This Is Us

So I’m back after a week’s hiatus. (Can a hiatus last just a week? Usually hiatuses are reserved for bands whom loathe one another, but don’t have the guts to formally split. Then, after about ten years of pursuing solo projects - that only they are interested in- they reform, arguing they were only ever on a break and were always going to get back together.) My hiatus was a lot more noble: I was celebrating my brother’s birthday and The Girl's mum’s 60^th. I was always going to come back to you, dear reader. I know you were worried last week when I didn’t post – has he found something a lot more productive to do with his time? Is he busy creating culture rather than filling time writing about it? - But I can say this categorically and emphatically: I wasn’t doing anything more productive; nor will I ever. I will never leave you.

On hiatus.

All I ask in return is you don’t leave me. I’ll be honest I didn’t cope well last week without the dopamine hit of people clicking ‘like’ and reading the blog. To redress the deficiency, I spent much of the week seeking the validation I so sorely missed. My Year 7 class were surprised when I broke down in the middle of class, clutching my iPhone, screaming: “I just don’t know if people like me.” Fortunately, the Head smoothed things over by telling the parents, “He didn’t get any ‘likes’ on Facebook.” Completely empathetic to this modern malaise, the parents bought me flowers and chocolates.

This week I’m writing about hit American show, This Is Us. The NBC miniseries has done massive business Stateside, and the hope was it would do the same here. In truth it hasn’t found traction with Britain’s goggleboxers. For a drama that came with a 9 o’clock reputation, it has now been relegated twice: once to 10 o’clock and now to 11. With eight episodes still to run, there is a very real danger that it’s following the same scheduling trajectory as Norfolk’s finest Mr Alan Partridge.

Buried in the late night slot.

So how can a Golden Globe nominated drama be so loved on one side of the ocean yet ignored on the other? My instinct is that Channel 4 haven’t got the wrong time: they’ve got the wrong day. This family drama would have done better business on a Sunday night – just after Homeland. I think that double bill would work real nice. It would be like a CIA lab experiment where you induce an hour of meth amphetamine paranoia into the patient and bring them back round with a warm slice of American pie. 

My love for This is Us has caught me by surprise. It’s not something I would usually go for. In fact, after the first episode I turned to The Girl and said, “I don’t know if this is for me.” It felt a little saccharine, even for my sweet tooth. Some way into the second episode though, I was hooked. Currently it’s the thing I’m most enjoying on TV. (Admittedly it hasn’t been a golden 2017: Sherlock was so incomprehensible that the eponymous would have failed to understand it; Tina and Bobby was a scrapbook of important moments that didn't add up to a story; as for Apple Tree Yard: well, that was all fur coat and no knickers.) With This Is now buried in the late-slot, we’ve been forced to exhume the body by watching it the next day on catch-up.

This is Us begins with the statistic that 18 million people share the same birthday. The drama revolves around four such characters: Jack, Randall, Kevin and Kate – all Pearsons: the first, the father; the rest, the children. However, it isn’t until late in the pilot that we find out this connection exists- prior to this the viewer believes these are just disparate individuals who happen to be celebrating on the same day. Randall is a successful white-collar worker, living the good life with his intelligent wife and adorable children; Kevin is the sitcom star undergoing an existential crisis, and Kate is fighting her food addiction with cautionary post-its. We’re then taking back in time to the 1980’s where Jack’s birthday is upstaged by his wife Rebecca’s waters breaking. From the resulting hospital visit, the three children ensue.

Randall, Kate and Kevin.

With Randall being black and his siblings being white, you can tell this is drama strays close to soap opera. This in many ways was my problem with the first episode. Contained in the first 50 minutes is a long heart-to-heart between Jack and the obstetrician regarding complications with Rebecca’s birth. The cotton candy succour the doctor administers feels clichéd and written, but such is the programme’s good nature you wash it down all the same. There are other moments where creator Dan Fogelman falls into tropes and conventions: one such being the character of William, a reformed drug addict who just so happens to be the wisest owl in the aviary. Even though you can smell the ink on the character’s words, the drama maintains its compulsiveness.

One real strength of This Is Us is its structure. The decision to go back and forth through time is inspired. Aristole said, (I warned you this blog was pseudo-intellectual) ‘Give me a child until he is seven and I’ll show you the man.” Having the past and present run concurrently in the episode gives us an insight into why the three children turned out how they did: why they have their strengths; why they have their problems. It’s such a wonderful balancing act that means the show sea-saws from being a study of childhood to a thesis on adulthood. And Fogelman has things to say on how Aristotle’s quote is true: how in time our physical appearance changes, yet our character doesn't. There are also critiques on race, gender and consumerism, which, although didactic, are so well intentioned you cheer all the same.

Back to the 80's.

For me, This Is Us is a programme that we all need right now: warm, witty and compassionate. In a Trump world opposed to colour and kindness, this multi-racial drama celebrates the Obama values of tolerance and togetherness. If This Is Us really were us, then the world would be a better place.

This Is Us is currently on Channel 4, Tuesday at 11pm, but by the time you read this it might be aired exclusively on leap years.

Declan Zapala at Morley College

In the spirit of journalistic integrity I should state from the start that I know the subject of the piece. The subject and myself met at the Catholic comprehensive school we attended in the mid 90’s. (It’s important that you note I didn’t attend Grammar or Private school as this makes my achievements as an unpublished blogger all the more remarkable.) So I used to sit in Maths and Science lessons with the subject, where invariably the subject would spend much of the lesson tapping on the table. (Today I’m a teacher and as a consequence view banging on the table a breach of the peace, worthy of a lengthy period in a detention centre: the reason for this is because most adolescent noisemakers wouldn’t spot rhythm if it moonwalked into a room and shouted Aoow! at them. Dec, on the other hand, was hit with the rhythm stick so frequently as a child it’s a wonder the social weren’t called in to monitor his family.) Being from Irish stock, music is in his blood. One salient memory I have of my youth is going around to Dec’s house for his birthday and being left open-mouthed at how quickly the standard hum of a house party could ascend into the melody of an Irish lock-in: people singing together- in tune- to an old folk number, plucked by a drunk uncle with sober hands. Music, like I say, is very much in his family.

Dec's Birthday.

Unsurprisingly, Dec went on to study Sound Engineering at The University of Surrey. From there, he studied classical guitar at The Royal College of Music. Whilst there Gary Ryan taught him- a master craftsman recognised internationally as one of the great guitar technicians. During a tutorial, Ryan asked Dec to show him what he was currently into. Dec replied by slapping his guitar like a secondary school workbench. Ryan smiled at this guitar renegade; aware an iconoclast was in his midst. Unconcerned that this ship was sailing off course, he encouraged Dec to follow his instincts; in time the musician would find a home in percussive guitar.

So here we are again. I’m at a Declan Zapala gig. I’ve been to see Dec play more times than any other artist. For all of that, it never gets boring. For one, he’s my friend and I get an enormous sense of satisfaction seeing him perform. Secondly, he’s a wonderful player who never fails to dazzle. Thirdly, and this can’t be stated enough, the boy is a loose cannon. Dec belies the stereotype of a classical musician. He’s not the kind of soulless savant who spends his life locked away in a practice room starved of social media, rationed from human contact. He’s a distractible jitterbug that loves to laugh, loves to talk. Because of this, his gigs are a surprise to people who go. It is the sound of high culture, delivered by someone subverting its customs. Where other guitarists let their music do the talking, Dec lets his mouth. Some of his introductions are longer than the songs: bearing in mind this is classical music those are long preambles. Tonight he challenges a man on a front row, accosting him for looking like his brother. In another episode, he self-deprecatingly recalls his first brush with an online troll. A moment later, he is explaining the formation of DNA. Next, he affects mock-arrogance over his Edinburgh reviews. Dec digresses so much he was once asked to compete for England in the World Digression Championship; his response: "Do you like pineapples?" It’s why I love going to Dec’s gigs because he speaks passionately with personality. For classical purists he’s probably a confusing entity.

Morley College gig.

As for the music? Well, this gig was like no other I’ve seen. Both of us are fans of Daniel Kitson: the reason? he’s the most progressive comedian of his age. Long ago, Kitson won comedy’s premier league so now operates in a league of his own. Because there is no one to compete with him, he competes against himself. His shows have become more and more daring, involving intricate stage management. One, Analog.Ue involved the comedian having to press 46 tape decks at precise times to tell a multi-layered story. Another Polyphony, a digital update on its predecessor, had Kitson sequencing a series of iPods to communicate his stand up. This house of cards approach to art is so exciting to watch because you know one wrong move could bring about its collapse. But shouldn’t great work necessitate derring-do?

The reason I talk about Kitson is because in this show Dec took himself out of his comfort zone, adding a multimedia element to his performance. The first half has Dec delivering his back catalogue. There’s the deliberately sparse Awakenings, a fill in the gaps activity where the listener can pause and reflect. We’re then floating down the river like Browning’s Lady of Shallot, pushed on by Crystal’s current of ethereal beauty. From there, it’s teacher’s Gary Ryan’s Benga Beat, a composition that culminates into carnival. After, there’s the Running of the Bulls Koyunbaba, which begins with a tense stare off, then degenerates into a frenzied assault where the boy barely gets out alive.

What I’ve come to see this time though is what Dec does with that projector screen that’s behind him. Last year was the first time I’d missed his Edinburgh show. He told me about his plans to re-imagine Steve Reich’s Electric Counterpoint into classical guitar parts, accompanying it with digital projections designed by school friend Amar Chundavadra. Using a home recording set-up Dec recorded ten of the guitar parts on his classical guitar and two of the electric bass parts on his nylon-strung Alto Guitar (a super-sized classical guitar with eleven string). Live, he would then play over these recordings.  It sounded like quite an undertaking; one I was gutted to miss. Fortunately, this one off gig as part of London’s Vault Festival provided me with a second chance.

To say that the work is sublime is an understatement. Witnessing the marriage of impressionistic visuals with Reich’s minimalist phrasing was something truly special. The rich textures recalled Radiohead’s Weird Fishes and Kate Bush’s Aerial, magic carpets of blips and pulses that carry your subconscious to faraway lands. Beautiful.

The gig culminated in the swoon of Angel, a composition by the late great Eric Roche. It’s the sound of a bridal march, a refined elegant step to the altar, where you then hold your partner’s hand, look into their eyes and see love reflected back. It will make a romantic of you.

Dec's album can be bought here:

http://declanzapala.com/welcome-to-the-awakenings-cd-order-page/

Lion

On Tuesday the nominations for this year’s Oscars will be announced. A series of films and performances will be whittled down into a shortlist, precipitating a month of back-slapping electioneering before the die is cast. Despite recent criticism of the Oscars for being too white- and hosts for being too blue- I always enjoy the event. I never grew up loving movies; I always preferred books. It was until university I began to fall under their spell. 

Books provide an intimate experience; films a communal one. You can’t say to your flatmate in the evening, “Fancy reading Catcher in the Rye? I’ll do the narration and you do the dialogue.” (I say this, but one time at university a female flatmate, high on E, stood in the living room performing all nineteen parts of Twelfth Night. The laughter her performance generated felt pretty communal.) However, for the most part books remain a private pastime. Film, on the other hand, can be enjoyed with others, which meant those low budget university evenings were often spent in front of the box, trading favourite films like playground stickers. On leaving Uni I would augment this interest, meeting regularly with a mate at Soho’s Curzon Cinema to catch the Oscar contenders. From being indifferent to the allure of cinema, I now frequently visit its chambers, feasting on its beauty.

My education.

With so many good films coming out in such a short period the difficult decision at the moment is what to see. With last week’s rave reviews, The Girl and I knew we had to go with industry insiders and back La La Land. This week was more difficult: critics enjoyed both Jackie and Lion- which one should we go with? The First Lady of our household took the executive decision and put our money on Oscar outsider, Lion. The decision yielded a wonderful return.

Lion is based on the amazing story of Sheru Khan. Born in the Talai neighbourhood of Khandwa, there was nothing to suggest Sheru would live anything but a village life. Devoted to his mother, in awe of his older brother, he would do anything to please them. Struggling under the strangle of poverty, the brothers would go out to work, making money to keep their home in food and milk. Aged five, the two brothers rode the train looking for work; a tired Sheru -he was only five- couldn’t continue the journey; his doting brother told him to wait whilst he looked for employment. The seconds ticked on. The big hand shifted. More ominously, the little hand did too. Afraid and alone, Sheru took refuge in a train, believing his brother would soon join him. The discontinued train started and didn’t stop until it was 1500 km from home, in what is now Kolkata. To be five in a big city is scary enough, but to be five and alone in that big city doesn’t bear thinking about. To make matters worse, Sheru didn’t know the language, having swapped a Hindi speaking region for a Bengali one. In one train journey, a garrulous little boy is rendered voiceless and motherless – it takes him a long time to get back to both.

The film is based on the true story.

This outward-bound leg of the journey has had critics salivating. Newcomer Sunny Punwar is a revelation as Saroo (his name change will become apparent later on in the movie). Within his impish face, he turns in a performance adult actors could only dream of. In the beginning, his eyes dart and jump; he is the cheeky shadow of his older brother, wanting to emulate his every move. When lost his eyes change, carrying instead the burden of separation. The sadness of seeing his light blown out is heart-wrenching. 

The face to floor a thousand hearts.

One of the most distressing scenes involves Saroo looking for help at a busy train station. Instead of acknowledging the authenticity of the child’s cries, the commuters take it for manipulation, reasoning it akin to the boy who cried wolf; consequently he’s repelled by the adult world, slapped back into isolation, forced to find his own way home. Seeing the treatment of a little boy lost is not a world away from how we treat our homeless: with the media quick to paint people as villains, we’ve grown distrustful; therefore, it should be no surprise when people act callously to people in need. Saroo slipping between the cracks will leave a bad taste in your mouth, and so it should: this isn’t a story exclusive to India.

The return leg of the journey hasn’t received as many favourable reviews in the press. Some estimable scribblers have labeled it ‘boring’ and ‘over-long.’ The second half of the story takes place in Australia, where Saroo struggles with the fruits of his Australian adoption. I believe reviewers are wrong on this half of the movie. Dev Patel, playing the adult Saroo, bewitches as a man torn between two homes. Like all good acting, it’s in the eyes. Any actor can raise or lower their voice to show anger or shyness; few can speak with their pupils. Etched across Patel’s face is the dilemma of every adoptee: should I search or not? Exacerbating the ordeal is his complete ignorance of where he’s even from: he can’t remember the home he wishes to seek. Volcanic frustration assumes squatters’ rights in Patel’s being, making for a masterclass in pained acting. Rightly, Patel has picked up plaudits for his nuanced showing; the critics are wrong though to say he carries the weaker half - it’s every bit as interesting as the first.

Dev Patel is on great form.

Lion will hit you in the head and in the heart. One place it won’t hit though is the wallet: to be moved by a beautiful story is a price worth paying.

Lion is out now.

La La Land

A sign of an evolved species is an ability to adapt to an environment. If this is the case, I must be highly unevolved. As a 31 year-old man, this week I’ve been struggling with the sub-zero conditions. Coming from Sri Lanka as I do (well, my Dad does), I’m more suited to hotter climes. Ever since I was a little boy, the harsh English winters were something I’d always struggled with. The cold as my kryptonite dates back to my football days: as a young lad I would stand on the touchline, come rain or snow, waiting to come on as substitute (over a 10 year career my managers referred to me as an ‘impact player’; when I discovered in Year 11 what a euphemism was, the truth of their lies was made manifest. Horrified, aged sixteen, I thought if adults are willing to lie to a child about their role in a Sunday league team, could they also be lying about Santa and The Tooth Fairy? Fortunately that Christmas my fears were allayed when Father Christmas delivered my Dizzee Rascal debut album, as requested. Sorry for doubting you, Santa). So shivering my timbers week after week is probably why I can’t cope with the cold today. Consequently, I usually spend the winter months in hibernation, only leaving the flat to earn money for central heating.

Out in the cold.

This week, however, I took it upon myself to brave the outside and venture to the multiplex. Donning more layers than a Joey Tribbiani prank, I was ready to stick two gloves up to winter. Despite sweating like a junkie gone cold, The Girl didn't reverse my decision to put the heating on full– she’s a good sort- which made the journey possible. Arriving at the cinema, The Girl promptly pushed me through the door (the architects behind Vue Cinema clearly didn't legislate for patrons wearing layers) and rushed us through the foyer before anyone - in her words - "could see us."

In case you didn't get the above reference.

Why did I make this expedition to Antarctica, I hear you ask? Well, like Scott, sometimes a risk is worth taking if you know a reward lies at the end of it. And my reward was La La Land.

I’ve wanted to see La La Land ever since I heard news of it. I was a fan of director’s Damian Chazelle’s previous work Whiplash and was excited by this one. Moreover, it seemed to fit into my favourite genre: the smart adult romcom. I love the classics: Casablanca, The Apartment, Some Like It Hot, Annie Hall, When Harry Met Sally - and even though some of my writing strays towards the satirical, I’m in fact a dyed-in-the-wool romantic. I love being in love. I love acts of love. I love love. Not enough to jump on Oprah’s sofa and declare it - (If it’s not your furniture, then you have no right to trampoline on it) – but I’m happy to say it in front of you, my dedicated readership. The trailer seemed to point back to that golden age of cinema, a time of sophistication and elegance, where the writing danced and the pictures sang. Then, the movies were all about escapism. The characters impossibly coiffured, costumed, choreographed, but so what? Effort went into them. Imagination went into them. In contemporary cinema everyone wants realism – and some can be great – but surely a bit of magic, some fantasy is needed too. I had high hopes that La La Land would be just the tonic for January, the cruellest of months.

La La Land is set in LA, a la la land built on dreams. LA, the Fairytale Kingdom, attracting actors, actresses the world over, all hoping Hollywood’s slipper will fit. LA, the cruel mirage, promising oases in its howling desert. LA, a place that feeds, starves, promises, betrays. Those with temperaments least suited – vain, over-indulged, soft-skinned – will enter; only a few will survive. The two characters of our story are Mia, a budding actress, and Sebastian, a Jazz musician desperate to stay true to his art whilst paying the bills. In pursuing their dreams, the two are forced to compromise: Mia auditions for dumb roles whilst working as a barista on the studio lot; and Sebastian, enters into the spirit of Hollywood, putting himself forward for extras work, blending into the background by tinkling the ivories for restaurant diners. Both have bought into the dream; both are getting no return on their investment. Mia longs for her name to be in lights like the stars of yesteryear, people she idolised during those afternoon showings around her aunt’s. Sebastian, lamenting his favourite club’s closure, wants to bring Jazz back to LA. Both of these characters are looking back for their future. In a place looking for the stars of tomorrow, can they bring back yesterday?

Stone and Gosling as Mia and Sebastian

This musical story isn’t as light and frothy as the first five minutes would suggest. There, you have an exhilarating song and dance routine that the world and his wife is invited to. After this, the story centres on the two leads: how they meet and how their relationship grows. Typically, the songs are sung solo, the music pervaded in melancholia. There is talk of bringing La La Land to the stage, if this happens then it won’t have the shouty razzmatazz of most musicals, rather it will whistle with languorous confidence, saying “You don’t have to look at me, but I know you will.”

Originally, Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone weren’t going to be leads in the film, that honour was going to be filled by Miles Teller and Emma Watson. Fortunately, the director sought sense with Sense telling him to go with older leads. With characters hovering at thirty, the desperation is more palpable: at twenty you can afford artistic poverty; at thirty its stink gets into your clothes, under your skin, families start calling for an intervention. Gosling does a great job, oscillating between lugubrious and passionate. Stone though is a sensation as Mia: her doe-eyed window to the soul performance is truly special. Every step, song and word is delivered with such finesse, making her a worthy Oscar front-runner.

In these winter months La La Land is worth stepping outside for, if only to be wrapped in its beautiful nostalgic blanket. So escape Trump's inauguration. Escape Brexit negotiations. Escape the winter blues. Escape from reality by diving into this dreamland.

La La Land is out now.