I think "The World's End" is a wonderful... name... for many... things.
I've been bound for the last couple of weeks to do something around Golders Green early in the morning. The 102 bus leaves me at Golders Green station and, from there, I walk a good 15 minutes up Finchley Road. On my way back, I walk down and see this bus with a catchy destination up front: "The world's end". Off Finsbury Park there is a pub with the same name, I've been told and then, of course, you have The World's End, the new movie of Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg.
The commercial plot is lay out very easily: a group of grown-ups get together to finish off the golden mile of drinking 12 pints in 12 pubs, the last being name "The World's End". The guys did not accomplish the task 20 years ago and now, pushed by one of them, are out for that in the little village where they did their High School, although not very confidently, let say. Simon Pegg, Nick Frost, the bourne Paddy Considine and a little bit of Pierce Brosnan. The comedy is served! My friend M. just passed me the first seasons of Spaced. Got to watch it once I finish Breaking Bad.
However, The World's End goes beyond that very sappy plot. I am becoming very sensitive these days against the tyranny and despotism of the network. If there is one city in the world wrapped in the bullshit of the network, that is the city of London. Paradoxically, if there is one place where being oneself is most difficult and that leg of the brain in charge of expressing critical and personal thinking violently stamped out, that is London. An insultingly young town, sacrificed to the homogeneity of the network. I grow hand hair and fangs to this very feeling.
Anyhow, The World's End lays its message against the network of homogeneous robots. Men and women, is said, have a right to be rogues, bums, utter failures, as long as they are themselves. This is the message. The spectator is offered over 60 minutes of a fight against the impending danger of becoming a robot. In the scene at The World's End pub the survivals, prey to a set-up, are lured towards the option of giving in by the promises of the bullshit. What else could it be more real! The end of the movie might result a little off for some, but it pounds the head of the nail: Gary, the brawler, against humans with a bunch of robots; Andrew is a sort of boy-scout and Oliver keeps selling real estate with half his head mended in half a soccer ball. It's crazy, but they are free and self-sufficient.
I am getting used to feel alone in London. Alone and against everything, everyone. The World's End helped me embrace myself. The dictatorship of the network is, maybe, just a form of modern and unsung alienation. As I write this, I am listening to a Spanish news radio show on the Internet and a recognizable tune came a few moments ago. It was one of the Chopin's nocturnes, the 9th or the 20th, for sure, not the 27th. Well... Not sure. It reminded me of those few early summer mornings in Madrid when I used to get up early before work to read. It lasted no more than a couple of weeks. Chopin, Debussy, Liszt in the background. Between my hands, Penelope Fitzgerald's The Bookshop - the titanic but quiet fight of a tiny old lady to open a small library against the tyranny of the village social network.
There is life out there. I guess I am not mad... Not yet.
(PLEASE, LEAVE YOUR COMMENT).
I've been bound for the last couple of weeks to do something around Golders Green early in the morning. The 102 bus leaves me at Golders Green station and, from there, I walk a good 15 minutes up Finchley Road. On my way back, I walk down and see this bus with a catchy destination up front: "The world's end". Off Finsbury Park there is a pub with the same name, I've been told and then, of course, you have The World's End, the new movie of Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg.
The commercial plot is lay out very easily: a group of grown-ups get together to finish off the golden mile of drinking 12 pints in 12 pubs, the last being name "The World's End". The guys did not accomplish the task 20 years ago and now, pushed by one of them, are out for that in the little village where they did their High School, although not very confidently, let say. Simon Pegg, Nick Frost, the bourne Paddy Considine and a little bit of Pierce Brosnan. The comedy is served! My friend M. just passed me the first seasons of Spaced. Got to watch it once I finish Breaking Bad.
However, The World's End goes beyond that very sappy plot. I am becoming very sensitive these days against the tyranny and despotism of the network. If there is one city in the world wrapped in the bullshit of the network, that is the city of London. Paradoxically, if there is one place where being oneself is most difficult and that leg of the brain in charge of expressing critical and personal thinking violently stamped out, that is London. An insultingly young town, sacrificed to the homogeneity of the network. I grow hand hair and fangs to this very feeling.
Anyhow, The World's End lays its message against the network of homogeneous robots. Men and women, is said, have a right to be rogues, bums, utter failures, as long as they are themselves. This is the message. The spectator is offered over 60 minutes of a fight against the impending danger of becoming a robot. In the scene at The World's End pub the survivals, prey to a set-up, are lured towards the option of giving in by the promises of the bullshit. What else could it be more real! The end of the movie might result a little off for some, but it pounds the head of the nail: Gary, the brawler, against humans with a bunch of robots; Andrew is a sort of boy-scout and Oliver keeps selling real estate with half his head mended in half a soccer ball. It's crazy, but they are free and self-sufficient.
I am getting used to feel alone in London. Alone and against everything, everyone. The World's End helped me embrace myself. The dictatorship of the network is, maybe, just a form of modern and unsung alienation. As I write this, I am listening to a Spanish news radio show on the Internet and a recognizable tune came a few moments ago. It was one of the Chopin's nocturnes, the 9th or the 20th, for sure, not the 27th. Well... Not sure. It reminded me of those few early summer mornings in Madrid when I used to get up early before work to read. It lasted no more than a couple of weeks. Chopin, Debussy, Liszt in the background. Between my hands, Penelope Fitzgerald's The Bookshop - the titanic but quiet fight of a tiny old lady to open a small library against the tyranny of the village social network.
There is life out there. I guess I am not mad... Not yet.
(PLEASE, LEAVE YOUR COMMENT).
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