So yesterday was the last day of the São Paulo International Film Festival, one of Brazil's most prestigious film festivals. With about 400 films packed into two weeks, there's a film that suits everyone's taste. Last year, I was lucky enough to catch the full two weeks as I had just arrived and had very little on my plate, meaning that I was able to watch many films during the festival. I think I watched something like 7 films, so about 1 every other day. This year, I didn't get to watch a single film! I've been working so much lately that I simply have not had even a few spare hours to while away amongst São Paulo's cinephiles.
I'd been working for the film festival itself since September, working as their English translator for their website and their festival catalogue. I would have thought that working in the festival would've gotten me some perks such as free tickets or some free merchandise, even a badge would've been something. But no, there was none of that. The one thing I did get was two tickets to the opening ceremony, which sounds much glitzier than it proved to be. For starters, there were no drinks or canapés, not even orange juice or water. You had to pay for everything. What kind of festival ceremony doesn't serve free drinks? Sod the film, I came to get drunk amongst the stars, or at least hidrate myself. We were then forced to mill around for about an hour for no apparent reason before the ceremony actually began, which took another hour in itself: rather than a simple introduction and some thank yous to the sponsors, a representative from each sponsor came up and gave a "short" speech. The groans in the audience became more audible with every sponsor that appeared onstage; when they called the sports minister on to talk about something or other, it sounded like there was a chorus of school-kids moaning. Eventually, two hours after the film should've started, the festival directors left the stage and the projectors were turned on. Up pops Ken Loach's ode to that French rapscallion Cantona, 'Looking for Eric'. It was a great choice to start off the festival, a mix of action, comedy, and tragedy, much like a football match. I only was a little irritated since I'd seen the film a few weeks before on the plane, on a screen the size of my palm, thus the surprise factor was little ruined. I guess I have to correct myself then, rather not seeing a single film, I didn't see a single film I hadn't seen before. But enough of that, onto the Two Erics.
Eric Bishop (Steve Everts) is a postman in Manchester whose life is in crisis. He can't control his two sons, he can't face his first wife, the mother of his daughter, and he can't deliver his mail. Lost in the world and with no one to turn to, who looks to his idol for guidance, Eric Cantona, "the best football player that ever lived". One night, as he looks at a life-size poster of Cantona, he is visited by the man himself to receive advice on how to get his life back on track.
Despite being produced by the French footballer himself, 'Looking for Eric' is not simply a film about football. In fact, it's far from a film about Cantona. The eponymous Eric is the English Eric, not the French one. It is his story we follow, the story of a working man trying straighten things out in his life. The focus is always on Eric's development throughout the film, and though the subplots may sometimes seem in parallel to his story, their purpose is simply to be another challenge for Eric; we are not interested in whether or not the issues get resolved as much as we are in interested in how Eric will deal with them, which is where football comes in. Whilst football is often mentioned throughout the film, from Eric's recounting of Cantona's best goals (including footage of them) to the arguments over team loyalties, it's never the centrepiece of the film. It only serves as a metaphor for the things lacking in his life: solidarity, support, confidence, unity. And it is football that eventually helps him resolve his issues, represented by his friends and Cantona.
Loach finds a balance between the different aspects of the story and styles of the film, such as the British social realism of working-class people versus the more fantastic elements of the film, or the lighter tone of scenes involving Eric's friends compared to the darker, gritter mood given to Ryan's subplot. The film never seems to jump around from these quite contrasting elements, with Paul Laverty's script keeping them flowing smoothly scene by scene. Unlike past films, Loach's comic touch perhaps adds a more approachable quality to the film, making it so satisfying to watch, especially its exuberant ending.
The actors all deliver great performances, each one suiting his or her role in the story: Gerard Kearns as Eric's rebellious teenage son who reveals himself to be a child in need of a parent; Stephanie Bishop's Lily balances the conflict in the film with her soothing nature, sharing some touching moments with Steve Everts; John Henshaw and Justin Moorhouse provide some brilliant comic relief as Meatballs and Spleen respectively (the scene where the postmen are gathered at Eric's house trying out a self-help exercise is hysterical). Even with all this support, Everts still has a lot to live up to as the film's protagonist, and yet he shines as Eric, the explosive, insecure, loving parent/postman. And of course, last but not least, Eric Cantona, who plays none other than lui-même.
Perhaps the most surprising thing about the film is that depsite not being focused on football, it conveys a strong sense of the passion of a football fan. The goals one never forgets, the feeling of camradarie with other fans, the notion that a football match is the only place where one can let loose and forget all inhibitions, no matter who you are or what you do, and the security that notion offers. These ideas only appear in the film explicitly once, but one can feel they are floating around throughout the film. It is these ideas that Eric years to retrieve, it's what he needs to retrieve to find the Eric he is looking for. As a famous French philosopher once said:
"When the seagulls follow the trawler, it is because they think sardines will be thrown into the sea".
As part of the never-ending celebrations of all things French here in Brazil, which has so far included everything from electro popstar Sébastien Tellier to cubist Matisse, photgrapher Henri-Cartier Bresson has been honoured with an exhibition of more than 100 photographs from around the world. Considered the father of photojournalism, the exhibition brings together images that span his career, from more famous ones such as Behind the Gare St. Lazare (perhaps his most famous photograph) to others displaying the breadth of his travels around the world.
Having gone to see the Walker Evans exhibition only a few weeks ago, it was fascinating to see how distinct each photographer's style was and yet how in many ways, they share similarities. The curators of each exhibition seemed to pick up on differences more, demonstrated by the organisation of the photographs: whilst Evans' work was neatly separated out into series and also chronologically, the Cartier-Bresson was much more wild, with photographs with seemingly nothing in common side by side, apart from the vivacity that united them all which Cartier-Bresson managed to capture (and, arguably, instilled in them himself). Most of Evans' work was austere, capturing the harsh conditions of an economically fragile nation, compared to the Francophone's more "colourful" portraits of life. And yet they both strive to bring together elements of journalism and art to their photography; Evans may be tied to the former and Cartier-Bresson to the latter, but one pick out these elements in both their work nonetheless.
I'd seen some of Cartier-Bresson's work before, in my godfather's books, on the internet, on posters, etc., but much of it was still unknown to me. To see such a variety of his photographs in one place truly felt like a privilege. There seems to be so many sensations running through each picture, from joy to sadness, from serenity to excitement, from tragedy to comedy. Some images seemed so composed and based on pre-existing styles of art, such as the picture above, whose winding stairs reminded me a lot of German Expressive Cinema, and yet others seemed authentic and vibrant reflections of life that were captured without preconceptions or pretensions. One particular photograph that I was amazed by was of a stream in Japan; a little foam had built up on top of the water and had been dragged by the current, forming wisps of white against the darkness of the water. It the lines looked so meaningful and purposeful, it was as if it had been painted on the water.
But I would have to say that personally, Behind the Gare St. Lazare still ranks as one of the most impressive photographs I've ever seen (of the relative few I have seen). A clear example of "the decisive moment" Cartier-Bresson came to be known for, the picture shows the moment before a man steps into a perfectly still puddle of water. On closer inspection, one sees that the man's actions are also mirrored by a dancer on a poster on the wall behind: layers upon layers of reflections. Asked about how the picture came about, he replied, “There was a plank fence around some repairs behind the Gare Saint-Lazare train station. I happened to be peeking through a gap in the fence with my camera at the moment the man jumped". As the French would say, pas de quoi.
Last Sunday, I went to see a Brazilian production of Tom Stoppard’s ‘Rock ’n’ Roll’. My knowledge of Stoppard only extends as far as watching ‘Shakespeare in Love’ (which he wrote the screenplay for) and knowing about ‘Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead’, a play about two minor characters from ‘Hamlet’ who take centre stage and become the main focus of the entire play; incidentally, there’s a film version of the play with Gary Oldman and Tim Roth playing the eponymous characters but I haven’t got round to seeing that either. Having missed its initial run at the NFT back in 2006, a production directed by Trevor Nunn, I was reminded of it when my cousin mentioned seeing it in San Francisco earlier on in the year. When it appeared here in São Paulo, I jumped at the chance to see it, spurred on even more by the thought of what a Brazilian perspective might bring to an English play.
The story follows Jan, a philosophy lecturer in Cambridge in the 70s who decides to go back to his native Czechoslovakia to fight for his communist beliefs, much to the dismay of his mentor Max. As the years roll by, we see how Jan and his friends are treated by the regime whilst simultaneously following the lives of Max and his family in Cambridge. All the while, we see that the one thing that speaks to these characters, that sets generations apart, that divides governments from the people, and keeps one’s faith and beliefs intact is rock n’ roll.
First off, I’ll apologise in advance for the cheesy pun in the title. I thought of going for something like “Rock ’n’ Roll crashes like a Led Zeppelin”; probably a much better title, but then I didn’t think it was that bad. Plus, you can never go wrong with a Rolling Stones reference.
The play is essentially about 3 things: communist theory versus examples of its practical use; the difference between the brain and the mind, i.e. rationality and sensibility; and the power of rock ’n’ roll. Over the course of its 3 hours, it delves deep into the three topics and their inter-relationship, not only within the play but on a wider context as well. I must admit that much of the detail in the dialogues that explored the first two subjects was lost on me, though perhaps that’s because I wasn’t aware of many of the Portuguese technical terms. I feel that to understand it better, I’d have to read the text again in English to have a better grasp of it.
On a more dramatic level however, I felt it somewhat hard to relate to the characters. Since it was an adaptation for a Brazilian audience, it was inevitable that they should tailor it in ways that would make more sense to those sitting in the stalls and beyond. Yet it seemed that they’d pushed this too far, made it too Brazilian. It’s more than likely that this decision was made due to its length and thematic content, but I couldn’t help thinking that this added “Brazilianness” distracted from the play’s text; people seemed to be laughing more at the slapstick tone the production adopted (at times) than Stoppard’s ironic dialogues.
This may sound a somewhat elitist attitude to take yet I’d rather propose it as a cultural observation, especially after what my Brazilian cousin said. She saw it her in São Paulo as well as San Francisco and our opinions were the complete opposite: she felt more at home with the Brazilian production than the more austere American one, which I imagined I might’ve enjoyed more. It makes me wonder then, whether theatre is not as universal an art form as something like cinema: does a play require more adaptation than a film, or can it simply be translated and left at that? Or, conversely, do films actually require more than just subtitles for us to truly understand them?
This is probably too large a question to be answering here and now, best left for a rainy day. As sorry as I’d feel for anyone who’d attempt to tackle that question, I felt even more sorry for the man sitting behind me during ‘Rock ’n’ Roll’. In one scene, Jan and … are having a prolonged discussion about communist theories and its many heroes and central figures. Towards the end of the scene, one of them makes a joke about Karl Marx that drew a laugh from the audience. I overheard the man behind me turn to his friend and ask, “Who’s Karl Marx?”. The poor guy was probably dragged along to the play and didn’t imagine he’d have to be sitting through 3 hours of this on a Sunday night…
Tuesdays are always great for a jaunt to a museum here in São Paulo; not because of some astrological reason of the alignment of the planets on Tuesdays, or some numerological notion of Tuesday being the second day of the week (or third, depending on where you're from). It's simply because museums are free. This does of course mean that they are inevitably much fuller than one would expect during the week, but it's a concession one must be willing to make in such circumstances. Last week, I went to take advantage of this at the São Paulo Art Museum (MASP) to see a new photography exhibition that has just opened here on the work of Walker Evans (pictured above).
Born at the beginning of the 20th century and living until the mid-70s, Evans was best known for his work during the Great Depression when he travelled across the United States documenting its effects for the Farm Security Administration. Emblematic 8x10 photographs from all four corners of the economically-crippled power lined much of the walls in the exhibition, showcasing bleak landscapes and impoverished farmers. On top of this governmental work, Evans also toured Alabama with writer James Agee to do a story for Fortune magazine on the lives of three rural families. The story never ran but Agee's text and Evans' photographs were developed into the seminal book concerning the Great Depression, 'Let Us Now Praise Famous Men'. This series of photographs was also on display at the exhibition; unlike his others on the same subject matter, Evans opted for a much more personal insight into these families which included many close-up portraits. The aesthetic beauty here comes from the shades of gray that bring life to the faces of his subjects, falling in between the searing white Alabama sun and the dark shadows cast on the barren fields.
Evans also went to Cuba on an assignment in the mid-30s for Carlton Beals' book 'The Crime of Cuba' about dictator Gerardo Machado. The different environment provides a fresh and interesting contrast to the Depression photographs. Whilst Evans still captures the poverty on show as he did in his home country, such as a photograph showing a poverty-stricken mother begging on the street with her three children sleeping around her, there was clearly a fascination with this wildly different culture. One particularly enigmatic photograph shows an elegantly dressed cuban man standing in the street; the stark contrast between the man's dark skin and his crisp white suit makes him stand out remarkably from his surroundings.
The exhibition was largely chronological which allowed one to see Evans' development as a photographer relatively easily. In his early work from the mid- to late-20s, much of it demonstrated more aesthetic concerns; many photographs showed his interest in geometric patters and ideas of perspective as well as relations between light and darkness. Much of it was reminiscent of De Chirico both in terms of his use of forms and shapes and of chiaroscuro. As a whole, the exhibition presents Evans' development of a concept of photography as documentary art, not only capturing reality as the camera sees it but also drawing out aesthetic elements within that. Over time, one sees how Evans' sensitivity to capturing human expression became the priority at the expense of traditional notions of aesthetics. This is most evident in his 'Subway' series, which saw the photographer taking pictures of passengers of subway trains in New York. The framing and focus is often imperfect and the lighting somewhat muddy. Yet there is something undeniably intriguing about the photgraphs as they present images that vary from comic to tragic, and always verging on poetic.
Most of his photographs are found in art museums these days. Should you chance upon an exhibition of his in the near future, it'll certainly be worth the visit.
And so, after 3 blissful weeks in London (and one spectacular weekend on Planet Bestival), it's back to Brazil for another year. This time, however, I've already got some work lined up, thankfully. I'm currently doing translation work for the Sao Paulo Film Festival at the end of October, translating all the synopses and directors' biographies for the festival programme among other things. It's not the most glamourous job but it does mean that I'm contact with the festival organisers; if all goes to plan, I'll also get some work during the festival itself, on site. Here's hoping. The other big news is that I'm moving out of my current home (living with a family friend) and getting my own place nearer the centre of Sao Paulo. It may be a tiny studio apartment, but having somewhere you can call your own is truly incomparable to staying in someone else's house, no matter how nice they (or the house) is. I'm looking forward to the experiences this new environment will bring, whatever they may be.
My 3 weeks in London were mostly filled with nostalgic catch-ups, meeting people I hadn't heard from in a year, if not more. But between all that, I did also manage to watch one film, Lars Von Trier's 'Antichrist'. To call it grossly controversial is an understatement.
The story is a simple one: an unnamed couple, Charlotte Gainsbourg and Willem Dafoe, mourn the death of their child who fell out of a window whilst his parents were having sex. Feeling the burden of guilt upon their shoulders, Dafoe, a therapist, decides to take his wife to their cabin in the woods to deal with the grief, their so called "Eden". Through a series of exercises, Dafoe tries to remedy his wife's constant anxiety attacks, but he soon learns that his wife may not have been all that she seemed. Cue all the explicit violence that you will doubtless have heard of by now.
If reducing the film to such a dismissive synopsis seems unfair, I assure you it's only because it's exactly how the film seems to treat the subject matter. Von Trier has always been for his themes of mysogyny, his emotional manipulation of the audience, his struggle to push the boundaries of tasteful (and tastless) cinema, and I do applaud him for that. Yet 'Antichrist' just seems like a step in the wrong direction. For all the theological and mythological sybolism that the film offers, 'Antichrist' is not that far from the gorefests of 'Saw' and 'Hostel'. Von Trier may start off with a true desire to explore the darker sides of the human condition, but he soon gives in to the shock factor that lacks any substance. The infamous shot of Gainsbourg performing a clitorectomy is so graphic that it completely removes one from the dramatic moment; up until then, you're involved with Gainsbourg's unstable character, torn between sympathy for her grief but disgust at what she's done to her husband. The tension mounts as you see her grab the scissors and you're on the edge of your seat. And then comes the close-up and all that suspense vanishes instantly.
I won't lie and say that the film is terrible, some of the cinematography is truly stunning and the first half of the film is compelling. But it certainly doesn't merit the accolades it's apparently receiving, especially when so many of Von Trier's other films offer so much more. If this film is being deemed art because it puts aside narrative conventions in order to make the audience respond in an emotional level, then I would say that even those works of art which purport to do the same thing have some meaning behind it; as 'Antichrist' wears all its meaning on its sleeves, it's hard to see anything behind showing us a bleeding vagina. On a last note, I can't help but find it horrendously ironic that the director who fervently espoused purely aesthetic cinematic devices in his Dogme 95 manifesto opens his film with the most over-the-top montage sequence I've seen in a long time. For all its beauty, I couldn't help but think of this scene of a student film from Family Guy.
This week I saw an altogether different film, the sublimely uplifting "Up" (excuse the pun), Pixar's new film. Pixar have been producing masterpiece after masterpiece in recent years; last year's 'Wall-E' seemed to be their piece de resistance, capturing astoundly beautiful images and some truly magical scenes. What surprised me most about the film is how adult it is, particularly the opening 20 minutes; a wordless introduction to Wall-E and his world, the film dares to challenge its younger audience's attention span whilst evidently intent on mesmerising the older people in the cinema. When I went to see the film, there wasn't a single child there. Pixar had topped it with 'Wall-E' and there was no way something could be better. Or so I thought...
'Up' is the story of 78-year old Carl Frederiksen, all alone in the world after his wife's recent passing away. All his life, he'd promised to take his wife to South America to see the great waterfalls there but sadly she never made it. Intent on fulfilling that dream, Carl ties hundreds of balloons to his house and lifts off into the skies, beginning his slow journey southwards. What he didn't count on was for any company on the trip, especially not little cubscout Russell, only after his last badge to fill his sash. And so, amid adventures with talking dogs, childhood heroes, and colourful birds, Carl learns the true meaning of paradise.
As ever, Pixar delivers another terrificly fun and touching tale. In essence, this is a buddy movie with two unlikely lead characters, both of whom are simply excellent. Behind his gruff exterior, Carl is a romantic at heart, trying to desperately to live the dreams he and is wife had; Russell, meanwhile, is a curious little trooper whose befriending of Dug the talking dog and Kevin, a large, multi-coloured dodo lookalike, only seems to get in the way of Carl and his watefalls. The film does become more focused on action-adventure towards the end, with Carl and Russell trying to escape from the villainous Charles Muntz, making for some spectacular chase scenes in, on, and under a huge blimp in the sky. But the film's most outstanding sequence is not within its action-packed denouement, but rather at the very beginning of the film, a montage of the lives of Carl and his wife Ellie, charting their first meeting as 6-year old aviators all the way to Ellie's death, beautifully scored by Michael Giacchino. Its tone is so melancholic and its theme so adult, something never before seen in a Pixar or Disney film.
Perhaps it's not so surprising nowadays to see relatively dark subject matter be included in kids' animated film. After all, Japan has always treated animation as just another form of storytelling with no specific audience demographic; it's only in the West that the cartoon has been designated as something predominantly for children. I'm sure some parents will decry the notions of death and loss (which appear more than once in the film, albeit subtlely) being presented to their kids. Then again, I doubt if many parents could explain the concept of death in such a touching and meaningful manner.
In an age when digital technology is taking over the film industry and analogue film is slowly but surely becoming a thing of the past, one can trust always artists to still make extensive use of celluloid film. Rosalind Nashabishi is a video artist who works almost exclusively with 16mm film, yet rather than it be a simple artistic preference over digital film, she uses the technology to define her work in such a way that makes it part of the work itself.
At her current exhibition at the ICA, she presents several films which demonstrate a range of ideas that she explores in her work: in 'Eyeballin'', she anthropomorphises everyday objects around us showing the emotions they can have, juxtaposing them with images of the robotic and uniform New York City cops; in 'Jack Straw's Castle', a film commissioned especially by the ICA, she shows mixes the real and the theatrical by showing scenes of Hampstead Heath both in the day, capturing the natural environment around her, and at night, in which we see a film crew lighting a scene, producing a dream-like cinematic world.
Her most interesting piece is 'The Prisoner', a film indirectly inspired by Proust's homonymous fifth volume of his work 'In Search of Lost Time'. In the film, we follow a woman as she walks around the South Bank, accompanied by the suspenseful sounds of Rachmaninoff. Yet Nashabishi sets up two projectors side by side with the footage passing through one camera first and then the second, producing a 6-second time delay. The effect is not of mirroring or a feeling of repetition but rather creates a sense of unease; it seems as if the one woman is being followed by another. In a brilliantly simple Hitchcockian narrative, Nashabishi manages to produce a tense drama in which the viewer is omniscient but the character is entirely oblivious.
Perhaps it is this narrative quality that set 'The Prisoner' apart from her other films at the exhibition. This creation and manipulation of narrative from the simplest fragments of film desconstructs it and pushes storytelling to its boundaries, making us question what our conception of a story is: whether it needs a beginning, middle and end, or whether it can be even simpler than that, like 'The Prisoner' demonstrates.
The design world has taken over the streets of London this past week with the London Design Festival. You can find countless exhibitions around the capital as well as some installations such as this year's festival centrepiece The Tournament, a giant chessboard designed by Spaniard Jaime Hayón in the middle of Trafalgar Square. Unfortunately, the installation was only there for a few days and has now been removed.
Luckily, most of the exhibitions won't finish for some time. The V&A Museum is housing quite a few at the moment, one of which I went to at the beginning of the week, Telling Tales. The exhibition is comprised of pieces mostly by Dutch designers and are all inspired by fairy tales. Whilst much of it would be considered design art, designers such as Tord Boontje and Jurgen Bay comment on how they wish for their pieces to have functionality as well; part of the appeal of these objects is that they reflect the unfamiliar and mysterious atmosphere of the fairy tale world. There's also a very interesting section inspired by Heaven and Hell which includes a marble seat and lamp that is simply stunning.
Space: the final frontier. Most of us will never even set foot in a space shuttle much less visit the Great Beyond, so a trip to Planet Bestival will just have to do. For those 40,000 astronauts who made the trip two weekends ago, I think that's more than they could ever ask for as this year's space-themed Bestival, the last festival of the season, was by all accounts a hugely tremendous success and a well-deserved one too. After last year's torrential downpour over most of the festival reduced Robin Hill Country Park's beautiful green fields to mud-covered marshes and flooding several areas of the festival site (aptly so, perhaps, since the theme was 'Under the Sea'), 2009 saw three days of glorious sunshine over the Isle of Wight. I even managed to come back with a tan, something I haven't experienced in England in a long time. Equally, the skies were so clear that at night, one could stare up and look at the stars and all their constelallations, freed from the light pollution that makes such a spectacle impossible to behold in London.
Onto the festival: after a few cans of warm Carling and tucking into some home-made pasta that would last me the weekend, Friday began with Passion Pit on the main stage, a band from Massachusetts who play a dreamy and melodic electro-pop with high-pitched wails. I'd heard some songs of theirs before which I had enjoyed but I'd been told that live they weren't so spectacular. Thankfully at Bestival, that wasn't the case: they put on a great show with lots of energy, spurred on by the crowd and the sun beaming down above them. Whilst I may have no idea what the singer was singing about, it was without a doubt a great to start to the weekend. Following on from Passion Pit were Friendly Fires hailing from St. Albans. Whilst often lumped into the same category as much of the indie-electro out there, Friendly Fires do have more of a percussive edge to them than most bands. They make extensive use of percussion instruments in their recorded songs as well as their live performances and they even draw inspiration from Brazilian percussive music. It was a shame, then, the sound levels were completely off: the bass dominated every other sound, leaving the intricate rhythms of the high-pitched percussive instruments muddled and the synths completely non-existant, particularly in a song like Paris' whose shimmering chords in the chorus are as important as its pounding dance beat.
Next was Florence and the Machine, the Mercury Award Nominees. I'd seen them before and decided to go for a stroll instead to explore the site a bit more. What's great about Bestival is that while it remains a medium-sized festival that packs a wide variety of artists, it also houses lots of strange little wonders. Towards the far end of the site, I came across a large inflatable wedding chapel that was playing wedding classics (when I walked in, it was Hot Chocolate's 'You Sexy Thing') with the DJ dressed in a bride's gown and a woman dressed as a priest and singing over the top, karaoke style. More fun was to be had here later on. I quickly headed back to the main stage for Soulwax and their rock-tinged electro. As ever, they put on an excellent show, every sound as crisp as clear as it should be. The same could not be said for MGMT, or so I heard. Several friends went to see them and could only comment on how terrible the sound quality was and a lacklustre performance to go with it. I'd gone to see Pivot instead, an instrumental band from Perth, Australia. Musically, it was exceptional, but unfortunately the behemoth that is MGMT drew away most of the crowd, meaning that in a tent that can fit 10,000, there were 200 at most. Whilst Pivot delivered a great performance, they looked frustrated which they can't really be blamed for. It was somewhat odd that they were placed at the time-slot anyway, it would've made much more sense to give them an earlier one.
It was now back to the main stage for Massive Attack, a band I've seen many times before. Yet they turned out to be another band suffering from sound levels. My friends and I had to push our way right near to the front to be able to hear them over normal conversation volume. Once that problem was resolved, we were able to enjoy a set full of greatest hits amid a some new songs from the upcoming album. They finished the set with 'Unfinished Sympathy', signalling a massive (no pun intended) sing-a-long, or at least as large a sing-a-long as Massive Attack could draw.
It was over on the main stage for Friday but the night was still young; whilst some friends went to see Bat for Lashes in one tent, a few of us went for another stroll as I led them to the inflated wedding chapel. We got there and found the chapel was closed but next was a small tent named the White Wedding Disco, playing indie classics such as 'Take Me Out', 'Last Nite', 'Mr. Brightside'. What was only meant to be a curious peek inside turned into a half-hour boogie; every song that finished was followed by a song that was simply too good to say no to. I also came to the realisation that this faux wedding reception would soon become a reality: this is what it would be like at any of my friends' weddings. At least the music would be good.
Finally escaping from the Wedding Disco, most of my friends went over to catch 2manydjs and their genre-clashing, rule-breaking DJ sets. Recently, they've employed some visuals into their sets which consists of showing the album cover to the song they are playing and then mixing it visually into the album cover of the following song. Fantastically elaborate visualisations and yet, ultimately a very simple idea. In the meantime, I went to catch a DJ I'd been waiting to see for a long time: Fake Blood. Fake Blood aka DJ Touché aka Theo Keating first made his name as one half of The Wiseguys in the mid-to-late '90s and probably made his biggest hit with 'Ooh La La' which was used in a Budweiser ad. As Fake Blood, he makes bass-heavy remixes with chopped up vocals. As a personal stamp on his remixes, he always 'makes' the singer say the words 'Fake Blood', the most impressive being his remix of Little Boot's 'Stuck on Repeat' at 1:44. His DJ set was truly masterful, jumping seamlessly from a range of styles but always maintaining a direction throughout: lots and lots of bass. By the end of it, I was exhausted from dancing so much and wanted nothing more than to get some sleep to prepare me for the next day.
Saturday began much in the same way Friday did: warm Carling and cold spaghetti. I couldn’t wait to jump into my fancy dress costume, seeing everyone around me in their outfits already. Some of them were truly inspired, such as Han Solo in carbonite costume, probably my favourite. I went as Space Ghost this year, a cartoon character from the ’60s. I’ve got some photos that I’ll post on here later on. Off we went to see the first band of the day then, The Mummers, who sound like a more orchestral and poppier version of Bjork. Upon arriving there, we found that The Mummers had been replaced by Mercury Prize Winner Speech Debelle. I'd hadn’t heard much about her, despite all the surrounding critical acclaim. Personally, I wasn’t too impressed really; it had a very summery feel but just felt like a watered-down, repackaged pop with Debelle raping over it.
Much more entertaining was another pop sensation over on the main stage, the king of camp that is Mika. Now I’m certain that I’ll be crucified for saying this by my friends, but his set was a true delight to watch. With a number of great pop songs under his belt, Mika is exactly the kind of thing that fits in so well with a sunny, mid-afternoon slot at a festival: easy to process, uplifting and just pure fun. Perhaps it’s because the year away in Brazil has meant that his songs haven’t been played to death in the same way that I’m sure has happened here. Needless to say, I went to see his performance by myself.
Most of the rest of Saturday was spent in the Big Top tent, watching all the artists on the Mad Decent record label; these included DJs L-Vis 1990, Boy 8-Bit and label head honcho Diplo, plus live acts Major Lazer and Buraka Som Sistema. 5 hours of a lot bass and a lot dancing. There were highs and lows, highs being L-Vis 1990's bass-heavy house and Buraka Som Sistema's own brand of portuguese dance music called Kuduro, very similar sounding to dancehall. This of course did mean that I missed out on Kraftwerk and their pioneering electronic beats, whose set was unanimously called THE performance of the weekend. Still, I'd seen them before and Buraka's performance was blisteringly good so it's definitely not a regret.
To end the evening, I went to see Lindstrom and his balearic disco beats. An hour and half of 80s cosmic synths with a modern feel, he finished and left the crowd wanting much more. Lindstrom's released two hugely critically acclaimed albums with his partner in crime Prins Thomas recently, as well as his own solo work such as his last effort 'Leftovers', with songs such as 'The Magnificent'.
The last day was a much more chilled affair: on the main stage, the mood was folky with Fleet Foxes playing 2nd headliner, whilst Elbow would be closing the festival. Early on though, it was Music from the Penguin Café, an instrumental band who use lots of string instruments (cellos, violins, mandolins, etc.). You might've heard their songs before on various adverts. After that, it was over to the Red Bull tent for Introducing, a 10-piece band who play a live version of DJ Shadow's seminal album 'Endtroducing'. Whilst it is impressive to see them perform the album from start to finish using only live instrumentation when the album was made entirely from samples, there's a sense that you might just as well be listening to the album itself. Had they perhaps added a personal stamp to it, it would've added an extra element to the show. But nonetheless, their musicianship is something to admire.
As the sun began to set for the last time at Bestival, we headed to the Big Top tent again to catch The Big Pink with their noise pop à la My Bloody Valentine and The Jesus and Mary Chain. They were among the highlights of the festival, their highly-distorted, wailing guitars over programmed beats and lush synths, all held together by the driving basslines. This a truly a band to look out for in this next year. Following on from them was The Field, aka Swedish minimal techno producer Axel Willner. Unlike other techno that I've heard, The Field has a much more melodic and almost ambient quality to it. The songs slowly build but have a constant kick drum and hi-hat throughout this progression; it's like the perfect soundtrack for a long train journey, as you watch the landscapes go by. For their live show, it was a more intense performance, with a live drummer and an additional bassist. Songs that are normally low-key acquired the conventional loud-quiet-loud structure so common in music. I suppose he felt that for a festival crowd, a more energetic performance would be necessary, which would probably be the case for the uninitiated. Still, it's a shame since what makes his album so interesting is what he decided to avoid.
We then headed to the far end of the festival site for Blastival, an event that I’d seen on the lineup but which didn’t have much description to it. We got there a little late and found that it had already started: a short play about Michael Santos, a Spanish-sounding alien who’d come from outer space to explore Earth and who was going back to his home planet. Or something like that. It was really only a simple pretext for a large fireworks show. As the fireworks went off for about 20 minutes or so, we also watched as the large wooden platform on which the “play” had been performed was set alight and crumbled under the force of the towering flames. The fire was so big that even at the distance we were, about 200 metres or so, we could all feel the heat on our faces. This was all complemented by the soundtrack that accompanied the spectacle over the large speakers around us: John Paul Young’s ‘Love is in the Air’. One couldn’t have picked a more appropriate song to capture the atmosphere at that moment as well as over the whole festival. As the fire continued to burn, we slowly made our way back to our tents, wishing our bodies still had enough energy to get us back there, let alone dance anymore. And like that, it was over for another year: 3 blissful days in a field. That’s something that I definitely miss in Brazil, not only because of the atmosphere but also because of the lack of corporate branding that are omnipresent in Brazilian festivals. This feels like a festival genuinely set up and organised by and catered for festival-goers. It would be naïve, of course, to assume that profit isn’t an interest, especially since the festival has grown in size every year. But even so, it’s managed to retain its original feel, an intimate boutique festival. There’s always the fear that a festival like Bestival, become ever-more popular, will become too big for its own good and lose this quality about it. Perhaps it’s something inevitable which we just have to accept. In any case, until that day arrives, I’ll still be frequenting Planet Bestival for many years to come.
One final mention has to go to this man right here. Unlike every other spaceman costume at Bestival, this is no cartoon or film character. This is Sonic the Manipulator, an alien from Mars who went out for a spin one day and accidentally ended up on Earth. Without any means to get back, he assumed the alias of Claude Woodward and lived in Perth, making his own type of cosmic music. Nowadays, he tours the world, playing to those who care to listen and trying to rebuild his ship to make it back to his home planet.
When I left for Brazil last October, the idea was only supposed to be a year out, to get to know Brazil and specifically São Paulo, truly get to know what Brazilian life and culture is all about. 11 months later and it's now a very different story: having made numerous contacts in the film industry which I hope to build on, as well as falling in love with the city and the people (well, some of them at least), it looks like I'll be staying for a while longer. I guess in the end, 1 year just isn't enough. There are still many things I want to do and even more things I've yet to discover. What once felt foreign to me (despite being part of my cultural heritage) now feels like something I understand better, that I'm more connected with. There's such a rich, fascinating culture with such wide-ranging influences that it never ceases to surprise or amaze. I don't know how long I'll be staying, it won't be forever but from the looks of it, it won't be brief either. I'm writing this because to give a bit of context to the ironic situation that I now find myself in: having lived 21 years in England and gone to Brazil on holiday, I'm now doing the complete opposite. I never would've guessed, to be honest.
So I arrived back in London this afternoon. I wish I could say that the landing was as scenic as the picture above but in truth, it was pretty far from it. A little cloudy, a little windy, warmish; basically, your standard British summer day. In fact, I had a stop-over in Zurich which was even worse. There were near gale force winds there, it was so strong that it was practically raining sideways. On top of that, they decided that it would be a good idea to board the plane from the runway rather than go through that tunnel thing. Those pesky swiss. But now I'm back, and I'd be lying if I didn't say it's good to be back.
I'm staying for the whole month and will hopefully be doing as many cultural activies as possible, especially catching up on British films. And yet it seems that wherever I go, there's always a Brazilian film festival following me. I found out about 2 happening in September. One is the Cine Fest Brasil, taking place at Riverside Studios from 17-20 September. It's a small selection of films, ranging from documentaries to fiction feature-lengths. One particular film showing is 'Favela on Blast', a documentary about the origins of baile funk in Rio. I've already missed it twice in Brazil, so nothing's going to stop me this time.
The other is at the Barbican, starting next Tuesday on the 8th and carrying on until 8th October. Less a festival and more a selection of films, it will include various Qs & As with filmmakers and actors involved in the films and will also be showing a range of documentaries and features. The films range from new releases to slightly older offerings, among which is 'Basic Sanitation', a hilarious story that explores most basic essences of filmmaking, entirely centred around a broken sewage system in a small town. If you've ever wanted to make a film and had not even the slightest clue of where the 'record' button on the camera is, then is the film for you. Equally, if you've got a degree in Film from NYU or you're Martin Scorsese protegé (or Martin Scorsese himself), this film is also for you.
"Brazil" and "football" are words that go hand in hand together. It's almost impossible to think of one without thinking of the other. It's the national pastime in every sense: playing, watching, and talking about it. For some, it's a religion; for others, it's a waste of time. Either way, there's no denying that football is truly a way of life in Brazil, from the kids playing barefoot in the streets to international stars like Kaká or Ronaldinho. And who could forget the World Cup, the period every 4 years where the entire country stops for a month (and that's no exaggeration: during the 2002 World Cup, due to time differences between Brazil and Japan, matches would be shown here in the early hours of the morning meaning that most people simply wouldn't bother going into work the next day). Aside from producing anything from countless spontaneous and unorganised street parties to a national day of mourning in Brazil, the World Cup has cemented Brazil as pioneers and exporters of the "beautiful game", with fans at all four corners of the globe and beyond. Brazil is football and football is Brazil. And yet, 51 years ago, it was a very different story.
Jump back to June 1958: Brazil had still not been World Champions, having lost in their own backyard 8 years earlier in the final against Uruguay and going out in the quarter-finals in '54. Eager to prove themselves in Sweden, they arrived with relatively little support, least of all from the Brazilian press who expressed very low expectations of its national team. It wasn't long until the other teams, along with the rest of the world, began to see the elegance and skill these players displayed. Among them were the likes of Dino Sani, Gino, Joel, Mazzola, Zagallo, Gilmar, Bellini, Garrincha, and an 18-year old Pelé (pictured above, centre). Together, they led Brazil to victory and sparked a new stage in development for the country, both internally and within the international community.
Of course I've come to learn about all this over many years, mostly through my dad. The first World Cup I remember was '94, Brazil's fourth title. I was 7 at the time, the same age my dad was in 1958. Some memories remain very clear in my head as if they were from yesterday; my most vivid one is watching Roberto Baggio missing his penalty against Taffarel in the final, meaning that Brazil were champions again. As part of the same generation as Kaká or Ronaldinho, 1958 seems a world away from me, even more so because archive footage is more difficult to come by. Thanks to filmmaker José Carlos Asbeg, this should never be a problem again.
I went to see documentary of his last night at the Football Museum in the Pacaembú Stadium (São Paulo's equivalent of Wembley) entitled '1958: O Ano Em Que O Mundo Descobriu o Brasil' (1958: The Year The World Discovered Brazil). Whilst it was primarily about Brazil's campaign during the 1958 World Cup, throughout the film director José Carlos Asbeg demonstrates how it was more than just a victory at an international sporting competition, it marked a turning point for Brazil culturally. Through interviews with journalists, football commentators, politicians, and the actual players themselves, we learn that 1958 was when Brazil truly established itself as a country of value and worthy of recognition within the world. A national inferiority complex was done away with once Bellini lifted the Jules Rimet. Yet what makes Asbeg's documentary so genuine and soulful is the clear admiration he has for the players, his childhood heroes. In a talk after the film, he commented on how he struggled to find archive footage to show entire plays that led to Brazil's goals rather than simply showing the final kick. For Asbeg, it's not the goal itself that matters as much as the whole team working as a single unit to produce that goal.
Towards the end of the talk, someone asked whether Asbeg had considered analysing the "art" of Brazil's football and what impact that had on the world afte 1958. Asbeg replied that his intention with his documentary was never to theorise, it was simply to pay tribute to those players who he had venerated when he was younger. Perhaps this is exactly what we need to remember our forgotten heroes, to feel the emotion and energy that the fans felt then. I may not have been there, but after watching Asbeg's documentary, I'm sure I won't forget 1958.
