Post the Ninth

I am often asked, during my english seminars, for my favourite film of all time. I am a real film fan, and although I haven´t seen thousands of them , the total number must be pretty high by now.  I must also confess to being a huge fan of the work of Alfred Hitchcock. Not so much the notorious films , Psycho, The Birds and so on, but the other (for me) more interesting works.  

So, I have been conducting a review and I have made my decision. It has to be ..... 

Vertigo, starring Jiímmy Stewart and Kim Novac. What an incredible film this is.

This film works at so many different levels. Ok, so the plot is a little contrived and implausible, but that´s not the point. The themes are so powerful and well integrated that the whole piece hangs together as Hitchcock´s masterpiece.  It is by far his most emotional , atmospheric and poetic film.  

One could discuss the mechanics of the story and the famous twist. But it´s the underlying themes that really grab my attention. The good guy (Stewart), carrying the image of affability from his other films,  is thrust into a narrative so strange that he is slowly revealed in the viewer´s eyes as possesing all of the insecurities, weaknesses and obsessions of a real man. He´s a nice guy, but also not. 

Like many men, he has relationships with women, but they have never worked out. He has a long time female friend who loves him , but he is not really interested. He meets a blonde vision of a woman and becomes obsessed with her. He then `loses` her (she dies , he thinks, because of his weakness). Stewart then spends the second half of the film looking for and then finding a second woman who looks uncannily like the first. He then, most disturbingly, literally re-makes her into a replica of the first woman, his great lost obsession. But at the very end, he loses her too, as she falls to her death . For the first half of film, Stewart is the familiar affable, if perplexed, hero. But he also carries a feeling of guilt for the accidental death of a fellow police officer.  In the second half his darker side is revealed as he falls into a spiral of obsession and obsessive behaviour. It´s  uncomfortable to watch .

What we realise too is that the first and second woman are actually the same person. Judy was simply acting out the role of the first. It is this fact which drives the tragedy to its conclusion. She is, we discover, guilty both of deception and aiding and abetting a murder !  She had impersonated the ´mad´ wife of an old friend of Stewarts ( her name is Madelaine!)  She does this in order to con Stewart into witnessing the wifes´ suicide in order to conceal the murder of the real wife, by her husband. At the end of the film it is left open as to whether the husband will finally be ´caught´. 

Judy had spent the whole film as a guilty accomplice to a murder. Her attraction to Stewart, the ex-policeman, seems partly driven by a need to confess, for salvation from her sins.

For once in a thriller it´s not the criminals or the justice system which are central concerns.  There is no judicial process in this film, at least not from mortal men.   

It´s a film about relationships, image , idealism, love and longing, sexual attraction, salvation, acting and pretence, cinema itself, guilt , death , judgement and (divine ?) retribution.  

And it´s a truly magnificent achievement.

 

 

 

Post the Eighth

The strange case of the adjusted storyline... 

It´s bell ringing time again as I count out 7 rings and a few tinkles. Must be a seasonal addition, I think to myself.  The lone bell puller got bored and decided to add a yuletide flourish of their very own. 

I am a certified addict.  I must confess it, I am hooked on Sherlock Holmes stories. I devour them in all forms, the books, audio versions, plays and lately films and tv series. I marvel at Conan Doyle´s  invention of the two main iconic characters. And the stories themselves. Full of twists and turns, light and shade, they are little works of genius. 22b Baker Street has become a home from home.  

And for Christmas this year, I received from my daughters a gigantic box set of dvds , including all the episodes from the 1950s tv version screened in America. So, with the cat curled up on the sofa, we sat down to watch the very first episode...  ``The Case of the Cunningham Heritage`` 

Al´ls well as the first 10 minutes go by. Watson returns from the Afghan war, meets an old friend who puts him in touch with an acquaintance who, like Watson, is looking for reasonably priced rooms. So watson meets holmes and the scene is set as they decide to move together into 22b baker street. The characters are established , Watson the doctor and Holmes the eccentric violin playing ace deducer who knows a lot about crime , but does not know that the earth goes round the sun. 

But then, Doyle´s world and the tv realm start to slowly part company. There has been a murder and Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard is baffled. So, Holmes and  the good doctor take a hansom cab ( oh how I love the old handsom cabs...) to the scene and meet the lady of the house who is suspected of murdering her husband. Present are also the owner of the house and his brother, Ralph. From the get go, Ralph looks very shifty indeed. But Lestrade is convinced he has his man, or in this case, his woman. 

Holmes and Watson return to Baker Street and Holmes proposes that very night they should break into the house.  To investigate .  At this point I start to get little nervous. Why would he do that ? Seems a bit extreme. Watson goes along with this plan , and as night falls, off they go. Sherlock has a burgler´s set of keys. And in they go, through the front door. Credulity begins to seriously slip at this point, and the cat looks up and meows disbelievingly, 

They miraculously find their way to the drawing room and start rifling though the drawers looking for something. Anything . They are not sure what, but it must be incriminating. Suddenly in bursts the shifty brother,  Ralph, brandishing a pistol. `` I did it`` he explains before being disarmed by a surprisingly fit Watson ( forgetting that he had been wounded in Afghanistan) . And they have their man. Easy wasn´t it ? 

``Amazing deduction Holmes...``  ``I don´t know how you did it ``... says Watson as they return to 22b for breakfast ( well at least they got that right, there is nothing these two enjoy more than a hearty breakfast) . 

They seem to forget that the killer had confessed the whole thing !  

Later the newspapers report that Lestrade has taken the credit for solving the crime. Never mind says Holmes .  Admirable in his modesty , he doesn´t need to be recognised for his great deductive successes. 

I think I´ll go back to the books....... 

   

Post the Seventh

 

It is two days after my 64^th birthday. This past year, like the one preceding it, has been hard for everyone , not least because of the ongoing pandemic situation. We have been locked down, let out, and then locked down again. During a window of opportunity back in the summer, it was great to watch my two daughters travel, with my youngest daughter´s aunt and Godmother, on a short trip to Italy.

This Christmas appeared a book of wonderful photographs. A memento of their Great Escape. They are growing up. And fast.

Thinking back, and connecting more of my loose cables, I recall that Venice was the very first overseas destination I visited as a young architectural student. Onto the train at Waterloo, a sea sickness blighted voyage across the ocean, another train , and then at last to step off at Venice station into a dream-city under a blazing blue sky.

And not a smart phone or computer in sight.

This year Elena and Stella were there too.

My one wish for them is that their voyage of discovery may continue and that this world of opportunity and growth remains open to them and their peers, and not only to the privileged few.

And me ? I have opened a new file with the label ´last phase´. My life here in quiet Upper Austria may be in limbo, but things are cooking in my particular kitchen. Like all good things, Phase 2 has come to an end, and is transitioning into something new.

So where and what next ? . This year I received a clue from the most unexpected of sources. A seed was planted , a thought and a vision which resonates. To be amongst people looking for the same things, and asking the same questions. I know what makes me happy now, what I can offer the world, and with the kind of people I want to spend my remaining time.

Music, laughter, conversation . Friends.

JRC December 2021 

Some highlights of my year ...

 One highlight of 2021 has been discovering the work of this man. So many great quotes ...

``You don´t get what you want...but you might get what you need... but you have to ask...``

``What can i do to set things right, what can i actually do ?..``

``The positive things you could do , constitute a vision...``

***happy christmas***

 After 3 years , I finally got to spend Christmas Eve ( the traditional time of gift giving here in Austria) with my 2 daughters and my ex- wife, without feeling sad. The girls opened their presents while my ex unwrapped gifts sent by her new love, who couldn´t be there.  

And in a way, so did I. 

We ate the traditional ``bratwurst und sauerkraut`` ,  played and sang.               ...Music and laughter . 

  

Post the Sixth

Its a cold December morning and the heating is on the blink again. Sitting here trying not to freeze, I am still surrounded by cables strewn around which need to be untangled and connected .  Memories and meanings. The stories of  a curious life . 

One wintery December from my early teen years was brightened somewhat by the news that my father had won a prize for being the most successful salesman that year. And what a prize ! A brand new stereo record player , Sinclair amplifier and Wharfdale speakers.  So, one snowy Saturday morning he and I set off to drive down to his colleague´s house, some considerable distance away , to pick it up. This journey really sticks in my mind . We didn´t often spend so much time together . I recall us diving down the motorway and then through small villages, deep in snow. It was quite magical, in its own way. 

On returning home I set up the system in our living room and the first disc on the new turntable was one of Dad´s ,  a stereo sampler record, which for some reason was lying around the house. It sounded amazing , as up to now i´de only heard my brother´s old ´Dansette´ style record player with its tiny speakers , and our rather crackly valve wireless. 

That year became lodged in my head as the Christmas of the stereo long playing record. And the first one to be unwrapped was a classic which i´de heard a year or so earlier at the house of  the daughter of my mother´s friend, Mrs G.

 It was ``Bridge over Troubled Water``, by Simon and Garfunkle. 

The week before Christmas...

 

Lovely rendition of a simply timeless song ..

Advent 2022

Sometimes, I have to look to Paddy for the right words..

From one of my all time favourite songwriters. 

Stuck at Home...(again)

Stream Quarantine (fed Up Being Home) - 01 by John Carter | Listen online for free on SoundCloud

Post the Fifth

 When I was but a young lad, a teenager in Yorkshire I had a friend called Dave , who I helped teach to play the guitar. We were music fanatics , mainly rock music -  Free , Wishbone Ash, Led Zeppelin were favourites at the time. After a while we started a band and were joined by another Dave who played the drums and was a bit older , with a job at the post office. We were still schoolboys, in the fifth form, if I remember correctly. I can recall waiting for Dave number one one evening before we walked down to our rehearsal space in the drummers scruffy cellar.  While waiting by the bridge on Barleyfields road that evening, my SG copy guitar and cheap Selmar amp in hands, I can clearly remember the thought entering my head that life would be very empty without playing music , and musing on how people could survive without it. That thought has stayed with me down the years.

We first met Dave the Drum in the cellar come crypt of the church in the town. After playing a Wishbone Ash song , I think it was ``Ballad of the Beacon`` with him on drums , Dave the Drum announced that we were now a band , eventually to be given the moniker ``Asgard``. Very 70´s , when all things Norse were the order of the day....

 

Rehearsals were Thursday and Saturday evenings , with another school friend, a  guy called Haddle, on vocals.  We were fairly listenable,  mainly thanks to Dave the Drums sense of rythm, which was good. 

We must have been quite loud though. Dave´s mother would sometimes call down from upstairs and request a Jim Reeves song. I don´t think we ever obliged, although our repertoir did extend to John Denver´s ``Annie´s Song``. After a while, Dave the Drum surprised us . He had obtained two Marshall 50 watt set ups for Dave the Bass and I to play through. He must have got them on hire purchase.  This was an amazing thing to have done , in retrospect, and really raised our game. Or at least made us now very loud indeed. 

Our first gig took place in the crypt of the church , which was probably just as well as it meant that the sound didn´t carry too far. . Clad in my yellow kimono resurrected from a primary school musical performance , I was joined by dave dave and haddle as we slogged through our limited repertoir. Unfortunately we were more than under rehearsed and led zeps the ocean proved a little too much, with its odd time signature . After several false starts we finally all remained in sync. My first experience of feeling that this was going to be more difficult than i had imagined... And so. Back to the rehearsal basement we went, tales between legs. 

Iconic British TV

Another Favourite TV show from the 1960´s was ``The Avengers``.Every week agents John Steed and Emma Peel fought evil and injustice across an idealised version of 1960`s Britain. The scripts were highly original, witty and often surreal, while the chemistry between the two main characters was electrifying. And , with her Judo skills, Lotus Elan and great fashion sense, Emma Peel was simply the coolest woman on TV. Highly recommended.

``Spinlight`` - A Novel

This started as a bedtime story for my two daughters. They have always tried to persuade me to write it down, so, finally, here it is.

Spinlight

by john carter

Chapter One

It was 1 o'olock, lunchtime, and Simon Spinlight, whose stomach was rumbling, pushed open the gate to the blue painted terraced house on Duckfield Road London SW18. It was a warm spring day in 2020 and the sun was beating down. He surveyed the scene. Overflowing rubbish bins. Check. Not unusual at the moment, mostly due to a local dustman's strike ...flaking paint work on the walls of the old house ( they had used the wrong kind of paint on the brickwork ) The colorful stained glass windows of the front door glowed from the inner light as his eyes absent mindedly scanned upwards. That's strange, he thought, his kitchen window located on the top floor of the house was ajar and a large black and white cat was perched precariously on the window sill. This was alarming, particularly because said feline, Simon's flatmate, who he had somewhat unimaginatively named Cat, was perched worryingly right next to a very large pot of geraniums. I'm coming up ! shouted Simon as the cat looked down quizzically, pondering how to respond to the yelling human looking up at him.

The not so silent sound of Simon shouting had alerted the downstairs neighbour and a silver haired lady in a blue cardigan peered cautiously through her pale blue net curtains. She stared as the man, now with his back to the house, moved , a film in reverse, up the path of the tiny urban front garden . Simon, the backwards walker, now had his eyes on a car parked on the other side of the road. It was a mult-coloured but predominantly red Citroen ' Deux Chevaux ', Simon's favourite car, and very rare in these parts....

Crash ! The pot of geraniums hurtled downwards and hit the paved floor of the front yard, narrowing missing Simon's head. Shards of pottery flew everywhere as Simon shrieked something about not doing that again and no lunch if you do..Panicking slightly, he fumbled for his front door key... He had always intended to put a label on it for quick access at times like these, but had never got round to it. Hence the fumbling.

Then he noticed something quite unusual. On the doorstep was a large cardboard box with his name on it in large slightly child- like felt pen lettering . There was no address, and taking hold of the box he discovered it to be very heavy. Caught now between two situations of equal magnetism he inserted his key , dragged the box across the threshold and stepped onto the colourful tiled floor of the entrance hall. Shutting the door with his foot the thud was accompanied by another crash as a second slightly smaller pot succumbed to the laws of gravity and the encouragement of a furry tabby paw. He raced up the carpeted stairs, unlocked the second door, and raced again up a second flight onto the top floor landing which was the centre of his sprawling south london abode of the last 5 years..

The cat stared at Simon through the kitchen window and gave him a welcoming meow..then sent a third pot flying off the cill. Another distant crash. That was good. No crash and an ouch would have meant it had landed on someone , which it hadn't. Landing on someone would mean trouble resulting no doubt in a large bill and Simon had enough of those at the moment..

He dragged the box across the floor and heaved it onto the kitchen table. Cat , who had squeezed through the gap between ajar window and its frame , now perched on the inner cill, and meowed again. It was a hungry meow and Simon's stomach rumbled in agreement. Tossing a slice of bread into the toaster and pulling off the top of a tin of cat food , Simon turned his attention to the mysterious box.

But as he did so there was a faint and rather timid knock on the door of the kitchen . A grey haired head peered round the door. Mrs Timmins. She had a habit of letting herself in unexpectedly...

“Simon..” she said “ what are you doing home at this time ?”

Simon was always polite to Mrs T, who was a good friend in times of need. A widower once married to the local vicar, she was a good sort, old fashioned and personable . He looked up from studying the box on the old pine table..

“Oh ..I’ve just been sacked..mrs T”

“I’m sorry to hear that Simon..what will you do ?”

Simon worked , or rather had been working, in an architects office in the centre of town. Sir Phillip Gibard was the boss. A nice guy, except that morning, when he had summoned Simon to his office and told him they had no more for him to do. Simon had been the office tea maker, eraser of unwanted lines, and general low paid dogsbody..Except now they no longer needed a dog.

“ I’ll just have to get my cv out there..” But his cv might look a little under-impressive, he thought. The title ‘general dogsbody’ didn’t look too good on paper. The cat meowed in agreement, reading his thoughts.. it was now lying, legs stretched out, on top of the newly arrived box on the table. She purred and promptly fell asleep.

“Tea , Mrs T ?” enquired Simon moving over to the kitchen sink and grabbing two, as yet unwashed, mugs .

“It’s a mugs game, architecture” he said , rinsing two of them , each of which sported the emblems of, respectively, his favourite football team and tv show..

Mrs T sat down at Simon’s table. They had a curious friendship. Often while climbing the stairs Simon would be invited in for a pre lunch glass of sherry or two and they would chat. She was a good listener, and at the moment Simon needed her ear..

“Oh well, it was a boring job anyway”

“ Hmm Simon, but you need the money ..what will you do now ? “

Simon pondered this question. Mrs T had a habit of getting to the point. And tea in hand, she had done it again. Some money would be a good idea.

“ No idea “ replied Simon, as Cat scratched lazily at the top of the box whose now loosened cardboard flap posed a particularly fascinating object of study.

“ I suppose I’ll have to find someone else who needs a dogsbody..”

Chapter Two

Mr Fawcett, or Fred to his still surviving mates, meandered slowly along the high street. This was his normal mode of movement, trundling here, moseying there, making the most of his days in retirement , basically wandering around the town. He looked in shop windows, counted the cracks in the pavement and occasionally nodded to a passerby who nodded back, despite only having the vaguest recollection who Fred actually was. Forgotten is what he was, or so he thought. The newsagents. Hasn’t changed in 40 years...just the headlines were different. Wars here, political scandals there. Oh , well they haven’t changed either. One local headline did catch his eye though..” part of our heritage to be demolished to make way for new shopping centre..”. Hmm must investigate, he thought as his feet followed their random route down the sunny side of the street. It was almost empty, and there was not a soul about as Fred found himself walking up to the door of the old library. ........

.........................

On a shelf behind the long window next to the neglected entrance lay a few moth-eaten old titles surrounded by dust and a few literary minded spiders. He peered into the glass. Dickens Great Epectations. Tarzan. A copy of an indistinguishable Enid Blyton novel. Squinting at the still visible cover illustration, he muttered to himself. Not Noddy then. Shame, he thought. He liked Noddy...

With images of a guy with big ears sitting in the passenger seat of a little red car in his head, Fred turned his attention to a notice pinned to the door. Of the library, not the car. That had the license plate, NOD 1.

“Save our library" it read. “Stop the demolition..we dont need a new shopping centre !”

Indeed thought Fred. The town had always had small shops, a grocer’s here, a butchers there. Even a candlestick maker somewhere , he was sure. He had an intense dislike of shopping centres with their indentikit interiors, glassy sliding doors and general atmosphere of concentrated commercialism. And shops which were always waiting for a delivery of the thing he was looking for.

......................

Chapter Three

Simon took a gulp of tea and pulled the kitchen window to. As he did so he looked down at where the multi coloured car had been. Had been, because it was no longer there. That’s funny he thought, he hadn’t heard it start and drive off. Electric deux chevaux ? Was there even such a thing? He turned back to Mrs T.

Post the Fourth

In which musical cables are untangled and plugged in...

It´s Saturday morning and the girls are away at Choir practise with Auntie Choir leader. The cats are missing in action again , but will no doubt return to the sound of a rattling food dish. My last post involved the plugging in of various cables labelled ´relationships´ into various boxes in my cerebral store-room. But there is still a mess of tangled leads on my floor requiring unpicking, unravelling and straightening out.  There is music playing in the background as I write, something old, something new , something borrowed, and something blue. A lot of blue , if truth be told. Music has always formed the backdrop to my life´s story , sometimes the same music seen at different times from different perspectives. If I ask myself the question ´´which pieces have been constant companions?`` I get some interesting answers.

The earliest memory I have of an ``ear worm´´ is curiously something by Doris Day. My mother was also called Doris, but disliked the name, insisting on ´Dee´ instead. Anyway, back to the singing Doris. My brother Michael had an old record player when I was a child, and certain LPs were often to be found spinning on his turntable. Hank Marvin´s Shadows were one such, as were extracts from various musicals. One much re-played musical album was ``Calamity Jane``,  and this particular song sticks in my head, to this day. Or Day...

As well as the record player, we also had a big old valve operated radio set on which , at night time, you could pick up all sorts of exotic radio stations from far away places. The bakelite front panel was covered with exciting sounding names such as Luxembourg, Budapest, Moscow and Lisbon, in addition to the regular ´home and light` services. These were the days before the BBC simply numbered their stations 1, 2 and 3: something I have always thought rather un-imaginative.

Certain songs remain in my mind because I can remember exactly where I was when I first heard them. In my head, these particular cables are marked important´in red lettering. I am not always entirely sure why this should be , but it is. And the memory usually conjures up the image of this old radio of ours, which sat in the corner of the living room , with its French doors leading out into the garden at the back of the house. The next song is one such memory and also involved the garden, as I can recall that the doors were open to a warm August day when I first heard this drifting out of the speakers. the summery chords and slightly odd middle bit fascinated the young me.

Fast forwarding a little, under my pillow at night was hidden a tiny transistor radio, a Christmas present when I was 12 or 13 years old. The radio , though possessed of a rather tinny sound, was my link with the wonderful world of Radio Luxembourg...And a song which really stays with me to this day from that period is this one. My first encounter with the Starman himself.

As usual whilst rummaging in my brain cupboard , untangling cables often involves jumping time tracks and suddenly finding things which relate to my past and my present simultaneously. The next piece is one such example. I´ve always been a fan of Thomas Dolby, since the days of ``The Golden Age of Wireless``.Most know him as a kind of ``mad scientist`` type and one-hit wonder, from the 1980´s . But what interest me about him is his great song writing ability. He also occasionally comes up with a lyric which has considerable depth... he seems to be in a constant battle between how he is ´´seen´´ ( pseudo-intellectual musical boffin) and how he actually ´´is´´ ( very talented, sensitive and poetic ). The song ´Oceania´ is quite recent and is a lovely tune about finally discovering where home really is…  I think it is beautiful, in its Dolby-esque way. The lady, singing in the last part of the song is Eddie Reader.


And you are free...You´re soaring on a thermal wind....You´re learning how to shed your skin ...You  made it home to Oceania.... 

The concept of home is a big question for me, especially in these days of Post Brexit Englishness
( and other ´leave´ related events on my timeline...) .  Trust and Home , if truth be told.

Just the other day, I was talking to an english student of mine who had an amazing story to tell. She had met and fallen in love with a guy some 20 years ago, but nothing had happened. In the meantime she had been married, then divorced, and had moved home 21 times !  Two months ago, a knock came on her door and a man stood there saying he was interested in the car she had for sale parked outside her house. He lived quite a long way away, in Waldviertel.

After a while she realised it was the He, from 20 years before.

They are now together, and she told me she will soon make her 22nd move. She explained to me that she had felt inexplicably homesick for ages before this fateful meeting. Homesick for a place which she could not give a name. So, I gave her a link to this song. It´s by the Kings of Convenience, a pair who are a kind of Scandinavian take on Simon and Garfunkle… Its called ``Homesick``. It´s a lovely song.

And it´s for all of us.

``A song for Someone
  who needs Somewhere
  to long for...``

Between 1992 and 1999 I happened to meet two very public female figures, one in a formal setting , the other by accident. The first was HRH The Queen , who I was introduced to at the opening of a National Trust house I had been working on as an architect. The anticipation was highly stressful,  but when she finally appeared she was so charming and relaxed that all fears vanished. The second meeting was equally extraordinary. One evening I was enjoying a drink in a favourite East London music venue called the Spitz when , walking down a staircase and turning round , I found myself literally face-to-face with the wonderful Icelandic singer, Bjork. I had been a fan for years, and this was such a surprise. I introduced myself and said that I loved her work and she shook my hand and we chatted for a bit. She has such an ´emotional aura´ around her it is quite incredible. Such a little person , with so much power.  And I´ll let you guess which of these two ladies made the biggest  and most lasting impression on me...

This is Bjork, with my favourite song of hers. It´s about the light and dark in everyone, and it´s a truly great piece of work.

``I go through all this, before you wake up, so I can feel happier, safe up there with you...``

I will never forget that moment, on that staircase, with Mrs Icelandic Thunder herself, Bjork Gudmundsdottir,  as long as I live.

 

Here´s another more recent tune, by the group Imagine Dragons. I don't go for the music too much in this case. But the lyric though. The words are truly inspiring. It´s all about dreaming big and moving forward. The things and ´normal people´ that have held us back being drowned out in the end by the crash of thunder, preceded by the lightening of real potential, ultimately fully realised. We should all be striving to be out of sync with normality as prescribed by others , by authority. To be strange. To be ourselves as we truly, and wonderfully, are.