Spider

David Cronenberg has never been one to shy away from a challenge. After making his name in the 1980s with a series of lurid, confrontational ‘body horror’ movies such as Videodrome, Scanners and The Fly (recently turned into an opera), he spent much of the subsequent decade tackling big-screen literary adaptations. He took William S. Burrough’s Naked Lunch and J.G. Ballard’s Crash, two books widely considered to be unfilmable, and made a couple of controversial but loyal and generally well-received movies out of them. In more recent years, the relatively mainstream A History of Violence and Eastern Promises have prompted a critical reappraisal of his talents, and it seems that, after more than three decades of movie-making, his career is as vibrant and exciting as ever.

Spider was the first feature film Cronenberg made after the turn of the millenium. It is another literary adaptation, based on the novel by Patrick McGrath (who also wrote the script), but it is in many senses an exception in the director’s oeuvre. The film follows the experiences of a disturbed man, nicknamed ‘Spider’ by his mother, after his release from the mental hospital that has seemingly been his home since childhood. He returns to the area in which he grew up and attempts to piece together the story of his original descent into madness from his imperfect memories of the surrounding events. Thus, much of the on-screen action consists of reenactments of past events, which Spider experiences as a deeply involved but seemingly powerless witness. Of course, this effect is an illusion: everything that happens comes from inside his head, and it is the uncertainty of what is real memory and what is fantasy that generates the film’s overall dramatic tension. There is a twist, of sorts, but there is no sudden ‘a-ha’ moment of pieces slipping into place, as in films like The Usual Suspects and The Sixth Sense. Rather, the narrative unfolds with a tortured inevitability: any suspension is wishful thinking on the part of the viewer.

Cronenberg’s treatment of the material is uncharacteristically low-key, even by the standards of his subsequent work. His respect for the story and his keen sense of the proper way to tell it is clear throughout, but there is never any feeling of worthiness about the proceedings. Rather, an effect of acute realism is achieved, which makes the story all the more engrossing and ultimately harrowing. Ralph Fiennes delivers a quietly powerful performance as the eponymous protagonist, a man who is damaged beyond repair and who scarcely acknowledges his immediate surroundings. Despite the fact that he has very little dialogue (besides an almost constant stream of unintelligible muttering), his portrayal is richly detailed and highly sympathetic. Gabriel Byrne and Miranda Richardson are also excellent and understated (although that word sounds a little too much like a pejorative) as Spider’s parents, who are depicted in markedly different ways as the story progresses.

All in all, Spider is a frighteningly convincing tragedy, and an insightful meditation on the self-perpetuating power of madness and its capacity to destroy a person completely. Considering that the themes of delusion and self-destruction are not a million miles from those of Cronenberg’s notorious early works, it is particularly gratifying to see him approach them with such a different attitude. It may not be his most outrageous or his most prestigious film, but Spider will surely live on as a testament to his versatility and talent.

Is the Bible true? Scientists say ‘amen’

Scientists from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology have released the findings of an extraordinary study into literary truthfulness. Using a groundbreaking piece of textual-diagnostic software, Dr. Sara Hauffman and Dr. Hisham Klein have assessed the factual content of more than 1000 documents, including religious texts, poetry and technical writing. Their results show that the content of the Bible is 91% accurate, with the individual Testaments scoring 80% (OT) and 94% (NT) respectively. The equivalent holy books of the other Abrahamic religions also fared well, with the Tanakh scoring 74% and the Qur’an 68%.

At a heavily attended press conference yesterday, Dr. Klein spoke modestly about the team’s achievements, attempting to downplay the significance of the study. “Our findings are certainly interesting,” he said, “and I hope that they constitute a legitimate contribution to mankind. However, I urge people not to read too much into this study. We must all try to interpret its meaning for ourselves.”

Subsequent statements from other parties have been more dramatic, with Christian leaders taking the opportunity to attack the secular values of the Western world. Pope Benedict XVI described the revelation as “a divine mandate for Christians to redouble their efforts in realising the world that God demands.” He called for an immediate reappraisal of political and social structures, with the aim of “ending the division of Church and State that has blighted our culture for so long.”

Other organisations have been even more forthright. “What we are seeing now,” said Bob Haldinger of the United Church of Christians for the Holy Light of Christ the Saviour, “is the groundwork for the Second Coming of Jesus Christ. He will soon return to banish the spectres of Islam, Europeanism and all the other faces of the Devil’s blight, delivering the True Believers into a new Eden. God has taken the tool of the Devil, so-called scientific inquiry, and transformed it into a holy hammer of truth.”

Throughout this vibrant flurry of rhetoric there has been little mention of the book that topped the chart: Sacred Hoops by Phil Jackson, celebrated coach of the Los Angeles Lakers basketball team, is apparently 96% true, meaning that it contains more truth per page than any holy book or philosophical treatise. So far, Jackson has declined to comment about this honour, but a close associate has indicated that the basketball legend feels “totally pumped about the news – he’s put a plaque in his trophy cabinet, just under his eleven NBA championship rings.”

CROSS-SECTION OF DOCUMENTS AND THEIR SCORES IN THE TEST

Sacred Hoops by Phil Jackson 96%
The Bible (Today’s New International Version) 91%
The Tanakh 74%
The Qur’an 68%
The Rights of Man by Thomas Paine 36%
The Cat in the Hat by Dr. Seuss 29%
On the Origin of Species by Charles Darwin 18%
DCR-DVD-106E Manual (Sony camcorder documentation) 2%

Mothertongue - Nico Muhly

This is the second album from the New York-based composer, whose music wanders the treacherous, shifting terrain between classical and pop. He’s very much in demand as an arranger and orchestrator, having collaborated with Philip Glass, Bjork and Antony, and his solo work has been exciting a lot of people with its ambiguous genre-credentials; no-one’s actually calling him the Saviour of Classical Music, but you can tell they want to.

Here we have three song suites, built from a diverse selection of texts: “Mothertongue” itself draws from the biographical details of its vocalist, Abigail Fischer, who recites fragments of data from her own memory (addresses, area codes, mnemonics etc), while “The Only Tune” and “Two Sisters” are both based on folk songs, albeit cut up and de-/re-contextualised for the post-modern audience. Not that this is one of those self-consciously hip exercises; Muhly is a serious and sincere composer, although he has a tendency to let his music get wrapped up in its own prettiness. Still, if listening to these suites provokes feelings of listlessness after a while, it’s partially because of the treatment of the lyrics, which robs them of narrative momentum (where there was any to begin with) and leaves them free-floating in a lukewarm sea of shimmery niceness.

Alright, better than nice; Mothertongue is graceful and rich and even (intermittently) exciting. It has Ligeti-like clouds of asynchronous chatter, swooping bass synths, string sections, harpsichords, field recordings of coffee brewing (but not in a field)…the last of the three suites even features a guitar. (The guitar sound is actually a sample of someone licking a photograph of a guitar, digitally manipulated to produce a simulacrum of the instrument’s timbre. (Maybe.))

Unfortunately, it all gets to be a bit overwhelming; for a (post-)minimalist, Muhly has some exhaustingly maximalist proclivities. Listening to this album is like being fed one long dessert, comprising a seemingly randomised string of confections; those without the right kind of musical sweet-tooth will soon find themselves yearning for the meat and potatoes.

*

I haven't written a blog for the best part of a week, so, despite the facts that 1) I have nothing to say, and 2) nobody reads this, I have. Written a blog. This one*.

If you've got this far, it means that you've eluded my recursive-loop trap, congratulations. Now you've proved your worth, the real word-brilliance will commence:

It is six-fifty-eight AM.

I have not slept; after a few hours in bed I gave up on that prospect in order to write a prog-rock song on my digital piano. Only time will tell whether this was the correct course of action.

Last night I watched the movie Chinatown for only the second time. Although it is a fine work, I don't believe that it deserves its reputation as the "greatest kung-fu comedy of 1936." Jack Nicholson's moves are all pretty ropey looking, if you ask me, and the one-liners are few and far between. Having said that, the scene in which he gets his left nostril sliced open by the director, Roman Polanski, is a veritable laugh riot. Legend has it that this incident was not originally included in the script; it was a fortuitous ad lib. Back in the '70s, when Nicholson was at his peak, he used to wander around at night with a small camera crew, looking for opportunities to do some 'real' acting. He would barge into people's houses and pretend to be a cuckolded husband, stumbling in on his wife and her lover in flagrante delicto. He would get into fights with young punks and then beat them senseless, crying "Why did you make me do this, Jonny? Do you think me a monster?!" with tears streaming down his face. He would sleep with hookers and pretend that they were his tender beloveds, then he would go home to Anjelica Huston and claim to be a door-to-door pornography salesman, whereupon he would attempt to sell her the footage. This would crack her up, apparently.

One night, early in the filming of Chinatown, Nicholson and his crew were hanging around outside Polanski's fortified compound, taking it easy after a hard day's work. Suddenly, Nicholson got the idea to break into the director's private skate park (he could have been the Tony Hawk of his day, if he'd got his priorities right) and steal some dirt from the ground; apparently he had this notion that he would start an anonymous blackmailing campaign as a prank, sending letters in which he would claim to "have the dirt on you, you Polack dwarf." However, after scaling the chainlink fence that covered the perimeter of the park, the actor was confronted by two men: a security guard and Polanski himself. Nicholson did not recognise the director, who had been wearing a World War II gas mask for the duration of the shoot, in order to raise money for a charity that dealt with respiratory ailments. Polanski realised this, and decided that he would play a prank of his own, by threatening to cut off his star's nose. Unfortunately, he had not counted on a recurrence of his Situational Parkinson's Disease, which was triggered by the prospect of his being exposed to violence, causing him to slip at a key moment and actually mutilate Nicholson's face.

The next morning, Polanski arrived on set with a heavy heart, thinking that he had derailed his own project, but he found that Nicholson was actually delighted with the whole incident ("Just about the best goddam acting I ever done!"), and that he was determined to get the footage into the film. The director, scarcely able to believe his luck, immediately concurred, and conceived a new scene based around the incident. By an additional stroke of fortune, later scenes, some of which had been filmed prior to that fateful night, already featured Nicholson wearing a bandage on his nose. This had been intended all along, and the response that he gives in the film to one person who asks about his injury was originally supposed to be sincere. The shaving response, that is, not the other one.

I Was Once Cut Man to the Queen of England

Despite the government's recent change in policy regarding the acceptable size and weight of pollonium-equipped accoutrements, I am still clinging on to my old Sokolov 116 walking cane. The hip young-folk of Manchester - with their Dali moustaches, Paisley ties and pencil skirts -find no end of merriment in the spectacle of my generous frame ambling along Oxford Road at one or two AM, seeking out cigars and fine liquor. I have become a sort of roving landmark, and locals often point me out to visiting friends, giggling heartily into their home-knitted scarves as they do so. I find all this to be in poor taste, and if they come within slashing range, I often give them a good dose of radiation poisoning. Blighters.

Just last night, as I was re-buttoning my trousers after a particularly good whizz against a fine old oak, I heard someone approaching me from behind, tittering quietly. You've given the game away there, I thought, and I span around with my cane raised over my head, intending to give the interloper a good swipe. To my astonishment, the figure with whom I was presented was none other than a policeman, and a woman policeman at that. I barely managed to check my attack, and for a moment I saw a look of sheer, unbelieving terror explode across her face. This look, however, was quickly replaced with another: apoplectic rage. 'Sir!' she cried, 'put that stick down right now!' I was so taken aback by the situation, that I immediately complied, dropping the cane at my feet. 'Were you, sir,' she continued, 'about to strike a member of Her Majety's Constabulary?' I hardly knew how to reply. 'Madam,' I said, 'I am deeply sorry, I took you for a young stumplicker, out to cause me a mischief or more.' She did not respond to this, but bade me kneel down on the floor, which I did with some difficulty, owing to my girth. Once I had assumed this disadvantageous position, she moved around behind me and fastened my hands together with her handcuffs. She then proceeded to kick and punch me into a state of unconsciousness, in full view of a dozen or more onlookers, who gathered about us and cried out encouragements.

When I awoke the following morning, I found myself naked and tied to a chair in one of the abandoned buildings that lie on the outskirts of the city. My body had been completely shaved, and the words 'twat' and 'cock' had been smeared across my chest in a mixture of gold paint and human excrement. I eventually managed to free myself, only to discover that the building in which I had been placed was none other than the old lace factory on Tungsten Lane. I managed to gather together a few tattered souvenirs of this once proud establishment, from which I constructed a pretty decent looking three-piece suit. I put it on, and, my nudity thus concealed, set about looking for something to eat. Using the hunting skills I had developed during my time as a fugitive from justice in the Spanish Alps, I was quickly able to capture three plump rats, which I then used to concoct a simple but very edible stew. My hunger sated, I settled down on the dirty, peeling floorboards and began to compose a theory of being. Over the next two weeks, I worked most industriously, and by the time I emerged from the former lace factory, with an array of homemade garments tucked under one arm and a bag of rat meat for the journey home clutched in my free hand, I had completed my masterwork: Being Time and Time Being and So Forth.

Having secured an international publishing deal for the book, I am now on the cusp of becoming a celebrity philosopher of the first rank; clearly, what had initially appeared to be a traumatising experience was actually most fulfilling! My only regret is that, since my retreat boasted rats in such plentiful numbers, I got even fatter during my time there. I now weigh 476 lbs.