Life, Animated

As I write the world’s eyes are turned on LA. People who are already inundated with attention are about to have even more thrust their way. At this moment, they sit in their make up chairs, delivering their audition tape- false humility - to mirror. Later, they will temporarily vacate their mirrors, to pace their living rooms, to practise their acceptance, titled: Why Donald Trump is such a bad man? In a 45 second speech, they will do what respected journalists, experienced politicians and right-thinking people failed to do: they will scold Donald Trump so badly that he will take to Twitter and resign from office - in 150 characters. (Actors: the best way to pique Trump tonight would be to ignore him altogether, to say nothing about him; for there to be a blanket ban on his name. Publicity is the man’s sustenance. Rumour has it he exists on a diet of newspaper headlines and oppositional placards. Apparently, memes are his source of roughage.) To put it succinctly, The Oscars is a celebration of the over-celebrated. It is an evening where the back-slapping rings so loud that the thirty-piece orchestra have a struggle to play over it.

Actors: it's time to get climb on.

For all of that I love The Oscars. I say that, I’ve never actually watched it – not in its entirety anyway. Given the Oscars is longer than a space mission, I’ve never had the chutzpah to watch it. I’m far too sensible to go to a black tie event – even televisually - on a school night. To paraphrase Dolly Parton, “If you want the champagne you have to accept the hangover.” I’m not prepared to endure weeklong weariness for the fizz of celebrity, so I’ll reluctantly turn in early. Tomorrow though I’ll be up, all excited and buzzing to see who won, wore and said what. Because ultimately the cynicism of the first paragraph was an act: a B-movie performance on how to appear cool and ironic. In all honesty, I love the movies and the hoopla that goes with them.

Tonight’s Oscars promises to be great too. The head-to-head battle is between a film I’ve seen, La La Land, and a film I want to see, Moonlight. This, in my mind, is a wonderful thing. Neither are big sluggers that benefitted from the weight of major producers. Being made on lightweight budgets, both are punching well above their weight. I guess what I’m saying is the films have entered the conquest on their vision alone – these are works of auteurs, not committees: La La Land was written and directed by thirty-two year old prodigy Damien Chazelle; Moonlight was produced for just $2 million by Barry Jenkins. Whoever's arm is lifted at the end of the evening should feel mightily proud.

Which is better? There's only one way to find out: FIGHT!

Despite all the press coverage on La La Land and Moonlight, I believe the film people should be talking about is Life, Animated. Nominated in the Best Documentary category, Life, Animated is a film that does a better job of celebrating cinema than the Oscars itself. I first heard about the feature on Kermode and Mayo’s film show, where The Good Doctor prescribed it to his legion of listeners. 

Fortunately, early this week I saw it was part of the Storyville season on BBC4; so setting my memory to record I vowed to catch it at the weekend. 

Well, I loved it and The Girl did too. 

Sometimes the best stories are better than fiction- and in this case it’s true. The film tells the story of Owen Suskind, a kind, loveable man who’s on the verge of graduating. Owen has the condition of autism and has, along with other adult sufferers, been in the care of specialists. He’s about to live independently for the first time – the thought of which makes him a ‘little nervous and a little excited too.’ His mother and father are also apprehensive, but they have the benefit of knowing how far their son has come.

Owen and his family.

Nineteen years previous, Owen did not resemble the man he is today. He had gone quiet. Someone, something, had hit the mute button on him. Try as they might, his parents could not find the means to reactivate him. Desperate, they sought specialist help. Following examination, they were informed Owen’s language had broken down; that his autism was so profound he may never speak again. And for that year he didn’t. Physically, he inhabited space, but cognitively he was lost within it. The only joy Owen took was from watching old Disney videos with his brother Walter. Owen only became

animated when he saw these animations.

Then, aged four, something of a miracle occurred. Owen spoke the word, ‘justervoic.’ Only it wasn’t a word, but a phrase: “Just her voice.” A line Ursula delivers to Ariel in The Little Mermaid. Amazed, his parents took him to a therapist, arguing that his speech had returned. Pragmatic, the expert surmised the speech wasn’t authentic, but artificial: a child parroting out of context what they had heard. Weeks later, Owen’s father picks up his son's Iago teddy, and mimicking the character’s voice asks, “Why are you sad?” The child replies, “Because I don’t have any friends.” Ironically, through a stuffed parrot they discovered their son wasn’t parroting; instead Owen was using cartoons to express his emotions. From the prison of regressive autism, they had finally found the key; it just so happened it bore the name, Walt Disney.

Iago isn't all bad.

The story doesn’t end there though. Yes, the family find they can use Disney movies to bridge the gap between Owen and the wider world; but when it comes down to it, Disney classics are two-dimensional. Every Disney film ends with the boy getting the girl, with the conflict neatly resolved – life isn’t like that. Life rejects classification; defies four-part narrative; conflict lasts; songs aren't succour – the boy doesn’t always get the girl. Ultimately Disney can’t help children escape life's nightmare kingdom – only family can. Witnessing how the love of Owen's family allows him to face his challenges is truly magical.

For all of the 5 stars reviews though, the greatest plaudit comes from the famously litigatious Disney, who green-lit their material for the film. Director Roger Ross Williams showed a raw copy of Life, Animated to Disney's lawyers; so overwhelmed were they, they gave him carte-blanch to use any footage he wished.

Right now, around the world, everyone is talking about that Best Picture envelope. Who will win? Who will lose? But for me, there’s a tight-lipped one more worthy of your attention. Gilded in gold no less impressive is the envelope for Best Documentary. I hope tonight when its mouth finally opens it says the words, Life, Animated. Owen and his family deserve it.

Life, Animated is available on iPlayer.

Norah Ephron and Luisa Omielan

“I’ll have what she’s having.”

As movie quotes go this is one of the most enduring. In the scene Harry boasts how he made a bedroom conquest meow like a cat. Unconvinced, Sally challenges him by asking, ‘How do you know?” Harry is just sure. He knows an orgasm when he hears one. Like a great vocal coach, he can make any vagina sing; have any woman hit the high notes. Sally, played by Meg Ryan, demonstrates that what a man might hear and what a woman may feel may be entirely different things. In the Deli booth she guides her student through a tutorial titled, ‘Faking It: Sexual Politeness / Or How To Deceive A Dunderhead.’ In way of introduction she murmurs through bitten lip. Then, she moves onto the main body via tousled hair and bitten lip. Finally, her writhes and wails culminate in ovation proving that women truly are the best actors. When a passing waiter asks an elderly patron what she’ll be having, the timing is mercurial, hitting my comedy G-spot.

From start to finish, When Harry Met Sally is a masterclass in screenwriting.  As a female writer Ephron had to fight to the top (early in her career she led a lawsuit against Newsweek for its discriminatory employment practices); despite this Ephron was always destined for big things. Her mother and father were scriptwriters for stage and screen, meaning the young Ephron had dialogue in her blood. At the time of the film’s inception, Ephron was recovering from the break up of her second marriage; now back on the New York single scene she had a window into both worlds. Aware that marriage wasn’t a bed of roses yet attune to the pressure women felt to lie in it is a paradox Ephron grapples with. Director Rob Reiner too - the inspiration behind the Billy Crystal character - wanted to look at the hard truths of love, given he was a recent divorcee. With all of this heartache it’s perhaps surprising that When Harry Met Sally manages to be a paean to marriage.

The optimistic note of the movie is struck when we’re introduced to a real-life elderly couple, documenting to an interviewer when they first met. Although Harry and Sally remain on screen for the duration of the story, these real-life couples rotate, allowing the viewer to eavesdrop on these intimate stories. Juxtaposing the fictitious tension of the warring pair with the non-fiction ease of octogenarians illustrates how the fire of love changes over time: what was once hot and risky is displaced by something warm and comforting.

If you’re uninitiated to the charms of When …, the story centres on the eponymous: Harry, a self-assured wise-cracker, and Sally, a focused pedant. Both are sharing a car journey to New York following the culmination of their university education. On the journey they discuss love, sex and everything in between. Neither appears to be the others cup of coffee, but the sparks of conflict suggest neither can ignore the other. Whatever which ways, the two alight in New York with no plans to reconnect.

Of course they do though.

Five years later, Sally is kissing her boyfriend goodbye at Departures when Harry notices … Joe. Life has passed. One night five years ago doesn’t mean much to him. He can’t put a name to Sally’s face. After exchanging pleasantries with Joe, Harry’s memory wipe leaves Sally feeling sour. On the flight Harry has a chance to make amends, as who should be sitting in front of him but Sally. Again, the two resume their battle of the sexes with Harry theorising that men and women can never be friends, as sex will always come between them. Certain that evolution has missed Harry, Sally is relieved when the two part ways – Harry, presumably, to his cave.

Five years later and the two meet in a bookstore (“there’s someone staring at you in personal growth”). This time the exchange between the two is benign, more mature; more collaborative, less challenging. Age has smoothed Sally’s seriousness; time has softened Harry’s dogma. Life has changed for the two of them. Harry’s marriage has broken down and Sally’s relationship has ended. Both see themselves as losers in the game of love. United in consolation, they become friends, helping the other rebuild and negotiate dating. Their friendship mirrors Reiner and Ephron's, illustrating how it is possible for men and women to collaborate without putting their body parts into one another. The film is witty and incredibly touching.

Carrie Fisher plays Sally's friend.

I watched When Harry Met Sally on Valentine’s with the woman I would like to write my life-story with. She hadn’t seen the film before and she enjoyed it so much she managed to keep her eyes open for the duration of it. If The Girl was a film reviewer, this is how films would be scored: eyes open throughout – a must see; asleep for the ending – pretty gripping; intermittent eyes shutting ­– passable; asleep for the duration – avoid!

One show that The Girl couldn’t keep her eyes open for, that she really should have, was the brilliant What Would Beyonce Do? Released onto BBC iPlayer on Valentine’s Day, Luisa Omielan’s debut stand-up show is cut from the same cloth as Ephron’s. It is wise; it is sexual; it says something about the genders and it’s a fucking hoot.

I’ve wanted to see Omielan’s show for quite a while. Ostensibly, it isn’t aimed at me. What is striking when you watch Omielan’s show is how she’s appealed to a different demographic to most stand-ups. Normally comedy shows are the preserve of couples or fanboy geeks: they’re rarely frequented by young, single ladies. Fortunately, over the last few years this has begun to change. Because of Norah Ephron’s legacy begetting the likes of Lena Dunham, there is now a thirst for female voices. Omielan hasn’t had the column inches of Dunham, but what she has achieved is no less impressive.

Omielan

Five years ago, the bootylicious bottom had fallen out of Omielan’s life. Having enjoyed success at The University of Salford (alumni includes Peter Kay and Jason Manford) she subsequently found herself stuck in a rut. The achievements of her degree combined with the risk of taking comedy courses in Chicago had failed to pay dividends. Her life was in the black, signalled further by her retreat to home after the break-up of a relationship. Omielan knew she was talented, but in the cutthroat business of show it felt like her dreams had been bloodlet. What would Beyoncé do? she thought. Would Beyoncé forgo her dreams? Would she sacrifice what she held dear to the malevolent whims of the showbiz God? Or when life gave her lemons, would she make lemonade?

Like a true underdog story, Omielan fought back. She invested all the money she had in taking her What Would Beyonce Do? show to Edinburgh. Word soon got around that the girl was onto something special. Like a Royal in Hawaii, she was soon garlanded by a mass of praise. From the embers of a dying career, Omielan’s name was now spreading like wild fire around the industry. Since then, the show has returned to Edinburgh these past four years, playing to bigger venues, to more people. Her follow up show running concurrently Am I Right Ladies? has been a huge smash, demonstrating that like her idol, Omielan is no one hit wonder.

It isn't free to go to anymore.

The show filmed in Clapham Grand captures what has made Omielan a word-of-mouth sensation. The inclusive atmosphere is highlighted from the get-go with the performer volunteering a fan to be her hype man. Omielan coaches the unsuspecting woman on the art of an introduction. This isn’t from the humiliation school of audience participation, but the ‘I share my star’ college of collaboration. Omielan then hits the stage to Beyonce’s Crazy In Love, gyrating like no ones watching. The preface is shared, documenting how the title came to Bey. What follows is Omielan’s life-story, punctuated by Beyonce tunes and dance routines. Like Ephron, this marriage of story and inspiration works beautifully, enhancing the art through the artifice.

This isn’t just a young woman riding on the back of her hero. The lyrics of heartbreak Omielan shares are every bit as emotional as her hero – funnier too. Luisa has an excellent line in comic metaphor: one routine has her describing a young woman’s first foray into romance. She lays out her premise by declaring that every person starts in the ocean of life; initially, we’re too frightened to move from our parents: the waves are too big, how could we ride them on our own. Then, we meet someone who makes the water feel less tumultuous. It isn’t long before we start searching for something even more stable, say a relationSHIP. The analogy continues taking in the rough waters of love and the hearts eventual drowning.

In full swing.

Another wonderful routine is on mental health. Within it, she holds society morally culpable for exacerbating its effects. Mental health in comedy is de rigueur, yet in 2012 when the show was first conceived it wasn’t. Omielan argues that we spend hundreds of pounds working on our physical health whilst ignoring our mental well-being. Hilariously, she then imagines a mental health gym where people work on their ex-boyfriend issues, before building up to working on their daddy ones. This is incredibly smart stand-up being packaged into a pop concert night out.

In all honesty it has taken television too long to cotton on to Omielan’s star. In an interview on Stuart Goldsmith’s Comedian’s Comedian Podcast, the comedian admitted her frustration at this. For me, it doesn’t make sense that this genuine voice of a generation has had to crowdsource money for the live recording of Am I Right Ladies? Further in a recent interview, she insisted that of the £100,000 in ticket sales she generated at Edinburgh, she only saw 10 per cent of it. Somehow Omielan is still an underground star; hopefully now with the BBC on production she’ll be the sound of 2017.

When Harry Met Sally is available on all good DVD shelves. What Would Beyonce Do? is on iPlayer.

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/