Killer Joe

I went to the cinema to watch a new release and here’s how the story began: a young man owes a few thousand dollars to a drug dealer who will break every bone in his body, before killing him, unless he repays the money by Wednesday. Already I see the plot is flawed: he won’t be able to reclaim his money from a corpse. But I am missing the point of the film which (call me slow-witted) becomes clear only towards the end: the point is to cram as much graphic, sadistic violence as is possible into 102 minutes of expensively crafted cinematography - and then persuade people to buy tickets.

Unremitting violence unhindered by human compassion is not my idea of entertainment yet there are those who think otherwise. Well, maybe I’m just not the target market. But then I wasn’t the target market for the film I’d seen before that either, the one in which all the characters were lovelorn 20-somethings floundering in a shallow pool of self-obsession. I suppose such subject matter is interesting if you’re, well, 20-something. Perhaps I should stick to films aimed firmly at my sector of the market – whatever that may be: and therein lies the problem. The film industry has its sights set on all its various market segments up to a point – children, family entertainment, teen humour, twenty-somethings, thirty-somethings etc. - but then, around middle-aged bloke (MAB), it all starts to lose focus. I think the film industry and I both need some help.

A universal understanding of what constitutes a MAB would be a good start. Is it literally a bloke who has reached the middle of his lifespan? If so, a previous generation which lived to an average age of, say, 56 would have achieved middle-age at 23. Nowadays we live longer and it would be nearer to 40 (giving us more time to go to the cinema). But those are averages: specifically it makes even less sense. Those who die at 100 would not reach middle-age until 50 and those who die at 20 would get there at 10. By these calculations the definition of a MAB becomes a constantly moving target which even the most accomplished marketing people would find very tricky to hit.

This one-dimensional classification clearly won’t suffice, since MABs may not be simply defined by arithmetic. There’s no denying that ageing brings with it recognisable physical and mental characteristics which surely merit inclusion in the equation. Among these a particular ‘state of mind’ can be observed, mid-way between youthful exuberance and elderly rigidity: a transitional phase during which the brain’s decision-making process is modified by experience causing attitudes to become entrenched. It’s difficult to quantify empirically but not so hard to spot intuitively. I have heard it said that you can recognise its onset when your broad mind begins to swap places with your narrow waist. If this is true then I, for one, should be very vigilant indeed.

But even if MAB recognises himself the film industry is missing a trick: it really should be shipping him a steady stream of suitable product – just as it does for other sectors. So, to help both parties out, I propose that the film industry tags a classification to the end of its titles which reflects the intended audience. It could start with CO for Children Only, FF for Family Fun, TH for Teen Humour and so on ending with AC for All Comers. At least then MABs could work out which ones we need not bother seeing and the industry might realise that it’s portfolio is light in the MAB department.

And the film I saw? I can’t bring myself to recommend it but try listening to this instead:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TW641zgPOqQ
           

 It’s the classic tune of the same name, written and performed by Benny Golson.

It's Africa, Jim, But Not As We Know It.

There’s a busker in Manchester who plays the kora, sprinkling sweet notes across Piccadilly Gardens, while people bustle past and trams rattle and squeal within inches of his pitch. I like what he plays but have never thrown any coins into his hat because I am inclined to disapprove of his use of powered amplification and find it hard to accept that the instrument, hand-crafted in the ancient tradition from calabash, cowhide and seasoned, native wood, should have its natural voice distorted by the intervention of modern technologies. I listen, by comparison, to a blackbird, perched for much of the day just outside my window, performing unplugged. The natural acoustic of its song rises over the city, mocking the clamour of industry, business and technology.

Nevertheless, despite his amplifier, the busker, a small, grizzled West African, is talented – and intrepid for he plays his foreign tunes, uninvited, in the heart of a city renowned for its own, very different, musical heritage. Yesterday I passed him on my way to a nearby exhibition of West African art and speculated whether he might take his lunch-break at the gallery to sit and reflect nostalgically amongst the cultural artefacts of his homeland, the masks and figures carved from ivory and mahogany which I was on my way to see.

I ought not skim-read things: by doing so I had missed the last word in the exhibition’s title West African Art Today; there were no ivory statuettes. In fact the first thing I encountered was an amplified soundscape recorded on the streets of central Lagos and sounding rather like any other city. Africa has, of course, moved on from where I imagined it to be.

The largest piece on display is a spectacular, multi-coloured, glistening tapestry – not of woven thread but of stitched-together bottle-tops and various other small pieces of coloured metal. It startled me into remembering that my brother and I, as children, curated our own collection of bottle-tops which we treasured for their shiny colours and valued according to their provenance. We kept them in boxes and brought them out to admire, compare and categorise by pattern, condition and rarity. Then we would arrange them in shapes on the floor, often pretending they were tanks or artillery pieces.

In this remembered context El Anatsui’s tapestry is the ultimate display of bottle tops, the ne plus ultra of collections of salvaged materials. In its modern context, however, this work reflects upon a very African state of affairs in which the commercial products of the West have infiltrated a society which is only partly able to assimilate them. Machine made goods have been available since colonists first invaded yet masses of people still cannot afford to buy them and only have access to what is discarded or surplus. Is it surprising that they set a value upon the broken-down appliances, the packaging and other detritus? Maybe they approach these objects, not as we children did, enthralled by the colours, but as adults questioning the wastefulness and looking for ways to redress it. The tapestry is both a curious thing of beauty and an ironic comment on colonialism.

I walked back past the busker who was taking a break, rolling a cigarette from a pack of Old Holborn tobacco. I asked him about his music and where he was from. He told me he came from Gambia and lives here now because he married a Mancunian.

“Do you know about the exhibition down the road?” I asked.

“Oh yes, I am playing some gigs there”.

He pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper and showed me his list of engagement dates. I put some money in his hat and he bowed politely – or was it ironically? Africa is bringing its vibrant, extrovert culture to us and is unabashed about applying our technologies in the process.

Monetising Your Network

A news item I heard on the radio caught my attention because it sounded so unlikely: a business school in the UK has just appointed a Professor of Networking. It sounded like a cushy number for someone who knows how to conjure up orders via Linkedin or acquire 146,000 Facebook friends in the space of half an hour. Not so, claimed the school: electronic social media are just another manifestation of an activity that has been around since humans first began to grunt at each other but businesses have lately lost sight of the fact that networks should be mutually beneficial - and the Professor is going to set them back on course.

To those who are unfamiliar with the ways of business, ‘networking’ might appear to be a black art practised by initiates while they play rounds of golf - not for sport, but in order to cultivate secretively advantageous connections, stitch up monopolistic agreements and line their pockets at the expense of others. All these things certainly do happen but the process isn’t intrinsically evil just because some are more selfishly inclined than others. Amongst salespeople there is an adage: “people buy from people”, which is another way of saying you are more likely to win a sale if potential customers know and like you, so get to know them, do your best to be likeable - and don’t abuse the relationship: network responsibly. Unfortunately for society, businesses are prone to rampant greed and the Professor clearly has some work to do.

Of course the principles of networking don’t apply exclusively to business: it is a fundamental human activity comprising the building of supportive relationships in the form of friendships made and maintained over the years, relatives nurtured and indulged, small favours granted and inconveniences graciously endured. This essentially benign process creates informal, mutually beneficial social structures. As in business, however, danger is always present in the form of exploitation by those who are ruthless in pursuit of their own ends. History, as Hilary Mantel demonstrates in her novel Wolf Hall, illustrates the point.

Set in Tudor England, her story of power-brokering depends on connections made and cemented by the elaborate manipulation of money, might and marriage; and the most important of these was marriage. The Tudors may not have played golf but they certainly understood the importance of networks to their hold on power and sought to entrench them legally with contracts devised for the purpose and known as marriages. So important was the contract of marriage that it was purported to be sanctioned only by the highest authority (God) and interpreted and controlled by His representative on Earth (the Pope) whose only interest (he claimed) was that all souls should go to Heaven. The rather useful “till death us do part” clause was included in the contract to ensure lasting and legally incontestable possession of goods and chattels by the survivor. By these means were whole nations effectively owned by certain families for as long as they could get away with it.

The practice was not confined to the most powerful families, indeed the ‘strategic alliance’ aspect of marriage remains well-understood and valued within certain circles of society to this day, but a more popular, romantic delineation has evolved and the “till death us do part” clause is now likely to refer to fidelity rather than property. But this romantic gloss lately applied to marriage has obscured its original purpose: in the recent case of the woman who was imprisoned for embezzling a quarter of a million pounds from her employer to pay for her dream wedding we may conclude that her folly was not to have heeded the lesson of history which illustrates a principal tenet of networking: if you want money, marry into it.

Lingo

Seven CDs had arrived in the post that morning and if I had been a teenager I would certainly have put all life on hold while I listened to them back-to-back. But I am a responsible adult (how did that happen?) with important things to do: my newly arrived foreign tenant must be shown around his flat - the CDs must wait.

I admire and respect foreigners who turn up in the UK having taken the trouble to learn English in advance.  My own lifelong habit of arriving in someone else’s country clueless is more than simply rude: it has a whiff of colonialism about it. And so I try to remain patient, attentive and helpful when communicating with those thoughtful, diligent foreign visitors to my country - although this can lead to unwanted linguistic complications.

While showing my tenant his accommodation I introduced him, by way of a hint, to the cupboard where the cleaning implements are kept. His reaction was unenthusiastic but as we engaged with its contents a conversation evolved around how the verbs ‘to brush’ and ‘to sweep’ differ in meaning. Flattered by his interest in the niceties of our language (or maybe it was a diversionary tactic on his part) I pushed colloquialism a little too far by attempting to explain that being ‘brushed off’ is quite a different experience from being ‘swept off one’s feet’. Our mutual comprehension soon reached its limits.

I wish he had been with me on the train the next day when, for a while, I sat next to a young man who clearly had been swept off his feet – judging from the excited phone conversation he unselfconsciously shared with me and others nearby which revealed his sumptuous wedding plans in considerable detail. The reception was to be at a country hotel in Cheshire but his guest list, it seems, was problematic in so far as there were numerous jealousies and rivalries to be taken into account. I understand this is a common predicament but I was surprised to hear the groom agonising over it. The mist began to clear, however, as we heard him describe the outfits he had chosen for the bridesmaids - Justin, Alex, David and Wayne.

After his disembarkation I was further entertained by a pair of young girls, whom I took to be first-year college students, whose non-stop conversation was remarkable for its considerable breadth and minimal depth.

          “I was gonna do, like, pasta. Do you have to cook that?” said one.

“I dunno. I think so” said the other.

Towards the end of the journey, as the tide of topics began to wane, they decided to play a game of cards called Snap -

“Not Whist. That’s, like, rubbish”

- soon after which they were approached by a middle-aged man from an adjoining carriage. I took him to be their teacher.

          “What do you know?” he asked them

          “Not much” said one, not looking up

          “Good” he replied

          “Snap” said the other

          “That’s, like, so unfair!”

          “Why? You should of bin, like, quicker?”

He stood, foolishly, hoping for a signal of engagement before trying again:

          “Has anyone got any toffees?” he enquired

          “Are we near London yet?” asked the one

          “I’ve got some biscuits” said the other

          “What kind?” he enquired, brightening

          “Chocolate chip. Do you want one?”

          “Great. Thanks”

They continued to play and talk together while he stood and watched, crumbs falling to his feet. After an uncomfortably long two minutes he flicked the front of his shirt clean and coughed.

          “Right, well, see you later, Thanks for the biscuit”

          “Whatever”

          “Yeah”

Thus was he dismissed: or “brushed off”, as we say in English.

I finally found time at home to savour the musical treasures recently acquired. Top of the pile was a compilation of Colombian songs. I have no idea what they are singing about but, sometimes, ignorance can be bliss.

Carry on Camping

During a recent campervan expedition we found ourselves at an attractive but busy campsite where we shared field space with those who shelter under nylon, which caused me to question why they do so - and no, it’s not just because they don’t have campervans. (I want to make it clear that campervans, despite the misleading name, should in no way be compared with tents - the essential difference being that they are weather-tight). Although, during our stay, the weather was constantly dry and fine, there is no denying the fact that, in Britain at least, camping can turn out to be little more than a complicated way of getting wet.

Motivation for camping, therefore, is a puzzle – although perhaps not when children are involved, for they experience campsites as adventure playgrounds where rules are relaxed and they can enjoy a degree of anarchy. As a six-year old I told my mother one afternoon that I felt homesick. “What do you mean?” she asked “How can you be homesick when you are at home?” “Oh”, I replied “I mean I’m sick of being at home”. Camping would have been just the thing for me then but my parents showed no interest in it. Perhaps they had done a cost/benefit analysis and decided against it. Observing one of the families on site I wouldn’t disagree: the mother was constantly engaged in rounding up, regulating, feeding, washing and clothing three small, wayward children while the father filled or emptied buckets, fanned charcoal, assembled pieces of camping equipment and tinkered with his Land Rover. It would all have been so much easier at home.

Elsewhere there were slicker operations: for example the consolidated group of German families. Their corral of vehicles and tents surrounded a mass of tables and chairs set out under a large awning where they gathered together with their numerous offspring for communal meals. The scope and utility of their equipment and the precision with which it was deployed surely contributed to the air of text-book cheeriness that pervaded their encampment. But, if this represented a relaxation of the rules for the children, their regular regime at home must be akin to that of a military academy.

The motivation of the two fat ladies without children on the other side of the field remained a mystery. Each of them had a retro-styled tent big enough to accommodate a troop of girl-guides. The contents glimpsed through the flaps included complete fold-up kitchens, suites of collapsible furniture, multi-coloured rugs and scatter-cushions. Planted all around the outside was a collection of faux-gypsy gear: an iron cooking pot suspended on a tripod, blankets, folding stools, an array of coloured lanterns and weird symbols suspended from sticks and strings,The money they had spent on their camping equipment would have bought them a five-star holiday in any millionaire resort yet they seemed content to share a field with hundreds of assorted strangers.

Even given fair weather a satisfactory camping experience requires adequate equipment but there are those who, seduced by the tsunami of cheap but attractively designed ‘must-have’ accessories, over-equip themselves in an effort to ensure their experience lacks none of the comforts of home and includes none of the discomforts of the outdoors.

The very few who cling to Spartan ways do so out of necessity. They comprise hikers and climbers whose priority is the pursuit of their chosen activity and for whom overnight camping is a necessity. But even these worthy folk are not immune to the lure of hi-tec equipment. Look inside their rucksacks and you will find the latest and most expensive designs in lightweight, high-performance tents, sleeping bags, cooking devices and utensils.

Oh, and did I mention the on-site facilities? By 09.00 each morning there was a queue outside the restaurant where competent chefs laboured to produce the whole range of breakfast dishes, from croissants to fry-ups, and charming Polish girls served Indian tea and Italian coffe while, on the field outside, hundreds of nifty little collapsible stoves lay idle and unattended.