with them as they recover and I would like to close with a word from Aesop:
“The little reed, bending to the force of the wind, soon stood upright again when the storm had passed over.”
October 26, 2012
An Adventure Story
The barren is beautiful in its uncluttered space
Nothing
As far as the eye can see
No one
Just harsh and inhospitable topography
Nada más
The cold bites though. The icy wind laps eagerly against bare flesh. And that thing that’s inside of us demands warmth and company.
The first sign of civilisation leaps in to the landscape, a lonely human construction in the midst of nature’s might. It is, at first glance, a wooden shack but in reality it is much more. It is food and warmth and drink and company. It is a haven of humanity – a traveller’s tavern. Its sign creaks grimly in the wind. It reads ‘El Fin del Mundo.’
The man makes for it on his battered old Rocinante. He is battered too. Wrinkles line his face and his lavishly scruffy beard is adorned with streaks of grey. He dismounts outside the door, knocks and enters. Warmth confronts then comforts him and an old man wiping tables looks up in his direction
‘Bienvenidos,’ the old man says, dropping his cloth and walking over to the traveller. ‘Food? Drink? Rest?’
‘All three please jefe,’ the traveller croaks. His voice is out of practice but begins to recover its gravelly gruffness by his second sentence. ‘Food first please. And some wine.’ With this, he takes off his hat, places it on the bar and pulls up a stool.
A glass tumbler and a carafe of wine are placed in front of him and he pours himself a liberal measure, sips it, savours it and then pours the rest down the hatch. He refills his glass and looks round for the landlord who is speaking to a bodiless female voice on the other side of the door to his left.
He forces his eyes to widen and strains his ears to hear their words. The attempt is futile and so he swings his gaze around the empty room and takes in a handful of wooden tables and chairs and a small fire that is a feeble match for the howling winds all the way down here at the ends of the earth.
The old man returned. ‘Sanchita is preparing something for you now. Do you need anything else?’
‘No thank you.’
‘Where have you come from?’
‘Tierra del fuego.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes.’
The old man doesn’t mind silence and he asks no more but begins to wipe down tables with his grimy cloth. The traveller focuses on the undulating wine he swirls around and around in his tumbler. Why has he sent me here? What am I looking for? Why did he die?
Memory invades his mind and he is back at the cusp of manhood watching the white cliffs of Dover recede in to the horizon until finally all around is sea and he is alone in the crow’s nest. Below him on deck they scuttle about their business and it is just him and the sea and the waves and the breeze.
He tries to recapture that feeling, to summon the emotions he felt that day but all he can feel is a vague, recurring constriction in his chest and he is saddened that the past is gone and lost and utterly irretrievable.
The door to his left opens and a pretty young woman enters carrying a plate of poor man’s beef, which she lays down before him. As he turns to thank her, she catches his eye and there is a conspiratorial look amongst the emerald of her iris but she says only ‘De nada’, meekly inclines her head and exits stage left.
Normally he would think about this look - analyse it and assess it. But he is a hungry man and there is a steaming plate of rice and potatoes and beef in front of him and he sets about devouring it. Once or twice, he swigs from his tumbler but doesn’t take his eyes off his food until the plate is clean, whereupon he pushes his chair back from the bar, stretches and fishes in his jacket pocket for tobacco.
He rolls himself a cigarette, lights it with a match and puts the match in the ashtray. As he idly scratches his belly and smokes, he is warm, full and content and he does not even remember the memory of the white cliffs of Dover.
As he smokes, the young woman re-enters to clear his plate. This time there is no conspiratorial glance, she simply asks how the food was and he tells her it was delicious and he looks at her properly for the first time.
She cannot be more than twenty three or twenty four and he wonders what a young woman of that age is doing here at the ends of the earth. The old man, who has now moved on to wiping dusty picture frames with the same cloth, must be her father. Or perhaps even her grandfather. They have the same nose. She exits now again.
The old man turns to the traveller.
‘Would you like to see you room?’
‘Yes please jefe.’
He follows him through the door on the left and catches a glimpse of Sanchita as he passes the kitchen, down a corridor and then another and in to a small room. It is bare but looks comfortable – there is a small bed, a table with a candle on it and a wooden chair. The bare necessities.
‘How much is it?’
’20 pesos.’
‘I’ll take it.’
‘Just for one night?’
‘Perhaps more. I am very tired and I am in no hurry.’
‘Just let me know. Tomorrow I have to go to town, so I will be gone all day. Is there anything you need?’
‘No thank you.’
‘Very well. We normally eat dinner at about 6 but I will come for you when it is ready.’
With this, the old man leaves the room, closes the door and the traveller flops down on the bed. From his jacket pocket he pulls out a battered old journal and begins to read
Nothing
As far as the eye can see
No one
Just harsh and inhospitable topography
Nada más
The cold bites though. The icy wind laps eagerly against bare flesh. And that thing that’s inside of us demands warmth and company.
The first sign of civilisation leaps in to the landscape, a lonely human construction in the midst of nature’s might. It is, at first glance, a wooden shack but in reality it is much more. It is food and warmth and drink and company. It is a haven of humanity – a traveller’s tavern. Its sign creaks grimly in the wind. It reads ‘El Fin del Mundo.’
The man makes for it on his battered old Rocinante. He is battered too. Wrinkles line his face and his lavishly scruffy beard is adorned with streaks of grey. He dismounts outside the door, knocks and enters. Warmth confronts then comforts him and an old man wiping tables looks up in his direction
‘Bienvenidos,’ the old man says, dropping his cloth and walking over to the traveller. ‘Food? Drink? Rest?’
‘All three please jefe,’ the traveller croaks. His voice is out of practice but begins to recover its gravelly gruffness by his second sentence. ‘Food first please. And some wine.’ With this, he takes off his hat, places it on the bar and pulls up a stool.
A glass tumbler and a carafe of wine are placed in front of him and he pours himself a liberal measure, sips it, savours it and then pours the rest down the hatch. He refills his glass and looks round for the landlord who is speaking to a bodiless female voice on the other side of the door to his left.
He forces his eyes to widen and strains his ears to hear their words. The attempt is futile and so he swings his gaze around the empty room and takes in a handful of wooden tables and chairs and a small fire that is a feeble match for the howling winds all the way down here at the ends of the earth.
The old man returned. ‘Sanchita is preparing something for you now. Do you need anything else?’
‘No thank you.’
‘Where have you come from?’
‘Tierra del fuego.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes.’
The old man doesn’t mind silence and he asks no more but begins to wipe down tables with his grimy cloth. The traveller focuses on the undulating wine he swirls around and around in his tumbler. Why has he sent me here? What am I looking for? Why did he die?
Memory invades his mind and he is back at the cusp of manhood watching the white cliffs of Dover recede in to the horizon until finally all around is sea and he is alone in the crow’s nest. Below him on deck they scuttle about their business and it is just him and the sea and the waves and the breeze.
He tries to recapture that feeling, to summon the emotions he felt that day but all he can feel is a vague, recurring constriction in his chest and he is saddened that the past is gone and lost and utterly irretrievable.
The door to his left opens and a pretty young woman enters carrying a plate of poor man’s beef, which she lays down before him. As he turns to thank her, she catches his eye and there is a conspiratorial look amongst the emerald of her iris but she says only ‘De nada’, meekly inclines her head and exits stage left.
Normally he would think about this look - analyse it and assess it. But he is a hungry man and there is a steaming plate of rice and potatoes and beef in front of him and he sets about devouring it. Once or twice, he swigs from his tumbler but doesn’t take his eyes off his food until the plate is clean, whereupon he pushes his chair back from the bar, stretches and fishes in his jacket pocket for tobacco.
He rolls himself a cigarette, lights it with a match and puts the match in the ashtray. As he idly scratches his belly and smokes, he is warm, full and content and he does not even remember the memory of the white cliffs of Dover.
As he smokes, the young woman re-enters to clear his plate. This time there is no conspiratorial glance, she simply asks how the food was and he tells her it was delicious and he looks at her properly for the first time.
She cannot be more than twenty three or twenty four and he wonders what a young woman of that age is doing here at the ends of the earth. The old man, who has now moved on to wiping dusty picture frames with the same cloth, must be her father. Or perhaps even her grandfather. They have the same nose. She exits now again.
The old man turns to the traveller.
‘Would you like to see you room?’
‘Yes please jefe.’
He follows him through the door on the left and catches a glimpse of Sanchita as he passes the kitchen, down a corridor and then another and in to a small room. It is bare but looks comfortable – there is a small bed, a table with a candle on it and a wooden chair. The bare necessities.
‘How much is it?’
’20 pesos.’
‘I’ll take it.’
‘Just for one night?’
‘Perhaps more. I am very tired and I am in no hurry.’
‘Just let me know. Tomorrow I have to go to town, so I will be gone all day. Is there anything you need?’
‘No thank you.’
‘Very well. We normally eat dinner at about 6 but I will come for you when it is ready.’
With this, the old man leaves the room, closes the door and the traveller flops down on the bed. From his jacket pocket he pulls out a battered old journal and begins to read
Comic
So me and my mate Axel have decided to collaborate on a project. We’re still in negotiations but basically it’s gonna be an adventure story and he’s gonna do some pictures and I’m gonna do some words. You can see his lovely drawings here - http://lewisandtemple.tumblr.com/.
Above are the first thousand words that I’ve come up with, so the creative ball is now officially rolling and we are both committed to this project.
This is going to be quite hard work and will significantly reduce my idling but as Anthony Burgess so wisely noted, "Wedged as we are between two eternities of idleness, there is no excuse for being idle now."
Have a lovely weekend!
Above are the first thousand words that I’ve come up with, so the creative ball is now officially rolling and we are both committed to this project.
This is going to be quite hard work and will significantly reduce my idling but as Anthony Burgess so wisely noted, "Wedged as we are between two eternities of idleness, there is no excuse for being idle now."
Have a lovely weekend!
October 24, 2012
Choke
What with one thing and another, it’s been some time since my last blog and once more we are almost ready to welcome the weekend. I am hopeful that it will prove less traumatic than last weekend when my role as a white van man didn’t go as smoothly as it might have done.
I made it up to Wembley to collect the van only to find that it wouldn’t start of its own free choosing and needed to be gently cajoled in to ignition via a jump start from a friendly neighbour. Then it was down tiny labyrinthine London streets in this great big van with me at the wheel until we got to where the boxes are in storage in the City.
I had been assured that this job would not require of me any great physical effort as I am of a delicate constitution. But as we entered the storage room and I saw those towering stacks of boxes to be transported to Kent, I knew that I was about to get a work-out.
For the next two hours we filled up the van until we realised that we had loaded it so full that the back end had been lowered a good couple of feet…
We decided that would probably do for the first load and we set off. It felt like driving Moby Dick and I was a little bit anxious about the whole venture as I recklessly climbed towards 25 on the speedo but eventually home was in sight and all that was left to do was to pick a suitable parking space.
Of course the one that I chose did not suit the whims of my comfortable passengers and they noisily suggested that I choose a different spot and it was at this moment, so close to the finish line that I flapped and, of course, stalled.
But now the van wouldn’t re-start…
I would like to apologise here and now for any inconvenience caused to the residents of Clapham by my predicament but the van weighed tonnes and we couldn’t push it out of the road. Luckily Annie, Emma and our friend Jimbo came rushing out of the house to help us and eventually we pushed the white whale in to a parking spot where it still sits beached, useless and immobile.
It would be a shame to call a halt to such a promising career but I’m not sure I really have what it takes to be a white van man – it’s a little energetic for me.
And yet, as I trawl the Internet for a pleasant quote to end this blog I find that, according to Henry David Thoreau, this beastly, energetic work has, in fact, been idleness. For I wish to be a writer and I only did this for the sake of finance and as he points out - ‘to have done anything just for money is to be truly idle.’
I made it up to Wembley to collect the van only to find that it wouldn’t start of its own free choosing and needed to be gently cajoled in to ignition via a jump start from a friendly neighbour. Then it was down tiny labyrinthine London streets in this great big van with me at the wheel until we got to where the boxes are in storage in the City.
I had been assured that this job would not require of me any great physical effort as I am of a delicate constitution. But as we entered the storage room and I saw those towering stacks of boxes to be transported to Kent, I knew that I was about to get a work-out.
For the next two hours we filled up the van until we realised that we had loaded it so full that the back end had been lowered a good couple of feet…
We decided that would probably do for the first load and we set off. It felt like driving Moby Dick and I was a little bit anxious about the whole venture as I recklessly climbed towards 25 on the speedo but eventually home was in sight and all that was left to do was to pick a suitable parking space.
Of course the one that I chose did not suit the whims of my comfortable passengers and they noisily suggested that I choose a different spot and it was at this moment, so close to the finish line that I flapped and, of course, stalled.
But now the van wouldn’t re-start…
I would like to apologise here and now for any inconvenience caused to the residents of Clapham by my predicament but the van weighed tonnes and we couldn’t push it out of the road. Luckily Annie, Emma and our friend Jimbo came rushing out of the house to help us and eventually we pushed the white whale in to a parking spot where it still sits beached, useless and immobile.
It would be a shame to call a halt to such a promising career but I’m not sure I really have what it takes to be a white van man – it’s a little energetic for me.
And yet, as I trawl the Internet for a pleasant quote to end this blog I find that, according to Henry David Thoreau, this beastly, energetic work has, in fact, been idleness. For I wish to be a writer and I only did this for the sake of finance and as he points out - ‘to have done anything just for money is to be truly idle.’
October 19, 2012
Cheers To The Freakin Weekend...
I have been advised that my blog would benefit from more pop culture references so I have taken the title of today’s blog from the Rihanna song Cheers (Drink To That). It’s been a busy old week and I cannot wait to kick back with friends over the next couple of days.
It won’t be pure idleness however as I have, in spite of my best efforts, found a job. I will be driving around in a white van with my friend Ben delivering boxes of books. I have done my fair share of man-in-van work and it’s actually pretty good fun and, of course, I really need the cash.
In other news, I got back a review of my book in which the reviewer nobly struggled through nine chapters of my terrible prose before abandoning it and giving it 1 star. There are plenty of comforting quotes on the Internet for that first bad review but my favourite comes from Kingsley Amis who said, ‘If you can’t annoy somebody, there’s little point in writing.’
Have an awesome weekend!
It won’t be pure idleness however as I have, in spite of my best efforts, found a job. I will be driving around in a white van with my friend Ben delivering boxes of books. I have done my fair share of man-in-van work and it’s actually pretty good fun and, of course, I really need the cash.
In other news, I got back a review of my book in which the reviewer nobly struggled through nine chapters of my terrible prose before abandoning it and giving it 1 star. There are plenty of comforting quotes on the Internet for that first bad review but my favourite comes from Kingsley Amis who said, ‘If you can’t annoy somebody, there’s little point in writing.’
Have an awesome weekend!
October 16, 2012
To blog or not to blog...
I have been unusually diligent and finished my reading for uni a full 4 hours before lessons start, thus opening a window of opportunity to blog some more idle thoughts. But I must confess that there are moments when it does seem to be an incredibly vain and futile process.
And yet there is a part of me that enjoys it – the curious part – the part thirsty for useless knowledge, funny quotes and entertaining anecdotes. The part which enjoys stumbling across quotes like the following from the philosopher Bertrand Russell: ‘There is much pleasure to be gained from useless knowledge.’
Indeed.
And yet there is a part of me that enjoys it – the curious part – the part thirsty for useless knowledge, funny quotes and entertaining anecdotes. The part which enjoys stumbling across quotes like the following from the philosopher Bertrand Russell: ‘There is much pleasure to be gained from useless knowledge.’
Indeed.
October 15, 2012
Back to the Grind
So I have been idle and have not blogged for two days. Unexpectedly my legions of avid readers have not bombarded me to check on the reason for my absence and to ask after my general health and wellbeing. I am glad to be able to reassure everybody that I am fine but my absence has been the result of an activity filled weekend which involved an epic adventure on horseback, a swashbuckling drinking session and ended in a cheeky bit of hip-hop.
Not everybody knows this as I don’t like to boast but I’m pretty handy on a horse. Not in a weird way but I just have this natural affinity with the animals where we become one and seamlessly gallop across dusty plains together. So when I was asked if I wanted to go on a hack in the country I figured I’d tag along and do a bit of showing off.
As it had been some time since my last venture on horseback, the riding school just wanted to quickly assess my capabilities and I was ready to wow them with perfect posture, well-downed heels and the general grace and elegance of a natural-born horseman.
Unfortunately, the beastly brute they put me on had other ideas and simply refused to go where I directed him with textbook rein-pulling technique. When I wanted to him to go right he would go left. When I wanted him to stop he would go and he would halt with a jerk the moment I urged him forward. I simply cannot work with such amateur animals and after a discussion with the riding teacher we came to a mutual decision that it would be best for everyone if I sat out the hack…
On Saturday night it was my friend’s ‘Pirates and Queens’ party, which was amazing and great to see everyone in such fantastic costumes! A special mention for the incredible contraption atop the birthday boy’s head – incredible stuff!
Last night, the weekend was rounded off with a trip to see the UK B-Boy Champs at the Brixton Academy, which was awesome. Some of the moves those guys can pull off are nuts – check it out on Youtube.
Anyway, I’ve got to do some book writing now so I best be off but I am comforted by the words of Thomas Carlyle who said: ‘Writing is a dreadful labor, yet not so dreadful as Idleness.’ Indeed.
Not everybody knows this as I don’t like to boast but I’m pretty handy on a horse. Not in a weird way but I just have this natural affinity with the animals where we become one and seamlessly gallop across dusty plains together. So when I was asked if I wanted to go on a hack in the country I figured I’d tag along and do a bit of showing off.
As it had been some time since my last venture on horseback, the riding school just wanted to quickly assess my capabilities and I was ready to wow them with perfect posture, well-downed heels and the general grace and elegance of a natural-born horseman.
Unfortunately, the beastly brute they put me on had other ideas and simply refused to go where I directed him with textbook rein-pulling technique. When I wanted to him to go right he would go left. When I wanted him to stop he would go and he would halt with a jerk the moment I urged him forward. I simply cannot work with such amateur animals and after a discussion with the riding teacher we came to a mutual decision that it would be best for everyone if I sat out the hack…
On Saturday night it was my friend’s ‘Pirates and Queens’ party, which was amazing and great to see everyone in such fantastic costumes! A special mention for the incredible contraption atop the birthday boy’s head – incredible stuff!
Last night, the weekend was rounded off with a trip to see the UK B-Boy Champs at the Brixton Academy, which was awesome. Some of the moves those guys can pull off are nuts – check it out on Youtube.
Anyway, I’ve got to do some book writing now so I best be off but I am comforted by the words of Thomas Carlyle who said: ‘Writing is a dreadful labor, yet not so dreadful as Idleness.’ Indeed.
October 12, 2012
TFI Friday
So the weekend is nearly here and that means plenty of idle moments to forget the trials of the week and to enjoy the company of friends.
The most important decision I have to make this weekend is to choose my costume for my friends's 'Pirates and Queens' birthday party tomorrow.
The only problem is that I'm broke and so I will have to try and make a homemade Jack Sparrow outfit or nick one of Mum's lovely frocks.
Samuel Johnson had this to say on poverty and idleness: 'To be idle and to be poor have always been reproaches, and therefore every man endeavors with his utmost care to hide his poverty from others, and his idleness from himself.'
Joker.
Have a lovely weekend!
The most important decision I have to make this weekend is to choose my costume for my friends's 'Pirates and Queens' birthday party tomorrow.
The only problem is that I'm broke and so I will have to try and make a homemade Jack Sparrow outfit or nick one of Mum's lovely frocks.
Samuel Johnson had this to say on poverty and idleness: 'To be idle and to be poor have always been reproaches, and therefore every man endeavors with his utmost care to hide his poverty from others, and his idleness from himself.'
Joker.
Have a lovely weekend!
October 11, 2012
On the Road
Okay, I know this is a bit of a cheat but I've got to do some reading for uni so I am just going to copy and paste my film review of On the Road for www.beehivecity.com. Hope nobody minds!
Walter Salles’ stunning new film of Jack Kerouac’s Beatnik classic On the Road, captures the essence of Kerouac’s restless vision, even if it doesn’t maintain strict adherence to the book. This may frustrate diehard Beat fans but I would urge them to go and see it nonetheless. This is simply a cinematic interpretation of the text and I would say that it largely succeeds as a film.
If you’ve ever dreamed of packing it all in and hitting the road in search of adventure, then this film (and book) should really capture your imagination. It follows lightly fictionalised versions of Kerouac (Sal Paradise), Neal Cassady (Dean Moriarty), Allen Ginsberg (Carlo Marx) and others in their manic quest across America in search of…well, you decide.
Being a fan of the book, I am perhaps slightly predisposed to enjoy this film as a story but objectively speaking there is much to praise. There are strong performances throughout from a young, talented cast. Kristen Stewart has surely now answered any questions about her ability to act outside the Twilight franchise and will hopefully continue to take more interesting parts.
English actors Sam Riley (‘Kerouac’) and Tom Strurridge (‘Ginsberg’) provide first class performances as does Garrett Headland as ‘Cassady’. The photography is stunning and the sets and props and wardrobe and everything else really do transport you back to that crazy time, which (in my opinion) is a considerable achievement.
I was constantly reminded of The Motorcycle Diaries (an account of Che Guevara’s youthful adventures across Latin America) as I watched the film and have just found out that that too was a Walter Salles film and is also well worth checking out. This is by no means (and never could be) a perfect translation but it is so much more interesting than a lot of what’s on at the moment. What other film could offer words like these:
"They danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars".
Walter Salles’ stunning new film of Jack Kerouac’s Beatnik classic On the Road, captures the essence of Kerouac’s restless vision, even if it doesn’t maintain strict adherence to the book. This may frustrate diehard Beat fans but I would urge them to go and see it nonetheless. This is simply a cinematic interpretation of the text and I would say that it largely succeeds as a film.
If you’ve ever dreamed of packing it all in and hitting the road in search of adventure, then this film (and book) should really capture your imagination. It follows lightly fictionalised versions of Kerouac (Sal Paradise), Neal Cassady (Dean Moriarty), Allen Ginsberg (Carlo Marx) and others in their manic quest across America in search of…well, you decide.
Being a fan of the book, I am perhaps slightly predisposed to enjoy this film as a story but objectively speaking there is much to praise. There are strong performances throughout from a young, talented cast. Kristen Stewart has surely now answered any questions about her ability to act outside the Twilight franchise and will hopefully continue to take more interesting parts.
English actors Sam Riley (‘Kerouac’) and Tom Strurridge (‘Ginsberg’) provide first class performances as does Garrett Headland as ‘Cassady’. The photography is stunning and the sets and props and wardrobe and everything else really do transport you back to that crazy time, which (in my opinion) is a considerable achievement.
I was constantly reminded of The Motorcycle Diaries (an account of Che Guevara’s youthful adventures across Latin America) as I watched the film and have just found out that that too was a Walter Salles film and is also well worth checking out. This is by no means (and never could be) a perfect translation but it is so much more interesting than a lot of what’s on at the moment. What other film could offer words like these:
"They danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars".
Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow
"One or two friends to whom I showed these papers in MS, having observed that they were not half bad, and some of my relations having promised to read the blog if it ever came out, I feel I have no ri
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