1.
On Tuesday I walked over to Soho to see a preview screening of Spanish-language film La Bola Negra, directed by “Los Javis” (Javier Ambrossi and Javier Calvo). It’s a story set during the Spanish Civil War and the present day. It’s about love and desire. It’s about secrets and telling the truth. It’s about being gay. The film could be an Oscar contender for Best Picture: a campaign that will be aided by the shimmering, mesmerising presence of Penélope Cruz and a poised performance from Glenn Close.
Now, press screenings are not the most intimate of settings. The room is usually packed with seen-it-all critics who make their living from finding fault, taking things apart, spending the duration of the film scribbling big thoughts in little notepads. But in this velvet-chaired cocoon, I found myself lost in this epic, weaving and sometimes fantastical tale. The directors deliberately take their time to stitch all the narratives together (at one point I wondered if I should ask my jotting-away neighbour if he knew what the hell was happening). But even this pacing keeps you transfixed.
Towards the end of the film – when all is finally clear – there’s a fleeting moment when a young man stoops to kiss the head of his boyfriend. It’s just an “I’m here for you” kiss but I felt a tear jog down my face, and then another. I brushed them away. Why was I crying? For them, for me, for us? I need to see the film again because there’s something buried there. A little bit of me? A little bit of you too?
2.
There’s something that I forgot to tell you about my brother-in-law’s funeral. Phil had been partial to a Starbucks, so his granddaughter arrived at the funeral service carrying a venti latte. She placed this next to the coffin. I was desperate to see if, for once, a Starbucks employee had managed to spell a name correctly but I was too far away.
Anyway, this last order for Phil sat there throughout the entire service. It was even there as the curtains closed and the coffin was dispatched to the flames. I have mentioned this Starbucks detail to a few people and it seems that, just as the ancient Egyptians entombed their dear departed pharaohs with all sorts of crap for the afterlife – mummified cats, cooking utensils, electric barbecues – modern grievers are keeping the tradition alive. I have been told of a Sunday roast being brought to a church and numerous pints of beer (even, in one case, to the funeral of a gentleman who had died an alcoholic).
Just so you know, I think that I will be happy to go to the next world free of pizza or pies – even if, finally, the carbs don’t matter. Though if you order one final cheeky margarita, I might be up for that.
3.
On Monday, London will discover that a 1km stretch of the famous retail strip Oxford Street has been pedestrianised overnight. I wrote about this news for the Monocle Minute yesterday. I am sure that the project will be a success but I grew up in a new, postwar town with a fully pedestrianised centre and it was rubbish. It would have been so much nicer with cars. To keep the retail streets pedestrian only, the town was ringed by ugly multi-storey car parks. And, at night, once the shops had closed, it was desolate. People preferred to drive to pubs and restaurants in nearby villages. Over the years the town centre became edgy at night; the walkways stank of wee. Meanwhile, neighbouring towns with traffic, movement and activity thrived.
The plans for Oxford Street seem full of potential. But just getting rid of cars is not enough. I will watch and wait a while before getting too giddy about this change.
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