ROAD MAP OF A MID-LIFE CRISIS (12) “OSCAR; I AM YOUR FATHER” A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, when I was still married and when my children thought I could do no wrong, we made a film; “Star Wars Episode VII The Search for Yoda”. There is no doubting it was an ambitious project for our first feature. I will readily admit that the plot was fairly threadbare, the special effects amateurish and the production values not those of George Lucas, and yet…. I am staring at the VHS cassette now as I go through a box of old stuff, reminders of a life left behind. I have no means of playing the tape but if memory serves the film was an undoubted classic of home cinema; a definite cut above the usual sun drenched, poolside antics and the solemn recording of early years’ birthdays. I remember that in the film I played Obi-Wan Kenobi (the Ewan McGregor Obi-Wan rather than the Alec Guiness version). For some reason that I cannot now recall, my costume consisted of an old beige mac and trousers tucked into blue football socks. Eldest son Emil who was 7 at the time played Vader and Oscar who was 5 played Yoda and any other characters who Vader needed to kill with his light sabre. The film was shot on location in the kitchen, back garden, driveway and, the climactic final scene, in Oscar’s bedroom. As I think back I get a warm glow and then I have an idea. I will get the tape converted to DVD. I will play it to the boys and they will see the wonderful time we had making the film and it will reinforce our bond, bring us closer together. In fact I will post it on You Tube so the whole world can see what a great time we had making the film. We will become a You Tube sensation. It is now some weeks later. I have the converted cassette on DVD and am ready to play it for the first time to Emil and Oscar. At least I would be if Oscar wasn’t so busy killing Nazi zombies on COD and Emil wasn’t sulking because he wants to watch wrestling. This isn’t the warm happy atmosphere I had anticipated for our father son bonding session but I plough on regardless. Brandishing the DVD I say, “Lets watch this,” with a forced joviality which the boys fail to pick up on. Their reaction, if I’m honest, lacks any real enthusiasm. “What is it?” asks Emil, sullenly. “Do you remember years ago when we made that Star Wars film? Eh! Eh! You remember.” Emil nods and begins to look vaguely engaged. Oscar’s eyes roll to the back of his head as if I have asked him to write thank you letters to elderly aunts. I cajole them into sitting down and put the DVD in the player. The title sequence begins to play. My voice can be heard humming the theme music until it trails away theatrically to on screen giggles from Oscar. Then the iconic “Far far away” intro script, stretching to infinity, before the camera switches to focus on the boys sitting at the kitchen table. Gorgeously young and wide eyed they stare at the camera in between frantically drawing primitive Star Wars pictures. The boys sitting either side of me are engrossed by their younger selves. The camera zooms in on their art work to reveal a kaleidoscope of flashing light sabres. Then we move outside to the front garden and a close-up on three Star Wars action figures and it is at this point that I obviously decided to add an ironic post-modern twist to our movie. Instead of just filming the boys as they play with the figures, I start to question them in the manner of a documentary maker. They look at the camera bewildered Then we are back inside. Oscar’s blue duvet cover is draped over the back of 2 dining room chairs to provide an authentic deep space backdrop and a Lego model of the Millennium Falcon is wobbling in mid air suspended on lengths of string. As the camera pans out we see Oscar stood on the table manoeuvring the spacecraft and fielding more of my inane questions. Beside me on the sofa, Emil snorts with laughter and I am pleased that he at least is enjoying the show. “We should put this on You Tube,” I say. “Yes, can we?” asks Emil enthusiastically. “Sure,” I say although in truth I have no idea how to do it. Oscar lets out a sorrowful sigh and pulls his knees up to his chin. The scene shifts to a shot of my feet. I am delivering my lines in my best Obi-Wan voice but suddenly I snap, “I’m not in that shot at all, am I?” My voice is ill tempered and jars with the feel good atmosphere I was hoping to create. The camera pans up to show me glowering at the hapless Emil as he operates the camera. Next the big fight scene in which Vader’s hand (a glove) is chopped off in a light sabre duel before we scour the house looking for Yoda. The climactic final scene occurs in Oscar’s bedroom. He has spent several minutes in make-up to prepare for his starring role. His face has been painted green and he is wearing something that looks suspiciously like the shepherd’s outfit from the school nativity. As a finishing touch he is sporting two enormous ears made out of paper, cut to shape, coloured green and fastened to his head by means of an elastic band. As the camera enters his room Yoda emerges from beneath the bed to cries of “found him!” but instead of hanging around to milk his moment in the spotlight he makes a beeline for the door and disappears from view. It is only at this point I remember that Oscar had been reduced to tears because the elastic band fixing his ears had been too tight. The final credits roll. On one side of me Emil is smiling and asking if we can watch the whole thing again on the other Oscar has his head buried in his knees. I put my arm around him and hold him tight. I sense his shame and the memory of pain that is evoked by watching this film. Inside I feel a pang of dread as I realise that in years to come my boys will look back on their childhood with a totally different perspective from me and I pray they will forgive me for the pain I have caused them.

ROAD MAP OF A MID LIFE CRISIS (11)

SPORTS DAY

It is the Office Sports Day and I am lining up at the start of the veterans’ 3,000 metres race. Anybody who has read my previous posts may be wondering whether they are reading the right blog. This opening sentence comes way out of left field and is the literary equivalent of turning on your TV to find Jeremy Clarkson hosting a late night discussion on gender equality issues. The image of me in shorts and running shoes will jar with the mental picture you have built up of someone more at home in the pub with drink in hand so let me rewind.

It is April when an e-mail drops into my inbox at work. “Wanted! Volunteers for the Compliance team on sports day.” My finger is poised over the delete button when I hear a low throaty chuckle from the desk opposite. It is Chuck Pangodje,  the Carl Lewis of Office Sports Day.  Every year he returns with a clutch of gold medals. “Are you going to enter?” he asks with a wolfish grin.

“Oh no,” I reply shaking my head in a sorrowful way which I hope will subliminally communicate to Chuck that I would dearly love to but  that matters far too painful to mention prevent my participation.

Chuck has many admirable qualities but reading subtle non-verbal communication is not one of them. “You should,” he says, “You would do well in the over 40’s races.”

“Really? Do you think so?”

“You could win a medal.”

As a child you are compelled to run around muddy fields in the cold in the name of physical education and whilst I would finish school races ahead of those of my classmates who suffered from morbid obesity, asthma and chronic lack of co-ordination, I was no athlete. But, as the years pass, memory fades and I find myself watching sport on TV and thinking, I could do that. Chuck is pushing at the open door of my self-delusion and so it is I find myself travelling by train to Sports Day with Chuck seated alongside me.

******

Back on the starting line; I am looking around at my fellow competitors. Some are built like racing snakes. Slim and muscled; they have all the right kit and complicated watches to monitor their progress. These people have obviously done this type of thing since leaving school and irrationally I feel that they are cheating. I mentally concede that unless I am lapped this is the closest I am going to get to these people. 

The starting pistol sounds and I start running. The true athletes effortlessly leave we lesser beings trailing in their wake. I settle into a kind of rhythm but the act of running seems laboured. As we round the first bend I find myself on the shoulder of a short, Asian man. He is a little overweight with a baseball cap covering his thinning hair. His shorts are knee length and khaki, his socks grey. This man has surely never run in his life. I will overtake him and he will feel deflated as I motor past and disappear into the distance. But whilst my mind is having this thought my body is sending out quite different messages. I’m breathing heavily and I find I do not have another gear.

Then the PA system bursts into life and I can hear the announcer’s tinny voice, “Ladies and Gentleman, if I can draw your attention to the over 40’s 3,000 metres which has just started on the running track. It would be great if you could give all the runners your support but in particular Hanif Butt…”   I look at the chap I am chasing. He is the only vaguely Asian looking runner and so I conclude that he is Hanif. He too has heard the announcement and he puts on a spurt when his name is mentioned leaving me panting as I try desperately to keep up. “…..it is two years since his heart transplant and this is his first race since the operation”. 

From across the field I hear a ripple of appreciative applause and I die a little inside. I finish the race well ahead of Hanif but he is without doubt the winner.

I wander across to the start line where Chuck’s race is about to start. I see that he is hobbling and wincing. “Problem?” I enquire.

Chuck nods, “I’ve strained my calf muscle warming up.”

I grimace to show I understand. “You can only do your best,” I say, “in the end the only person you are competing against is yourself.” I look off to the middle distance in a John Wayne sort of way to make sure Chuck appreciates the profundity of my words. He stares at me blankly but deep down I think he has a new found respect for me.

ROAD MAP OF A MID-LIFE CRISIS (10)

ROAD MAP OF A MID-LIFE CRISIS (10)
"IF YOU BUILD IT THEY WILL COME"

Its Saturday and I'm in the flat waiting for Emil and Oscar. I'm reclining in the folding chair which has now been joined by a sofa. You may well ask yourself why, if I have a sofa, I'm still making use of the folding chair. I will say no more than this; "IKEA".

I could have written a whole blog on the topic but it is not only the sofa that is new, I now have television. This is why I have not posted for two months. Every time I feel inspired to commit to writing some humorous incident in my life that illustrates a universal truth I find there is something unmissible on television; like the episode of Time Team where they unearth a medieaval cheese factory that had stood in the grounds of Sir Roger D'Airylea's castle or an episode of QI on Dave that I think I might not have seen.

Right now I'm watching Field of Dreams which taps right into the whole mid-life thing. The Kevin Costner character is decent and honest and hard working but that doesn't seem to be enoough. He is struggling financially and spiritually. So what does he do? He tears up one of his best fields and spends what little money he has building a floodlit baseball diamond. He follows his dream and because he believes in his dream it becomes a reality. "If you build it they will come." Dead baseball players emerge from the corn and start playing baseball in his backyard. And it is hard not to feel just a little bit emotional at that point because goddammit he deserves it! But the reason we feel emotional is because deep down we recognise for most people, most of the time, it doesn't matter how truly they believe or how hard they work to make their dream a reality, when they build it nobody comes. In fact they don't even call to say they won't be coming so I figure I should feel lucky that at least my phone rings.

It is Oscar. "Hi Dad, we're going to be late."
This is supposed to be my time with the boys. I have cleaned, I have tidied, I have made ready. "Not to worry," I say. "How long do you think you'll be?"
At the other end of the line I can hear Oscar shouting to his mother and I can hear ill humoured muttering in response. "Dad? Mum says we'll be there when we get there."
"I'll see you then."

Two hours later the intercom buzzes and I let the boys in. They have the sullen resentful air of children who have endured boredom of epic proportions. "What do you want to do?" I ask.

Oscar thrusts a large bag towards me. "We've brought the PS3 with us. Can we set it up?"

This is not really the quality father son time I had in mind but I go wiith the flow. "Suren help yourselves." Oscar busies himself plugging in cables.

"How's school been?" I ask.

"OK," grunts Emil.

"Do you want to give me a little more detail?"

"We had sex education," says Emil.

"How was that?"

"Stupid! They spend all this time telling you how to do it then they tell you not to do it. Waste of time if you ask me."

I find it difficult to take issue with the logic. "I suppose they just want to give you information to keep you safe. What kind of stuff did they tell you?"

"The woman who taught us brought in all these condoms and showed us how to use them." I can sense Emil is warming to the topic and even Oscar is surreptitiously listening in.

"Well that's good," I say, for the want of anything better.

"Dad?" enquires Emil. "Why do they make condoms in strawberry flavour?"

I silently damn the woman who has thought to introduce this complication into the lesson. It is the work of a nano second to decide that now is neither the time nor the place to begin an exxposition on the subject of oral sex. "Its in case you run out of chewing gum," I say but I can tell that Emil is not entirely convinced.

Oscar has by this time finished setting up the PS3 and the boys throw themselves onto the sofa, controllers in hand. I gaze at them indulgently and Oscar looks back at me as if he has something he wants to say. "What is it Oscar?" I ask.

"Dad, why is the sofa so hard?"

"Its a long story Oscar."

ROAD MAP OF A MID-LIFE CRISIS (9)

ROAD MAP OF A MID-LIFE CRISIS (9)

THE GREATEST STORY NEVER TOLD

It’s that dead time between Christmas and New Year and I ‘m alone in the flat. With nothing better to do I decide to play one of the 2 war movies I received as Christmas gifts on my PC, but which should I chose. I study the covers. Rather implausibly both claim to tell “the greatest untold story of the Second World War”. The people who do the marketing for war films know that their viewers are the same sad acts who watch the Military History channel, can recite “The World at War” from memory and can tell you the names of Goebel’s children. They know their audience has a voracious appetite for fresh information and so every war film claims to be telling some previously untold story, which is patently rubbish. There can be no period of history that has been as painstakingly picked over, documented and analysed as WWII. Whole TV channels devote around the clock coverage to every conceivable aspect of the conflict. Somewhere my grandmother’s visit to the chiropodist in 1942 is captured and is showing on “Home Movies of World War II: Bunions and Barrage Balloons (In Colour)”. I guess what I’m trying to say is that if the story really hasn’t been told by now it’s more than likely because it’s not worth the telling. Rather like those magazines that promise to reveal 20 things you never knew about Jordan. (That’s Jordan as in Katie Price and not Jordan the country.) You know with a confidence that borders on certainty that these are things that no right thinking person ever needed or wanted to know.

The covers of the two films are both remarkably similar; a battle weary soldier with his back to the viewer gazes towards a horizon over which the unstoppable forces of mechanised warfare are advancing. We know from the image that he has fought against the odds and shown uncommon valour to safeguard the fate of nations. I notice that “Final Sacrifice” a European production is festooned with emblematic wreaths whilst “Pathfinders” a US straight to video affair has no such commendations. There was a time when the fact that a film had won awards would have swayed my choice but now seemingly every low budget European film has won some plaudit or another. On closer inspection the awards engender little confidence. “Official selection Frimley Film Festival” is not the Oscars just as “Shortlisted for Les Ballons D’Or de le Chien at the Ghent Film Festival” is not going to have anyone snatching the film of the shelf. Then I spot it. “Final Sacrifice” claims to have been 7 years in the making. This isn’t just another formulaic war flick this is a labour of love, this is art. I sit down and ready myself to appreciate this classic piece of cinematography.

Out of a sense of deep loyalty to those who follow my blog and because I’m sure Mark Kermode will not be covering this particular release, I will tell you what happened in the 81 minute film it took the Director 7 years to finish so that you don’t have to go through the same experience:

A small band of battle weary German soldiers are fighting a rearguard action in Northern Italy. They are being harassed by local partisans and American air raids which result in one of their number losing a leg. They are reinforced by a group of untried Italian troops led by a charismatic Captain Correlli type who appears to have spent the war in an eat all you want pasta buffet. The Germans and Italians do not get on and come to blows. They continue to be harassed by partisans and air raids until a messenger arrives and tells the officer commanding the German troops that the Americans are advancing, the rest of the German army is retreating but he and his men are to hold their position to the last man. The German officer who is demoralised by all the harassment he and his men have suffered asks for two volunteers and orders the rest of his men to join the retreat. One can sense that things are going to end badly when one of the volunteers is the one legged man who is at this point hobbling around on a crudely made crutch that looks like it was made by Fred Flintstone. The Italians form up and march off without a backward glance and the German officer and his two comrades ready themselves for their act of senseless sacrifice. At this point I prepare myself for scenes of heroic resistance against overwhelming odds as the Germans hurl back vastly superior American forces. Instead I watch as the heroes are speedily overwhelmed and killed inflicting minimal casualties on their attackers.

As the camera focuses on their dead bodies the final credits begin to roll and I am left thinking “how could this possibly have taken 7 years?” There is no narrative arc, no resolution, what were they doing? And then I think of some of the projects I have begun in the past seven years and I mellow. As I put the DVD in its case and earmark it for the charity shop I wonder whether I should put some laurel wreaths on my blog to entice readers. Perhaps not.