I’m currently watching and re-watching a lot of films as part of a longer piece I’m writing on British film, so I’ve decided to start blogging some rough pieces on a variety of films, Brit and non-Brit, as I watch. Expect them to be pretty broad.

Here’s the first.

The Essential Elements of a Hip-Hop classic.

“What about homosexuality Tony? Do you like men? Do you like to dress up like a woman?”

Re-watching De Palma’s Scarface (watching it really, I last saw it when I was about fourteen) I was struck immediately by HOW camp it is.

We’d never expect De-Palma to be too far away from the operatic or melodramatic, and the film is essentially a remake of a melodrama anyway, but driven along by Moroder’s cheesily eupeptic synth motifs (tellingly, variations on a theme for both wife and sister) and Scarfioti’s extravagant sets the whole film looks to be set in the kind of revisionist Sirkian non-space that Todd Haynes, for all his gusto, was just too self-conscious to get to in Far From Heaven. The shots alternate between a kind of nostalgic, Fifties soft-focus Edward Hopper and a hyper-bright David Hockney, along with a mawkish, idealised Homesteadery in the domestic scenes with mother and sister and the requisite angelic lighting effects on Mastrantonio’s face*

From the start, with Pacino’s lispy, pouting, alternately unctuous and defiant Tony Montana being predatorily circled by tough-guy crotches ( the neophyte’s first night in the Gay bar ) until a hand strikes in across the side of his face, by his open mouth, fingering his scar, asking him if he got it from “eating pussy”, you know you’re in for a long mince down Queer street. Indeed, it’s hard not to read Pacino’s scar as an emblem not of his tough guy past or his fundamentally flawed character, the outward manifestation of the greed that undoes him, but as a symbol of his repressed gayness, a big pussy if you will, that cuts across his eye. Tony Montana is looking at the world with half a woman’s perspective. Queer eye for the straight guy. The rest of the film is a parade of camp icons, from F. Murray Abraham’s prissy henchmen through to the suavely refined aristocratic Bolivian drug-lord who tells Pacino pointedly and hilariously, twice, that Montana should never try to fuck him. Most significant of all is of course Tony’s friendship with his boy, Manolo, a doe-eyed, hip-swivelling Greaser, who he eventually kills for getting married to his sister.

There’s a couple of extremely protracted close ups, complete with over-zealous rage-motif on the soundtrack, on Tony’s Queer-eye: first when he watches Mastrantonio flirting with a guy and getting her ass grabbed (and loving it!) in the disco, another in the murder of Manny. The standard interpretation is that Manny has broken his word and Tony is obsessed with his sister as a reserve of purity in a corrupt world: not my reading. Both Tony and Manny are singularly asexual in the film, there is no sex scene between Pacino and Pfeiffer, she’s the marriage-of-convenience/trophy wife, nor equally do we ever see Manny getting laid, and his couple of onscreen attempts at picking up broads are singularly unsuccessful. In fact, his pursuit of Tony’s sister is pure Happy Days' wholesomeness, as is the cornball meringue castle they live in, all white and light compared to Montana’s blood red, fur-lined den which actually seems to have been designed to look like a huge Pussy. This could of course represent the womblike safety that Montana yearns for, but given the way the film reads from the start it’s hard not to see it as one more expression of Tony’s femininity, especially when he emerges with his little friend levelled at crotch height to repulse the men trying to invade.

If there is a more exquisitely camp moment than the scene in which Pfeiffer and Pacino marry and the assembled throng skip giddly down to gaze at the three-way symbolic tiger ( taming the beast of American capitalism, melting Pfieffer’s hauteur and burying own illegitimate desire) that Tony has bought and chained up by the lake I’d love to see it**. Montana’s rage at the end and his murder of Manny is only explicable in that he has betrayed him by refusing to live in Queer-limbo as Montana’s unrewarded fag-hag. Equally I take his sister to represent exactly that part of himself that he can not express and that must remain dormant, hence his rage in the club when she disappears off into the men’s toilets (!) to get banged by some louche, cocksure bozo. By the time we get to the film’s infamous finale in which a gang of invading boys get introduced to a shrieking and flouncing Tony’s “little fwiend” before he submits to a bukkake bullet-fest and finally (FINALLY) gets nailed from behind with a big, long, shiny shotgun the film has entered a zone of delirious, hilarious kitsch that in fairness, one should only expect from arch-Queen De-Palma.

After watching the extras, including the Def Jam homage to a Hip-Hop classic (!), I watched the deleted scenes. Yep. They deleted two takes of scene that's an expression of love between Tony and Manny, which stops just short of a kiss and is approvingly watched by an audience of Trannies, in a part of the dorm where Montana just happens to have made his bed. The implication in both scenes is that maybe Manny is a little uncomfortable with Tony’s love for him, in the second that Tony may have been “partying” with the drag queens. Either way it contains the immortal double-entendre, “Assholes drive me crazy, Manny.” There is also a later scene in which Mastrantonio is confused for his wife as he buys her a sexy-but-chaste white dress that he himself is just too short to carry off, and which she changes into in the final scene when she confronts Tony over his desire. He doesn’t want to sleep with you love, he wants to be you!

Tony Montana, a great big faggot, just waiting to get fucked.

* there is I think a kind of bleeding through from Scarface to Blue Velvet to Cronenburg’s A History Of Violence/Eastern Promise which I may well elaborate on later, especially as my post on Lynch is well overdue.

**although the sequence directly after Manny’s murder with Mastrantonio holding his corpse (after the extreme close up on Pacino’s angry face/eye and a slow motion run down the stairs in another floaty white gown for Mastrantonio) in which she tells Pacino, “we just got married yesterday, we were going to tell you today” surely isn’t going to get beaten for mordantly camp bathos anytime soon.

is it the wrong moment to link to this?

well, he had been looking pale.......

When I lived in Ramsgate about ten years ago I had two drinking cronies, Paul and Martin. I tended to drink with them separately as, while I got on with both of them, they didn’t get on especially well with each other.

Paul was old-school Left in his politics, extremely argumentative and deafeningly loud, Martin was apolitical, generous and funny. There’s no doubt that the intellectual and rhetorical force was on Paul’s side, he was bracing company for twenty minutes but then slowly the feeling began to creep over me: this is it. This is the only thing we’ll do, talk about, culture, politics, theory. More importantly we’ll only talk about it in one way, high-volume, non-stop velocity.

Paul laughed uproariously at his own jokes in the absence of anyone else’s laughter, seemed to be addressing someone behind or beyond the person immediately before him most of the time, peppered his talk with references no one else could understand, dismissed anyone he perceived as not being on his intellectual level and at the same time took a certain pride in his connections and interactions with the local underclass: buying weed and hanging out with the bad boys.

I was about the only person in the pub where we regularly drank who had any time for him at all, and even I found him deeply fatiguing, in many ways one-dimensional, stifling, irrespective of all the drugs he’d ingested in the Sixties, the sit-ins he’d participated in, the fact that he’d gone to University with Genesis P’Orridge or that one of his best friend was a widely-regarded poet. All very intellectual, but still, just not enough to get you through the night.

Women especially disliked him. A part of it was his assumption that knowledge itself was impressive and seductive: it wasn’t that he didn’t have fairly bog-standard lusts, he liked the same generically pretty girls anyone did but he was incapable of speaking to them without patronising them. His seduction technique was to try and undermine their ideas of themselves, they would grow dizzy under the spell of his furious mentation, he would crack them open and they would melt worshipfully into his arms. It never worked, and as it became apparent to him that it wasn’t working, that the girl in question was simply bored and repulsed by all this grandstanding he would become more aggressive: he would leave her wounded, if she wouldn’t gratify his ego by submitting to his superior intellect he would do his best to destroy hers. Then he would affect to have disdained her all along.

At this point I also lived with a large, extended and anarchically free-wheeling Family of Gothy, Bo-Ho painters and artists down from London, (we’ll call them the Clan). I was their favoured surrogate son at that point. They liked neither Martin, nor Paul. Paul because he exposed their intellectual hollowness, their lazy, Radio-Four-quoting lack of any real intellectual rigour, Martin because he had no especial interest in their sub-cultural capital and was always fidgeting to get away and do something more interesting. The idea that there might be a more richly multidimensional way of living than sitting round their enormous, Huysman’s style black dinner table listening to left-field music and yelling incomprehensibly at each other, or that “experiences” weren’t necessarily the things you had after ingesting large amounts of chemicals, offended them. They threw fairly extravagant parties full of artists and left-field types at which neither Paul nor Martin were particularly welcome and of which I grew increasingly bored.

My friendship with Martin was regarded as odd from both Paul and The Clan’s perspective: what I was after all was a combative, word-wielding Swans-and-Pansonic-loving drugs-and-booze-binging CerebroGoth.

What Martin had was shiny, non-partisan “people skills”, something the others deemed an irrelevance, if not an outright offence, not because they had ever had them, found them useless and abandoned them along the way but because they valorised what they had always been, socially-awkward, anxious outside a narrow domain of taste, nervous around “normal” people. Martin, however, seemed to find talking to people, almost anyone, rewarding, seemed to be able to engage with them on their own terms, patently enjoyed others. This was an enormous part of his charm, whereas the charmless Clan and the charmless Paul were thrown into a panic meeting people who might oblige them to come out of the corner they had assiduously painted themselves into and were proudly proclaiming themselves kings of. You must enter my empire, my citadel, I will not meet you on the border of yours! They regarded themselves as open-minded but their ego-world was too fiercely guarded for anything genuinely illuminating or disrupting to get in. The air was stale and heavy with desperate mutual affirmation, shot through with muffled hysteria.

The fact was that on a night out with Martin there was sense that things might happen, there was a foretaste of what I found later in Spain and in South America, that you could start the night with one group of people and end it with a completely different one, the process of moving about putting many other options and interactions in your path if you were open to them, a different model of conviviality and sociality to England’s*.

Paul seemed confident in many ways but it was a strident, inflexible confidence, underneath it there was the inability to listen to anyone else: his endless, urgent theorizing and riffing seemed neurotic, the fear that if he stopped for a moment someone might ask him how he was feeling, how his love life was going, what his hopes and fears were, ask him to tell them a joke or expose him in some way. A conversation would largely start like this : How are you? I’m reading Deleuze. Do you know Deleuze? No. Well, what Deleuze says is….

With Martin conversation was a more supple, broader medium, plus he was funny whereas Paul was dour, inquisitive where Paul was dogmatic, gentle where Paul was shrill, open where Paul was impermeable. Conversation, putting the world to rights, ideas, weren’t the entire purpose of the evening: the night was a series of possibilities, an arena of potential for finding out new things, a form of playful investigation. This was a large part of what Paul disliked in Martin, the ease with which he encountered others, his refusal to consider the question closed, his ludic qualities. Paul had read Kapital and he knew what reality was. Paul wanted converts and acolytes and got none, or at least not for long. Martin was widely loved.

One night things came to a head.

We were in disco above a hotel that was also a Language school I used to work in. Paul had been haranguing me inexhaustibly for the past few hours and when Martin turned up it was a relief. A game of pool, maybe, or table football, or a dance around. Maybe nipping out for a late night swim in the Sea, or a chat with some of the students who avoided Paul, who actually taught them, but who were friendly with Martin, who ran the local internet café. Any change of colour and tone, anything but this, was deeply welcome to me.

Paul was a big guy, almost as tall as me, Martin was all of five-foot seven. We were already drunk, Martin had come out late. Paul was loud and overbearing and could be intimidating in a way, nonetheless I would describe all three of us as physical cowards.

The conversation started approximately like this:

Martin (warily) “How are you Paul?”

Paul (bellowing) “ Alright. You still in love with the Twentieth century, are you?”

Harmless enough, really, funny in a way. Coward that I am I escaped to the bar to get Martin a drink. At some point while I was queuing up a bottle got smashed and waved around and by the time I got back Martin was visibly shaken, Paul gone.

You’re kidding me.

What the fuck was that all about?

What did you say to him?

Nothing. Really, nothing!

That was ten years ago, but still, certain things stick in your mind.

Martin’s coming up next week, as it happens.

I haven’t seen Paul in years.






*Outside ULU last week there was a Brit/Non-Brit split perfectly exemplified. Two girls were introduced to French guy by a mutual Spanish friend. Hello, they said , then immediately turned to each other and began talking furiously about an absent third party who would be joining them later as the French guy stood there looking surprised and awkward. Their eyes locked on each other they went breathlessly gabbling on, desperate to maintain the little, fearful bubble of private space until the French guy, realising he wasn’t going to get a word in stepped heavily back a few paces and began looking distractedly around, pretending he was intrigued by the ebb and flow of the crowd. The two English girls visibly relaxed, the tension went out of their postures: thank god, thank god, now we won’t have to find out anything about him until we’re good and drunk in a few hours time.

Mrs Impostume once said to me in passing, when I was raging no doubt at the iniquity of it all, worked up into an ecstatic lather of righteous fury by my own rhetoric, promising that there would be a day of reckoning, let Armageddon come and wash us ALL away if necessary, “ First destroy and then we’ll see!” all that stuff…

Well, what she said to me, her face a combination of irritation, boredom and dismay was,

“I never trust anyone who hasn’t had their nose broken.”

I remember it well, we were on Nou de la Rambla at the time.

Talk away, you’re going to scuttle off back to your room with your books and your drugs to hide the moment a confrontation comes. When you come up against power in its most naked form, you’ll shrink from it and all this wonderfully impressive talking will have meant nothing,

There was a large, cold noise in my ears, the sound of something ringing hollow. The wind whistling mockingly through the gap between words and deeds.

She knew my type, you see.

I don’t know much about Charlie Brooker: I know he’s on TV in some capacity (but I haven’t had a TV for about five years), that he writes a column in the Guardian, that he co-wrote the desperately muddled, unfunny Nathan Barley with Chris Morris. People I rate seem to rate him so when I saw a photocopy of an article from Monday’s Guardian on a colleague's desk I picked it up and read it.

I was surprised by how trite it was.

I’m not going to start casting aspersions on the entirety of his output on the basis of one piece, but the essence of it was: men are eternally and immutably deluded little boys, only women attain any real maturity. Ladies, take over and save us by relegating us to the playpens where we belong (and where we secretly long to be) so we can sit around masturbating, whooping senselessly and smashing each other over the head with our toys.

There is of course sufficient ironic hyperbole to offer a get out clause, but the germ of what’s being riffed on remains the same: men just don’t grow up and need women to shepherd them. This facile, shame-faced pseudo-feminism is everywhere in the culture at the moment. Check out your local video store for Family Guy season seven or Role Models, or hey, pick up Platform by Houellebequ for that matter.

Men either remain a grotesque third child for the women to rebuke and teach lessons in “responsibility” to, or if they are capable of adulthood at all it’s only once they get into a domestic situation with a suitably forgiving (but also Hot and Smart!) wife/mother. Indeed, the deeply conservative gesture in ostensibly risky and outrageous films like “Knocked Up” is that maturity is exactly that: acceding to the inevitability of the family unit. But don’t worry guys you’ll still be able to like, act retarded and shit with your buddies at the weekend. Essentially what she actually digs in you anyway is your being a “boy”, she kind of disapproves but finally can’t help but laugh and love you for your irresponsibility ('cause really she’s too serious and career minded at the end of the day and you’re the perfect antidote when sometimes she needs to be reminded to laugh at herself a little), so you won’t have to change too much either.

Who is this version of being male supposed to serve? It hardly seems to serve women’s interests given that even in the most matriarchal societies ie Norway women still do a disproportionate amount of the housework and child care. Women, take over and then you can have the additional strain of looking after us men too, but don’t worry we’ll kind of grovel around abasing ourselves so you get to feel morally superior. But is it really in men’s interests either, a deliberate cleaving to some kind of half-life, an ontological stuntedness: we are and must always be little boys. Why read books and stuff (you know you don’t want to!) when you can sit around comparing hot actresses and playing practical jokes on your friends?

Being a man is ridiculous, being a father even more absurd. Be a helpmeet or a friend, be a partner, kow-tow to your wife and child at all times, don’t be disciplinarian, learn how to compromise, learn that you need to put other people first for a change. You always fuck up anyway. Just look at the world financial system, if women had run it, it would have been nice and fair and honest, women are the Good Daddy, the Real Daddy, women are what men could be if only they weren’t always boys, the system needs a women’s hand on the tiller: then it will REALLY work, really be an ETHICAL capitalism.

More than that, women are basically the Universal Parent, the figure whose love can always be relied upon, whose forgiveness is guaranteed, ( Nobomommy, maybe). Because just as we know that for example, women are sexually much more faithful than men and don’t have men’s nasty lusts and wildly roaming sexual fantasy life ( which makes them ethically better i.e. less likely to break up the family unit) so we know that basically they’re just not as competitive and ego driven as men and are much more into “collaborating” and “communicating” both of which are unequivocally good things and must produce beneficial societies. They’re just more level-headed than men and all that stuff about them being screaming, irrational hysterics who disrupt the settled order and unto whom one should take one’s whip was plain wrong. Women, specifically women in what might be called their Bourgeoisie Late Capitalist formulation are going to save us and we men can regress even further, from men without chests to kids without brains.

Of course Brooker wants it both ways, part of the sucking up to the Holy women by treasonously revealing the essence of men is the implication that our Charlie is the Holy (if not, you know, wholly) the exception. Ironically, at the foot of the page Charlie tells us not to be discouraged by the Loaded style cover to McMafia ( the book he got halfway through this week: well, he is a man!!!!) while dishing up a wittier form of archly Loaded content.

The knee-jerk response to my objections is to say, oh so you want the fierce Victorian Patriarch back do you? No. Oh so you want militant feminists kicking your door in every time you sneak a Jazz mag out from under the mattress? Neither.

But I am sick to death of this stuff.