The General and I were in attendance at the show this week in order to see The Revenant on the big screen; it’s not my thing really, but I can still say that it’s worthwhile despite the endless, mercilessly close-up shots of flesh in varying stages of being charred or stitched or stabbed or scored like the top of a Shepherd’s Pie, which I had to watch through three fingers and occasionally not at all.
Director Alejandro González Iñárritu insisted that the film be shot entirely in natural light and as a result the bright, brittle harshness of winter really translates; in fact, I read recently that the very excellent Will Poulter (Jim Bridger) noted perceptively, that the weather almost has its own character within the film.
But meanwhile, back at our place, The General and I are experiencing a few of our own Revenant-style challenges, albeit without the gore and you know, raw bison liver …
This is Day 3 of a burst waterline that cannot be fixed yet ( cheerful, yet strangely unmoved plumbers tell us that there is too much water at the source to precisely deal with the leak) so we are living without running water in the freezing winter for a minimum of one week till some drainage occurs.
And it is not for sissies.
I’ve often thought that if I had ever become an English teacher it would have been interesting to analyze the lyrics of songs as class assignments. So many songs are poetry in their own right (I’m looking at you Diamonds and Rust) but will never be recognized as such; at least not in that respected canon of what really counts.
(And whilst I don’t envision Harold Bloom excitedly rushing home to tease out the classical allusions buried within ‘Can’t Feel My Face’ anytime soon, the thing is, that song lyrics often assume a separate meaning for listeners than the original writer may have intended for himself).
And that is, simply part of the art.
(If you are reading this, Spock, you might just want to stop and do something else for a while, say, heave quietly. My brother is not good with tolerating anything that he considers to verge on Touchy-Feely-Eat-Pray-Love s**t …)
My memories of David Bowie and my years as a teen in 1970s Britain cannot be separated from one another; they are stitched tightly together like a tapestry and as I discovered this week have not lost any of their potency.
I actually watched my hands shake when I read the news of his passing and have not been able to write about it till today.
My much older brother (whom I very fondly call ‘Spock’ ) took great enjoyment in regularly skewering my admiration of Bowie at the time although interestingly, this “phase” would continue into my adulthood since this was Not. A. Puppy Luu-uuv). Spock would frequently suggest that if Bowie was really the talent I claimed he was, he would not have to resort to the ‘gimmickry’ of different personas etc.
(Let’s just say that my brother was not entirely comfortable with Bowie’s sparkling, off-the-shoulder body stocking …)
Years later I stopped arguing with him or anyone else because if you are asking this kind of question you have either never listened to the music or, you just didn’t get it.
In which case, I feel badly for you - but cannot explain it.
To me Bowie was a poet, a brilliant, self-taught intellectual (that crisp, almost Royal annunciation wasn’t acquired on the streets of Brixton) and despite the glittery beginning I absolutely lusted after him. His voice could bring me to my knees (the earnest phrasing, the lingering over a syllable) and I listened over and over, often deep into the night, creating my own anthems, hearing something different each time.
