The final offering in our season of British cult classics are two films that take us far into the dark heart of England
The fourth and last of our British cult classics double bills offers two very different, virtually unclassifiable films: Patrick Keiller's London, from 1993, and Christopher Petit's Radio On, released in 1979. Keiller's film, a melancholy homage to the UK capital, resembles a string of animated still photographs, while Petit's is a gloomy, mannered black-and-white road movie that, as its director suggests, is something of a journey into the past as well as across England. Despite their surface dissimilarities, the two films share a dynamic intelligence towards the environment and landscape that surrounds them; both are cinematic pilgrimages through England.
London is perhaps the slightly better known: written and filmed by Keiller, who rather obviously spent considerable amounts of time traipsing around the city with a locked-off camera...
The fourth and last of our British cult classics double bills offers two very different, virtually unclassifiable films: Patrick Keiller's London, from 1993, and Christopher Petit's Radio On, released in 1979. Keiller's film, a melancholy homage to the UK capital, resembles a string of animated still photographs, while Petit's is a gloomy, mannered black-and-white road movie that, as its director suggests, is something of a journey into the past as well as across England. Despite their surface dissimilarities, the two films share a dynamic intelligence towards the environment and landscape that surrounds them; both are cinematic pilgrimages through England.
London is perhaps the slightly better known: written and filmed by Keiller, who rather obviously spent considerable amounts of time traipsing around the city with a locked-off camera...
- 11/30/2012
- by Andrew Pulver
- The Guardian - Film News
The following is an essay by William Gibson, written as the introduction for the book "Punk: An Aesthetic" [Rizzoli, $55.00] by Johan Kugelberg:
My punk, on reflection, in the light of twenty-first-century prosthetic memory platforms, wasn’t very punk at all. Not in 1977, anyway.
Where I had been more Stones than Beatles, 1977 saw me more Clash than Pistols, but not really all that wildly Clash. My primary ’77 diet, Google and Wikipedia now suggest, consisted of Stiff acts, idiosyncratic pub rock: Costello, Dury, Lowe, Wreckless Eric even. I liked that stuff quite a lot and still do, and whereas I would have been delighted to meet other people who liked that stuff as well, I was more likely then to meet people who spent their lives ticking off the artists and bands they had decided utterly sucked. Eventually, I sensed, they’d tick off all of my current favorites. And I hated that.
My punk, on reflection, in the light of twenty-first-century prosthetic memory platforms, wasn’t very punk at all. Not in 1977, anyway.
Where I had been more Stones than Beatles, 1977 saw me more Clash than Pistols, but not really all that wildly Clash. My primary ’77 diet, Google and Wikipedia now suggest, consisted of Stiff acts, idiosyncratic pub rock: Costello, Dury, Lowe, Wreckless Eric even. I liked that stuff quite a lot and still do, and whereas I would have been delighted to meet other people who liked that stuff as well, I was more likely then to meet people who spent their lives ticking off the artists and bands they had decided utterly sucked. Eventually, I sensed, they’d tick off all of my current favorites. And I hated that.
- 9/18/2012
- by Madeleine Crum
- Huffington Post
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