Roy Batty’s lament (if it was such) as the last few capacitors drained and the rain streamed down his synthetic face, spoke of moments being lost in time. I guess he should have remembered his camera, or maybe just jammed an SD card into the back of his head while he watched attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion.
The clock in our garden displays time, temperature and humidity, although the temperature gauge is wrongly calibrated and assumes that we are already in the early stages of the next ice age. Another school holiday is upon us. I spent the first two weekdays of it in school, helping Media students to complete video coursework. An unexpectedly draining experience, but time well spent if we have moved forward. I believe we have.
I’m conscious again of time’s taunting finger, accusing me of simply watching the world form itself and adopt its stances while not really interfacing with it or doing much to change its direction, or my own.
Yesterday we went to Hebden Bridge Picture House for their weekly “Elevenses” screening where you see a film at 11-ish for a fiver and get a free coffee and biscuit. Must be one of the few council run cinemas in the country, and features the most leg room of any cinema I’ve seen. Business class leg room; clean but in need of renovation 1920s interior design. The original ticket booth is preserved outside the entrance, now sealed off and acting as a store room. I wonder who the last person to buy a ticket through that slot was, in the same way as I often look at the very faded sign “Dunkirk Shoe and Clog Repair Service”, on a house around the corner from us, and wonder who the last person to collect repaired footwear from there was. I also look up at the old Schweppes advert on a bridge above the A58, on the way back from the M62, and wonder who painted it.
The film was Inside Job, a cogent account of the global economic pile-up of 2008, narrated by Matt Damon and bizarrely crediting John Woo as First Assistant Editor – although if I’m honest I don’t think it’s the same one. The director Charles Ferguson and everyone who worked on it rightly deserve the Oscar for Best Documentary Feature. I don’t claim to understand every subtlety of every stage in the process, but the film increased my understanding of it by about 200%, in a calm, authoritative way that Michael Moore (who I once commented appears to live outside and only eat pizza) seems singularly incapable of. I don’t say that simply to carp. The parallel with his oeuvre is obvious. He has made a very significant contribution to cinematic documentary, but he only appears to have one mode – frenetic and strident – much better suited to television than cinema.
Pleasant lunch at The Stubbing Wharf after the film.
Good to have done this, and broken a blog silence prevailing since 14th August last year. Best do some more stuff, confronted as ever by Auden’s observation that time will say nothing but I told you so.