Genius x 3

I don’t generally do film reviews. Having read some of those of the Banksy film, Exit Through The Gift Shop, crafted by some of the more well-known Fleet Street (or wherever it is that they hang out now) scribes, it would probably be just as well if they didn’t bother either. My excuse is that no-one ever likes the films I recommend; or, conversely, they all rave over those which I detest. The recent travesty that purported to be Alice would be a good example of the latter. But, I digress.


Peter Bradshaw, writing in the Guardian got it. Well, you’d expect him to really wouldn’t you? Chris Tookey, writing in the Mail, didn’t. Well, you’d expect that too. I’m not convinced the folk sat behind us got it either. Neither am I certain that the hooded being with the shaded face and the disguised Brissle accent who comments sporadically throughout, is the man himself. Ever heard of Hughes Mearns? Five pounds says you haven’t. But I bet you know his poem which begins:

‘Yesterday, upon the stair

I met a man who wasn’t there’.

Originally written about a ghost, it has transcended time to meet all kinds of allegorical needs. Most recently, it’s been resurrected to illustrate the dangers of befriending people online. Had it appeared yesterday, we could argue that it reflects the illusion that is Banksy. Last year, I entitled my blog on a visit to the artist’s exhibition in Bristol ‘a bit of a grin’. Now, I take one step further and claim Exit Through The Gift Shop to be a huge laugh. Yes, it has some messages, mostly at the expense of those who have been told street art rules ok. Largely, the laugh is on those who believe this to be a genuine documentary.

Whilst I’m on this rare incursion into film, I must mention a visit last week to the Rex in Wareham to see the Ian Drury biopic, Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll. It’s the second time I’ve seen this and it was even better than the first viewing. I remember when the genius died. Not for the Independent a mediocre obituary hidden somewhere towards the back: they bravely and righteously acknowledged the passing on the front page with the immortal heading, ‘Ian Drury dies: what a waste!’ I know the Blockheads are, at the least, ambivalent about the portrayal and I know that some people claim Drury wasn’t a very nice man. So, you try being crippled by polio and spending your childhood institutionalised with vicious bullies. You might not be a very nice adult either. I posit Drury as a poet of his time. (I can do that because no-one cares what I think).

I also vote Andy Serkis the most non-acclaimed actor of his generation. How did he ever miss an award for his superb portrayal? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I am not alone: the packed audience in the last gas-lit cinema in Britain received this film with a resounding and well-deserved round of applause. Now, that’s what film reviews are about.