The Hipster is much maligned
- I started writing this a while ago and then The Hipsters vanished, so I stopped.
The Hipster is much maligned, but who is he?
The Hipster is much maligned. He can feel it as he walks. He knows that at this stitch in time, his popular culture has turned on him. He is designated as socially redundant, almost evil, by an essentially similar other that is in the ascendency of print media for that demographic, The Aware. Acknowledgement of the excess of the popular alternative social direction now marks the cut where The Hipster is relegated to the position of laughing-stock and silent receptacle of the scoff, whereas The Aware – as a new social splinter category unto themselves – maintain a grasp upon self-deprecating irony that evades The Hipster. Alignment with that group, The Aware, has been en masse. The Hipster disappears to the shadows of the amusingly easy to castrate hate figure.
Via the emergent juxtaposition of The Aware and The Hipster, one might proffer the observance that popular alternative culture as we know it has encountered a juncture where it must split and divide. Rather than the continuous evolution through alternative cultural phases that has been the case over recent years, alternative or indie culture is now shedding itself.
Fig 20.1: What is a Hipster?
This leaves the Hipster, The Unaware, as a fold. He stands in drainpipes and leather, rolling his cigarette and listening to Galaxie 500 on comedy headphones. The self-designated counterpoint that now exists broadly is the anti-Hipster, the alternatively aware who has rejected the allegedly superficial foray deeper into alternative culture as too alternative for the sake of that movement. This anti-Hipster probably is coated in leather, atop drainpipes, rolling a tobacco tampon to smoke, creating a haze to enjoy his Galaxie 500 in. He vehemently rejects the allure of an indulgence that is merely a postmodern simulacra of cultural engagement. The Hipster existed, or does still exist, for the all elusive, a seemingly hollow alternative element that is now vilified as too much.
But this is self-regulation. There is no Aware or Unaware as separate social groups; The Hipster never existed as a person. The Hipster is a creation of those who wished to denigrate, yet was appropriated as a viable means of reaffirmation by the social group for which the jestingly derogatory term was originally coined. I am not a Hipster, but look at those stupid Hipsters, so shallow, in pursuit of credibility. What ho, credibility is thus attained, but not for The Hipster, for The Aware, which is every single self-consciously possible-Hipster. That is, every individual who could accuse themselves with genuine introspection of that undesirable status. That pursuit of the all elusive alternative is vindicated once more, as The Hipster is cast away, and everybody is clean.
Cigarette, Rope, Tweed, Knife, Woman
Cigarette, Rope, Tweed, Knife, Woman
It was unlikely that she would survive the fall. He knew that. And of course, survive she did not. What surprised him was how swiftly the event passed. His mind did not present the scene in histrionic slow motion, nor a momentary poetic silence between the instant that her trailing foot left the rope and the next, the moment that her person crumpled to the solid ground. There were screams all around him. The crowd that had silently gazed upon the majesty of her performance only seconds earlier were now an hysterical collective, some running towards the scene and some running away, climbing over what had quickly become a scattered mess of fold up chairs and novelty hats, partly consumed hot dogs and other such things. However, he only stood inanimately, pondering what she might have thought en route, if indeed conscious thought could force itself upon such an extraordinary second, and if that thought was simply extinguished with the thud, vanishing from itself.
“There is something you should know,” she had said. As soon as he raised his eyes to meet her gaze she looked down at her cigarette, surveying it from every angle. She always held it between her ring and middle fingers. She said that to hold it any other way gave her a cramp in her hand.
“I walk the highwire.” They stood together in the dark, outside an electrical store in the city. Dozens of televisions flickered in the window. There was a goal for the team in blue and they were now up by two with fifteen minutes left. A little boy was missing, thought to have been abducted as he played outside his home on Sunday afternoon. Heavy snowfall had caused traffic mayhem earlier in the day with more snow expected over the rest of the week. A woman answered correctly and advanced to the final round where she would play for the jackpot.
A man with a very thin grey moustache pushed a pair of golden frames up his nose, closer to his eyes. He hunched down and inspected her, still folded where she landed. His autumn tweed figure paced up and down her length several times, back arched in thoughtful cadaver perusal. Finally stopping at her feet, the man began to resolutely rummage around in the pocket of his jacket until he found what he was looking for. He appeared to extract a lit cigarette from those depths. He spoke, conducting himself vigorously with his right hand, the hand holding his cigarette, while taking off and putting on his glasses every few seconds with the other.
“Well, friends,” he announced, pausing to ensure that the only other soul remaining in the circus structure was listening. He breathed deeply and began again.
“It looks as if this young woman, this most beautiful young woman, has died. While I cannot say for certain what the cause of death was, I suspect that it may have had something to do with her fall from the ghastly rope above us. It looks terribly evil, all the way up there, plotting.”
The tweed man halted his wildly theatrical gesticulations to throw his eyes about the empty expanse. He smiled and put his cigarette back in his pocket.
“Well now, I should be getting off. It must be at least eight o’clock now and I haven’t eaten anything all day, bar those two digestive biscuits I had with tea this afternoon. Good day to you all.”
His first step was towards the body on the ground. He looked down at her, clicking his tongue in affectionate disapproval before spitting on the back of her head. Turning on his heel, he briskly walked away, whistling merrily as he went.
“She was carrying my child.”
The tweed man stopped in his tracks. He stepped around himself, and gazed at the body from his distance.
“My boy, I daresay she still is.”
He drifted slowly back towards the centre of the circus. The two men now stood facing one another, about six feet apart, divided by the heap.
“I’m pregnant,” she had said. She threw her cigarette into her glass of wine, a gesture saying that she would not be smoking or drinking anymore. She picked up the wine glass and stood up at the table. She raised her arm slightly, her teeth biting her lower lip, and then threw her arm downwards, towards the ground. The glass shrieked as it died and the patio upon which they were dinning became silent. The rest of the customers tried to temper the rubber elements of their necks, but to no avail. She took her seat once again and continued to eat her mayonnaise covered mushroom risotto as if nothing had happened at all.
The tweed man once again thrust himself deep into his pocket. The determined furrow of his eyebrows suggested that he was looking for something very specific.
“I asked her to leave the ropes until the baby was born. These dangerous walks killed her and the child.”
“Now my boy, you know very well that what you are saying is not exactly true. Really, you know that -”
His eyes burst into flames momentarily only to revert back to their tiny grey state within only a fraction of a second.
“Bingo! I’ve found it, at last!”
He drew a long knife from his pocket, so big that one could almost have called it a short sword. Brandishing it high in the air, as he did with his cigarette earlier, he began to conduct his own oration.
“She can’t have been long, you know, up it, as it were. Two or three months pregnant, maybe. I used to be a doctor, and an abortionist, but I’m still not very good at these things. And the child was yours? Are you sure, because you never can tell for certain with these things.
“I once had a child. I was living with a tribe of wild natives along a tributary of the Amazon. A young woman became quite fond of my pink skin and told me that I was the father of her child. Being a gentleman bound by high moral standards, I did the only thing I could do. When she went into labour I brought her deep into the forest, as was tradition with that tribe. After some time had passed, I returned to the other villagers to inform them that evil spirits had taken my love and my child. I could only communicate in basic terms of course, their language was very strange, but I believe they understood.”
Both men looked down at the heap.
“Here you go.” A tweed sleeve reached across the gap, handing over the knife.
“What is this for?”
“You, my dear boy, are going to skin this rabbit.”
He produced a white rabbit from his pocket. He held it up by the back of the neck and looked on imploringly.
“No.”
He bent to one knee and let the rabbit run away.
“No, that’s right. You are going to retrieve that child of yours!”
Fig 16.1 : The lego man should watch his step.
Working Class Chic: Scarf Story
The Green Forest Blues series will have to wait for a while. This is about as close to fashion journalism as I’ll ever get.
Wearing a Scarf
I stood on the ramp outside the arts block in Trinity College, Dublin. A bloke approached me.
“Ah, a football scarf! That’s cool, working class chic.”
And so I was alerted to the fact that my scarf had been assimilated into some sort of alternative fashion culture. My Liverpool scarf was cool. The complete stranger who approached me and commented on my neck apparel was all smiles and, in my eyes, seemed to mean what he said in the nicest way. I couldn’t help but think that it was ridiculous.
“What do you mean, working class chic? What is that?”
I knew perfectly well what working class chic meant. Or rather, I knew that it was some sort of bullshit pretence exuded by a person via their clothes or a false accent or something. So no, I didn’t really know what working class chic was exactly, but I knew enough to get a bit hot under the scarf about it. So, when this person looked at me in some sort of blank amazement, I took the opportunity to go on.
“How shallow a perception is it to see a person wearing a football scarf and then think that it is just a lovely fashion statement? The working classes are ‘in’ now are they? Well that makes me sick. Of all of the things that can be taken from my choice of scarf, you seem to have drawn from the very top layer. What does my love of football and my choice to display that love through my scarf say about me, other than that I might want to put across a ‘cool’ working class vibe?
“In the first instance, I’ll tell you this, being working class is not cool. It’s a slog. It says something that the fashion of the working classes seems to strike you more than their plight. Where do people get off appropriating what they see as some sort of appealing kitsch value in the lower rungs of society and making it into ‘working class chic,’ a style for consumption?
“And, with that in mind, why are working class people seen so stereotypically? Is football just a game for the working classes, or is that only the working classes would invest themselves emotionally in such folly? And, from a middle class perch, it is all just football isn’t it? There’s no distinction made between teams, no? Considering the fact that you are so happy to cast aspersions of class and buy into some sort of stereotype that provides the raw material for this ‘working class chic’ look, why won’t you go any further with it? Maybe my Liverpool scarf says something truthful about my personality? The fact that I support Liverpool so outwardly probably means I venerate tradition, have a genuine working class background – even if I am standing at the entrance to Trinity College’s arts building right now – and that I don’t wish to be assimilated into poxy working class fucking chic?”
Panting, I stepped away and broke my engagement with the now dejected eyes of this stranger. I walked away defiantly with my chin up.
“Here, mate. Hold on a second.” I stopped and turned.
“Sorry. I, you know, didn’t mean to, well –“
“It’s alright, brother. I know. Don’t worry about it.”
With that, I took my leave of him. Or, I would have done, had any of this been true. Well, some of it is true. I’ll start again.
“Ah, a football scarf! That’s cool, working class chic.”
I was a little uncomfortable that my scarf actually meant anything other than that I was cold and supported Liverpool. All the same, the bloke who said it to me seemed very nice, genuine in what I could only assume was a compliment. He smiled and I smiled back, although a little uncomfortably.
“Cheers mate. Come on the ‘Pool, you know!”
That’s basically what happened. I wish I had of a) thought the other stuff at the time and b) been a big enough dickhead to say it.
Figure 13.1 : Robbie Fowler. God. This is related.
No, it isn’t my fault. Since when were we all economists?
- As long as there is chocolate on the shelf, somebody is liable to eat it. As long as there is cash on the go, somebody is liable to take it.
Internationally, the emergence of the incredibly easy-to-use word, ’Bailout,’ now a term of everyday parlance among everyday people, has seen the common man become an economist of extreme convictions. On a national level, we have the delightfully chewable acronym, ‘NAMA.’ Couple that gem with general group terms like ‘the bankers’ and ‘the developers,’ there has been a lot for the coffee/smoke break economist to spit about over the last year or so. People who once talked about film and music that they scarcely understood now speak of financial policy.
With buzz words and hate figures holstered and ready for action in an instant, it is easy to forget the very systems we live within. For all that we’re discussing NAMA, bankers and governments, big, venerable old words like ‘capitalism’ and ‘socialism’ are forgotten. Of course, within systems that are quite comfortable for and accommodating to those who might have influence in such discussions, it is hardly likely that the broad cultures of greed that are encouraged by spectacle orientated capitalism will be opened up to a public tribunal. While we are outraged at individuals and rightly demand the execution of their characters, Ivor Callely and ‘the bankers’ most recently, investigations of the systems that foster greed culture are not called for.
Figure 6.1: MIddle Class BASTARDS!
One thing that is not acknowledged out loud is that bank bailouts and NAMA are capitalist stopgaps. These measures, while seemingly necessary within the current climate, save certain failing elements of systems preferred by the dominant hierarchy, capitalist systems that allow the accumulation of massive wealth for that hierarchy. That capability for the accumulation of wealth (which generally requires the loss of wealth by another who may or may not be partaking in the fight that is greed culture) proportionately filters down through the class system with obvious (are they obvious? Do people still remember that Ireland has a working class?) disadvantages for those at the bottom of the economic ladder. To be blunt, very few commentators seem to admit that bailing out financial institutions and the creation of the National Assets Management Agency are socialist answers to unpleasant capitalist problems. Maybe that is because economic commentators are of the middle classes and generally favour capitalist systems that benefit their capability for the accumulation of wealth. Socialism is an opportunity cost for the dominant hierarchy. But, to be fair, imagine Barack “Jesus” Obama admitted such a thing publicly, that socialism, of all things, was an answer? Imagine he told the adoring American public that socialist solutions had to save their beloved capitalism?
“Darlin’, did President Obama just say the ‘S’ word?”
“No honey, em, he said, um… Social List. It’s a list of his friends.”
“I knew it. He ain’t no Commie! *Insert generic Deep South phrase here*”
The very capitalist systems that are so precious to so many are only actually beneficial to those in the ascendancy on the financial food chain and, being one and the same, those who influence the lower rungs of that chain. However, that system can only succeed, and by success I mean facilitating wider benefits for the world at large, if everyone participating is 100% morally sound. And nobody is, or not many are anyway. Rather, we’re greedy, or, in capitalist speak, financially ambitious.
The Banker, the guy who ripped off his customers, is a greedy man. Obviously, there’s no doubt about it. And it’s okay to call him greedy flat-out because he’s The Banker. He sneaks into your house at night to steal your hard-earned money and on the way out he rolls up all your socks inside out, and we all know that banker sounds like…
Figure 6.2: The Bankers have fallen flat on their arses! Ha!
But there are other greedy men who aren’t getting it in the neck, which is understandable, because some of them are the unwitting victims here. The average person, who ambitiously/greedily took out a mortgage on a house that he could only afford if everything went perfectly or better for him over the next twenty to twenty-five years, has now lost his house. Some may highlight stupidity as a potential quality of this synecdochical man but, it must be said, greed and stupidity are not mutually exclusive. So maybe he is greedy and stupid? And, shockingly, capitalist systems failed this man. But we’re all greedy, so is capitalism wrong?
And it is a bit close to the bone, isn’t it? Because there are plenty of us in this Joe the Plumber position, or with friends and family struggling with the same problems. It can’t even be said by those with power. If a politician hurts your feelings you won’t vote for them. Even If Mr. Obama says at some point that it was, perhaps, a little bit your fault, pointing down the lens of a camera towards an unsuspecting international audience, previous chants of “YES WE CAN,” would quickly mutate into the far less catchy and unfortunately long-winded, “We hate Obama, whatever happened to that other guy? He wasn’t that bad, was he? I had a job back then.”
So laissez-faire economic policies and free-to-exploit-others capitalism can’t work, not necessarily because it is systematically flawed, but because we are systematically flawed. Or, rather, capitalism is essentially flawed because those who partake in it are undoubtedly flawed. We all want to be in a better position than we are now. We all want a nicer car, a bigger house, luxury toilet roll or a Thai mail-order bride.
Figure 6.3: If it weren't for those bloody BANKERS, You could have had a Thai wife.
But of course, it is the fault of the bankers, isn’t it? And the government? Yes, it is their fault. If there was any justice, the bankers that have actively swindled honest people out of their money would all be put in prison to rot. They should, at the very least, apologise, shouldn’t they? And, one would think, the government should be taking some responsibility for poor economic controls and an inability to deal with crises. Why aren’t they saying sorry either? But, if we honestly expect this capitalist system to succeed, then we have to look at ourselves too as, after all, the collective controls the flow of cash in every transaction. But can capitalism succeed? No, but it could be a little more fair.
As long as the responsibility for our recent economic hardship is left in the lap of those bankers and developers, and while it remains the charge of that government to simply ‘fix’ economic problems, the average bloke won’t really have learned anything at all. It may be mostly their fault, but until we trade in our amateur economic analysis for some introspective honesty, the blame will always lie somewhere else and very little is likely to change.
A Certain Tendency of the Irish Cinema
- The following appeared, printed, in a savagely circumcised form. I was never happy with it. The state of Irish cinema is disheartening. Having recently watched The Commitments, I felt the need to revisit the idea of an Irish cinema.
Addressing National Cinemas
To discuss any national cinema, one must first acknowledge that there is no such thing as national cinema. It is an elephant in the room that is film criticism. Indeed, enlightening exploration of ideas of national cinema demands a knowledge of the notion’s falsity. It is absolutely impossible to define. Nations themselves are purely based upon war provoking lines on a map, lines that divide the world into manageable sections for purposes that are mostly tax related. To take a film and put it firmly within those lines is an act of little to no merit. The practice of naming cinema as of a nation is obviously necessary in both common parlance and rigorous academic analysis though, as a descriptive tool and a means of identification. However, to grasp the picture, to settle the identification of a film as of a specific nation, or of the land or of the people is a teleological phenomenon to observe. This would be a matter of interpretation, thus leading to a consensus that Film A is of Country B and Film C is of Country D, seeing the films settle themselves as national cinema.
Looking at basic ontological criteria, if one is to look at what is a national cinema in that manner, there exist further hurdles in discussing a proposition of national cinema. On the most exasperating of levels, there are two kinds of cinema, neither of which are based on anything to do with a nation. Hollywood cinema is the first. By Hollywood cinema, I do not strictly mean that which comes from Hollywood. For all intents and purposes, Hollywood cinema includes all films that adhere to a reasonable degree to our usual expectations of what we are seeing within the temporal space; aspirational production values, psychological realism, specific character empathy and narrative fulfillment among other things.
These factors also define the other kind of cinema. That is, the other does not conform in one way or another to these conventions. There is alienation or questioning of some kind between the film and the audience. Over decades of film criticism, various names have been attributed to different types of films and different film movements but, to put them all in one basket, those films that have opposed Hollywood cinema are all part of the significant other. Across various countries and continents, even from within Hollywood, terms as loosely fitting as ART cinema, SECOND cinema, THIRD cinema, COUNTER-cinema and PORNOGRAPHY, to more specific descriptions of movements and styles such as the Nouvelle Vague, Neorealism, Film Noir and cinematic Expressionism are all terms of the other.
Even more practical issues complicate ideas of national cinema, especially outside of Hollywood. If one tries to narrow down national cinema to anything more specific than a seeming association with a particular country, factors such as financing, language, personnel, setting and subject matter often serve to muddy the water. Cinema, by nature (specifically as an interpreted, sensory medium) and construction, is always transnational. But the elephant remains.
Addressing Irish Cinema
For an example concerning ideas of Irish cinema, one only has to look back at the phenomenal achievement that is Steve McQueen’s Hunger (2008). Look at the foundations. Hunger was funded and distributed by different groups from different European countries, the film is Irish and British in subject matter, it was directed by an Englishman (McQueen) and features mostly Irish talent (including the astonishing performance of Michael Fassbender as the enigmatic Bobby Sands) acting out a script penned by McQueen and Irish playwright Enda Walsh.
Despite the project’s transnational base, we claimed Hunger as our own, a masterpiece of Irish cinema. While we did not tag it as a nation, it is a collective interpretation. Crying out for something to hold on to and be proud of, green isle cinema enthusiasts took McQueen’s film to be Irish. There is nothing wrong with that of course. It is a testament to a fantastic picture. Crucially however, our need for Hunger was also a sign of just how poor Irish cinema, or cinema associated with Ireland, has been over the past number of years.
Our desire to see a succesful Irish cinema has seen many truly terrible productions in recent years. These pictures have, more often than not, tried to be distinctly Irish with a Hollywood shine at the same time. They are FIRST cinema. To say the least, the results have ranged from average to abominable. Fortunately, Irish cinema has flickered into life at different times with moments of the other kind of film. A frustratingly tiny minority of films have marked the rare highs of Irish cinema. There may be more but, to my admittedly fallible mind, I don’t think there are.
In 1967, Rocky Road to Dublin received a hostile reception at its press screening in Dublin and was quickly made inaccessible to the Irish public by their government. In 1968 it was acclaimed at Cannes and was notoriously well received by striking students and workers in Paris. Irish journalist Peter Lennon and French cinematographer Raoul Coutard’s collaboration could really have been something for Irish cinema were it seen.
Lennon’s intelligent and biting documentary depiction of a nation retarded by decades of Church and State oppression coupled with Coutard’s introduction of Alexandre Astruc’s camera stylo ideas to a new audience was something so stark for Irish audiences of the time. Or, at least, it would have been had the established hierarchy not stubbed it out like a cigarette that nobody had a chance to smoke. One can only wonder how Rocky Road to Dublin could have influenced Irish films over the following decades, or even 1970s Ireland itself. It certainly wouldn’t have gone unnoticed.
In more recent years, it took two Dublin heroin addicts mugging a boy with Down’s Syndrome to light up Irish cinema. Lenny Abrahamson and Mark O’Halloran’s Adam and Paul (2004) is a bleak and tragic story bringing the plight of those who were forgotten by Celtic Tiger Ireland to the screen, those who still desperately cling to the bottom rung of the social ladder. The film follows Adam and Paul’s attempts to get by and survive a single day including the painful aforementioned mugging. Inspired by Beckett’s Waiting for Godot, Adam and Paul are writer O’Halloran’s Vladimir and Estragon, aimlessly surviving the plight of their own existences.
Figure 5.1: Gogo and Didi, Adam and Paul
Incomprehensibly lost, Adam and Paul brought the forgotten back to the minds of the growing ranks of the middle classes. The absence of those more comfortable from the picture implicates them in the demise of the unfortunate minority and their disappearance from the social radar in a manner that is often as amusing as it is brutal and unsentimental.
While lacking the same quality as Adam and Paul, Abrahamson and O’Halloran’s 2007 acclaimed collaboration Garage (2007) is also a progressive picture of the other, shunning the broad culture of Hollywood-ism or, the fetishisation of cash for want of a better phrase. The film goes someway to picking at the frailties of the community structures of rural Ireland while proving that Pat Short can, much to my own amazement, act in a genuine role. The problem is though, that if you look at Adam and Paul, Garage and Hunger in relation to Irish cinema as a whole, these three films are some of the only serious contributions Ireland has made to world cinema over the past decade. And I’m probably being generous with Garage.
Some will remember Colin Farrell. John Crowley’s Intermission (2003) and Martin McDonagh’s In Bruges (2008) have hardly lit up the world, or have they? More commercial enterprises, movies (Hollywood cinema), than noble, commercially viable cinema (the other), the two films are mildly amusing and full of Irish charm but further than that it is difficult to argue that the films hold much substance with regards to a progressive, dynamic Irish cinema.
Intermission, a star vehicle for Colin Farrell and Cillian Murphy, does little to dispel internationally recognised Irish stereotypes, in fact it merely updates old ones; likely lads and likely ladies, a few tough charmers, a nation of people who are brought together by a drink or two. It would be difficult to argue that In Bruges would have done as well at the box office if Farrell had not played his usual plucky but flawed rogue character. It isn’t Farrell’s fault that he plays to that loveable stereotype so well but it doesn’t make it right. In Bruges is perhaps the most internationally successful (profitable) Irish film of recent years not due to artistic merit but the exploitation of an international audience that indulges in cute stereotypes and wants to love the antics of an Irish misfit rogue (Farrell), a Brendan Behan character (Brendan Gleeson) and a mysterious European beauty (Clémence Poésy) in a picturesque European city (Bruges). Postcard cinema.
Some may focus on English man Ken Loach’s The Wind That Shakes The Barley (2006). As far as beginning criticism, it is difficult to know where to start. It is an abomination of historical revisionism, apologetic and shameless, insulting and misguided, simultaneously. The film won the Palme d’Or at Cannes which – to take a positive from the award – proves itself a reminder not to assume that festival awards and awful films are mutually exclusive. Romantic idealist Irish men and women fighting for their freedom in the face of the sadistic British soldiers, an altogether despicable and regressive interpretation of Irish history that has somehow become a flagship “Irish” film. The only positive, to really stretch, is the film’s inclusion of the socialist program of many of the Irish revolutionaries, but even that is overshadowed by the dehumanisation of the British, the glorification of murder for what is rather explicitly championed as a noble cause and the portrayal of anybody with money as an inherently evil person.
A multitude of poor comedies have also coloured what is known as Irish cinema. About Adam (2000), The Snapper (1993), The Van (1996), When Brendan Met Trudy (2001), Man About Dog (2004), and Goldfish Memory (2003) are all among the attempts at filmmaking that have ignored artistic merit in favour of a Hollywood narrative and feel with varying faux-working class interests, pandering Irish stereotypes that, one must admit, we as an Irish collective indulge in. The results are all too forgettable.
When you get past the music, Once (2007) is perhaps the only internationally renowned Irish film of recent years that we could and should be even remotely proud of. Capturing a changing city and the budding personal and musical relationship between a European immigrant and a downtrodden native, the film is undoubtedly cheesy in places but it doesn’t baulk at tougher questions such as the relative poverty of the characters, the challenges of living in a city and a world where you are essentially forgotten and things don’t work out as they do in Hollywood.
The success of Once could be a sign. With a meager budget of not much more than €100,000, Once succeeded beyond all expectations. Irish filmmakers can make feature films for that kind of budget as long as the creativity is there. They may not be able to make the glossy Hollywood films that some may want to but is that a bad thing?
An Irish film costing €10million must please every possible audience in Ireland and make a break through in mainstream international markets. Moderate success in Irish and European cinemas will see an Irish film costing €1million easily making healthy profits. A film costing €200,000 to make can break a profit in Irish cinemas alone and go on to relatively enormous profits if seen outside of Ireland.
The film that costs €200,000 will have an artist at the helm. It will be an act of love for the medium, love for what they are making, perhaps even being an act borne out of genius. The hope is that it would fund itself if managed properly. The film that costs €10million will not have an artist at the helm. €10million for a film in Ireland is an unbelievable amount of money and the project will merely be a product, a commercial enterprise headed by a team of accountants and made by an army of trained technicians rather than passionate cineastes. The history is there; it is called In Bruges.
If Irish cinema is to have a life it will not be as a cinema of commercial enterprises. Cinema, as a breathing art form, can never exist as a commercial enterprise. It can be a commercially viable art of course, but to think of it merely as an enterprise is the folly of those who do not care for the art. Success for Irish cinema should not be measured by profits but by substance. For some In Bruges is a success. For me, Adam and Paul is a success.
For those who do care about profits, think about this. We could double the amount of films we produce as a nation for half the cost. That is the bare truth. For every director or writer that is funded for a large project, four or five are rejected in their quest for a small budget for their work. Reverse that trend and the profits would come for those who care about profits. Crucially though, the cinema would come for those who care about cinema.
Irony Croaks. Old News?
Irony is dead. Apparently.
In the early hours of yesterday morning the shocking news of the death of Irony began to filter through to the waking world. Over the coming days, it is expected that she will be cremated at a small ceremony to be attended by close friends and family including her aging and ailing father, Wit, and her now senile mother, Knowledge. Early indications also suggest that her ashes will be scattered at the same beach where those of her late brother, Intelligence, were strewn lovingly just over a decade ago after his widely ignored suicide.
A clear picture has yet to be revealed of what actually happened but it was at around 6am that emergency services found Irony’s body. The unfortunate discovery was made after neighbours decided to alert police to a disturbance at her home. According to most media outlets covering the story, that disturbance came in the form of a piercing scream that was heard up to a mile around. This story has since been confirmed by a community spokesperson, the deceased’s neighbour, Ignorance.
“I was lying in bed when I heard the scream,” Ignorance told lolquietly. “I usually work around the clock so I really treasure the rare chances I get to catch some shut eye. Needless to say, I was furious when I was disturbed. I immediately rang Apathy, her neighbour on the other side. He said that he had heard it but was just planning on going back to sleep. It was when I called Intolerance, who lives just a few doors down, that we decided to make the complaint about the noise.”
Unofficial reports from sources close to the investigation have painted a stark and brutal picture of Irony’s death scene. After the promise of monetary reward and total anonymity, a police officer confidentially told us of how Irony was found lying face down, naked, in a pool of what he could only guess was a mixture of her own blood and faeces. Her posterior was hitched up slightly and, according to our inside source, had a huge pair of novelty sunglasses lodged firmly in her bloodied anal cavity with an even larger pair of headphones protruding from her mutilated vagina. Lol.
While nothing concrete has yet been revealed by police about their progress with the case, they have publicly stated that they are treating Irony’s death as extremely suspicious. This seemingly tragic incident is, unfortunately, an appropriately crimson final curtain for a woman who suffered a great deal through her life’s dénouement. Indeed, it is the death of her brother, Intelligence, which marks the point where she came to know real hardship.
Intelligence had been a well-respected member of society for a number of years and lived a pleasant life. He was seen by some as an ideal, an example for their children to try to follow. However, as time passed, Intelligence became difficult for those around him to engage with. While he professed that he had not changed, it was clear that the world around him had and, despite his best efforts, there was little he could do about it. He didn’t quite fit in with the conscienceless, postmodern evolutions of a wider society where it was becoming accepted to aspire towards different examples.
Figure 1.1 : Kids in Rawalpindi love guns. Ha!
His childhood and college nemesis, Stupidity, usurped the reverence that had once been his. Stupidity in his different guises became the ideal, as long as the individual was self-aware and exaggerated their love for him to disingenuously sardonic levels. Of course, it wouldn’t have been wise for Stupidity to retain his real name as it carried overtly unintelligent connotations. Instead he used different aliases including Kookiness, Quirkiness and, to really make Intelligence’s blood boil, Irony.
It quickly became evident to Intelligence that he had effectively been rendered defunct as an entity. Furthermore, for Stupidity to drag his sister into the mix was disgusting. Irony was used and abused to indulge in Stupidity. This realisation left Intelligence without hope. It led him to take his own life with the help of a shotgun. A short suicide note was found in his pocket:
“Not only have I been shunned by society, but I am now an actively ridiculed hate figure. I would justify my choice of death over life if I thought that anybody would care. Please stop hurting Irony. I’m sorry I won’t be there to protect her. It’s better to burn out than to fade away, smoke weed every day.”
He was right. When it was covered in the media it was obvious that the general public did not care about the death of Intelligence. If anything, it was old news. Society had rejected and killed Intelligence before the trivial footnote that was his physical death. He had faded away before he had burnt out. This just meant that he wouldn’t be coming back. Obviously, that suited the herd right down to the ground.
Irony had encountered different problems in postmodern society. As Intelligence was demonised and then slowly forgotten, she was made a mockery of by a world which had embraced the cult of Stupidity. As she walked by they would pinch her bottom or make terrible jokes at her expense. Needless to say, with Intelligence’s final expiration, this treatment went from bad to worse. Intelligence had always been integral to Irony but now, without him, she became a commodity for indiscriminate use.
Before long, bottom pinching and verbal abuse turned to brutal beatings and gang rape. Towards the end of her life she was essentially a scrap of a woman, helpless to the whims of Stupidity and his followers. When they wanted to use Irony to their benefit, no matter how questionable the instance, they did so without a care for her integrity and a bare disdain for the memory of Intelligence.
As early and crude as it may seem, it has been quietly suggested by some that Stupidity essentially raped Irony to death. Stupidity made Irony a useless piece of meat and the horror of her death scene looks, sadly, to have been a fitting end.
The murder investigation is beginning and police are appealing for information that may lead to a resolution. Stupidity has already been questioned over any possible links, but it would be remiss to place the blame with him just yet. Maybe another question needs to be asked though. Is there blood on the hands of wider society? Stupidity reigns but, as long as we are happy to actively or passively indulge in Stupidity in his many guises, we are fully complicit.
lolquietly
