Diamonds in the Gutter
Posted by The Powers That Be, Saturday, 11 October 2003 at 2:46 pm, EDT
Last week I discussed my ability to ‘hold forth’ excessively on any number of subjects with particular reference to a night in my old home town where beer was consumed and the air grew thin around me. One of my pub table colleagues that evening was a young man whose knowledge of twentieth century philosophy is matched only by his ability to look decadently austere in varying shades of black; a man I shall refer to as ‘Neil K’ if only to give him a Kafka-esque quality that would most certainly please him.Neil K has aspirations towards academia; paid for being too clever by half (in my rather desultory defamation of his career choice - unquestionably due to the jealous realisation that being a smart arse is a different ability altogether and unlikely to offer me any great financial prospect).
There is no doubting his abilities, the man is genetically wired for tweed jackets, dark wood halls and words longer than my attention span; yet during our long and varied conversations that particular evening (when the poor sod could get a word in of course) something occurred to me: we shared a passion for creativity, yet we looked for it in almost polemically opposite areas; areas we shall define (if only to please Neil K further by adhering to a strict ‘thesis’ framework as well as using the word ‘polemic’ - albeit in a rather tautological fashion) as High Art and Low Art.
Neil K’s bookshelf is beautifully adorned, books of quality and intellect, good books. Samuel Beckett rubs wizened shoulders with Angela Carter, seminal texts prop up decadent volumes of poetry in such a respectable fashion they would make a intellectual come. It shamed me in its respectability.
My bookshelf? Pulp horror sidles up to Ian Fleming and pokes a finger in his eye; children’s classics cower in innocent shock at the images from my collection of books on Italian Thriller movies and Exploitation Cinema in general. Joe R. Lansdale shucks a Texan boot in the direction of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle forcing the venerable doctor to take refuge behind a selection of Spike Milligans and at least one Peter Sellers biography too many. The collection is eclectic, and every one of them dear to my heart, but it is hardly the sign of a ‘High Brow’ reader even before we move on to my wall-filling Doctor Who collection (hundreds upon hundreds upon hundreds; the only thing that would store them all is a TARDIS) and several-thousand-strong comic collection.
You know all this I suspect, I wear my tastes on my sleeve; what you may not know, for I scarcely acknowledged it myself, was my utter determination and devotion to, so-called, Low Art. It means more to me to find words that resonate, images that expand, emotions that rush within the pages of these lowly cousins. I love the way that what some would define as ‘trash’ has the subversive ability to sneak up on the literate and out-think the thinkers. There is no expectation (other than to entertain - an ability that cannot be underestimated) amongst the Low Art, no perceived need to prove its cleverness.
I am the anti-academic, unreasonably dismissive of ‘Quality’ literature producing eye-opening prose because, in my rather twisted perception that ’s exactly what it’s being paid to do so what’s so damn clever?
In my ‘recommendations’ at the bottom of these pages I have consistently avoided books of perceived quality - Evelyn Waugh’s The Loved One for example, a recent read that utterly blew me away; as black as wet coal in a power cut and funny as an otter in a frock. Yet everyone knows Evelyn Waugh writes good books, they even told you at school, so why should I state the obvious? I just cannot bring myself to do it, I want to offer up the bastard freak mutations of Waugh; tatty denim clad and pierced but packed full of hidden pleasures.
I adore sneaking ‘unworthy’ references to my gutter children into intelligent conversation. A perfect example: “Logic merely allows one to be wrong with authority”, it sounds so ‘clever’ doesn’t it? Sounds like someone ‘academic’ came up with it. It is, of course, a quote from the 1968 Doctor Who story The Wheel in Space written by David Whittaker and the fourth in the series’ history to feature the Cybermen. The line is uttered by dear old Patrick Troughton in his role as the Doctor. I could even tell you the story’s production code if you want (or, if my memory fails me, it’s bound to be in one of the books I’ve got here). It’s tragic, I know that, but look at the title of the page, read my ‘manifesto’ in the archive section… I’m an anorak… A geek… The typical ‘only child’, the consummate fantasist, the adult who still believes in magic.
We ‘bottom-feeders’ of the artistic world (an aquatic allusion for those of you with no books at all), are rather plentiful… just a little quiet about it. It’s acceptable to flaunt one’s intelligence to a degree, to discuss Cartesian philosophy and understand is impressive (if a little pretentious) to think it’s all about natural wells makes you look a tit but you would still have more respect from some than an ability to list the production order of the third series of Blakes 7 or sing the theme tune to Fraggle Rock.
I may not be able to change this attitude but I can, at least, officially state this area a Low Art zone and have the courage of my convictions. Like a closet homosexual I shall ‘out’ myself as a sad bastard and woe betide anyone who doesn’t like it.
G.
As a final point I would like to mention that despite his rather ‘clever’ leanings, ‘Neil K’ has read the previously recommended Arkham Asylum Graphic Novel and liked it. So there’s a hope for ‘outing’ the trash monger yet.
Spread the love, it’s good for your skin:
(Produced with extra trash this week, just for you…)
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Listen to: Escapology [Explicit Lyrics] - Robbie Williams
The fact that I include our Robbie in this weeks ‘extra trashy’ edition rather sums up the point. I don’t do ‘pop’, I loathe it and all its banal cheap ways. Yet, against all odds, I really bloody like this album. I know, I know, but try it - anyone who can write about Monkey whores and come up with the classic “Have I gone up in the world, or has the world gone down on me?” has got to be worthy of a little more credit than his previous history (and demographic!) would suggest. |
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Read: Blood and Black Lace by Adrian Luther Smith
The most wonderful collection of synopses and production information on a host of Italian Giallo movies (literally “Giallo” means ‘Yellow’ the traditional colour of the thriller paperbacks in Italy; much like the orange Penguin livery we have in this country) most of which you have little chance of getting your hands on in this country! Lurid and sensational they range from the seminal work of Mario Bava (director of the title film, Black Sunday, Five Dolls for an August Moon and Lisa and the Devil to name but a few) and my personal favourite Dario Argento (he shall mentioned frequently in these pages, spaghetti fiend and celluloid god that he is) through to the schlock of Lucio Fulci (Never Torture a Duckling - Now that’s a title) and various one hit glories en route. A sub-culture singularly unappreciated over here; you’ve seen what the Italians can do for Westerns (Dollars Trilogy et al) now see them play in their favourite leather glove and dagger sandpit. |
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Watch: Frightmare
A marvellously gritty shocker with a sixties ‘kitchen sink’ feel about the difficulties of growing up with a cannibalistic mother. From director Pete Walker who also produced the wonderfully lurid House of Whipcord (that had far more to say about Crime and Punishment in its time than a film with this much gratuitous nudity and suspect French accents had a right to) and The Four Dimensions of Greta, ultimately disposable (as far as a seventies soft porn movie shot in 3D can be). |
Categories: Anorakism, Doctor Who
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