Not the Nanny

The perils of working from home with children was highlighted in a most delightful way last week when Robert Kelly's live BBC interview went viral. If you have no clue what I mean, check this out:

The clip did the rounds quickly.  Friends were eager to share the charm and humour in this 40 second clip. When I watched it, the Husband said he could hear me laughing from downstairs. Even writing about it now brings on a chuckle. 

I clocked early on that the children were mixed race so I assumed that the woman who slid so spectacularly into frame was their mum. The little girl in her yellow cardigan became my hero.

The next day there was online debate whether the woman was the nanny or the mum. The clip had gone viral and the woman was being referred to as the nanny. At this point, I was unsure what she was so after some checking, I read that the woman was most definitely the mum. 

I was at a party later and the video came up in conversation. We watched it, laughed and afterwards my friends spoke about the nanny in the clip.

She's not the nanny. She's the mum.

No no. She's the nanny.

No she's not.  She's the mum. 

No, she's the nanny. 

I let it go.  I'm not sure what the reasons were for the insistence that the woman was the nanny. We didn't discuss it but it left me feeling uneasy because in 40 seconds, you probably make that assumption based on body language or race. I hoped it wasn't the latter.

Swiftly, the widespread assumption that Jung-a-Kim, the woman in the video, was the nanny or maid sparked media interest and debate over cultural stereotyping and casual racism. I  jumped on the bandwagon and posted this article on my Facebook. The resulting discussion was wide ranging from affirmations that 'Nannygate' was indeed racist to comments that it was her body language and behaviour that made her seem nanny-like. Which in itself is a whole other topic of subjugation. 

The most relevant question raised within my own circle was:

Why does it even matter?

Why could we all not just enjoy the clip and not query why people assumed that Jung-a-Kim was the nanny? What's wrong with being a nanny anyway? Nothing.

When I asked myself the question, why does it matter, this is what I came up with.

Even if only one person out of all the thousands that viewed the clip made the assumption that Jung-a Kim was the nanny based on racial stereotyping, that is one person too many. Because assumptions like that spread and take root unless you call them out early. Assumptions like that will eventually affect my life. They already have. 

Asian woman. 

Servant. Maid. Nanny. Mail order bride. Subservient. Victim. Vixen. Prostitute. Dragon Lady. Tiger Mum.

All such cliches but these stereotypes live on as demonstrated by the reaction to this clip. For I'm pretty sure that more than one person based their nanny assumption on race.*  

In my experience, it is not overt racism that is the most damaging or hurtful. When someone tells you to your face that you should go back to where you came from you fucking Chinese cunt,** a least you know what you are dealing with. 

It is the subtle, covert judgement that is the most dangerous. Or what Jen McGuire calls casual, almost benign stereotyping. She writes:

It's this sort of casual, almost benign stereotyping that can ultimately be so dangerous. Just because it's not aggressive or overt doesn't mean it's not changing our world view. In fact, because it can be so much more difficult to pinpoint, it's also harder to call out.

It's the kind of stereotyping, such as the case here with Jung-a-Kim, where because it is subtle or unintentional that you are told to stop making a mountain out of a molehill. That it is harmless. That you are looking for something that isn't there.  Or that you are imagining it.

If you have never experienced any form of racism nor stereotyping in your life that has affected you adversely, then you are lucky. So have some empathy, if you can, when I say:

We are not imagining it.



* I am not exempt. I have been racist. I make assumptions all the time. I can be judgmental. I try and have respect and empathy. But I don't always. In this instance, because I have grown up with this type of institutionalised racism, I am calling it out. But I have been wrong as well in other cases. 

**The Husband disagrees. He says he would prefer low level racism, even if it is more insidious, than someone coming at him with a knife shouting, 'Come here you fucking Paki' (true story)

Women's March London 2017

About a week before Trump’s inauguration I started acting like a cat does before a storm arrives. Hair on end. Pacing around the room. Eyes darting nervously, looking at something invisible that no-one else can see.

Cat before a storm. This was me.

'What is wrong with you?' asked the Husband as I stalked from room to room.

'I don’t know,' I screeched. 'I feel possessed!'

The Husband after watching me pace concluded:

'I think you’re tapped into the zeitgeist,' he muttered. 'Business as usual.'

He was right. I had managed to block out the reality of Trump’s presidency all throughout Christmas and New Year. Our family’s return to work and school had kept me preoccupied for the first few weeks of January.

But around mid- month, media attention surrounding the inauguration meant I could keep my head in the sand no longer. It was about to happen and I was pissed off and on edge. A storm was brewing. In the form of a radioactive orange Oompa Loompa with a mean little mouth and unnecessary hand gestures.

Change the wig to yellow and there he is

In November, I’d registered to attend the Women’s March in London. This march originated as an invite from a Hawaiian grandmother to forty of her Facebook friends to march on Washington, as a reaction to Trump’s election victory.  When she woke up the next day, the event had gone viral. Soon thereafter, sister marches were being arranged in cities all around the world as an act of support and solidarity to the Washington march. I wanted to attend the London march for it was a means to act in accordance with my beliefs rather than do nothing and despair at the erosion of civil liberties.

The last time I felt compelled to march was post Brexit last July. The time before that was twenty years ago when I was an environmental campaigner. Those years as a campaigner showed me the power of well organised and persistent grassroots action. It showed me that a small group of determined people working together can change things.

Women's March Global Logo

Logo from Women's March London

My intent was to attend the march alone. But to my delight, several other women I knew from Dragon’s school were also attending. Soon a small gang of us arranged to attend the event together.

The day of the march dawned bright and beautiful. The clear blue skies served as a welcome omen that our march was a force towards positive action. A tangible sense of excitement and electricity fizzed in the air as we assembled in Grosvenor Square opposite the US Embassy.  We knew that there were 600+ sister marches scheduled to happen all around the world and that we were there to represent the UK. The night before, I’d watched Trump’s inauguration which only heightened my determination to march for human rights, amongst other infringements which Trump represents. By this time, I considered it a civic duty.

A beautiful day for a march

There is a lot I can say about the march but in summary, the gang I marched with found it an overwhelmingly positive experience. The mood of the event was friendly, inclusive, peaceful and determined. We marched alongside a diverse demographic; old, young, men, women. I got the sense that like me, people felt moved to act because it was vital to take a stand against what was happening in the world. Brexit shook our foundations and Trump tipped us over the edge. The march was a vessel through which to funnel our charged emotions and say, No way. It's not OK to the powers that be.  The other big bonus of the event was the emergence of witty, creative protest placards such as these below:

Afterwards we found out we had helped make history. The final numbers have yet to be confirmed but the approximation is that over five million people participated in the global marches. From Antarctica to Sydney to Chennai to Antigua, people stood up to protect core values of respect, equality and individual freedoms. It purportedly was the largest turnout for a global march led by women in history. Ever.   

We Made History!

 And it’s only the beginning.

It’s a week after the march, and myself and the group I attended with are still on a high. We’ve bonded over this shared experience. People who said to us, 'What can a march change?''* underestimate the power of taking action. We feel energised. We feel hopeful. We feel a part of the movement working towards tipping the balance back to a just and open society.  For several of us, there is a dawning realisation that the march was just the beginning of our involvement in what is being referred to as the Resistance. Like Dorothy on her journey along the Yellow Brick Road, we’re not quite sure where this path will take us. Somewhere for the common good is my hope.

A quote by Gloria Steinem sums it up:

Sometimes we need to put our bodies where our beliefs are. 

Sometimes it is not enough to press send.

*Ever heard of Gandhi?  And if you are a woman, how do you think you got the vote?

Wah Wah Land

Sometime before Christmas last year, publicity posters of Emma Stone and Ryan Gosling locked in dance embrace started following me wherever I went. The tube, the train, escalators, online media. Wherever I was, so was this poster:

The Stalker Poster

You could be blind and still be able to see from all the stars and accolades squashed together in said poster that the film was well received. Still, the public's appetite can differ from that of film critics and attendees of Cannes, Sundance and other chi chi film festivals. You can shove as many stars as you like on a poster but will it translate into box office?  Undeniable though was the buzz surrounding  La La Land, reaching crescendo height at the recent Golden Globes where it swept the floor with all other films nominated.

I went to see the film today with a sense of unease due to my sky high expectations. I grew up watching old MGM musicals and I rate Gene Kelly as one of my favourite dancers, ever. I choreograph ensemble dance sequences in my head on the way to work with my face squashed against someone's armpit on the Tube. This is what I see every night before I go to sleep as it hangs in my bedroom:

Gene Kelly & Vera Ellen in Words & Music

Before I saw the film, I read an interview with director Damian Chazelle where he discussed his intent to make a musical for people who don't like musicals. The aim was to draw from the canon of musicals from the golden age of Hollywood and yet make the film modern and fresh.

I was sceptical. Musicals aren't really a genre in film anymore. Chicago, Mamma Mia. Sweeney Todd. What else from the last ten years?  Gone are the days where actors could also sing and dance, doing all three things well at the same time. Doing a musical is tough as it is. How the hell was he going to do a new type of musical to win over a non-musical accustomed audience?

I went to an afternoon screening filled with old aged pensioners holding glasses of wine and walking sticks. Usually afternoon screenings are sparse but the cinema was almost full. A guy came in and sat next to me. Immediately he took possession of the arm rest between us.

I saw red. Stubbornly I wedged my arm back onto said armrest so that our elbows were both perched together like angular roosting pigeons. The previews came and went.  The lights dimmed. The film started.

My arm did not move from that armrest.

Vibrant technicolor hues flooded onscreen where tanned people started dancing on top of their cars on a gridlocked highway. All the cars looked cool, not like the ugly monochrome plastic bubbles they make now. The sky on film was vivid blue. I could almost see the shimmer in the air emanating from the heat of hot LA summer's day. I took it casually in whilst having this internal monologue:

I was here first Mister. Why makes you think you have the right to hog the armrest? Because you're a man? Because you're tall? Because you're tall man?  It's so annoying when men do this. Do women do it? No, usually men. Like in swimming pool lanes. Men* are arseholes when swimming in pool lanes. Does testosterone multiply when you're submerged in water. Do you feel my elbow sticking into you? 

Oblivious, the guy seemed absorbed in the film and remained that way for 2.5 hours. He didn't move. And neither did his elbow.

By this time, my own elbow was in pain from being stuck in an awkward position. I decided to distract myself by paying attention to the film. It certainly was gorgeous to look at. The cerulean sky changing to an effervescent mauve draped over the twinkly lights of Hollywood.  Emma Stone's incandescent face and googly eyes drawing you in. The ever present music which was the third character in the film, so much was the mood of this film driven by music. The dancing was a bit blah but I didn't care. The film had a tangible rhythm which made up for it.  The camera techniques employed were reminiscent of old Hollywood with fish eye lens zoom in and out. Shots were framed like Edward Hopper paintings such as:

La La Land film still

La La Land film still

La La Land film still

Early Sunday Morning by Edward Hopper

Nighthawks by Edward Hopper

Quietly and with great charm, the film won me over. I completely forgot about my now frozen elbow and fell headlong into La La Land. An old fashioned story, some might say cliche, of girl-meets-boy, boy-meets-girl, with stars in their eyes, hoping to both make their mark in Hollywood. It is a cliche but who cares. Grounded by two very real and nuanced actors, both fizzing with onscreen chemistry, Damian Chazelle has made a tender, romantic and hopeful film which will charm the pants off you. And if it doesn't, well, there are plenty of other films for you to watch that would not employ those adjectives.

I don't cry often during films but something in La La Land set off  the waterworks, resulting in Wah Wah Land.  After an annus horribilis where the UK voted for fracture instead of unity and where a giant orange wart was voted President of the US of A, it was a tonic to watch something uncomplicated and lovely.

By the end of the film, I wanted to give the guy next to me a hug. I couldn't move my arm, but that's an aside.

That my friends, is the power of art.


And here's to the fools, 

who dream 

Crazy, as they may seem 

Here's to the hearts that break 

Here's to the mess we make

-Audition, La La Land soundtrack

* My intention is not to tar all men with the same brush. I have just observed that after many years in swimming pool lanes that men tend to be much more aggressive in claiming space than women.

Yellow Face

The Husband was making small talk with me last week as we sat in the cinema waiting for the start of Rogue One (which I enjoyed immensely by the way).

If a play is set in China, contains characters that have Chinese names and are described as Chinese, do you think that Chinese actors should be cast in those roles?

What do you mean? I replied. What's the context?

He went on to fill me in on the controversy surrounding a play called In the Depths of Dead Love being staged at The Print Room in Notting Hill.  Written by Howard Barker, the play is set in Ancient China featuring characters that are purportedly Chinese. Here are the characters' names. What do you think?

• Mrs Hu
• Lord Ghang
• Chin
• Lady Hasi

The controversy has arisen because the play's director, Gerrard McArthur has cast an all -Anglo cast with nary a Chinese actor in sight. Andrew Keates, theatre director of the upcoming play, Chinglish, has taken exception to this and drawn media attention to what he considers is inappropriate casting.  In an open letter posted on his Twitter feed, Mr Keates wrote:

Your entire cast are all clearly Caucasian actors when the characters are written to be Chinese. You must not endorse this racist, outdated and unnecessary practice of 'yellowface' and instead find actors who are appropriate.

In response to all the media attention, The Print Room released a statement which claims that although the play is set in China containing characters with Chinese names, that no-one should be offended because the Chinese aspect within the play is just an 'allusion' and was never 'intended to be taken literally.'

Is it all a storm in a teacup? Is Andrew Keates simply using the whitewashing of this play to promote his own play, Chinglish, which does contain British Asian actors. Did Howard Barker never intend for his play to be about Chinese people? And even if he did, shouldn't it be a director's discretion to interpret a play how s/he wishes to? For example, why can't King Lear be a woman if a director wants to cast the role as such? Or Othello Irish for that matter?

Isn't art about vision and interpretation and sometimes, pushing the boundaries of what has gone on before?

I have not read In the Depths of Dead Love (and cannot find a free copy on the web to read) so can't comment on whether I think Barker wrote a play about Chinese people or not. The question begs however that if not, why did he set the play in China with Chinese characters?

It is a fact that Chinese actors are grossly under-represented in Western mainstream theatre and film. Try counting on two hands the number of well-known Chinese actors in mainstream media and you will struggle to find ten. There is no excuse for this apart from the absolute lack of vision on behalf of directors and writers in film and theatre.  The roles for Caucasians are numerous, it is the status quo, whilst roles written specifically for Chinese characters are next to none. It is not an even playing ground. Therefore whilst I think art should be a matter of interpretation, I do believe it is wrong to cast Caucasian actors in roles written for Chinese characters.

Chimerica
One of  the best plays I have seen showcasing an exceptional  British Asian cast

My own experience has led me to this conclusion. Growing up in a Caucasian society, my role models in film and media were Anglo-Saxons. I could not change my heritage however and my heritage is Chinese. There were no parts for a Chinese kid in the school play. I was told I couldn't be Nancy in Oliver. I couldn't be Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. I certainly couldn't be Mary in the nativity play - gasp! Imagine that. I couldn't be any thing apart from a tree perhaps. Maybe I just sucked at acting.

I was still learning about racism when I experienced all of the above. Later on, when studying drama in my twenties, I found that not much had changed. A theatre director told me he could not cast a Chinese person in a Shakespeare play as I was not white. Instead of being angry, I just felt sorry for him. And I told him so.

When I was little and faced rejection from the school plays that I so wished to participate in, I wrote my own plays instead.  And did my own casting and directing. And then we performed these plays for the school. It was very rewarding.

And that really is the sum of it.

Protesting and speaking out is important but only goes so far.

If what you want to see is not available, then make it available.

Work-Life-Balance. Blah.

This work-life balance business is a crock of shit.

It's a catch phrase used to emolliate the jagged edges of a frantic reality when you are trying to juggle it all. Not have it all, because that is a delusion.

Just juggle it all.

The Adriana Huffingtons and Sheryl Sandbergs of this world have published sound bite tomes (Thrive & Lean In respectively) advising women how to navigate this work-life-balance theory. In a nutshell, Arianna advocates sleeping and breathing more and Sheryl's advice is to work more.

Thanks Ladies.

What are the other two 'metrics'?
(ariannahuffington.com/thrive)

Nonetheless both books were bestsellers for a hot second which shows that women of a certain demographic are seeking advice and guidance on how to work, raise families, manage domestic life, prioritise one's health, have some leisure and social pursuits and remain somewhat sane.

I rarely hear men use the work-life--balance catchphrase. Men I know tend to fall into two categories. Those who work and leave the domestic everything to their spouse. Said spouse might work too but tough luck for her. The other category are men who work and are 'hands-on.'  This might mean they do housework, do the school drop-off, pick-up or shop for food and cook it.

I personally dislike the term 'hands-on' when applied to male domestic labour for it implies some kind of altruism on the man's behalf.  Again, it's not a term ever used in relation to women. It's a double standard.

The work-life-balance issue is bothering me more than normal now because I am working more. Not that I ever stopped but when you drop below three days a week, somehow it's not seen as 'work.' It's something you do for pocket money. Yeah, right.

Pretty much every woman I know
(www.ricominciodaquattro.com)

Maybe my mum has the answer when she advises me to, do less, to which my reply is, you are welcome to my laundry. 40c wash please.

Stupidly I agreed to increase my paid work hours in the lead up to Christmas; a time in which domestic chores and social activities quadruple. I get through my days on coffee, sugar and rage.

My husband's work load hasn't changed too much. Maybe a slight increase but nothing requiring Valium.

But why should he need Valium? He didn't source all the birthday and Christmas presents and make sure they are delivered to the recipients. He didn't write and send all the cards. He didn't monitor and plan the family and our child's festive social calendar which now qualifies me to become a airport traffic controller. He doesn't do the doctors, dentist and haircut appointments. He doesn't help out at school. He didn't source any of the houses we have looked at as potential buyers.  He didn't source the family dress up costumes for the Christmas parties ahead. He didn't organise childcare.He didn't look into and plan all the Christmas activities we are doing over the break as a family.

He did get the Christmas tree though. It's huge and too big for our little house.

None of the above is brain surgery. But it requires a lot of brain space.

All throughout November, my head pulsated to an alarming level. I thought I had Martian blood. Every woman I spoke to said the same. Next year we should all get t-shirts that read:

My Head is Exploding. Duck.

Amongst all this jolliness, I'm trying to write a book.  About a mum who is negotiating the work-life-balance dilemma so she can be at home with her daughter and husband, although her career (and passion) means she needs travel for long periods.

But my current work-life-balance is preventing me from writing.

And so is this rant.

Leonard Cohen

Leonard Cohen is dead. 

He, along with Tom Waits are my favourite lyricists. I had the great fortune to see him in concert a few years back when he was forced to tour after being robbed of millions by his ex -manager. He was in his late 70s but you wouldn't have known it. The showmanship. The voice. It was perfection really, if you believe in such a thing.

He left a profound legacy. For me, he left words that never fail to illuminate the darkness.

Such as the words to his song, Anthem, which after Trunp's victory, resonate and... resonate.

The birds they sang at the break of day

Start again I heard them say

Don’t dwell on what has passed away

or what is yet to be.

Ah the wars they will be fought again

The holy dove she will be caught again

bought and sold  and bought again

the dove is never free.

Ring the bells that still can ring

Forget your perfect offering

There is a crack in everything

That’s how the light gets in.

We asked for signs the signs were sent:

the birth betrayed the marriage spent

Yeah the widowhood of every government –

signs for all to see.

I can’t run no more with that lawless crowd

while the killers in high places say their prayers out loud.

But they’ve summoned, they’ve summoned up a thundercloud

and they’re going to hear from me.

Ring the bells that still can ring …

You can add up the parts but you won’t have the sum

You can strike up the march, there is no drum

Every heart, every heart to love will come

but like a refugee.

Ring the bells that still can ring

Forget your perfect offering

There is a crack, a crack in everything

That’s how the light gets in.

RIP

Donald Trump: President of the United States of America

What, the fuck?

Only time will reveal the consequences of this choice, not only for America but the world at large.

Some people I have spoken to are hopeful that it won't be that bad. 

Others are more despairing. The first American I encountered post result was masquerading as Canadian. Given the fact that the Canadian immigration website has crashed, it seems that it is the Mounties that need a big wall built to keep out the flood of US emigrants.

Hope is a good thing. Denial is not. There's a fine line between the two.

I sat with Dragon and we watched Trump's acceptance speech together.  I cried and she asked me why. I explained that I did not like him. I listed the reasons. Maybe I should not have explained sexism and racism to a young child who has had little exposure to these realities. Let her stay in her bubble for a little while longer.

It was not a normal morning though. And I have always tried to answer Dragon honestly, if appropriately, when she asks any question.

Later on that evening, we watched Hilary Clinton's concession speech together. I cried again. And then Dragon turned to me and said:

I wish I was white. That I had white skin.

There are moments in life when time stands still. This was one of them. The emotion I felt was cataclysmic.

Why?

Because Donald Trump is unkind to people who are not white.

Despair, regret, pain, fear, compassion, fortitude, anger, sadness. I cannot articulate how that moment felt.

The Western first world has changed and it will be Dragon's generation that bears the legacy of the decisions being made. I do not want her to grow up burdened. I do not want her to grow up unprepared.

I do not have the answers but I have no choice but to unravel my way through this maze we now face.

Courage. We will need it.

Dance, Dance, Dance!

I was dancing with Dragon in our hallway to, Can't Stop The Feeling, by Justin Timberlake. Dragon was flailing about, wriggling her hips, arms and legs. I was following suit. We were having fun. Dancing with kids is a panacea for what ails you.

I've been thinking about middle aged dancing of late. Mum and Dad dancing have become common cultural phrases. From Ed Balls strutting his stuff on Strictly to Michelle Obama sending herself up on Jimmy Kimmel, dancing after a certain age or period of life segues into old person dancing. While dancing in your teens or twenties is seen as freedom of expression, sexiness, rhythmicality and physicality, dancing in your late thirties and beyond can be regarded as a bit frumpy, a bit uncool. It might feel the same for you, the person dancing, but there is cultural shift in how your moves are viewed.  Who is judging you? Twenty year olds? Your children? Other adults? I don't know. Yet us 'oldies' still keep at it. At Dragon's school, myself and some other parents are attending a street dance class together in en masse expression of mumanddad dancing. We will shake the rafters and bring down the house. You can stare but we just don't care!

Recently a friend mentioned her discomfort at seeing seventy-one year old Lesley Joseph perform on Strictly Come Dancing.

Why were you uncomfortable? I asked. Was she not very good?

She was very good. It's just weird seeing a 70 year old dancing sexily. It made me uncomfortable. I don't know why. We'll all get there one day.

Is it because she was dancing in a twenty year old 'sexy' way rather than a seventy year old 'sexy' way?

Which begs the question - what does a seventy year old dancing sexily look like? Should it look any different to a twenty year old ? Why are the same dance moves that are acceptable at twenty not at seventy? Or are we just not used to seeing it on a seventy year old body?

I think about this because I am someone who dances. I do wonder now in my forties whether I should be pulling the same moves as I did in my twenties. Ageism surrounds dance. Yet the boundaries around dance are socially constructed. So why is ageing discriminated against in the free dance arena? The fact that we can move at all should be celebrated.

Dancing, for me, irrespective of age, has usually been a direct connection to joy. A symbiotic expression of musicality, sensuality, personality and sinuosity. As we age, our experiences of these qualities become more profound. You would think that this would be reflected in the way we boogie. That our dancing becomes enriched with experience and age. Not defiled and mocked because of it. Let's be honest. To be able to move to music when your joints ache and muscles strain is a triumph.

As Justin sings:

I got this feeling, inside my bones. It goes electric, wavy, when I switch it on.

Keep it switched on people. Don't turn it off.

No Man's Land

I have a list of performers I would like to see before they die. Maybe this is just presumptuous. Perhaps I will die before Bob Dylan or Tina Turner but irrespective of who carks it first, there are performers I wish my living flesh to bear witness to. Onstage.

Ian McKellen is one such performer. I first saw him play a South African squillionaire in Six Degrees of Separation; one of my favorite movies.  Ever after he was an actor I followed from Gods and Monsters to Richard III to, of course, Gandalf.  Talk about being born to play a part.

Love that Gandalf stare

When it was announced that he was partnering with Patrick Stewart for the play, No Man's Land at the Wyndham Theatre, I whooped. Then made my way like a bat out of hell (excuse the Meatloaf lyric) to the nearest computer to get me some tickets.

Much poorer after said ticket purchase, I decided to not read anything about the play, so as to have a completely fresh experience on the night.

When we arrived at the theatre, I was so excited I sat in the wrong seat. Once corrected, I chatted to my companions how great it was to be so close to the stage. We were two rows from the front so would see every wrinkle, every sweat bead. We would see the acting.  I perused the programme and began to regret not reading about the play beforehand.  It seemed that this Pinter play was the type that likes to mess with your mind.

The curtain rose and there they were. Two old men. It crossed my mind that if I was a man, I would like to age as well as these two have. McKellen was in full flight as Spooner, the man who in the course of the play would mess with the mind of Hirst, Patrick Stewart's character.  During the first act, I managed to keep up with the dialogue that was flying about between the two of them; both playing drunk characters getting progressively drunker. They must have been very good because I started feeling a little drunk myself. The venue was warm. It was the first time all day I had sat down and relaxed. And then a terrible thing happened.

I started to fall asleep.

My eyelids drooped. Ian and Patrick disappeared from sight.

Noooo. I urged myself. Keep awake.

Doggedly I forced myself to affect a Clockwork Orange-esque wide eye stare. Eyes on Ian. Eyes on Patrick.

I did this

You cannot fall asleep so close to the front.
The actors will see you. 
Ian McKellen will think you hate his acting.
Who pays £70 to go to the theatre to fall asleep?

I managed to stay awake through the first act.  But as the surreal plot unwound during the second act, I felt my traitor eyelids drooping. This time there was no fighting it. I might as well have been shot in the bum by a tranquilizer gun. I was out for the count.

Remarkably, I do remember seeing this bit 

The Husband kept nudging me in the ribs.

Patrick Stewart is looking at you, he whispered, more loudly than was necessary. Wake up!

Mortification is not an emotion I often feel at the theatre. But falling asleep during No Man's Land with such fine actors are performing at a hairs breadth in front of me was exactly that.

Mortifying.

During the curtain call I clapped so enthusiastically my palms stung. No-one clapped harder than me. I was awake by this time and was impressed to see McKellen completely transform out of character as soon as the play ended. Just as obviously as if he was taking off a jacket. It was transfixing.

Too little, too late?

Not really. It was worth it.

Fail Again. Fail Better

So said Samuel Beckett.

I used to have this quote on a greeting card which I pinned up near my desk at home.

It served as a reminder that, as the 1980's philosopher Billy Ocean sang,

When the going gets tough, the tough get going. Oooh Oooh 

Since I escaped from Hell, I mean, left my last job, I have been extremely picky in job hunting. Two or three days a week in the film or literary sector. Nothing with too much responsibility but also with enough stimulation to prevent brain rot. Admittedly there are not many jobs out there which fit my criteria so applications have not exactly been pouring forth from me.

Since June I've had three interviews. The first one was for an arts charity based in Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. The charity's aim is to develop a programme of art events for hospital patients to assist in their recovery. The timing of my interview was ironic. I myself had been in hospital the day prior for a minor procedure involving general anaesthetic. In hindsight I probably should have said No to the interview but as they say, when opportunity knocks....

No surprises that I did not get that job. I think I was speaking English during the interview but your guess is as good as mine.

Following that there were no interesting jobs on the horizon. I started temping to keep one foot wedged in the doorway of work.

Then a deluge (actually, there were two) of part-time film jobs with medium-level responsibility flooded my inbox. I duly answered the same ten boring questions that all employers seem to ask on any job application form. A few weeks later I was asked to interview for jobs at the BFI and IntoFilm.

Well...

What is there to say about the BFI. If you live in the UK and know even a little about film, you will know the BFI. Many years ago, a much younger version of myself applied for a job with them and was rejected. Surely lightning couldn't strike twice.

IntoFilm is a film charity that does excellent working promoting access to and engagement with film right around the UK for youth aged 5-19.

Man, I sweated over the interview preparations.  I knew there would be at least one film question. I asked Facebook friend's to tell me what their favourite British films were. I reread all the film blogs I have written. I looked over my old programming material from my days working at the FTI.  Since I started rearing a child my film consumption has diminished considerably. Gone are the days when I would see up to four films a week in the cinema. Nowadays I get to the cinema maybe once a fortnight.  Which is not bad for the average person but would it be enough for the BFI cineastes'?

It wasn't.

Yesterday the BFI  emailed to say that I did not get the job. It was a kick to the guts as those doors to the BFI have been slammed twice in my face now. Then about ten minutes after that cheerful news came the rejection email from IntoFilm.

Aiiyaiyaiyaiyai!

Did I perform badly in both interviews? Was I over qualified? Am I too old for the entry level positions I am applying for? Or were the interviews just a performative time wasting process for all. Was someone already lined up for the role?

Or am I just a sore loser?

On request, the BFI gave me interview feedback. They said I was a strong candidate amongst ten strong candidates. Supposedly I was one of the strongest candidate's but someone stronger got the role. The feedback made me feel like I had lost an arm wrestle with an octopus.

Failure is a very different thing at 42 than at 22. In your twenties the horizon seems endless; possibilities infinite. If you fail at 22, you wait for the next opportunity you assume is coming. At 42, failure fucking sucks. Time and energy is not on your side. You hope you are still alive when the next opportunity comes; if it comes at all. At 42, you realise not everything works out the way you thought it would.

Let me in you fuckers!

Mr Beckett urges greater failure. Greater effort. No matter the failure, Just work towards the next one. Eventually you will get there he implies.

Would you trust this man's advice?

Is there sense to bashing one's head against a brick wall a la Beckett style? In this case the impenetrable doors of the BFI?

We'll see. Watch this space.

Captain Fantastic

Viggo, aaah Veeeeeego.

Loved him in Eastern Promises. Loved him in A History of Violence. Loved him in The Road. The Two Faces of January. Good. The list goes on.  

And yes, loved him in LOTR. Who knew someone called Aragorn could be sexy?

For weeks leading up to its premiere, I saw posters for Viggo's new flick Captain Fantastic everywhere. So often did I see this poster that I started to wonder if I was hallucinating.

The Poster

Admittedly there are worse things in life to see than a shaggy Viggo kitted out in a retro red suit.  Dead rats. Nigel Farage's face. An empty Cadbury's chocolate wrapper.

The mass advertising campaign worked a treat for as soon as the film came out in my local cinema, I was bunkered down, ready to spend the afternoon with Veegs and his fake film children. I had read that the film centred around the complexities of a father trying to raise his brood of children off-grid; a return to nature existence combined with Chomsky-esqe home schooling. 

I've always been fascinated by people who choose to carve out a lifestyle different to the 'mainstream' and the challenges they face. Having known several families doing this very thing, I was curious to see how the film would depict this lifestyle and what message it would impart. And the fact that Viggo was in it certainly didn't hurt. Or am I just repeating myself?

The tone of the film was different to what I had expected. From the poster design, I had anticipated a Wes Anderson-type film with quirks and curious characters. Instead I found Captain Fantastic much more meditative and reflective. The first half was essentially a Captain Von Trapp militaristic fantasy of how to raise children in the forest naked but with no singing nun. But for all the liberal leanings of Ben Cash (Veeg's character), his approach was essentially that of a despot or fascist; the very paradigm that he was rallying against.

Wes Anderson movie poster. Similar right?

His character reminded me of certain people I have met in the past. In particular one guy called Gympie who rejected all mainstream leanings. He lived and travelled around the country on his 'Magic Bus' with his consort of female partners and various children. Shrouding his fascism under the guise of mysticism and anti consumerism, I watched him manipulate situations for his own gain. He was a Class A prat and a study in self deception.

For me the film came into its own when Cash's' tightly controlled world crashes into mainstream reality when his children realise there is more to the world than Russian literature and five am yoga drills. Mortensen's depiction of a good man grappling with the contradictions in his belief system alone, is worth seeing the film for. As he struggles with the cracks in his idealism against his love for his kids; the film shows that the lives we lead, no matter what ideas they are founded upon; are ever changing and constantly complex.

Aaaah Viggo, you did it again.