Tag Archives: cinema

Re-remembering cinema

I was living on Havelock Road in the mid-90s when the Duke of York’s had a major refit. All the seats were replaced and, like the copies of Sight and Sound that formed the core of my filmnerd collection, the old ones found their way into the skip round the side of the cinema. Collecting one was an opportunity too good to miss: phone calls were made and friends were summoned. These were the seats of our cinematic education: worn-out chairs adorned with red heart shaped felt-patches, the seats in which we’d learned to love Godard and Hal Hartley, stubbed cigarettes out beneath in the balcony and stayed awake till 1am in to watch Tetsuo. Owning one was owning a little bit of Brighton history.

Being cinema seats, they were slightly unsuitable for use as household furniture: they had only one foot, and sitting in them required keeping a rather low centre of gravity. My friends took one each and suggested they were going to nail them to planks to form a home cinema. Mostly they languished in our rooms till we got bored of them as we got bored of Hal Hartley, and left them behind when we moved house. Shortly after they went in the skip I saw some boutique reselling seats they had salvaged: even at less than a tenner, I was outraged at this naked profiteering. Like the farmers’ soil of The Caucasian Chalk Circle, the Duke Of York’s cinema seats belong to those who loved films in them.


Five years of cinema

Les carabiniers, Dir Jean-Luc Godard, France 1963

Les carabiniers, Dir Jean-Luc Godard, France 1963

1977. We’ve just been to see Star Wars at the Enfield ABC. Ahead of us, unknown, lie fights over collectible toys, tauntauns, ewoks, and referential homage in Gen X comedies. Even further lie monstrous sequels, and the sharpness of their disappointment will remind us how far this mythos has burrowed into our minds, but right now we’re ignorant even of where George Lucas has borrowed his hidden fortress from. Seated in the family Hillman Avenger, my mum turns on the engine. ‘I’ll have to remember I’m just driving a car,’ she says, ‘and not flying an X-wing fighter.’

1989. The Screen on Baker Street runs a midnight Friday screening of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, and I go with my girlfriend. Baker Street is alien territory to us Zone 4 types, the land of Madame Tussaud’s  and Sherlock Holmes: a night bus home, and night buses are not that great in the 1980s. The screening involves an amateur performance troupe called the ‘Fabulous Underclothes’ who have learned by heart the call-and-response to the film that satirises the satire, seizes on the clunky moments in Richard O’Brien’s script. I loved it, and The Time Warp too, but that’s not something I’ll readily admit to now.

1993. Valentine’s night at the Duke of York’s in Brighton and I’m watching Tim Roth, Eric Stoltz and Bridget Fonda in Bodies, Rest and Motion with two single female friends. The Duke of York’s is my university arthouse education, the cinema that plays Hal Hartley double bills, its spot-colour fold-out posters as commonly found on student walls as Egon Schiele’s Artist’s Wife. It’s where we see what Heli calls ‘headfuck French movies’ when we don’t get them out on VHS from Video Box. But Bodies, Rest and Motion is a dreary indie tableau of needlessly emotionally tortured twenty-somethings, and I’m almost as annoyed at having wasted the evening watching it as I am at being alone on Valentine’s night.

2001. ‘All you need to make a film is a girl and a gun’. The NFT runs a Godard season, and I see as many of the films as I can, nearly twenty: the macho sci-fi detectivery of Alphaville, the political thrills of Le Petit Soldat, the simulcast translation of Un film com les autres. The pantomime war of Les carabiniers remains my favourite, and I still can’t see why anyone likes Pierrot le feu. A weekend devoted to the revolutionary work of the Dziga Vertov Group culminates in a panel discussion with Tariq Ali, Colin MacCabe and Laura Mulvey. I ask a naïve question about cinema trying to change the world. ‘We weren’t making agitprop,’ replies Mulvey, ‘we were addressing the contradiction in cinema itself.’ Through two months I pack my head and a small notebook with reminders, connections, observations and thoughts. It’s a notebook I’ve rarely opened since.

2005. Watching The Ipcress File in NFT3. At one point in Harry Palmer’s adventure of deception and torture he is put in a small box and subjected to a sequence of intensely flashing lights and bizarre sound. It occurs to me that I’ve paid good money to see quite similar films in this very cinema. Somehow, the most abstract moving image pushes buttons that paintings leave unpressed. The avant-garde cinema weekend in the London Film Festival has become an anchor around which revolve screenings in pubs and art galleries around the capital, Lux’s ‘Visionary Landscapes’ at Cecil Sharp House, shorts programmes at the ICA and salon screenings in Shacklewell. Trying to learn all over again what cinema is.

Ruined gothic

Pancras Halfspider: Paul Day's The Meeting Place

Pancras Halfspider: Paul Day's The Meeting Place

Like an Edwardian cinema, a Victorian train station has two parts: the frontage that welcomes you, and the hall where the business of departure is done. The front is generally shallow and tall, the shed long and low. Together they form a supine letter L. The building that faces you on the street is typically the more impressive half (such buildings’ fantasy architecture returns to haunt them: the colonisation of former cinemas by religious organisations is not limited to Pentecostal churches. Is it surprising that a former cinema once owned by Mecca Leisure has become a mosque?). But even cinema sheds are not without their merits, as watching even the most meagre arthouse fare in the Finchley Phoenix or the Duke of York’s in Brighton will show you.

So it is with the dreaming Gothic spires of Sir George Gilbert Scott’s Midland Grand Hotel and William Barlow’s vast single-arched train shed at St Pancras. The monumental vision of an architect, and the architectural vision of an engineer combine gloriously (engineer Brunel alone was good enough for the earlier Paddington). But alas, now split between the glassed-off fortress of the Eurostar showroom and the far-off extension for the spurned Midland platforms, the undercroft filled with a standard-issue transport shopping mall, and enhanced with a Betjeman-themed pub, St Pancras has been multiplexed.

Is it possible to love gothic without also loving its abandonment? The Gothic Revival was born from the appreciation of picturesque ruins, but even a twentieth century hipster might talk of wabi-sabi, the Japanese aesthetic appreciation of transcience. “Nothing lasts, nothing is finished, and nothing is perfect.” Like Brighton’s West Pier which periodically burns and folds slowly into the sea, the Midland Grand gained something from its ruin and emptiness. We cherished the tiny glimpses that we caught on Open House weekends, the impassive facade we drifted past on the nightbus, even if we didn’t know what St Pancras station, like its near-namesake vital organ, was really for.

Margaret Thatcher’s London manufactured dereliction. City-based representation was stripped away, the rights of the suburbs to veto progressive transport policy were enforced, and corruption was funnelled through borough councils. This wasn’t just about a recession: even in the boom years the Tories were more interested in beginning again in the Wild East on the Isle of Dogs than the city or even the City. Though the channel tunnel rail link was signed off by Heseltine, it was only with the election of a Labour government, less than a year after the Spice Girls symbolically reopened the doors of the hotel in the Wannabe video, that the regeneration of the Midland Grand Hotel became an inevitability. As Iain Sinclair says, you can’t make policy decisions to preserve decay, but a five-star Marriott and penthouse suites promise to be as showy and tasteless as the Peyton and Byrne pastries on sale in the arcade.

Tubby little John Betjeman, St Pancras’s own Paddington Bear, holds onto his hat and gasps in awe at Barlow’s train shed. Appointed patron saint, the man who through the medium of the Victorian Society is credited with having saved the building from modern hammers. Though his heirs in the Society relish regeneration, he himself invested a very gothic wistfulness in the building, deeming it ‘too beautiful and too romantic to survive’ (though almost certainly it was the labour economics of a building without ensuite bathrooms or central heating that did for the hotel itself). He’s a fusty figure for a fusty restoration: the author of A Subaltern‘s Love Song, is a bit too metropolitan (in the wrong way) for London today. In fact, Betjeman was at his best when satirising exactly the kind of middle-century, middle-English existence that we now use him to typify, and not just on the subject of Slough.

The dead hotel is haunted not by Betjeman but by an upstart and a ghost. The Euston Arch is the Midland Grand’s dead twin, the unsaved glory of the Euston Road, a baleful classical monstrosity borne of the architectural monomania that decreed every public building from a bank to a school should be modelled on a pagan temple. Those who would reconstruct it, return it to a zombie heritage half-life, are guilty of the same neurotic fixation with the past that led the city government of Berlin to demolish the Palast der Republik and replace it with a facsimile of an eighteenth century palace. Rebuilding the Palast now would make as little sense. It is a building that we can now only access through memory and historical record: all that will ever happen there has happened. The construction of the lines into St Pancras itself involved the destruction of half St Pancras churchyard (under the supervision of Thomas Hardy). Should we reconstruct that too? History is human jam: you can’t make strawberries back out of it.

The upstart is Colin St John Wilson’s British library building. Though it’s the UK’s largest public building of the twentieth century, it bears a mere 10 million bricks to Scott’s 60 million (Bazalgette’s majestic shitpipes put them both to shame with 318 million). Wilson was a member of the Independent Group alongside brutalists par excellence the Smithsons, but his library is associated with the warmer nordic humanism of Alvar Aalto, and fellow Independent Eduardo Paolozzi’s Newton After Blake graces the courtyard. We can tell the building is a modernist masterpiece because that eminent Palladian Prince Charles said something rude about it. He called it “an academy for secret police”, but in fact it’s Babcock House just down the road, a building of Grecian proportion, that once housed our secret services. The library may look a bit like a suburban Tesco, but with five subterranean floors extending twenty five metres down into the London clay, Wilson’s behemoth is an iceberg. Its form nobly follows its function, if only we could see the form.

If there is a single focus point for all these contradictions, it is in another structure found on the Euston Road, one also on the brink of obsolesence. Scott’s own son, George Gilbert Scott Jr died mad and cirrhotic in the Midland Grand, but Scott Jr’s son, Giles Gilbert Scott’s architectural achievements rival his grandfather’s. He designed not only Liverpool Cathedral and Battersea Power Station, bringing gothic home to the modern, but also the archetypal K2 red telephone box. Whence the inspiration? From the self-designed mausoleum of a man of the other party, arch-classicist Sir John Soane, which can be found in in the undisturbed half of St Pancras Churchyard. See the echo of the curved pediment? Take a picture on your phone and text it to someone. If you’re lucky, one day it may be all you have.

The above owes a great deal to drink and conversation in the Betjeman Arms with Nathan Charlton and Rich Cochrane. The podcast we made on the night [mp3 | subscribe: xml]  is available on the Big Ideas website.