Tag: Timothy Cooke

  • Iain Sinclair helps retrace poet’s journey for new documentary

    The cast of By Our Selves
    By Our Selves cast, taken using a pin-hole camera. Photograph: Andrew Kotting

    History remembers John Clare as a troubled ‘peasant poet’, an obsessive romantic-era wordsmith who penned more than three and a half thousand pieces over 70 years. He wrote, among other things, about the subtle wonders of the natural world and how the land enclosures of his time frustrated his experience thereof.

    Born to a labourer in Helpston, Northampton, he was a rambler, a man of the fields. In 1841, after a four-year stint of fairly benevolent internment in a progressive Epping Forest asylum, he trudged 80 miles home – almost four days with no food and not a penny to his name. In the weeks that followed, he wrote a manic prose account of his ‘Journey Out Of Essex’, a document of memory and delusion, loss and longing.

    Hackney-based writer and chronic walker Iain Sinclair echoed the poet’s infamous trek for his 2005 book Edge of the Orison. It was an escape from his eternal circuit of the M25 (London Orbital). He recently convinced his artist-filmmaker friend Andrew Kötting to take a camera to the route and make something more of Clare’s terrible journey. The result is By Our Selves, a hazy, Herzogian work in progress starring Toby Jones and his father, Freddie.

    Having raised £20,345 through a Kickstarter crowdfunding campaign, the film previewed at Hackney Picturehouse last month and is a welcome addition to a growing field of work in response to Clare’s life.

    “I guess in a way the credit for the film should be given to Iain,” says Kötting. “He started badgering me a couple of years ago. He suggested that perhaps we could make a film around his book Edge of the Orison, and I’d read it and in fact it was one of my favourite Sinclair books. It was the first book I’d read of his where he was digging into the autobiographical.”

    He explains that on revisiting the text, he was beguiled by an image of a man in a suit holding a rope attached to a straw bear, a ritual that Sinclair sheds light on before the preview.

    “Somebody dresses up as a shamanic straw bear,” he says, “and they dance around the pubs of Whittlesey, a brick-making town, and then on the second morning they burn the bear. Andrew suddenly thought that if he performed as the straw bear and he accompanied John Clare on the road it would be really interesting, and from that moment he was right up for it. That defined the film.”

    Beach Eden
    Still from By Our Selves

    A feverishly experimental documentary, By Our Selves sees Jones, Kötting and Sinclair ghosting through a middle-English landscape of hedgerows and wind farms, with Sinclair – dark-suited and goat-masked – reading excerpts from Clare’s journal.

    Fragments of sound from other films and recordings add to a hallucinatory atmosphere. “John Clare was a minor nature poet who went mad,” flickers throughout.

    It’s a stunning piece built on connections, coincidence and déjà vu – an introverted work, with Jones, as the poet, silent, given a voice by his real-life father’s trembling renditions.

    Sinclair, whose book details his own significant links to Clare, explains: “The interesting thing was that Toby’s father, Freddie Jones, this terrific actor, had acted John Clare on TV in 1970. Toby was four years old and his father was playing John Clare and his mother Mrs Clare, and of course he goes off into an asylum in the end and Toby was freaked out by this.

    “I think out of respect for what his father had done he wanted to take part. So the father and son are haunting each other… There were very strong connections and all these things came into play as we went along the road.”

    Kötting elaborates: “We hatched this idea that Toby wouldn’t have to say anything, he would just be with us and he would be ventriloquised by his dad. That only came about because I went and met Freddie with Iain and he was so enthusiastic about the project. We got him to read ‘Journey Out Of Essex’, so we had a voice that could possess a younger John Clare.

    “It’s that duality you get throughout the film, you know, the father and son, the heaven and the earth, the human versus the animal – there are lots of dualities at work in the piece.”

    Kötting is a rare breed of filmmaker. While he’s an eccentric performer, a larger-than-life, frenetic comedian, the spaces in which his films unfold are, on the surface, quieter and more tranquil – but no less mysterious: the River Thames in Swandown, the Pyrenees in the beautiful This Our Still Life. He cuts a fine balance between contemplative poetry and absurdist hilarity, unearthing a strange energy wherever he goes.

    Of his roving approach to gathering material, Kötting says: “I’ve often felt that it’s such an easy way of doing things and it flies in the face of structures. What I find is, as with Iain’s writing, you turn the page and you could end up in Africa, or contemplating land enclosures, next thing you’re at a funeral, you know, you’ve no idea where you might be from one page to the next.”

    Although humour has “infested” much of Kötting’s work, this latest piece, he explains, is perhaps his most emotional and pensive film to date. “I made the decision in the edit suite to try and coax out the spookiness. Ultimately it became a far more tense, melancholic drift of a piece than I imagined it would have done, and a lot of that is given over to trying to enter into the mindset of John Clare. I don’t think he was a happy man – he was always battling his demons.”

    That’s not to say there’s no trace of his signature comedy: a conversation between Sinclair and graphic novelist Alan Moore, musing on a Northampton life, is laugh-out-loud hilarious; so, too, is the moment a passer-by on a mobility scooter is told, on enquiring, that they’re filming John Clare. “That’s not John Clare,” he cries, aghast.

    Ultimately, though, By Our Selves is a serious and successful film about following the footsteps of an obscure literary figure, confronting madness, the politics of the English countryside and a whole lot more. It’s another curious collaboration between two of the UK’s most interesting artists, forever tramping the ley lines.

    @byourselves_

  • Bromance explores male intimacy on the streets of Shoreditch

    Bromance
    Wrapped up in each other: a still from Bromance

    Running for just two minutes and 53 seconds, Bromance might seem like a challenge to write about, but it’s not.

    This strange film from photographer-cum-director Bertil Nilsson is packed with ideas and style.

    The piece opens with three male friends meeting in a grey East London street. They shake hands and proceed to wrap themselves around one another, entwining their arms and tangling their bodies together.

    This obscure warm-up routine sees the characters exploring each other’s personal space with complete trust and comfort, both of which are pivotal to what follows.

    With the thump of ‘One Loopy Beat’ by Mikaël Bres rising from the hushed sounds of city traffic, we join the half-naked trio in a brilliantly lit and high-ceilinged kitchen as they practise daring acrobatic feats, boldly reimagining the limits of domestic space.

    Played by members of the Barely Methodical Troupe – an experimental circus group – the artists communicate their closeness through movement and contact; Nilsson notches up the volume as flesh slaps against flesh so that every contact is heard and felt.

    As the pace increases, the camera returns to the streets where the leads come tumbling in twists and somersaults along the pavement, helped along by each other’s physical gestures of friendship and support.

    Amongst all the fun of the high-energy tricks and manoeuvres, a poetic thread runs throughout. Nilsson’s work looks at the body and what it can do and say in unfamiliar environments. The shots are gorgeous and the emotional delivery utterly unique.

    Half music video and half abstract documentary, Bromance is a cool, sensitive short film about friendship and intimacy – it’s like nothing before it.

    Bromance from Bertil Nilsson on Vimeo.

  • Jem Cohen: ‘By some standards I’m kind of invisible’

    Hunk
    Portrait of Jem Cohen

    In a small screen at the back of the Whitechapel Gallery, a group of keen cinephiles awaits the address of Jem Cohen, a veteran New York-based filmmaker who has made more than 70 idiosyncratic works over three fruitful decades on the job. It’s an early part of a two-month retrospective entitled Compass and Magnet, with events also taking place at the Barbican and Hackney Picturehouse.

    Cohen has produced diary films, city portraits, essay films and collaborated with an extraordinary list of musicians – crossing and blending disciplines with pioneering spirit. On this occasion he’s introducing Museum Hours, perhaps his most accessible and well-known work to date.

    “You can walk into a museum and in its way it can miss,” he tells us. “Something has to come together, things have to meet…”

    And they do. The film is a subtle and moving expression of enormous ambition. Ideas about time, image, memory, art, artefact, displacement, friendship, experience, history and much more, are hung on a sweet narrative thread that runs through the corridors of the Kunsthistorisches Museum and out into the streets of Vienna.

    The following evening, Cohen takes leave of an East End pub to chat for an hour. He tells me more about the film: “It refuses to follow certain rules about what a narrative is and how a narrative is supposed to function, and it insists that the environment, the locations, the ideas and the characters are all equally important.”

    This kind of approach is indicative of Cohen’s dedication to making films that don’t lock into one specific form; Museum Hours is particularly interesting in this regard.

    Arriving in an unfamiliar city to tend the bedside of a dying cousin, Anne (Mary Margaret O’Hara) is comforted by a chance meeting with a kind museum attendant (Bobby Sommer). One would be forgiven for expecting a romance, but as the lure of familiar storytelling takes hold, Cohen quickly pulls it away and the piece shatters into something far more interesting: a strange hybrid of documentary and fiction that’s both affecting and real.

    Those familiar with Cohen’s wider body of work will recognise the importance of music, which is heavily hinted at in the casting of musician O’Hara, whose character sings quietly but crucially.

    Museum Hours. Jem Cohen. Photograph: Mark
    Jem Cohen filming Museum Hours in Vienna. Photograph: Mark

    “Music has always been absolutely vital to me since I was a little kid, but I’m not a musician so I had to find other ways to get at musical experience,” he says. “I’m often inspired as much by music, painting or poetry as I am by other cinema, but I also think it’s something that film can aspire to – it can be a kind of music.”

    He goes on: “It’s something that’s woven into our lives – it doesn’t have to be something that only celebrities get to do. There are a lot of people who sing in their kitchens and might sing very beautifully, but we’ll never get to hear them. It’s the act of doing it that might help them to be in the world, and I think that’s very much what’s happening with Mary’s character in the film.”

    This elevation of the finer details permeates much of Cohen’s work and is a particularly key element of his observations of the city – whichever city that may be.

    “I just feel strongly that there is always a city that is entirely separate from the one tourists are led to, and that goes for any city,” he says. “In terms of Vienna, I was just reflecting my experience, going on random walks and tube rides, or opening the door of an unknown bar and stumbling onto one of the film’s most important locations.”

    Raised first in Kabul and then Washington DC, Cohen moved to New York in the mid-80s, “when it was just at the tail end of a very rough period”, he explains. “It’s problematic to romanticise a city that is in rough shape in terms of crime and infrastructure falling apart. But there was a sense of mystery and possibility that had to do with people of all kinds going to New York to be able to have some freedom.”

    He continues: “It’s kind of a great dark magnet throughout history where people could get away from parochial, predictable circumstances and enter into this sort of wild place.”

    He then draws a comparison between the rise of real estate in New York and the current property crisis in London. But he is quick to stress the resilience of cities like these – both of which he is very fond.

    Jem Cohen filming Museum Hours. Photograph: Paolo
    Jem Cohen filming Museum Hours. Photograph: Paolo

    “New York, when I ride the subway, is still an incredible mix of people and that’s what makes it an interesting place above all. And I feel the same way about London. I don’t see that they are really going to able to scrub New York and London entirely clean, but god damn they will try.”

    There is passion and sensitivity in almost everything Cohen says, and he delivers his thoughts with care and precision. With this in mind, it seemed strange that the Guardian should describe him as somebody who categorically “hates indie films”.

    “I don’t hate indie films,” he says. “‘Indie’ is just one of those words that has become sort of meaningless – it’s not about something that one needs to hate, it’s more about it not meaning anything. It’s like using the word ‘alternative’ in regard to music – it just doesn’t have any particular concrete value anymore to say that.”

    And what if people want to call his films indie? “My filmmaking is done as far from commercial Hollywood as possible, but I haven’t been part of the Sundance world either. So by some standards I’m kind of invisible. But if you keep at it for 25, 30 years and make 70 films, sooner or later people realise you’re there. I don’t really care that much what people call it – if they need to call it indie then that’s not a big deal.”

    And finally, I ask, why call the season Compass and Magnet?

    “The main reason is that it amused me because I’m lost all the time,” he says. “For someone who travels a lot and films all the time, it’s just kind of funny and absurd that I am so poor with directions. And magnet of course is just because the basic premise of doing one’s work is to find out what things in the world call out and what things one is attracted to – what things stick.”

    Jem Cohen: Compass and Magnet is at the Whitechapel Gallery, the Barbican and Hackney Picturehouse until 28 May.

    barbican.org.uk
    whitechapelgallery.org
    picturehouses.com/cinema/Hackney_Picturehouse

     

  • Stoke Newington animator’s new film is an analogy for modern Britain

    Island mentalities: Robert Bradbrook's animated
    Island mentalities: Dead Air. Image courtesy of Robert Bradbrook

    Stoke Newington-based animator Robert Bradbrook has been busy of late. As well as balancing a job at the National Film School, teaching at Middlesex University and a role working on the film Tony Benn: Will and Testament, he last October saw his most recent short premiere at the London Film Festival.

    Dead Air is a fable for modern Britain. A quiet island community, untouched and content in its isolation, is thrown into a state of quiet paranoia when a bridge built to the mainland brings with it the threat of an unknowable future. New arrival DJ Pete (Jonah Russell), with his irreverent radio show, is enough to tip the priggish locals towards hysteria.

    But, as Bradbrook makes clear, change is constant and those who try to resist it need only stop for a moment and take a look around.

    “It’s just the idea of a community that thinks it’s been the same all the time, but in fact it’s always been evolving,” he explains enthusiastically, taking a breather from a work Christmas party to chat over the phone. “The idea came from when the Channel Tunnel arrived and there were all these fears about what it might bring.”

    Rocky start

    Change and landscape are integral to Bradbrook’s vision. Having studied geology as an undergraduate, before turning his attention to cartography and then film, he was keen to integrate his early studies into his work.

    As such, he’s created a world in which the coastal features – the cliffs, hills and beaches – shift and reshape in an exaggerated way, mirroring the society that we, and his characters, live in.

    “I’ve always had this background of rocks and the landscape and things like that, so there was a kind of joy in bringing that original degree back into the game,” he says. “It’s like I’ve built this world in animation and now I can do whatever I like with it – I can move through time.

    “Often we’ll look at something and it looks a bit still, and then we’ll change the time rate, speed it up and we can actually see that it’s moving, so things that look really static are in fact forever changing.”

    While the topography tells its own story, a more conventional narrative unfolds on air during DJ Pete’s live phone-ins. In contrast to the fluster of calls from concerned locals, Laura (Victoria Bewick), who works at a mushroom factory, welcomes the newcomer – and the future – with open arms and an optimistic outlook.

    Hers is a view that Bradbrook shares: “The underlying message of the film is a hopeful one. Communities have been developing and people have been arriving from faraway places since the year dot. In essence, it’s not something to worry about.”

    It seems that living in Hackney has played a part in shaping the ideas behind the film, I suggest. He whole-heartedly agrees.

    “Hackney is a community that is just completely mixed, everyone is from various places around the world and clearly it’s my view that that’s a good thing, it’s worth celebrating.

    “The hero of the film is this girl. Whilst everyone’s moaning and worrying about change, she’s like ‘no, it’s brilliant, it’s fantastic – we’re going to get lots of different things coming here.’ And so it’s almost a celebration of what Hackney is, in a funny sort of way.”

    With all the hard work on Dead Air complete, and no little praise coming from those who have already seen it, Bradbrook is content to watch it do the rounds on the festival circuit. “It’s the nice bit,” he says.

    Currency of favours

    Having finished the project with considerable help from friends, he’s now busy returning the goodwill. In what’s a difficult period financially for filmmaking, he’s pleased to be part of a community of artists who operate on a currency of favours.

    “In this day and age it costs so much money to make these films,” he explains. “I was lucky to get small bits of funding from here and there, but you can’t make a film on that funding, so you have to find another way. One of the ways is that you work on someone else’s film for nothing and then
    they return the favour and it carries
    on like that.

    “It’s exciting because it means that all we want to do is make films and be involved in films and it allows you to do that.”

    bradfilms.co.uk

  • Iain Sinclair unpacks life in 70 films for new book – review

    Iain Sinclair at the launch of 70x70. Photograph: Laura Bradley
    Iain Sinclair at the launch of 70×70. Photograph: Laura Bradley

    Something about Iain Sinclair’s latest book screams of a serious author having some serious fun. 70×70 – Unlicensed Preaching: A Life Unpacked In 70 Films is a deliciously poetic documentation of a sprawling curation project that does exactly what it says on the tin, and then some.

    In celebration of his 70th birthday – and in response to a suggestion made by King Mob’s Paul Smith – the Hackney wordsmith rummaged through his own back catalogue in search of traces of works he’s hunted, happened upon, made and admired. From it, he pulled a film for every year to date, weaving together a rich sort of cultural autobiography.

    Over the next 12 months, Sinclair screened all 70 films in a series of special events across the city, trekking out to obscure parts of town to talk about everything from Douglas Sirk’s wonderful Tarnished Angels to Patricio Guzmán’s jaw-dropping Nostalgia for the Light.

    With the mammoth undertaking done and dusted, Unlicensed Preaching represents something of a project journal.

    The book is split into two main parts: the first a collection of short passages offering nutritious insight into each of the films concerned, and the second a record of the events held, comprising Sinclair’s intros, transcripts of conversations, and contributions from friends and collaborators, such as Alan Moore, Chris Petit and Andrew Kötting.

    The essays in the first section are sure to delight anyone with a modicum of interest in film. Whether or not you’ve seen the material is of minor significance. Reading about Kiefer Sutherland making “a pass at that cryogenic Burroughs voice of world-weary cynicism” opposite Courtney Love’s “emboldened” Joan Vollmer in Beat – and what it is about this bizarre feature that works – is fascinating, regardless of prior knowledge.

    Reading about directors you are more likely to have preconceptions of – like Godard, Sirk, Welles and Hitchcock – is an education, but perhaps most interesting are the commentaries on Sinclair’s own work and that of his friends. An extended piece on his collaboration with Petit and Susan Stenger on Marine Court Rendezvous – “where the silenced dead catch up with their fugitive souls” – is simply marvellous. And the same goes for his thoughts on Kötting’s stunning This Our Still Life.

    The second section expands on the reasoning behind his choices and furthers the intrigue. We learn about things like the “collaging and bricolage of sounds”, the spillage as “projects leak into each other”, and much more. He loosely situates each film within both a personal and wider cultural landscape, with key figures and ideas popping up over and again.

    This unclassifiable book knits a complex tapestry of history, memory, documentary and fiction in a way that those familiar with Sinclair’s writing will surely recognise. His sentences are often dense and always thrilling to roll your tongue around. But his ideas on the past, present and future of cinema are what remain, steadfast and long after reading.

    70×70: Unlicensed Preaching: A Life Unpacked in 70 Films is published by Volcano Publishing. ISBN: 9780992643454. RRP: £25

  • James Lucas: ‘I’d like to produce a film that’s stylish, unflinching, slightly feral and entertaining’

    Wheel success: James Lucas. Photograph:
    New script: James Lucas

    Having notched up some serious critical acclaim with his first venture, The Phone Call, local screenwriter James Lucas has turned to the streets of Hackney for his latest work in progress. Thus far, the script for the intriguingly titled Bohemian Motorcycle Club is just about finished and makes for a riveting read.

    “Its about a disillusioned young advertising exec called Ed,” explains Lucas. “He gets drawn into an exciting world of choppers, liquor and women via a fledgling motorcycle club, The Bohemians. He sees an opportunity, applies some of his skillset to the club and helps them to make money.

    “Unfortunately, hard partying, a forbidden love affair and the entrance of an outlaw biker gang precipitate a descent into criminality and violence.”

    A passionate motorcycle enthusiast himself, Lucas took inspiration from two of his friends who founded the refreshingly inclusive East London-based biker brand Black Skulls.

    “I love motorbikes so I was immediately drawn in by the rumble of engines and the line up of bikes outside their garage. My imagination began racing and I thought a biker gang based in Hackney was a very original basis for a film.”

    The script suggests something of a Spaghetti Western set in amongst the trendy, creative terrain of the modern-day East End – still rough and endearingly ragged round the edges. It presents a clutch of brand new Hackney characters that haven’t previously seen the light of day on screen, and is laced with local insight and profound authenticity.

    Perhaps also demonstrating a sense of tiredness with the tedium of the day-to-day corporate world, it seems in part to be about taking a risk, branching out and trying something brave and a little bit wild.

    “I look at the burgeoning custom bike scene here in Hackney and across the globe and I see it as an interesting way to view London – almost like looking at it through an oil-smudged pair of eyes. It’s this fresh approach I’m excited about and I’d like to produce a film that’s all at once stylish, unflinching, slightly feral and entertaining.”

    On first impressions, it would appear to mark quite a departure from the stark and glorious simplicity of The Phone Call – an engrossing short that focuses entirely on a single phone conversation between Sally Hawkins and a troubled Jim Broadbent. But for Lucas there are definite similarities.

    The Phone Call is a very soulful tale and if you peel back the Screaming Eagle mufflers and tattoos in Bohemian Motorcycle Club, underneath you’ll find it’s similarly a story about human connection and drama. Empathy seems to be a common thread in my writing.”

    With his first short standing a good chance of an Oscar nomination early next year and plans to start making Bohemian Motorcycle Club in 2015, it’s an exciting time for this talented Hackney writer. He’s also working on a psychosexual thriller TV series, The Chameleon, and he’s some way into a Paul Gascoigne biopic that’s now in official development. With his plate stacked high and heavy, how’s he coping with the pressure?

    “I think the success of The Phone Call has galvanised me to continue writing and producing compelling film. In terms of pressure, come back to me when Bohemian Motorcycle Club goes into pre-production. I’ll probably be on serious meds by then.”

  • Jack London goes down and out in The People of the Abyss

    People of the Abyss
    “Court Yard Salvation Army Barracks Sunday Morning Rush – men who had tickets given them during the night for free breakfast.” Photograph from The People of the Abyss

    “For the English, so far as manhood and womanhood and health and happiness go, I see a broad and smiling future. But for a great deal of the political machinery, which at present mismanages for them, I see nothing else than the scrap heap.”

    Roughly 30 years before Victor Gallancz published the fruits of George Orwell’s destitute adventures either side of the English Channel, Jack London’s unflinching portrayal of The People of the Abyss (1903) first came to print. Well over a century on and his taut account of tramping the then disgracefully poor avenues of the East End has been rereleased by Tangerine Press and comes with an extraordinary stock of the author’s original photographic plates.

    Evocative of Jacob Riis’s seminal work on How the Other Half Lives, London’s socialist expose is red raw and scathing of the powers that be. Slipping beneath the pomp of the British Empire at its opulent peak, the San Francisco native – who would later pen White Fang and The Call of the Wild – traded his wealth and comfort for a suit of secondhand rags, sinking willingly into what he presents as a festering pit of despair and degradation.

    “We rolled along through miles of bricks and squalor, and from each cross street and alley flashed long vistas of bricks and misery,” he writes early on. “Here and there lurched a drunken man or woman, and the air was obscene with sounds of jangling and squabbling.” It’s an ugly picture that grows and darkens with each engrossing chapter.

    The text works something like a montage, with London’s short but weighty anecdotes delivered in desperately passionate prose. We join him as he wanders the streets and dosshouses with cheerless companions, scoffing foul hospital leftovers and sipping pints of ‘skilly’ – a coarse “fluid concoction of three quarts of oatmeal stirred into three buckets and a half of hot water”.

    The material is uncomfortably harsh and offers a brutal dissection of early 20th-century morality and law. “Here then we have the construction of the Abyss and the shambles,” the author explains. “Throughout the whole industrial fabric a constant elimination is going on. The inefficient are weeded out and flung downward.” He proceeds to detail various circumstances that might make an unfortunate person “inefficient”, thus becoming a part of his wretched statistic that one in every three working adults would die on public charity.

    London also attacks the absurdity of policemen who would forcibly prevent the homeless from sleeping at night – preferring them to wander like zombies in the moonlight – and details the hopelessness of the old whose children were either dead or otherwise unable to support them. It’s stirring stuff, to say the least.

    It’s hard, though, not to suspect the author of exaggeration. But, as Iain Sinclair’s measured and typically insightful introduction supports, this is not necessarily a fair criticism: “The People of the Abyss is intentionally shocking,” Sinclair writes. “Much of Jack London’s material, factored like sensational fiction, is supported by blocks of statistics, newspaper cuttings, court reports.”

    He goes on to crack the nail on the head, asserting that “reality is pressured until it becomes fantastic, grotesque.”

    Grotesque is absolutely right. London’s work as a faux-displaced sailor brings to light a distorted world of hellish poverty. While occasional splashes of humour might today be perceived as facetious, his unwavering dedication to raising awareness of the plight of what was a rotten East End is most impressive.

    His icy images, savagely oppressed characters – like the unforgettable Dan Cullen the Docker – and unrelenting energy make for an enriching, if bruising, read with a relevance by no means confined to its own time.

    The People of the Abyss is published by Tangerine Press. RRP: £10. ISBN: 9780957338531

  • Iain Sinclair launches 70×70 birthday book

    Iain Sinclair discusses cinema at LRB launch of 70x70
    Iain Sinclair at London Review of Books bookshop launch of 70×70. Photograph: Laura Bradley

    Hackney-based author and filmmaker Iain Sinclair launched his new book, 70×70: Unlicensed Preaching, in an event at the London Review Bookshop last month.

    Tagged as A Life Unpacked In 70 Films, the work chronicles Sinclair’s 70th-birthday project, for which he chose 70 films – important to him in some way – to be screened in locations across the capital over the course of a year. Friends and collaborators Chris Petit and Susan Stenger joined the writer in a discussion chaired by film curator Gareth Evans, during which they touched on the changing nature of how we engage with cinema – a key aspect of 70×70.

    “This is essentially a curation of memory and of a particular period of life where cinema was important,” Sinclair says, explaining how our experience of catching a film has lost something vital over the years.

    “This evening is absolute because it’s now, it can’t be repeated. That’s what we’ve lost in a sense with cinema. What was great in the early days was that we went out and made journeys,” he says.

    “Buñuel was on one night only, if you didn’t go there you missed it, you may not see it again for another four years. Now that everything’s available and broken down and atomized, everything’s changed.”

    The films written about in the book range from Hitchcock’s Psycho and Godard’s British Sounds to John Mackenzie’s Docklands masterpiece The Long Good Friday, with plenty of obscure gems scattered in between.

  • Ray Winstone: I got my big break on the way I walked down the corridor

    Ray Winstone. Photgraph: Fergus Greer
    East Londoner: Ray Winstone. Photgraph: Fergus Greer

    Hair whipped back and donning a heavy leather jacket, Ray Winstone stalks film journalist Danny Leigh to the front of a small screen at the Hackney Picturehouse. The room is nowhere near capacity, but members of the actor’s old boxing club have filled a good few seats towards the rear.

    As the two sit and settle smoothly into conversation, the atmosphere is understandably hushed – stunned, even. We’ve just sat through Scum (1979), Alan Clarke’s ice-cold and earthy portrait of young life in a borstal prison.

    The film, which was remade after the original BBC version was banned two years earlier, was Winstone’s first big- screen role. His bruising performance as reluctant hard-nut Carlin is explosive and utterly convincing, packed with furious emotion.

    We join the adolescent rogue as he’s inducted into a brutal regime, where adults beat and bully their young charges into shape – or not, as the case may be. The politics and dynamics are full on and fascinating, with Mick Ford’s delightful veggie inmate, Archer, providing an insightful social commentary. It’s a bleak vision peppered with glum landscapes and even sadder characters – heavy but vital.

    “It’s a film really that shows what kids do to other kids and what establishment does to kids and what men do to men, you know?” Winstone says softly, soaking the words in his unmistakably gruff Cockney twang and moving on to explain how he got the part.

    “I’d been kicked out of college that day and a lot the kids I was at college with were going up the BBC for an interview, and I went with them – just to say goodbye and have a beer with them after and all that.”

    Whilst there, he was persuaded by a pretty receptionist to have a chat with Clarke, who, once their apparently fruitless discussion was over, escorted him to the exit.

    “I got the part on the way I walked down the corridor,” he says. “I just really didn’t give a fuck. And so it was nothing to do with any talent because I had none – I had no idea about technique or anything like that. But it just shows you sometimes it pays to be a little bit of a fucker, you know? And it stood me good stead that, for a while.”

    One of the reasons for the screening is that the star has recently penned Young Winstone, about his early life in London. Reflecting on his days growing up in Hackney and Plaistow, it looks at how the city has changed since the years soon after the Second World War – “sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse.”

    “London was a bomb site and it was where we used to play,” he says. “When they was building the rest of Europe they weren’t building England – they weren’t building London.

    “But it was all right, I was pretty lucky: my dad worked in the meat market, the fruit market eventually, and we had uncles in the fish market and in the docks, where there was plenty of spillage, so we never went hungry,” he continues.

    “But [the book is] about community – it was a community, you know. Then they built flats, then you moved round. You don’t know who your neighbour is anymore. And it’s really about that. But it’s not just about my life… it’s about that generation.”

    After asserting that he’s “an Essex boy really,” he goes on to detail his rich family connections to Hackney and the East End, explaining that his father went to school on Lauriston Road and that many relations are scattered around “Vicky Park”. He also spent time as a boy living with his granddad on Well Street – the Frampton Park Estate – when his dad “had the right hump” with him.

    He seems to drift into a haze of nostalgia, talking in a slow and fragmented stream of consciousness. Realising that his latest tangent might be going nowhere, he quickly plucks an anecdote from thin air: “In fact, when I was three I was in a push chair and a geezer flashed me by all accounts,” he says. “So I was flashed at an early age.”

    After touching on Sundays spent with his cousins at the Landsdowne Club, and how he can’t help but remember his old street bathed in sunlight, the questions turn to Hollywood.

    He describes Leonardo DiCaprio, who he worked with on The Departed, as a “smashing kid”, and proceeds to execute an uncanny impersonation of Martin Scorsese. He’s less taken, though, with Jack Nicholson, who’s a “fantastic actor to watch… [But] he does think a lot of himself.”

    It’s a criticism you certainly can’t fire at Ray. Humble in the extreme and desperately likeable, he’s something of a working class hero. Contrary to his own self-deprecation, Scum is undeniable evidence of talent by the bucket load.

    Slightly hunched, he walks out with his arm around the shoulders of a chum from years back, chattering away about old times.

    Young Winstone is published by Canongate RRP: £20 ISBN: 978-1-78211-246-6

  • Love Hotel documentary – leaving reservations at home

    Love Hotel
    A guest at the Angelo Love Hotel in Osaka. Photograph: Native Voice Films

    It’s been estimated that not far off three million people drop in at one of Japan’s 37,000-odd ‘love hotels’ every day. These often strangely designed establishments are something of a subversive institution – a designated space for play, fantasy and exploration, where couples can escape the pressures of a rigid social structure.

    With unprecedented access behind the scenes at the Angelo Love Hotel in Osaka, filmmakers Hikaru Toda and Phil Cox – of Native Voice Films in Hackney – have spent the last four years working on a documentary that sheds light on this offbeat strand of Japanese culture. The result is Love Hotel, a curious film streaked with beauty and truth.

    In many ways – and not just because it’s Japan – it’s like reading Murakami: you’re drawn into a neon-lit sub-reality where the unconscious plays out like real life. But what’s fascinating, and at times easy to forget, is that this is real life. Within the four walls of each individual room is a different world, a slightly tweaked dimension (enhanced by the bizarrely themed décor) in which the narratives are generally rich and engrossing.

    But just to be clear, the window that Cox and Toda offer is not about sex or voyeurism: it’s about people.

    The characters followed are an intriguing and diverse bunch, with a 40-something married couple and two gay lawyers taking much of the focus. Perhaps most interesting, though, are a divorced couple who come together to share a dance once a week, or the 71-year-old widower who watches porn and writes reflective letters about not being able to write like – ironically – Murakami.

    One particular sequence in which a businessman is kitted out in squeaking latex rubber and hung from the ceiling by a young dominatrix demonstrates the directors’ considerably refined artistry.

    Just as fascinating, though, are the ins and outs of running the hotel, with a busy backroom staff pulling the strings to keep the ethereal illusion intact. It’s like theatre, or dramatic therapy of some sort.

    Having spent hours and hours at a time in the rooms with their subjects, the co-directors have captured some moving moments of confession, desire and frustration. This is tempered by a heavy dollop of humour that, while undeniably entertaining, might occasionally distract from the stark sadness of a situation.

    As the film progresses, a political arc emerges concerning the changing laws regarding love hotels, giving the piece the thread it needs to ride through to a successful conclusion. In all it’s a unique, thought provoking and deftly-executed feature, flecked with magic.

    www.nativevoicefilms.com