Up in the Air (Head in the Clouds) and an American in Paris
I’ve been dabbling in various forms of escapism of late, a lot of them to do with the movies that are designed to refine my February days, and make that greyness seem a little more photogenic – or at least a little more outside my personal frame. It takes a lot of cinema to help me endure this ongoing drizzle – a lot of warm embraces and illusions of happy endings. I’m all for Hollywood right now.
It was one such grey day, when a hundred things had already gone wrong, or at least gone surreal – an annoyingly relevant Ethics lecture, having to see someone I was trying to avoid on King’s Parade, and in general Fate rubbing my face in a lack of fortune – that made me head straight onto the Arts Picturehouse one Wednesday afternoon. I can’t remember if it was raining but it might as well have been.
The lovely Charlotte joined me (as did that lingering acquaintance, Sauvignon Blanc) and we went to see ‘Up in the Air’, with George Clooney, for what seemed to promise romance and happiness, but was actually more of a “Death of a Salesman”, (though no less worthwhile for the beautifully shot realism). We learned that love was more important than money. But if you don’t have money, come fly with me. (Or, like George Clooney’s character – come fly alone).
I’m in the mood to fly alone right now. There’s a certain liberty about stripping oneself for security and leaving it all behind…even if in the long haul you’d rather a little baggage. Indeed, there’s no happy ending in going it alone (according to the film), but there are a lot of happy moments in being independent and footloose – and surely a lot of missed misery in losing the baggage of romance, and the romance of baggage.
I shouldn’t be so cynical, though. Valentine’s season is upon us. That time of unnecessary drama and significance and awkwardness (according to one of the waiters in Café Rouge, who was entertaining me with his stories of Valentines past). Or, if you’re being optimistic – it could be a time of blissful (albeit forced) delirium. I’m a sucker for love, so who knows what this February has in store.
Already the Union’s Valentine’s Ball – An American in Paris – has set the tone, this Friday past. The wonderful Anna Harper and the whole Ents committee made it a beautiful success – and I was lucky enough to have some of my most favourite people there, playing French pop and folk and jazz and blues – dancing and singing and playing all night. I haven’t even watched the movie that inspired all this, apart from the flickers on the screen I saw in between running around after various performers and dramas all night. Movies are my favourite escapism, but parties, especially those themed cinematically, come pretty close.
And then there’s love – Platonic as well as its more impossible, romantic, twin. I’m not sure if it’s an escape, or the only reality I’m particularly fond of… If it weren’t for two extended essays in Logic due any moment, then I’d be up in the air with all these great escapes. But I feel a departure coming on… With Fifth Week Blues scheduled over Valentine’s Day, I can’t be expected to concentrate. I’ll fly or fall, to be sure, but it had better be fun.
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