After Grenfell Tower, don't forget Ronan Point

Earlier this week the 23 storey Grenfell Tower was consumed by fire. Almost fifty years earlier on the other side of London a similar tragedy occurred, involving another block of flats. On the morning of the 16^th of May 1968, only a couple of months after it had been completed, a gas explosion at Ronan Point in Newham caused the partial collapse of the 22-storey building resulting in four deaths. Now Grenfell Tower has been the scene of an even worse catastrophe.

Ronan Point

The Ronan Point disaster marked a watershed in the history of post-war British housing. For over a decade tower blocks had been embraced by the government as a convenient and (more importantly) cheap means of rehousing the ‘slum-dwellers’ of the country. So like a drab and grey fungus these structures broke out in our cities, blighting the urban landscape with horrifying rapidity. Established communities were swept away and replaced by ‘streets in the sky’, whether or not people actually wanted to live vertically. But the public became far warier of these behemoths after the Ronan Point disaster and the subsequent discovery that many other tower blocks had been poorly constructed. In order to save money many construction companies had built them as cheaply as possible. At Ronan Point the joints were stuffed with newspapers instead of cement. Practices such as these were false economy though, as many towers would be demolished over the following years. And though building regulations became more rigorous after 1968 this did not halt the demise of the tower block in Britain. While I personally would be delighted to see every last post-war atrocity, whether council estate, office block or urban bypass, destroyed it still remains true that the British people were failed in that era. For all the marvellous achievements of the welfare state after the war, the devastation of Britain’s cities remains an unforgivable crime. Our urban areas were degraded into inhuman wastelands, while the buildings erected in their place failed to even remain upright.

Grenfell Tower began to be constructed in 1972, and so benefitted from improved building regulations in the wake of Ronan Point. Yet in 2017 it still, quite literally, went up in flames. It seems that the aluminium cladding recently installed on the structure was responsible for its conflagration. This cladding had not been in place long, only several years. It was installed on the behest of the local council, in order to tart up the drab structure so as not to offend the wealthy residents of nearby Holland Park and Notting Hill. Even more outrageously the council paid around £12.8 million to have it renovated, while ignoring the social problems behind the facade. At this stage the official death toll stands at 30, but it will certainly rise over the following weeks. Regardless of how many died though, their blood is on the hands of Kensington Council, who prioritised the tastes of their wealthiest citizens over the safety of their poorest.

From the 1950’s on the people of Britain have been let down. Our historic city-centres were torn apart and replaced by the alien and dreary environments now so unfortunately familiar to us. In 1967 four people were literally killed by post-war construction. The good intention to improve people’s lives did not prevent irresponsible cost-cutting. But although it doesn’t justify the deaths, at least then there was an altruistic, if paternalistic, attitude to help the disadvantaged. Behind the tragedy at Grenfell Tower lay no such admirable intentions. Embarrassed by the hulking structures under its administration, Kensington Council tried to prettify them. No matter how dismal conditions might be behind the cladding as long as the wealthy neighbours weren’t offended. It’s a sign of how much things have changed since the collapse of the post-war consensus. But despite that, in both cases the authorities sought to cut expenses. What they saved in financial expense though they paid for in lives. 

England's gift to Brussels

Brussels is not a city renowned for its beauty. The term Brusselisation is defined as the indiscriminate construction of modern buildings in an otherwise unique and historic area (hence ruining it). So I was pleased to discover several relatively unscathed and charming neighbourhoods in the Belgian capital, such as Ixelles. There are also a number of delightful streets clustered near the Place du Grand Sablon, by the city centre. Lined by shops and restaurants, the buildings made of that aggressive red brick so typical of Brussels, at its southern end rises the delightful Eglise Notre-Dame du Sablon. Its gorgeous Brabantine Gothic decoration alludes to the city’s medieval prosperity. In the centre of the square there is another, less conspicuous monument. The Fountain of Minerva was erected in 1751, the posthumous gift of Thomas Bruce, the 2^nd Earl of Ailesbury. It seems odd that a dead British aristocrat would bestow a fountain upon the city of Brussels. To understand why you must first understand Thomas’ life.

Grandson of Thomas Bruce, the 1^st Earl of Elgin, and son of Robert Bruce, the 1^st Earl of Ailesbury, he was born in 1656[1]. He made a suitably aristocratic match in marrying Elizabeth Seymour, the daughter of Lord Beauchamp, in 1676. The couple’s children included his successor Charles as well a daughter, Elizabeth who married the Earl of Cardigan. The family had also maintained close ties with the monarchy. Thomas’ grandfather had been a favourite of Charles I and his father had assisted with Charles II’s restoration (for which he was awarded various titles, including Earl of Ailesbury)[2]. But it was this association with the monarchy which would be Thomas’ downfall.

James II, who inherited the throne from his brother in 1685, cannot be described as a successful ruler. Three years into his reign he was faced with invasion as William the Prince of Orange embarked for England, accompanied by his wife Mary who was also James’ own daughter. Now just keep in mind that James was Catholic, dangerous in 17^th century England. It was in this fraught situation that Thomas offered his services to James. It seems that this was insufficient to persuade James to remain though, as on the 10^th of December he fled for France. So Thomas alongside other peers signed a declaration pledging allegiance to the Prince of Orange. They also declared that they would disarm all Catholics and ‘secure’ Jesuits and other Catholic clergymen. We are told that Thomas acquiesced to this because it was ‘the only means of reconciling the King and people’. James however was held at Faversham in Kent. So Thomas alongside five others was sent to invite him to return. But when only several days later on the 18^th James was ordered to vacate Whitehall, Thomas accompanied him to Rochester.

If William and Mary had begun their reign suspicious of the Earl of Ailesbury, his later actions did little to inspire confidence. He never took the oath of loyalty to them, so when the French threatened to invade in 1690, while William was ‘preoccupied’ in Ireland, Mary ordered Thomas to be arrested (though ultimately he wasn’t apprehended). But then in 1695 he was accused of plotting James’ restoration. He was believed to have been present at a meeting of conspirators in the appropriately named Old Kings-head, on Leadenhall Street, London. As if that wasn’t incriminating enough he was also accused of having travelled to France afterwards, to persuade Louis XIV to assist in James’ restoration. In the aftermath of George Barclay’s plot to assassinate the king that same year Thomas was imprisoned in the Tower. Things seemed dire for him, accused by Sir John Fenwick of sidling up to Louis XIV, and his wife Elizabeth dying from grief. But eventually William permitted Thomas to leave for Brussels[3], where he married Charlotte d’Argenteau, comtesse d’Esneux. Their daughter Lady Marie Thérèse Charlotte Bruce eventually married Maximilian, the Prince of Hornes. So Thomas seems to have done well for himself in exile.

He was probably a Catholic after all. Both he and his second wife were interred in the convent of the Brigittines[4], hardly the most Anglican of institutions. Remember too that he was devoted to James, the Catholic king, and didn’t disguise his reluctance to round up the Catholic clergy. A century after his death he was being referred to as a ‘papist’[5], not the most edifying of terms. Coincidentally enough, his great grand-daughter was Princesse Louise of Stolberg-Gedern, the long-suffering wife of Bonnie Prince Charlie. Dedication to Rome would certainly give Thomas a motivation in plotting the overthrow of William and Mary. But even if not Catholic, its undeniable that he was a Jacobite. Regardless of his beliefs, Thomas died in 1741, still exiled in Brussels. To show appreciation for his adopted city which had so warmly welcomed him, he had a fountain constructed in what is now the Grand Sablons. Known as the Fountain of Minerva the eponymous goddess is perched on top, holding a shield with Thomas’ profile carved into it. Why the goddess of wisdom? Perhaps in homage of Brussels’ sagacity, sheltering an exile. I wonder what Thomas, a man driven out of England for his political (and probable religious) beliefs and given refuge in the future capital of Europe would make of Brexit?

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[1] Burke, Bernard (1866). A Genealogical History of the Dormant, Abeyant, Forfeited, and Extinct Peerages of the British Empire: Harrison. p. 81.

[2] Collins, Arthur (1768). The Peerage of England; Containing a Genealogical and Historical Account of all the Peers of that Kingdom: p. 340.

[3] Ibid, pp. 342-6.

[4] Abbé Mann. Foppens, Jean François (1785). Abrégé de l'histoire ecclésiastique, civile et naturelle de la Ville de Bruxelles et de ses environs avec la description de ce qui s’y trouve de plus remarquable: Lemaire, pp. 60-1.

[5] T.C. Banks (1809). The Dormant and Extinct Baronage of England: J. White, p. 40.

The Future is Ours

What could possibly link the 2017 film La La Land with the 1915 novel Of Human Bondage? What delusional feat of intellectual bravado is the writer about to indulge in (yes, I can hear your thoughts)? The two differ in plot, characters, setting, genre and even medium. It certainly sounds as if any connections that do exist would be tenuous at best. But humour me. La La Land, set in contemporary Los Angeles (surprise surprise) considers our choices in life, and the sacrifices we make to pursue our dreams. The two main characters, Mia and Sebastian, ultimately choose their dreams over one another. So in the final scene, catching sight of one another after having achieved their ambitions, they imagine what could have been. This ‘what-if’ fantasy takes place in an obviously artificial mock-universe, made up of stage-scenery and backdrops, before returning to reality. They are together but only in 2-dimensions. Mia leaves shortly after but again catching Sebastian’s eye she winks. It’s a bitter-sweet ending, bestowing the characters with their dreams but at the price of their hearts. This wink acknowledges that life rarely gives us all we desire, but instead of wanting our cake and eating it we should be satisfied with what we do have. We can’t dream of the what-ifs nor can we hide in our imagination. Life must be lived and the only direction we can face is forward.

So what does this have to do with Of Human Bondage, written just over a century prior? This engrossing bildungsroman, by Somerset Maughan, follows Philip Carey from boyhood, past his education and into adult life. It mostly takes place in late-Victorian Britain but with periods in Paris and Heidelberg. We witness his forays into accountancy, painting, retail and medicine, and share in his confusion at which direction to pursue in life. He is at the ripe old age of thirty when he finally begins his medical career. Though it might be due to my own current situation as an unemployed 25 year old, it seems that Maughan is reassuring us all. It’s all right to stumble in life, to take wrong steps and wander down the wrong path. In the maze of life we all get lost at one point or another. What matters is that we carry on, because then everything else will fall into place.

We all make decisions which we regret and everyone wonders at how life might have been different. But La La Land and Of Human Bondage remind us that it’s not what we have done that matters but what we will do. There’s no such thing as lost time and we must not let the past hinder the future. Thinking of this, as I walked out of the cinema, gave me fresh courage to continue and reignited my hopes for tomorrow. Sometimes we just need to be reminded that tomorrow is what we make of it. 

The Mad Conductor

Yesterday I was on a train from Leominster to Newport and, in spite of the grey weather, enjoying the view of the steadily encroaching Welsh Hills. Alongside the landscape another enjoyable feature of my journey was the lunatic appointed as conductor. This sounds rather alarming at first, but allow me to elaborate. As soon as he inspected my ticket I knew that he was mad. ‘Ah, a mug shot’ he exclaimed seeing my railcard. ‘Guilty as charged’ he declared, stamping my ticket. As he moved down the carriage he requested ‘will everybody please get out their tickets and wave them in the air like they just don’t care’. When he returned to collect rubbish he enquired if we would like to be shed of any waste? (I myself was shed of an old train ticket.) At one point finding himself confronted by a refreshments trolley, he turned around, made a trumpet call with his hands on his mouth and declared that refreshments were approaching.

But it was while making announcements that his genius really shone. Pulling into Hereford he reminisced of his fond memories of the city in the 1970’s with its ‘thrills and spills’, concluding ‘this one’s for all the old men out there’. At Newport we heard ‘what a city, what a river!’ Somewhere between Hereford and Abergavenny the man opposite me asked his friends if they thought the train company conducted random drug testing. But even if our conductor was a partaker of illicit substances, my pleasure at his company would remain undiminished. As he himself said ‘there’s a fine line between genius and insanity, and I don’t think I need to tell you which side I’m on’. No, he didn’t. He obviously stood on both. This man, bless him, stands as a genius amongst train conductors.

Ascenseur pour l'echafaud: Noir has never been so boring

Film Noir must be one of cinema’s most idiomatic genres. The name alone conjures up images of the femme fatales, cynical detectives and hardened criminals, inhabiting a world both equally stylish and gritty. Part of noir’s attraction lies in its raw darkness. But we are also drawn to its sinister elegance, to the sharp writing, smart dialogue and tightly constructed plots as best displayed in gems such as Double Indemnity (1944), The Postman Always Rings Twice (1946), The Big Heat (1953), Sweet Smell of Success (1957) and Touch of Evil (1958).

However noir was not an exclusively American domain. France for instance contributed a number of masterpieces, including 1958’s Ascenseur pour l’echafaud (Lift to the Scaffold). In many ways Ascenseur retains the classic tropes of a noir film. The femme fatale, the unsavoury murders, even the incomparably cool soundtrack of Miles Davis all contribute to this film’s obvious designation as noir. Yet in one respect it breaks from all its predecessors. For this is a film centered on the perfect murder, planned down to every last, minute detail. But instead of exploring what takes place after the crime, as in Double Indemnity or The Postman Always Rings Twice, Ascenseur instead considers the perfect murder gone wrong. It is this rejection of noir’s carefully constructed narratives which makes Ascenseur so radical.

The film begins as a routine noir creation, the male protagonist speaking to his adulterous lover on the phone, seeking resolve before murdering her husband. The protagonist, Julien Tavernier, then climbs into this man’s office and murders him, before arranging the scene to resemble a suicide. Climbing back down and confident that his plan will succeed, he is about to drive off and meet his lover, Florence Carala. Unfortunately he notices that he has left the rope he used to climb in dangling alongside the building. So he decides to run inside and retrieve it. But once in the lift the power to the entire building is switched off (as the staff have all left), trapping him within. Julien’s entire plan has stalled. So what happens now?

Noir is a style associated with excitement and thrill, brimming with immorality and murder. Yet what does Julien do for the majority of the film? He remains trapped in a lift, making several vain attempts to escape. This is hardly the stuff to keep audiences on the edge of their seats and yet it is a vital component of the film’s plot. So why would director Louis Malle incorporate such a tedious story? He doesn’t just show Tavernier being trapped in the lift as the power goes off, he returns to his predicament repeatedly throughout the film. Is this just lazy writing? I believe however that there is a good reason why Malle decided to trap his protagonist in a lift, to which I shall return later.

With Julien trapped the entire narrative explodes. Just as his perfect plan has faltered so does the delicately constructed noir plot. While Julien sits in darkness his lover Florence wanders the streets of Paris, convinced that she has been abandoned. Earlier she saw his car drive off with a man and woman inside. However the driver was actually criminal delinquent Louis, with his girlfriend Veronique. Louis had seen the keys in Julien’s open-top car and eagerly seized the opportunity to steal it. He and Veronique drive into the countryside and the plot increasingly focuses on their escapades. As this unfolds we the audience are left confused. We understand that Julien and Florence are important as there are still shots and scenes of them interspersed throughout the tale of the young couple. But they do nothing. Julien remains trapped in his lift while Florence dawdles down the boulevards, inquiring after him in bars and cafes.  We wonder ‘where is this film taking us’?

This seeming loss of plot makes Ascenseur unique. Why does Malle allow his creation to swerve so dramatically off the path of contemporary film-making? I believe that he is making a comment on cinema of the era. The late 1950’s witnessed the emergence of a new realism in film, as exemplified by the Kitchen Sink dramas of Britain and the Nouvelle Vague in France. Directors across Europe sought to portray life in all its grittiness. Up to this point cinema had generally avoided depicting the ugly brutalities of life, instead conjuring up escapist fantasies for the masses to indulge in. The Neorealist films of late-1940’s and early-1950’s Italy had been among the first to show the harshness of life for the poor and destitute. By 1958 it was clear tastes were changing and the escapism so beloved in previous decades was becoming dated. Film Noir might have superficially appeared gritty, with its avaricious, twisted characters and ruthless killings, but beneath the grime it too was very much an escapist fantasy, albeit of a darker variety. Femme fatales always resembled goddesses, clad in the latest fashions and coated in make-up. Stories were fast-paced and exciting, characters being required to act quickly in the face of danger. This was what audiences wanted. And Malle begins his film in the conventional way. Florence and Julien murmur lovingly on the phone, cooing and whispering their dreams for the future. Then Julien murders his boss, the atmosphere soaked in nail-biting tension. But then he sits in a lift. Florence wanders Paris. And a couple only tenuously connected to the plot drive off into the country and stay in a motel. Though Louis does commit a double murder in the course of the night, that scene is an anomaly. The bulk of the film is frankly dull. Just as the majority of life is too. In life we often are bored, and even our best-laid plans are undone. No-one ever plans to be trapped in a lift and yet it still happens. It is this recognition of the chaos and anarchy of life that makes Ascenseur such an innovative film. Ascenseur is not afraid to alienate its audience, a concept brought to maturity two years later by Hitchcock in Psycho, featuring the protagonist’s murder. Ascenseur is a noir that understands that life doesn’t go according to plan.

The lift has an important symbolic role also, representing Tavernier’s emotional state. Traditionally in noir a character’s fear and guilt was expressed via the external world. Even if not being hunted down by the police then the suspicions of others created a claustrophobic atmosphere of apprehension. While Phyllis Dietrichson in Double Indemnity says ‘I can’t stand it anymore, what if they hang me?’,  Ascenseur opts for a more symbolic approach. So Julien remains stuck in the lift. His claustrophobia and inability to escape represent his remorse and terror of being caught. Rather than fearing other people he fears his own mind as the darkness of his thoughts press down on him. After all, there is no prison more inescapable than our own heads.

Malle does not completely jettison the conventions of noir. In the final scene of Ascenseur Florence is confronted with the murder of her husband, having been discovered in the most unanticipated way. This conforms to one of the basic principles of the genre, that justice will be served. But justice only comes about here in the most roundabout manner. While searching Julien’s car, following Louis’ killing of a couple at the motel, the police discover some compromising photos of Julien and Florence in the glove compartment. Putting two and two together they realise that the adulterous couple must have been responsible for the death of Florence’s husband. If Julien’s car hadn’t been stolen though then the two might have escaped scot-free. But of course life rarely goes according to plan, a fact acknowledged by Malle in his masterpiece.