At this time of year, the popular press delight in presenting their top tens, reviews of the year and other such countdowns that serve to illustrate just how right they were all along in predicting cultural trends and populist movements across the arts. This year will have the added bonus of being the end of a decade, so we can expect even more of this self-congratulatory editorial and the shelves will be groaning with reviews and journalistic analysis.
You may detect a hint of cynicism here, and you'd be right. Before we plunge into the land of someone else's opinion, we must remember that we are no longer shackled by the whims of the cultural elite. With the advent of online newspapers, when invited to "comment" the average guardian reader delights in disagreeing so vehemently that what was once a definitive list is subsumed into petty squabble by comment number 25.
However, because I still maintain pretensions with regards to doing this professionally one day, I thought I'd selfishly have a go at compiling my own list of personal big hitters from the last ten years. Well, you know what they say, "if you can't beat them, join them".
For this list, I've decided to dip my toes into the worlds of music, film, art, design, technology and literature.
In the noughties, devoid of any radical cultural shifts, for the first time more was written about how we consume music than the music itself. The media turned its attention to the death of the traditional music industry and the rise of the digital consumer. Central to this was the technology that has made it all possible; the internet, and the reach of portable devices that literally allow you to have a record collection in your pocket. Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce, the Ipod.
You'll all be familiar with this unassuming little creature. Smooth lines, pocket-sized, touch screen or dial operated. This is an iconic piece, and a triumph of design, where functionality is not compromised despite the minimalist aesthetic. It fits neatly into your pocket in a smooth way that a walkman never did, and newer models come resplendent with wireless internet and space for literally thousands of tracks, video clips and other bits of content. The Ipod is simply something which, once upon a time, existed in science fiction. Now, it seems so logical and essential that it's hard to imagine a world without one; similarly the mobile phone, which ten years previous, revolutionised the 90's, and has proved to be equally indispensable.
But it's the design aesthetic that I want to highlight here. It really is very pretty. It harks back to classic modernism but looks forward to a technological utopian future made of glass and run by intelligent machines. The little box reflects current architectural trends with lots of gherkin curves and wipe-clean glass, and even has its own noughties "retro" feature - the Apple logo - allowing it to put one foot in the future and one foot in the past. Recent devices are able to sense if you are holding them in portrait or landscape, and adjust accordingly. When on shuffle, my Ipod has a tendency to pick songs that seem to go together, perhaps registering a commonality in the title or the artist, or perhaps the tempo. "Let's say a prayer to the shuffle gods", we say. Well, let me tell you this, I'm convinced the shuffle gods are real...!
Well, perhaps that's taking my devotion a little too far, but it's not difficult to overemphasis how much I enjoy all this music at the touch of a button, even if we are still some way from "AI-pods".
It's hard to believe that the Ipod was invented in 2001 and already has become part and parcel of daily life. A little piece of design that feels classic, yet remains resolutely contemporary and will undoubtably become iconic.
Next up, from the world of film, it's "Pan's Labyrinth" dir. by Guillermo Del Torro. Well, it was a toss up between this and "A Serious Man" from the Coen Brothers, but I only saw that the other week, so I probably need to give it time to settle. It is very good though. And I did think about "The Lord of the Rings" movies, which I loved, but as this is an original story, I think it has the edge.
"Pan's Labyrinth" is a film about the Spanish Civil War re-imagined as a child's supernatural dream. The film expertly blurs the distinction between the violent, adult world of the uncompromising fascist, and the imaginary world of Pan, a character born of escapist imagination. Pan appears as a vision from the underworld in a dilapidated, labyrinthine garden and informs our protagonist, Ofelia, a young girl, that she is in fact a lost princess and must undertake a series of tasks to prove her real identity.
This film is one of many superb fantasy pictures that have graced our cinemas in the last ten years. Advances in technology have enabled photorealism in computer graphics, and this has inspired directors to create ever more elaborate and immersive fantasy worlds. "Pan's Labyrinth" is particularly effective because it doesn't overplay its hand in the depiction of its fantastical elements. Sequences including the retrieval of a key from the stomach of a giant frog and the escape from the dining room of a child eating demon, the "Pale Man", are interspersed episodically throughout the film. For the most part, the narrative takes place in the real world, a world of fascism, rebellion and war. Indeed, there is nothing fantastical about the naked displays of casual violence, torture and other war time atrocities on display here. The commander is unsympathetic, brutal and unforgiving to his staff, and at times sadistic, murderous and bloody. At the outset, graphic violence is illustrated at length, but as the film continues, incidents of extreme violence become more causal, almost routine, the victims dehumanised and forgotten.
Of course, in cinema, we are often led to believe in the power of imagination, and the "dream made real" motif is a classic narrative device beloved of Disney and many others. Faced with the reality of the Spanish Civil War, it is no wonder that our protagonist wants to escape into a fantasy world apparently of her own devising. But this film is deliciously dark and full of metaphor; the "dream world" consciously parallels the real, and is equally as dangerous. There is no escape from monsters, human or otherwise, for our protagonist, in either reality.
There are architectural juxtapositions. Notice how the structural lines in the underworld are curved, grandiose and impossible. In contrast, the real world is full of straight lines, square brick and rural charm. The "real" dining room is rationed and empty while the Pale Man's dining room is full of food, providing an irresistible temptation for Ofelia. The colour palette of the movie codes the real world with gunpowder black and grey, earthy greens and blue, while the underworld is full of outrageous gold, red and yellow, opulent, warm and inviting. As the real world trudges on, Pan grows younger, as though he is moving in reverse, his relationship with time constantly in flux. The effect leads the viewer to question which is the true reality, or perhaps which is the most desirable reality. Despite the flesh eating frogs and demons, surely the fantasy world, with its promise of royalty, adventure and opulence, can be her only choice.
If there is a sense that the magical can somehow interfere with the everyday, then the resolution takes this idea to a logical extreme, cleverly linking both the real and imaginary worlds. The barriers between life and death itself are blurred. It is an emotional and disturbing end to a fabulous film. I urge you to watch it at once.
Let me get this book review in quickly before we all trudge down to the cinema to see the film adaptation of this classic novel later next month. I'm sure it will be good, and the trailers look great, but let's not chance it. I'm not normally picky about such things, but in this instance, read the book first. The book in question is "The Road" by Cormac McCarthy. (The picture is the author in question.)
This novel should be read on a cool, crisp day overlooking the hills, with winter nipping at your toes. I read it on holiday in Italy in 2008, with blue skies, warm sun and with my feet dangling into an over-chlorinated swimming pool. I guess I wasn't expecting to be swept away so dramatically into McCarthy's vision of the apocalypse, for this novel is bleak, uncompromising and horrific both in incident and implication.
What struck me the most from this slim volume is the conservation of language; for the most part composed of short, sharp paragraphs, with brief conversational exchanges. Descriptions are eloquent and evocative, but there is no time to linger. Perhaps our protagonist is too world weary to offer a more lengthy prose. After all, he is a broken man. An unspecified disaster has reduced the world to a frozen cinder. The sun never comes up because it is obscured by clouds of ash and debris. A permanent winter chill has settled over the land. The remains of civilisation, bodies frozen in hardened tar, and the survivors, cannibals, the insane, nod to "Lord of the Flies ", as they form packs of marauding gunslingers. His worsening health is suggestive of cancer, his dreams are full of nightmare images and flashes from a past that has long since disappeared.
This apocalyptic drama pressed all the right buttons. Moments of horror litter the narrative, from barbecued babies to a locked larder of half eaten people. There are dramatic narrow escapes, and moments of joy with the discovery of a warm bed for the night, or some unspoilt food source. Never have unopened tins of pears been made to sound so appetising.
The father, for he remains unnamed, is accompanied by his young son. He is desperate to protect him. They are journeying down the road in search of a warmer climate without which they will surely die. On a very simple level, the youngster represents the future of the human race. Of course he must be protected, or that's it, the end of the species. But in the face of such horror, the need to instil a moral code becomes paramount. How can a child be taught what is right and good in the world, when the world has been turned upside down, and death stalks the freeway? This is central question.
This novel is also about love, both in the paternal relationship between the two characters, but also a love owed to the human race, to the protection of the future, to survival, to the human spirit. This is why such a novel is not depressing, rather uplifting. The greatest of mankind survives in the hope and the love of one man, who, against all the odds, remains "the good guy". It's easy to forget, in these dangerous times, that mankind is capable of such generosity and depth of feeling, even in the worst of circumstances.
"The Road" is the finest book of the decade. We should pause for breath here.
Those of you who know me personally will know that I'm allowed to pick Maximo Park as a noughties musical favourite for purely personal reasons, but I wont dwell on that here, I'll instead mention the three very fine albums that this band have produced over the decade, and suggest that the second, "Our Earthly Pleasures", is one of my favourite records of the decade.
Ok, maybe it wasn't received as well as the first album, "A Certain Trigger", which, lest we forget, was nominated for the Mercury, but I would argue that the follow up is a stronger, more complete record, with excellent production throughout and some original and very satisfying tunes. The trio of tracks that open the album - "Girls Who Play Guitars", "Our Velocity" and "Books From Boxes" - are as good an opening to a rock album as you can get, full of energy, vigour and verve. Live, the band make the most of these classics, and having attended several shows over the past few years, audiences have responded with gusto to each. In a decade which invented the term "landfill indie" to describing flash-in-the-pan, middle-class white boys with guitars (such as The Pigeon Detectives and The Maccabees), it is good to know that the genre can still accommodate the maverick whims of real artists willing to stick a boot in to create a riot.
The band has often been noted for its lyrical prowess, and singer Paul Smith certainly commands a large vocabulary. This approach has, for the most part, worked well. It is his gift for describing the broken hearted in terms that appeal to the cod-intellectualism of recently graduated art students that have created popularity. Similarly, the marriage of high energy, up tempo drama coupled with genuine melody made this a winning formula; the pounding drums that kick off "The Unshockable", for example, and even to the last track, where "Parisian Skies" teases with balladry with its low key introduction before bolting off once again for a final flourish.
Like most indie rock bands, Maximo are destined to live large and die young. Their third album, Quicken the Heart, was a fine record in my eyes, but too many was something of a disappointment. We must remember that a younger audience is fickle. It will not stand by and celebrate a single artist for long before moving onto the next. Very few bands of this ilk command longevity. I expect, should a fourth album be conceived, that a change of direction may be on the cards. Nevertheless, over the last few years, this has been something of a treat, a global success, and an example of British rock at its best, and if anybody can pull this off, they can. Long may it continue.
You will know that a major highlight of my year is the annual pilgrimage down to Pilton for the Glastonbury Festival. The noughties were a decade in which festival going slipped completely into the mainstream. There were multitudes of differing events, catering for all tastes and all comers. The granddaddy of them all, of course, was Glastonbury.
It is almost inconceivable to imagine that just a few short years ago, there was a question mark over the both the relevance and the future of this British institution. For a few years, bad weather plagued the festival site, turning green fields into muddy swamps, and some elitist yet blinkered musicians began to publicly question the programming. "What right has hip-hop to gatecrash the headline slot?" they argued, referring to the fact that an American rapper, Jay-Z, had been announced as the festival headliner in 2008, "It's not what the public want. Bring back Oasis". The mood was reflected in slower than usual ticket sales and for the first time organiser Michael Eavis admitted concern that the festival may not be able to deliver on its regular charitable donations.
The way the festival has answered its critics and continued to deliver content, artistry and atmosphere in spades, for a fan like me, is wonderful. The aforementioned rapper delivered a triumphant set that showed up Noel Gallagher and friends, and perhaps caused them to regret their words. Festival attendees delighted in being able to choose from a huge variety of different acts and artists spread across many different stages. There was truly something for everyone, as well as the opportunity to stumble across something new that blows you away.
Perhaps Glastonbury is best enjoyed as several different festivals rolled into one. There is the televised, trumpeted and hyped performers than populate the Pyramid stage, and the indie wannabes that tend to play on the Other Stage. You've got the "Dance Village" for dance and electronic music fans. You've got the circus and comedy big tops. You've got paganism and alternative spiritual fields, which includes the stone circle, which you must visit. You've got the green futures and Greenpeace areas. Finally, you've got the truly alternative and mysterious world of Shangri-La, which used to be called Lost Vagueness, which come to life at night, and inevitably involves being hopelessly lost and cider-drunk until the early hours and exhaustion overcomes you.
That certain kinds of contemporary art are by now indivisible from entertainment may seem a truth too obvious to mention. Some of the most spectacular art events of the last decade were equally bent on drawing us together - not just for the fun of it, but to reveal our common humanity. I think it's also fair to say that, in the noughties, big was most certainly better. Above all Miroslav Balka's How It Is in the Turbine Hall at Tate Modern, an immense steel container which drew us into its seething black depths, felt the most vital and influential of the venue's installations.
The lure was curiosity, once inside, completely black and empty, aside from other visitors, who bumped and wobbled their way around, trying to avoid shunting a total stranger. Turning to leave, you met your successors hesitating on the threshold like fearful shadows and suddenly the meaning of the work emerged - spiritual, tragic, and universal - here, common human experience revolving around the discovery of what lies in the dark. Oh the irony of stripping away our sense of sight, leaving an artwork that revolves around what we can't see and exists only in our minds.
I've loved the large installations that have inhabited the Turbine Hall in the Tate Modern. The gallery has long been one of my haunts on various trips to London, a sanctuary against the weather, against boredom, or crowds. Almost every trip I've enjoyed to the capital has resulted in a visit. The excitement stems from just how big, and just how dramatic these installations can be when done well.
I guess that covers everything I wanted to talk about. I hope you found that as interesting to read as I did to write. Honorary mentions should go to Russell T Davis' reimagined Doctor Who, which I have loved, David Mitchell for various novels including Cloud Atlas, and great albums from Bjork, Animal Collective, Wild Beasts, Friendly Fires, Elbow and many others. Short of turning this whole thing into a disseration of PhD proportions, I think I'll leave it at that for now.
As usual, I welcome your comments and suggestions for your own cultural highlights from the last ten years.
best wishes,
Ben
This Morning Call
See you in 2010!
New Art Linton tune for Christmas! "Borderline".
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year everyone!
Cheers and all best wishes,
Art
