Look Out In The Blackout!

Don't you just love some of the campaigns and slogans spearheaded by the Ministry of Information during the war? Of course we all know "Keep Calm and Carry On", it's sensible and very British advice remains equally useful to this day, and as such has had something of a revival. It may also be that the charming red posters are easily transposed to cushions and coffee mugs and as such has been revived to a profitability unthinkable at its introduction in the 1940's. The Ministry of Information clearly missed a trick there. Of course besides the beastliness of war, one would be forgiven for thinking the 1940's as drab, dour, dull. With this island so very near the brink of total disaster, it all must have been rather depressing. Or it might have been, but the indomitable spirit of the British people couldn't have been more underestimated. A group in London is trying to recreate this spirit, and By Jove! it was a smash.

Called The Blitz Party, this bi-monthly night of "Forties fashion and frolics" is a perfect example of what makes London so fabulous a city. The variety on offer on any given night - week or weekend - is quite overwhelming and often rather over-stimulating. The problem with such boundless choice is that, when one chooses to do nothing at all, it's almost a betrayal. A betrayal of London itself. Or perhaps that is just me, anthropomorphizing again. Regardless, last month I made sure my evening did not fall into this treacherous black hole of nothing, and off I went to somewhere beyond Old Street. And with some people from DRA, funnily enough, but oh didn't it take forever to find the venue? We wandered the icy lanes for what seemed an age, lacking any of the remote stoicism for which the Forties is famed.

We were also attired in our forties fashions. Sadly I couldn't locate an RAF uniform (I wanted something passable as authentic. Most costume shops seem to prefer the more is more approach, which is definitely NOT Forties.) So I had to manage with something from my own wardrobe - Tweed and Chinos. It was grandfather-ish enough to work, or I do hope so at least. My friends were wonderfully turned out, although with possibly more of a German feel than anything else. At the time, I suspect I would have been accused of spying, of being a fifth columnist for appearing with such fine Teutonic specimens. But upon arrival, it was clear some people had taken a leaf out of Prince Harry's book.

However people had dressed, such a wonderful effort had been made. All the ladies looked film studio perfect: the hair, the dresses (or trousers in the case of the Women's Land Army), the shoes... It was heavenly. I've always loved the style of the 1940's, because to me it IS style. There is little style in the present day, but then I am old-fashioned and like Boden and Barbour. Of course, it being slightly film sett-ish I doubt that the dance hall was filled with an accurate representation of the "swing bands, sand bags and glad rags" that entertained a war-weary public, but for me, it was jolly good and did the job marvellously. We had champagne in quaint coupes, Spitfire ale, and danced to jazz and swing. The venue also had a slight air-raid shelter quality to it, which added greatly to the atmosphere. Most people were in very high spirits, keen to do the whole thing properly and of course, to keep calm and carry on. I think for my companions there was a lowlight as they queued for their coats. Normally a simple concept for a British crowd, it seems the high spirits may have got in the way of manners and good sportsmanship. I was rather running out of things to say to an acquaintance when they returned, and such a thing would usually take at least half an hour.

Emerging into the cold air of very early morning London, it was difficult to set aside the images of hundreds of people merry-making in a Forties fashion, dancing away in my head. The grim reality of getting home, of trudging through the grey and the cold made me consider those who were doing so seventy years beforehand. How did they feel, suddenly resurfacing after an evening of escapism and a rare opportunity for fun? For them, the return to reality meant remembering there was a war to be fought, things with which they must make do and mend. The very real threat of losing loved ones and indeed, of falling victim themselves. I'm unsure what people of that generation would make of The Blitz Party, nor am I even sure what to make of it myself. Is it somehow distasteful, or a celebration of triumph through adversity? It certainly couldn't exist in Germany, and thus is it disrespectful? For now I shall not mention it to the grandparents...

Whatever conclusion I eventually make, it simply reinforces to me what an incredible Mecca of culture this city is. I'm so thankful to have had the opportunity to see and to do and to try all that London has to offer. Even if I fail to take up an offering, the choice remains there; endless, for another evening.

Let's Get Physical #2

Thanks to the joy of South West Trains and their uselessness over the weekend, I arrived in Angel considerably late. But late for what? Some wonderfully charming friends of mine in their final year at university have their own dance collective called DRA. Already in demand for film premieres, music videos and unique club nights, their spectacular branch of contemporary dance with its 1960's rockabilly flair is certainly very much on the rise. DRA is a major player behind an intriguing new concept: getting fit while at the pub. This might raise eye-brows, but it truly worked.

I arrived at The Lexington on the Pentonville Road, quickly changed into some incredibly attractive red lycra trousers featuring stirrups and side panels of red and white horizontal stripes; and jumped onto the dance floor in time for the tail end of the warm up. It was such a fun and interesting experience. Imagine your local pub, preferably one with a medium sized dance floor (possibly upstairs), the dance floor lighting to which one is accustomed, and also that instantly recognisable smell of stale alcohol that you find in public houses when they first open; plus aerobics! The juxtaposition and the exercise in the semi-darkness were almost too fab for me after the simple pot of Nettle tea I had from Orange Pekoe in Barnes only the hour previously.

Almost, but I managed to control my excitement, for the break was upon us all too soon. Now imagine a lot of warmed-up bodies in lycra, half heading for the bar, the other half heading outdoors for a replenishing cigarette - instructors included, of course. It was just too funny, and of course it felt very London and supremely cool. Part Two was the feature, the highlight. After another re-warm up, we were introduced to the main thrust of the event: learning a routine to Madonna's Holiday. Oh the excitement that filled the room! This might have just been myself, as I do have a habit of filling rooms. Off we went. It was here I rediscovered my two left feet, but perseverance and determination saw me passably reproduce the movements of our instructors. Effectively, act and think like Madonna and one is three quarters of the way there. The practice culminated in the class being divided into two, so each group could perform for the other and we could see how the thing looked en masse. Rounds of applause and ta-da! actual exercise completed. Some people changed, others merely draped a jacket or jumper over their wonderfully sweaty lycra before heading to the bar for their well deserved post-"gym session" drink.

The next event is scheduled for March 20th, and at £5 it is incredibly good value. A sort of aerobics-lite for those of us who are more likely to go drinking than to the gym, it combines the two in a safe, un-scary manner and I wish it all the success.

Photo courtesy DRA Dance Collective. 

Ms Welch and Mr Chips

Thanks again to Mrs Trefusis for a fabulous exhibition recommendation (Beauty Through A Lens). This lady's intimate knowledge on all things to do and see in London is too enviable, but equally she removes all the hard work for the philistines, such as myself. 

It is a wonderful exhibition of the work of Terry O'Neill, one of Britain’s most popular photographers at the Chris Beetles Art Gallery in St James's. Some of the images are quite breathtaking, such is their intimacy.

I was also rather struck by how very seamlessly the subjects would fit into a modern context of fashion and beauty. Such people are so extraordinary timeless, the magic translates across the decades, the generations. Or perhaps it is cyclical? To me, the people in the photographs could not merely be limited to the London of yesteryear, but could be quite easily seen promenading the streets of my London.

O'Neill is a wonderful photographer because he truly knew his subjects. As such, he had no trouble capturing that very human sense of vulnerability. Something so intimate could only be offered to a friend.

One such human was Raquel Welch. At one point she was the most famous and desired woman on the planet, but it was only at home that I was treated to a lovely tale featuring Ms Welch. (Such an hilarious name, it reminds me of Wellington boots.) My friend's grandfather spent a long time as headmaster of one of England's public boys' schools, Sherborne. During his leadership, the musical film Goodbye, Mr Chips, starring Peter O'Toole and Petula Clarke was filmed at Sherborne. As headmaster, he was quite involved with the production and often O'Toole would join him for lunch.

The American production team decided to ship the headmaster and his wife to America to help with promoting the film. His role I presume, was to be the stereotypical Englishman that Americans would consider quaint and charming and therefore spend money at the cinema on the film. While not so commercially successful, the film was nominated for Academy Awards and O'Toole won the Golden Globe that year (1970) for his role. It is the Academy Awards that brings me to Ms Welch. This wonderfully innocent and very English headmaster was sat right next to this American deity. Naturally, he had absolutely no idea who the woman to his right was. The photographs show him animatedly discussing something, which my friend tells me was most like something meta-philosophical or some such thing. Despite much of the world's press snapping away at them, he seems oblivious. And Raquel, for her part, seems genuinely interested. Perhaps for the first time in years, somebody was speaking to her without any idea - nor care - of who she was. And about something other than her films, or Hollywood in general. I rather love this.

Breaths of fresh air, physical and metaphorical can be wonderful. They energise with vigour and give us the impetus to carry on, somehow renewed. Both the film Goodbye, Mr Chips and the photographer Terry O'Neill reward us with such a feeling, so go; do!

Images: copyright Terry O'Neill.

Utter TEFL

Boring absence. Apologies.

I'm sitting here - having just politely declined an invitation to go out - completely devoid of any analytical thought. My brain is utterly dead and has refused to engage all day. Most annoying and inconvenient. I can excuse it, but only just. It spent the weekend on a very intensive training course, and I know it was intensive because it required movement before 8 o'clock on a Saturday. AND on a Sunday. The whole thing lasted 20 hours and in theory qualifies me to teach English abroad. Or to immigrants/asylum seekers. It was long, arduous, fun, bewildering, maddening, humorous, enlightening and baffling.

The majority of the class were very cut-glass and boarding school, which surprised me greatly. And pleased me in equal measure, a sort of confirmation and reinforcement of the worthiness of being there, I suppose. Most of them were planning to volunteer selflessly in Africa and Asia, all in an effort to gain "life experience". All this sort of thing does look so very good in a CV, and it is a wonderful thing to tell at dinner parties. I rather meanly wonder how genuine people are with these things, especially as now post(ish)-recession, employers want that little something more in their prospective employees. It is after all, their market. I try to imagine myself doing the same, but the image will not fit. Somehow, I feel that being anywhere like the poorest parts of Africa will affect me terribly, and so will leave it all to the lovely friends I made. To whom I offer my support wholeheartedly, and thank ceaselessly that it isn't me.

One such lovely lass, who shall henceforth be known as Miss Aquitaine of Kent, was supremely fun (PS they were all females as well, brilliant!!). A fellow actor and nabber of jobs in post-production in Hollywood, we hit it off from the beginning. I think that anybody suddenly confronted with an hour's immersion in a completely foreign language will find their nearest fellow for support. The Slovenian was quite daunting, yet the purpose was glaringly obvious: How one can teach with no common language. And make it enjoyable, productive and successful. We were also united by our dislike of another would-be teacher. Oh she was painful. Insufferable. I find trusting people with bad skin difficult, it is horribly shallow of me and I usually overcome it, but I cannot help mentally applying cosmetics with a spatula. Anyway anyway, this character also had a hint of the insane about her. I adore eccentrics, as I suspect does Miss Kent, but Silence of the Lambs mentalism? We thought no. It was mainly the off-topic comments that grated. After a perfectly harmless opinion about a cafe in Fulham (Flahm as I now call it), she asks how I could sound "so posh when you're from Barnes when I've lived in Fulham all my life?" I think that one, after a pause, was very much a saved by a bell moment. It was then at morning tea that the most peculiar little piece of information was served up to us. We were discussing directors, and she made some comments (borderline slander) on James Cameron. All fine. Then proceeded to inform us all about decapitations to be found on YouTube. So very charming. In a sense, "Flahm" was perfectly nice, but oh to be stuck working with her, to be taught by her... I pity the Koreans.

The Sunday was, as anybody within earshot of Western media will attest, St Valentine's Day. Hurrah etc. Miss Aquitaine and I got to chatting on the whole thing, and we concluded that we ought to have an anti-Valentine's lunch. I'm not remotely bitter, and not really single, but 'tis more fun to join in and get the actor's juices flowing. We decided we must make a good effort of it, and eschew anything heart-shaped. Silly to wander into Fortnum & Mason for lunch then! But oh it was fab. We wandered around making up silliness about suffrage, submission, loss of identity, all very GCSE English essay. The only thing to do when "down" is to elevate oneself back up again. One must never admit defeat nor lose face. This is how Britain has carried on for the last century. The loss of an empire should wipe away all the smugness, the superiority. Gladly, the opposite is true and the subconscious belief in self and country and status quo keeps the mill turning.

We had our lunch of saumon en croute, roasted English vegetables and chocolate and honeycomb mousse, washed down with an elderflower drink and planned our lesson. And it was fun. The chance to meet new people, the opportunity to throw oneself in at the deep-end should not be turned down. It should be entirely embraced, because whosoever could say what will happen next?

PRECIOUS (BASE ON NOL BY SAF)

I have previously mentioned that I often enjoy rather sickly films and preferably British. I am one of the hapless masses, the sheep who need to be fed their silage and enjoy a blindingly blissful existence amongst the general ignorance. My fur is of good quality, my brain - merely fur. In a sudden bout of proactivity, and with a push from a friend, I made it to the cinema. The Vue in Leicester Square, no less. Luckily this friend also has a certain penchant for wine, so we headed for the bar to try our luck with the white wine. And it was warm.

Warm white wine; unimaginable pain. It must somehow allow the alcohol to be absorbed quicker, which was frankly no bad thing considering the circumstances. I hadn't gone to the cinema for a delightful Hollywood romp, but rather its American antithesis: the grittiness of suburban New York City.

Precious is a film I'm sure most people have by now come across in some form or other. Preparing myself for the possibility of public weeping, I tried to forget all the details about the film the reviewers had fed me, all their opinions and most importantly, how terribly painful the warm wine was. Sitting down, obscuring others' views and trying to eradicate my prejudices against obese people, I watched. The film was amusing, charming, delightful, horrifying, devastating, crushing, hopeful, scandalising, tormenting and wonderful. I didn't cry, for I cannot. Tears do not flow so easily for me, but my body ached with the agonising struggle endured by this remarkable protagonist. My bones wept on a level of empathy I have never known.

Perhaps it is in light of some of the tragedies and horror stories that have emerged in recent years that make this film seem all the more real. The frequency of such dreadful tales can often have a numbing quality, much like Holocaust survivors who numbed themselves to the pain surrounding them in order to survive. The "physical and spiritual degradation of mankind in the industrialised world" is as evident today as it was in Lady Chatterley's world. However for me, the horror was not numbed, the pain did not abate. Punctuated by brilliant comedy so heightened amidst the gloominess, I loved it. It even challenged me to question how I view individual obesity, no mean feat.

These films reveal so much about ourselves. Our preconceptions, our selfishness, our isolation, our luck. How lucky I was to be born into a home where I was loved, how wonderfully lucky I was to be encouraged to read, to write, to learn, to try as much as possible, to be told I could achieve anything to which I set my mind. I am forever telling myself to be thankful. Well, quite often I am at least. And now I shall redouble my efforts to take time to appreciate being. It doesn't last forever.

I did scrutinize one aspect of said film. I have never been a fan of Ms Mariah Carey and her utterly awful warbling/shrieking. And I don't believe her last foray into film was successful, so with breath a-baited, I waited. And do you know, she wasn't terrible. "Uglied" to the point of normality, she looked the part. Ish. But the voice... Frightfully husky, the sort of thing a self-proclaimed "serious actor" would come up with and it did grate. I tried to forget who it was onscreen, but the eyes of a diva don't lie. A surprise was Lenny Kravtitz, a man I had assumed dead. Very touching portrayal of "Nursing Assistant". A position one never knew existed and seems on a similar level to "Community Support Officer".

If you enjoy cinema on any level, seek something a little more real than the latest blockbuster filth and are capable of empathy, see this film.