A Couple of Old Memories

 

 Un Chien Andalou

 It was the 1970's. I lived in North London, then 'Somewhere in Germany' (actually Offenbach aM) with stays at my brother's near Paddington, sometimes a month at a time, when I was studying German at the Goethe Institut. I used to see at least two films a week while in London  - West End releases and arthouse. Arthouse pics remain the ingrained memory - the Phoenix in East Finchley, The Everyman in Hampstead and the Paris Pullman in Fulham were regular haunts. Annoyingly, I can't remember which it was that I saw Abel Gance's Napoleon at. (I think it was the P-P). It was an all-nighter, starting at midnight.

Before then I'd been seeing plenty of films from around the world (Kurosawa was a favourite) ... and also later, but that was when I was settled back in Germany and Fassbinder seemed to be on TV or at the Kino the whole time. His Querelle was, for me, a time machine back to my teens when I consumed Genet, Camus and other risque continental authors as the best of Waugh and Isherwood were yet to be served at my table. Jean Paul Gaultier's perfume company with its not-so-subtle hint back to Querelle keeps reminding me in its adverts of  the dualism in sexuality ... not hetero and homo, but technicolor and grey. That could lead into a comment on society and sex, but not now (and probably not ever) ... now is about arthouse and the eye-opening scene of  Luis Buñuel's 'Un Chien Andalou' ... an experience that I underwent in my head at the weekend when I had a cataract operation under local anaesthetic. The surgeon skilfully sliced something (I wasn't looking - I was blinded by the light) and then gently, but with some sense of  a road drill, broke up my natural lens, sucked it out very gently (think Hannibal Lecter and liver) before 'inserting' a replacement lens - it was a bit of a squeeze but there was a satisfying imagined 'plop' as it 'unfolded' followed by some microscopic manouvering by surgical instruments, all courtesy of Zeiss and the NHS! Within a day, the sight in one eye has been returned to that of my youth. The other remains that of a decrepit old geezer, but hopefully not for long. Of course, there's post-op stuff to do for a month, but this is the NHS (even if it has sub-contracted to a private clinic) excelling.

Mr Tambourine Man

I was never a real 'biker' even if I went to the 'Busy Bee'and even, once, 'The Ace'' ... I rode a Honda 90, but I wore a donkey jacket ... ho, hum (cue the Bonzos)!

My parents were quite well off and we had a holiday place on the Oxford plain, north of the Chiltern Hills (no, not Chequers!) I used to escape there from London at weekends with friends and, for me, escape was needed - I'd been trying to find myself, seemingly throughout my early life, but without luck. Perhaps it was that which drew me to American protest folk music. Anyway, after all the years all I seem to recall is one weekend we gathered there, drinking beer and smoking cigs, but nothing stronger, all through the night, listening to loud music incessantly. I had a headcold. Come the Summer's dawn with bad nasal congestion, I needed to clear my sinuses, if not my head. I climbed on my bike and headed down the local roads at speeds that max'd the 90 (not much, but well in excess of safe riding on windy country lanes) and, of course, I wasn't wearing a helmet. I survived to be writing this, but imprinted on my visual memory of that ride was Dylan's Mr Tambourine Man ... except ... it was The Byrds version!

Was I any wiser afterwards? Not really, but my sinuses were clear!

Riding, I came very close to injury on a couple of occasions - once flying over the back of a car that pulled out on me - that time I was wearing a helmet and it may well have saved my life. It left me with a wee scar on my upper lip where I kissed the tarmac. Barbara used to complain about the scar when she tried applying lipstick! As soon as I could get four wheels, the bike was gone.

I can still draw up the visual memory of that dawn country ride and 'hear' Mr Tambourine Man, although today it is Dylan's voice. 

Still Problems Commenting

 Just to add the problems of commenting on Blogger remain - Google throws me out every time I want to comment ...  and I've been a bit too busy with life to spend time on sorting the issue out (it's bad enough fighting off Windows and Copilot and the stupid Cloud).