Quick note on Shoji Hano’s performance tonight at the Book Nook. He is an astoundingly good improvisational musician. His ability to set the pace for a group of musos is undeniable. His professionalism is incredible considering it is after all, a public jam.
I am incredibly grateful to the inimitable Yusuke for having organised the event. I am also thankful that I was able to make the last part of it tonight.
What can I say? Peter Greenaway, live at GOMA. The thought itself was enough to get me all tingly. The Tulse Luper Suitcases, as a new installation: again, tingly. But when it came down to it, we really were there to listen to THE MAN speak. And speak he did. All about cinema being dead, which we had already heard, from other people. All about how the internet and television killed cinema. Yawn. All about the interactivity of the new technologies. Uh huh. Could have told you that one. So, what did we get?
Asynchronous projections onto the walls of GOMA in its atrium, accompanied by some techno. Fun, yes. A nice rehash of the Tulse Luper Suitcases, yes. Innovative and fresh, no.
Sorry Mr Greenaway. I love you and all that but…having seen A Life in Suitcases and wandered through the initial installation back in 2005, plus having seen all the other versions of it all… I was left wanting something new. Something less laboured. Something that wasn’t another different cut of the same film. Something completely different.
Instead, we got the same image on three screens on one side and on three screens on another side. Not simultaneously, but more or less concurrently. As far as shows go, it was ok. Peter Greenaway? Just ok? You bet. I was disappointed.
I have been a fan since that fatal summer of ‘93 when Gav and I saw Prospero’s Books at The Regent. And it is only now that I have begun linking all the different characters from his previous films to the latest productions. As a feat of scriptwriting and character development it is unique, but it does not really delve into the psyche of each character. We are still eternally observing, not emoting, definitely not empathising.
That I am afraid, is my review of what was for me the most awaited event of The Brisbane Festival.
He had diabetes, a brain aneurism and a heart condition. I shouldn’t really be surprised.
In fact, I shouldn’t even be shellshocked. But I am. He was a tough old crust. The man had lived through a few exiles in his early childhood, my grandfather’s rages and 14 years of civil war. Sure, there are other people who lived through similar things, but they weren’t him. They were not my Tio Tato. They were not my godfather. I’m not just saying this. He was a remarkable man.
At the age of 16 he and his mates took El Salvador by storm, as Lord Darky. He brought rock ‘n roll to the staid, conservative place he now called home. His first language was really English, not Spanish, having grown up in Montreal, but after 60 years in El Salvador, you couldn’t really tell anymore.
In his early twenties he went on scholarship to Edinburgh to do postgraduate study in architecture. He came back with so many ideas. He started designing toilets for de Sola. He soon put enough money together to start what would become an empire: RJC.
All empires are doomed to fail and his fell, but his vision remains. Torre Democracia is still standing. The homes he built are still there. His bauhaus style was really innovative in a place enamoured of Spanish colonial homes. Modernism was his lodestar.
He was gruff but generous to us, the children of his kid sister. Sometimes he carried the gruffness too far. But all in all, we owe him our present circumstances. Him and tio Lito. Without them, my family would still be in El Salvador, with only just enough money to send one child to university. Instead, here we are, following our dreams. We are grateful for that. I at least, am grateful for the opportunity he has given me. I didn’t squander it.
My last memory of him, is in our house, all our meagre belongings on the floor, on sale for a pittance. He took one look at it all and looked at my mother. “How are you paying for the airfares?” he asked her. “The Lord will provide”, she answered. He gave us what we needed so we could board our first flight to the lucky country.
When my mother tried to return to El Salvador for my grandmother’s funeral, he said, “stay in your adopted country. This is not your country anymore. There is nothing for you to do here.” It was cruel, but true.
Now we wonder what to do. He would still say the same to us. He would look me in the eye and say “Patricia, este ya no es tu pais. Yo ya no estoy aqui. Yo he pasado a mejor vida. No tienes nada que venir a hacer.”
But I disagree. I need to say goodbye. I need to reach out to the others who are mourning. I need to visit a few graves. I need to make a difference. I need to use what I obtained through his generosity to help others.
Tio Tato, nos vemos en Enero. Descanse en paz hasta entonces.