Haruki Murakami may not have received this year’s Nobel Prize for Literature, but he will probably win it before too long.

It would be a shame, though, if Haruki Murakami becomes to Japanese literature what sushi is to Japanese cuisine – the single dominant icon that obscures all the other good stuff.

Also worthy of attention, for example, is another Japanese novelist with the same surname, the unrelated Ryu Murakami.

Ryu may be familiar to film buffs for his novel Audition, which was turned into a film directed by Takashi Miike and released in 1999.

Of the two Murakamis, Haruki no doubt has the wider global fame at the moment.

Ryu is hardly unknown, though, being a million-selling writer in his native Japan as well as having a publishing deal with Bloomsbury for the English language translations of his books Almost Transparent Blue, 69, Coin Locker Babies, In The Miso Soup, and Piercing, as well as Audition.

I don’t know if Ryu Murakami will ever be in contention for the Nobel Prize for Literature like his namesake Haruki. But Ryu Murakami is a great writer and as times goes by, he may catch up with the more famous Haruki in terms of global awareness amongst literary audiences.

Takashi Miike’s film version of Ryu Murakami’s novel Audition gained notoriety for the high number of people who walked out of its screenings at the Rotterdam film festival and at other showings.

The walk-outs were apparently precipitated by the vivid gore featured in the film.

However, in the book there is no gore at all until the climactic scene in which the psychopathic character Yamasaki Asami starts dishing out some gruesome amputation. Up to that point, the book only hints at the possibility of darkness and terror without actually showing any; that is what gives the novel its suggestive power.

In fact, the novel would still have been superb even if it did not feature the graphic and disgusting violence of the climactic scene.

Ryu Murakami’s characterization is subtle, the dialogue is understated, and the plot flows smoothly.

The gruesome horror of the denouement is actually superfluous.

The novel would have been just as powerful without the Tarantino-esque splatter at the end.

Out of curiosity, after reading the book, I check out the trailer for Takashi Miike’s film of the book.

The trailer shows someone writhing around in a tied sack on the floor whilst the evil Yamasaki Asami is talking on the phone to the naïve Aoyama.

But in the English language version of the book that I read, I don’t recall reading such a scene. In that English translation of the book, author Murakami conveys the potential threat of Asami much more subtly.

In the book version that I have got, which may of course have lost something in translation, for that telephone scene Aoyama calls Asami and it is the fact that Asami answers in a deeper and quite different voice to the one which she had used during her audition that should have set alarm bells off in Aoyama’s mind. It certainly startles the reader, hinting that there may be some kind of split-personality danger lurking within Asami.

For its shock value and arthouse reknown, Miike’s film ‘Audition’ is often compared to fellow Japanese director Nagisa Oshima’s ‘Realm of the Senses’.

Oshima is of an earlier generation of film makers compared to Miike.

Nagisa Oshima is revered as one of the leading figures, if not the leading figure, in the Japanese ‘New Wave’ cinema movement of the late 1950s and early 1960s.

It’s a Nagisa Oshima triple bill showing at Shin-Bungeiza Cinema that lures me to Ikebukuro in north-west Tokyo today.

The triple bill kicks off at noon.

So I have to leave my apartment in Azabudai in the morning, with the sound of screeching bulbuls ringing in my ears.

“Keep the moral! Don’t throw away a cigarette butt!” shouts a sign posted up by the entrance to an apartment block on the way to Roppongi Itchome metro station.

I arrive at Ikebukuro at 11 a.m.

Already there are a few people eating lunch in Ikebukuro Station’s noodle restaurants.

These early diners probably got up at 6 a.m. or earlier to commute into central Tokyo from the far-flung suburbs; no wonder they are hungry and ready for lunch at such an early hour.

Shin-Bungeiza cinema is tucked away amongst the garish neon sidestreets next to Ikebukuro Station.

As the living-dead customers trudge into a pachinko parlour near the cinema, the gates of hell open and a thunderous din emanates from the parlour and assaults the street outside.

The pachinko parlour doors close after the customers have entered the premises and been swallowed up; once again relative quiet prevails in the street outside.

It’s an early October day, quite warm.

To the relief of everyone in Tokyo, the year’s humidity has mostly disappeared. It is now very pleasant to be out and about after the exhausting extended heatwave of summer.

As I emerge from the east exit of Ikebukuro Station, a couple walk past me going in the opposite direction. The guy has pink hair and the girl is dressed like an anime character.

In other cities such a sight might be startling, but here in Tokyo it’s par for the course.

Having located the cinema I go in and buy my ticket for the Nagisa Oshima triple bill.

The programme consists of two shorts and one full-length feature.

The two shorts are Yunbogi’s Diary (1965) and Tomorrow’s Sun (1959), whilst the full-length feature is Sinner in Paradise (1968).

Shin-Bungeiza is one of many jewels in the crown of Tokyo’s cinema scene. It provides an opportunity to enjoy on the big screen a constant stream of films that includes not only the very best work by specific directors, but also some lesser known works as well.

Whereas Nagisa Oshima’s best known films such as ‘Realm of the Senses’ and ‘Merry Christmas Mr Lawrence’ get widely shown, the films on today’s triple bill are less familiar and thus more intriguing.

Tickets at this cinema are dispensed from a vending machine.

One of the staff helpfully shows me how to use it when he sees that I am baffled by it.

There is a while to go before the showing is due to start so I wander out again into the Ikebukuro backstreets.

Clustered near the cinema are a Nagasaki blowfish restaurant, with several of those deadly creatures swimming around in a tank in the window; an inviting conveyor belt sushi restaurant; a lure and fly fishing tackle shop; and a soapland charging 5000 yen for services unspecified, but which one can easily imagine.

The area is dominated by the amazing needle-like chimney of the prosaically named Toshima Garbage Factory.

This incineration plant burns 300 tons of garbage every day.

The chimney is the tallest in Japan; its dizzying height ensures that the pollution is carried safely away, high above the citizens down below.

For a few minutes I can’t help but stare in admiration at this unlikely urban landmark.

Back at the cinema, the decent-sized audience is almost exclusively male.

The auditorium decor and atmosphere are somewhat dark and gloomy, though that impression is possibly brought on by the contrast between the bright midday conditions outside and the subdued lighting in the cinema.

I manage to get a perfect seat right in the middle of the back row, which is slightly raised and gives a great view of the screen.

First up on today’s Nagisa Oshima triple bill is ‘Yunbogi’s Diary’.

The format of this twenty-four minute film is quite un-cinematic.

It consists of a series of black and white photographs taken by Oshima during a trip to Korea in 1964.

Yet it works very well. The photographs are thoughtfully composed, and startling in their depiction of the abject poverty that was prevalent in Korea at the time.

The series of still images are accompanied by voiceover narration by a young boy.

Now and then the boy’s narration alternates with director Oshima himself, who chimes in by reading some incantatory verse.

This simple structure is strangely compelling.

Before the film started, I thought that it might be a bit dull and austere.

But the lack of movement on the screen allows the viewer to concentrate on each image and to feel their resonance more deeply than is possible in a ‘normal movie’, in which directors use on-screen movement to manipulate the flow of our attention.

Also, having two people delivering the voiceover creates a very different feel and dynamic compared to when there is just a single narrator.

The soundtrack is equally inspired.

Classical guitar and violin accompanies the more melancholy and reflective scenes, whereas a harsher insistent percussion underscores the more dramatic scenes of turmoil depicted in the stills of troubled 1960s Korea.

The second of today’s Nagisa Oshima films, ‘Tomorrow’s Sun’, is a mere seven minutes long.

It can be seen in its entirety on YouTube, unless it has been removed by now.

After the seriousness of ‘Yunbogi’s Diary’, ‘Tomorrow’s Sun’ provides a blast of bright Technicolor and lighthearted fun, but not much else.

Apparently Shochiku studio gave Oshima the opportunity to make this short, which is a trailer for a film that does not exist, as a test to see whether he had the skills necessary to be allowed to make a full-length feature.

‘Tomorrow’s Sun’ is slick and professional, though it looks pretty dated these days.

Diehard fans of Nagisa Oshima will want to see it, but for everyone else this scrap from the great man’s table is fairly forgettable.

Much more satisfying is the main feature, Oshima’s 1968 film ‘Sinner in Paradise’.

There is a blend of comedy and sharp social commentary in this film.

What is being shown today is a scratchy print with static crackle.

It’s like listening to an old vinyl record. This actually adds to the atmospheric quality of the film rather than detracting from it.

The opening scene is great. Watching this scene unfold, I realize that Oshima truly is a masterful director.

To the accompaniment of an irresistibly daft squeaky-voiced song, the three main characters go to the beach, strip down to their underwear and go for a swim.

While the three lads are having a swim, a mysterious hand pokes up out of the beach and grabs the clothes that they have just shed, replacing them with another set of clothes that gets the boys mistaken for Koreans rather than the Japanese that they are.

This sets up the story that follows as an occasionally surreal satire of racist attitudes.

But there is nothing heavy-handed or pontificating about Oshima’s approach; he delivers his anti-racist message with frequent doses of humour.

Whoever put together today’s Nagisa Oshima triple bill did a great job, offering us three completely different films, perfectly sequenced. ‘Yunbogi’s Diary’ challenges us to focus on and interpret the still images that comprise the film; ‘Tomorrow’s Sun’ provides a few minutes of light relief; and then ‘Sinner In Paradise’ entertains, provokes and puzzles.

Watching such a well thought-out triple bill has been a great way to spend this Friday afternoon.

After leaving Shin-Bungeiza cinema, I retrace my steps back to Ikebukuro Station.

From here, I catch the Yamanote Line train to Ebisu to pay another visit to the Yamatane Museum of Art.

This time the exhibition is titled, ‘Nihonga vs Yoga: Betwixt and Between Japanese and Western-Style Painting’.

In this context, the term Yoga refers to Japanese oil paintings that are heavily influenced by Western paintings.

The exhibition covers the Meiji, Taisho and Showa Periods of recent Japanese history.

During these periods, Nihonga and Yoga painters increasingly influenced each other and drew from each other’s styles.

Two of the exhibits are designated as ‘Important Cultural Properties’. Both are from the Taisho Period: Hayami Gyoshu’s wonderful painting ‘Dancing in the Flames’ (1925) and Kishida Ryusei’s ‘Road cut through a Hill’ (1915).

Kishida Ryusei’s painting leaves me cold, but I stand mesmerized by ‘Dancing in the Flames’; the stylized lava-like flow of the flames casts a hypnotic spell broken only by the arrival of some other visitors who want to look at the picture.

Other memorable exhibits include Umehara Ryuzaburo’s ‘Autumn in Beijing’ (Showa Period, 1942), with its deep vibrant colours showing a Beijing of green nature and blue sky far removed from the polluted metropolis of today; Yokoyama Misao’s ‘Manhattan’ (Showa Period, 1961), its strikingly flat perspective scrunching the skyscrapers up even closer together than they are in reality; two superb winter landscapes which are mounted next to each other in the gallery thereby amplifying their impact on the viewer, Okumura Togyu’s ‘Snow-covered Mountain’ (Showa Period, 1946) and Kayama Matazo’s ‘Mountains in Winter’ (Showa Period, 1966); and the hauntingly beautiful ‘Spring Dawn at the Ferry Crossing’ by Kawai Gyokudo (Showa Period, 1938).

Still life works of art such as vases of flowers or bowls of fruit have never done anything for me, but somehow Kobayashi Kokei’s ‘Still Life’ (Taisho Period, 1922) stands out. All it shows is one apple in a bowl. Simple stuff. Maybe it is the harmony of the colours, or the way that the bowl seems to float isolated and anchored in the centre of the picture, but for some reason it lingers in the mind.

The highlight of the exhibition for me is one of the older pictures, Saigo Kogetsu’s ‘Landscape in Taiwan’ (Meiji Period, 1912). The foreground trees and scrubland plain give way to a mountain range in the background, whilst a straggling belt of cloud hangs in the air between the foothills and the mountain tops. The whole scene, including the sky, is suffused with a strangely distinctive, understated grey-green tone.

What really differentiates ‘Landscape in Taiwan’, though, from most other landscapes is that in the middle ground of the picture, between the plain and the mountains, there stands a small factory.

But rather than being an eyesore, this factory constitutes a discreet focal point around which the rest of the picture coheres. The factory chimney, for example, mirrors the tall straight tree trunks in the foreground of the picture.

Coming out from the exhibition and emerging back into the afternoon sunlight, I feel light-headed and mildly euphoric after seeing such wonderful art.

For people like me who have never studied art, Yamatane Museum of Art provides an inspiring introduction to some wonderful work by a wide range of great artists.

Akasaka, about three miles across town from Ebisu, is my destination for tonight’s entertainment.

In Akasaka I go to a club to see latin jazz pianist Hector Martignon perform with a group of Japanese musicians.

Their set is a brilliant blend of latin jazz and salsa.

Back in the day, Hector played with the legendary Ray Barreto’s band for six years; he also played with Tito Puente, Celia Cruz and many other leading lights of the latin music scene.

The bar staff at the venue look like they have just returned from a big hair seminar. One of them has a splendid Mohican, a real bog brush, whilst one of his colleagues wanders around turning heads with his enormous mop of candy floss hair in the style of Johnny Pacheco circa 1972.

During the second of the band’s two sets, they are joined by a superb trumpet player from Orquesta de la Luz.

This guy was sitting just in front of me by the bar for a while before he got up to do his guest spot. His battered trumpet case is adorned with various stickers, including one from Orquesta de la Luz’s tour of Puerto Rico.

That particular sticker is peeling away; he tries smoothing it down but its sticking-down days are clearly over.

I speak briefly to Hector Martignon at the beginning and the end of the night; not only is he a great musician, he is also a very nice guy.

Related Post: ‘Kantsubaki’, Asakusa Meigaza, Tokyo

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In the cold light of day, Tokyo can seem grey and sterile.

But at night and in the early evening, when the light fades from the sky, Tokyo is magical.

The neon buildings begin to shine as the sky turns from pale blue to deep blue to black. You get that in any city but here in Tokyo it is somehow different, more beautiful and more seductive.

In Tokyo, even busy city streets can be incredibly quiet.

Walking along these busy but quiet streets feels like luxuriating in a cocoon, or a warm bath.

Then, almost imperceptibly, the atmosphere livens up and gets boisterous as you reach one of the city’s hubs.

Tonight it is Shibuya. Even though it is just a Monday night, the street life is absolutely buzzing. There is good-humoured excited chatter all around.

It’s invigorating to be immersed in Shibuya’s happy swarm of humanity.

A useful landmark for finding tonight’s cinema, Shibuto Cine Tower, is the cylindrical tower of Shibuya 109 on the other side of the road from the cinema.

Shibuto Cine Tower has four screens, each located on a different floor of the building. 

The Hurt Locker is showing in the basement screen, which is decked out in mauve seating, mauve carpets, and mauve walls. Not particularly inspiring but not unpleasant either.

I get here twenty minutes before the showing is due to start.

I manage to get an end of the row seat near the back of the auditorium to facilitate a sharp exit should that be required if ‘The Hurt Locker’ is lousy and I need to walk out before the end.

It is not exactly ‘stadium seating’ in this auditorium. There is a very gentle slope from the back of the room down towards the screen, as you would expect.

But then, in a baffling piece of design, the three rows of seats nearest the screen slope gently up rather than down. This would be annoying if you were sitting behind someone thus elevated above you and blocking your view.

‘The Hurt Locker’ lives up to its Oscar-winning hype.

Directed by Kathryn Bigelow, this is a great film, gripping and intense, with terrific performances by Jeremy Renner, Anthony Mackie and Brian Geraghty in the lead roles.

The best thing about ‘The Hurt Locker’ is the masterful pacing of the film.

Although it is a war film, the action scenes are balanced with extended sequences where there are no explosions or exchanges of gunfire.

These spells of inaction are as compelling as the more ‘dramatic’ scenes, in that they establish the atmosphere of the Iraq location and give breathing space both to the actors and to the audience.

Sound, or the lack of it, is used very skilfully. We are not bludgeoned by non-stop action.

Instead, the soundtrack often pulls back to nothing but sporadic ambient sound. This draws you in, rather than pinning you back in your seat.

Jeremy Renner is very good as Sergeant First Class William James, the reckless but inspiring leader of the bomb disposal unit whose existence in Baghdad and beyond is one of grim horror.

But in this film there is no sermonizing about the horrors of war, and no political agenda is peddled. The film makers can take this non-partisan approach now that the war in Iraq is no longer constant front page news.

Even just a couple of years ago it would have been difficult to justify such a seemingly objective take on the Iraq war; there would have been huge pressure to take a stand one way or the other regarding the war, either for or against.

But ‘The Hurt Locker’ doesn’t try to score any political points. It shows the gruesome nature of life in wartime Iraq but leaves the audience to reach their own judgement regarding the justification or foolishness of the Iraq war.

Anthony Mackie as Sergeant Sanborn and Brian Geraghty as Specialist Owen Eldridge put in excellent performances too.

Mackie and Renner’s characters have a good scene near the end, in which Mackie asks Renner how he can take such risks with his life when he has a wife and a kid back home. This scene is not forced at all, it is quiet and reflective and a good example of how the film blends action and characterization.

Although ‘The Hurt Locker’ overall is well worthy of its awards and praise, the ending is executed very clumsily.

The jump from Iraq back to the Renner character’s wife and kid back home is done so suddenly that it feels like a different film.

The mesmerizing quality of what has gone before is tossed away by this abrupt switch to domestic life.

Unfortunately the film’s spell is broken exactly when it should have been reaching its peak, and when the credits roll it is with a sense of anti-climax.

But all in all, there are very few off notes in this brilliant film.

Related Post: ‘Dunkirk’, Curzon Mayfair, London

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Russell Square underground station, opened in 1906, is aesthetically pleasing with its beautiful tiling.

I like to amble slowly along the platform here after getting off a train, savouring the station’s elegant design.

But it does not provide the most efficient transition from the bowels of the earth up to the surface.

You have to wait for a lift to shuttle you and your fellow passengers up to the light of the day.

There is no escalator.

There are, however, steep winding stairs leading up and out but signs discourage travellers from using these stairs, indicating that they are for emergency use only.

We are not in any particular hurry when we get off the train at Russell Square this Saturday afternoon, so we patiently wait for the lift along with everyone else rather than ascending the forbidden stairs.

Outside the station, we cross Bernard Street and walk into the Brunswick shopping centre, within which the excellent Curzon Renoir cinema is located.

Our timing is perfect, as we happen upon a terrific collection of outdoor food stalls serving tasty morsels from various countries including Poland, Japan, Spain, Italy, and elsewhere.

It is late afternoon so the stalls will be closing soon, but we are in time to order some great snacks from three of the stalls.

We get some terrific takoyaki from the Japanese stall, which is run by a guy from Osaka, Japan’s takoyaki capital. It’s good to watch the takoyaki mixture being poured into the griddle and sizzling as it solidifies in the small scooped moulds.

After wolfing down the takoyaki, we then get an absolutely delicious duck sandwich from the Polish stall. The duck is crisp and full of flavour. The sign on the stall says that you can have your choice of either red cabbage or rocket to accompany the duck, but the friendly guy serving at the stall puts in both the cabbage and the rocket for me, probably because it’s nearly closing time and he doesn’t need to keep any back.

The final snack we go for, at a Mediterranean stall, is a portion of very good chicken and chorizo paella served from a splendid, huge, circular pan that must be at least a metre across.

We have eaten very well, for pretty cheap prices, happily sitting out in the open air on one of the benches near the food stalls on this grey September afternoon.

The takoyaki, duck sandwich, and paella have set me up perfectly for today’s film, The Great Beauty, an Italian film written and directed by Paolo Sorrentino. In Italian, the film’s title is La Grande Bellezza.

I arrive at the cinema just as the audience from the previous showing of ‘The Great Beauty’ is coming out after the end of their showing.

One group of three people seem to be slightly dazed and confused by what they have just seen.

“What happened to the stripper, though?” one of them asks her two companions. “She spent her money on…what?”

A different group of friends seem less confused and more impressed by the film.

“Did you enjoy the film?”

“Yes, it was wonderful. Wonderful.”

‘The Great Beauty’ is showing in Screen 2 of the Curzon Renoir cinema.

This Saturday evening showing is well attended and the auditorium is almost full.

Several spectators enter the auditorium clutching large glasses of fine wine.

The clientele here clearly appreciate the finer things in life.

Seat numbers are not allocated, so I grab a seat on the back row, which gives a good view of the screen.

Before the lights go down, I wonder how distracting the pillar in the middle of the room will be. But when the film starts, the pillar is not distracting at all.

Having been impressed by the sumptuous trailer for ‘The Great Beauty’, my expectations are high. I am delighted when the film turns out to be even better than I had expected.

In fact, ‘The Great Beauty’ is a masterpiece.

Visually, it is ravishingly beautiful. Its rendering of Rome is quite sublime, and puts to shame Woody Allen’s postcard cliché version of the city in To Rome with Love.

The superb music soundtrack also plays a huge role in making The Grand Beauty the exhilarating triumph that it is, seamlessly gliding from decadent rooftop party beats to gorgeous choral song to bittersweet acoustic folksiness.

This film provides a masterclass in how to integrate music into the heart of the film rather than treating the music as a mere afterthought.

The acting in ‘The Grand Beauty’ is magnificent, by the whole cast and particularly by Toni Servillo as the ageing, suave intellectual Jeb Gambardella, who is reflecting increasingly ruefully on his life.

Whilst Servillo is undoubtedly the star, the other actors who populate this film are also excellent, such as Carlo Verdone (Romano), Sabrina Ferilli (Ramona), Pamela Villoresi (Viola), Galatea Ranzi (Stefania), Carlo Buccirosso (Lello Cava).

Great scenes abound in this memorable film: journalist Gambardella interviewing a pretentious performance artist who refuses to answer his questions; the rooftop parties, oozing Roman decadence and style; the night-time scene of the acquaintance who handily owns a set of keys allowing after-hours access to palatial rooms in which the timeless sculptures and statues seem to come alive as the light falls on them before they retreat back into darkness; Gambardella walking wistfully around the city, both in daylight and at night, quiet contemplative moments to balance the exuberant party scenes; the conversations between Gambardella and his editor, witty and urbane commentaries on Italian life and culture; and Romano, who finally heeds his friend Gambardella’s advice to write something original rather than putting on adaptations of established works by other authors, but who then, after a nicely understated reading accompanied by guitar, surprisingly decides to leave Rome after so many years there in order to return to his home town.

What a film ‘The Great Beauty’ is.

The rest of the audience emerging from the Curzon Renoir seem as elated as I am by what we have just seen.

Related Post: ‘Pain and Glory’, Dundee Contemporary Arts (DCA)

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The barmaid’s attitude here in this Bloomsbury pub is less than welcoming.

My innocuous question, “Are you serving food?”, is met with barely a nod, accompanied by a look of disdain.

She has a sullen look on her face.

It’s as if my query is such a drag, such an imposition.

She doesn’t bother saying anything in reply to my question, so I press on regardless and read off what I want from the menu.

I am too hungry to be discouraged by her indifference.

The soup of the day is split pea soup and I order that plus lamb pie as the main course.

It’s around two in the afternoon and quiet in here, only a couple of other tables occupied.

I sit at a corner table and admire the pub’s wonderful interior.

The snob screens seem very small, so tiny that you wonder how they can offer any privacy at all.

The barmaid appears a few minutes later.

“If it’s all right with sir, I bring the soup and the main course at the same time”, she says, plonking the two courses down without waiting to hear from sir if this is ok.

For half a second I consider asking her to take the main course away and bring it when I have finished the soup, but I see the look on her face and decide against that.

From her demeanour thus far, I shudder to think what she might do to my main course if I tell her to take it away and then bring it back when I am ready for it.

When some other customers enter the pub a few minutes later, she is quite friendly towards them. They seem to know each other. Maybe it is just with strangers that it’s up with the barricades.

The soup is good and the lamb pie is delicious, with much better prepared vegetable accompaniments than you would normally get in a British pub. The drink is excellent too, a pint of St Austell Tribute, an ale with a beautiful golden colour.

As I’m eating, a couple come in.

The guy tells the barmaid, “I’ve made a resolution not to drink for the rest of this month”, which begs the question, what is he doing in a bar?

The other person working behind the bar is an older guy who is very friendly, the antithesis of the barmaid.

He asks how my pie is, and he has a very kindly manner in his dealings with all the other customers who are in here at the moment.

Hopefully his hospitable example will rub off on his less welcoming colleague. If I had been served by him when I came in, I would have had a much better feeling than the one I was left with by the surly barmaid.

Princess Louise in Holborn is my next destination.

It’s bustling and lively at 3.15 p.m. this Thursday afternoon. Amazing decor in this bar. Great booths along each side of the polished wooden bar counter.

I have a bottle of Taddy Porter, dark, big flavour, not too treacly.

There’s a beautiful clock in the carved wooden arch in the middle of the bar.

The Prince Charles Cinema, tucked up a side street off Leicester Square, is my cinema of choice today.

Famous in London for its exuberant singalong showings of films such as ‘Grease’, ‘The Sound of Music’, and ‘The Rocky Horror Picture Show’, the Prince Charles is also currently showing a ‘quote along’ showing of 2004 zombie romcom ‘Shaun of the Dead’.

The film that I have come to see today, the British psycho-comedy road trip Sightseers, fits nicely into the Prince Charles’ off-the-wall programming ethos.

This early evening showing takes place in the upstairs auditorium, a compact atmospheric space under a low ceiling with little pinpricks of light showing through like stars in a dark sky.

The low ceiling adds to the cosy intimate vibe.

It’s a sold-out showing and tonight’s audience is already in high spirits even before the trailers start.

I have a feeling ‘Sightseers’ is going to go down well with this boisterous crowd.

After the opening scenes in which we see Tina (Alice Lowe) and Chris (Steve Oram) getting ready to set off on their holiday romance, ‘Sightseers’ quickly and wonderfully turns into Natural Born Killers with an English Midlands accent.

Instead of the stereotypical paraphernalia of American road trip movies such as truckstops, honky tonks, and panoramic desert vistas, in ‘Sightseers’ there are dull caravan parks, a ride on a preserved tram with commentary provided by a uniformed tour guide, and a visit to a pencil museum.

In their delicious cringeworthiness, the film’s humdrum settings and tedious holiday activities evoke a spirit similar to the Alan Partridge tv series; the numbing banality of drab existence offset by doses of humour rooted in loneliness, awkwardness, and frustrated ambition.

‘Sightseers’ is certainly funny but it also conveys an air of existential desperation that leaves you uneasy even when you are laughing along with the funny bits.

The two stars of the film, Alice Lowe and Steve Oram, also wrote the screenplay and as you watch the film unfold you sense that this is a labour of love brilliantly realized.

Lowe and Oram play off each other wonderfully.

She is fragile and vulnerable but with a spirit that reaches perfect expression in the closing scene in which she and Oram are standing on top of a railway viaduct.

He, on the other hand, plays the assertive male, consumed by his obsessions, sinking steadily and irrevocably into vindictive madness directed towards a society that he feels has rejected him and his world view.

His deranged contribution to keeping Britain tidy is stomach-churning; his jealousy of higher-achieving individuals than himself plunges him into a murderous rage; and his contempt for Daily Mail readers encapsulates this film’s weirdly effective blend of humour and callousness.

The film contains some gore that not everyone will want to see. But with its precise characterization, brooding atmosphere and superb script, I think that ‘Sightseers’ will enjoy a well deserved cult status in years to come.

It’s fresh and breezy this evening after the film as I walk past Russell Square gardens in Bloomsbury.

At the edge of the gardens, near the railings where I pass by, I can hear someone saying to the person he is with, “I’m doing this for you, I’m doing this for us. I’m making a move.”

There is an urgent, almost pleading tone in his voice.

I walk on and don’t hear how that anguished conversation ends.

Related Posts: ‘I Used To Be Funny’, Prince Charles Cinema London; ‘Surviving Life’, Nova Cinema Brussels

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Yamatane Museum of Art’s new exhibition has just started.

Its full title is ‘Establishing Modern Art in Japan: The Artists of the Nihon Bijutsuin, from Yokoyama Taikan to Hirayama Ikuo’.

The exhibition includes paintings by artists active in the Meiji, Taisho, Showa and Heisei eras.

Hoping that it will be as good as the Yamatane’s previous exhibitions this year, I go along and am not disappointed.

Yokoyama Taikan’s Showa period pieces ‘Mountains in Bright Moonlight’ and ‘Stream and Autumn Colors’ are highly atmospheric, as is Kobayashi Kokei’s ‘Kumano Shrine’.

Many of the other works on display are equally good.

I particularly like Okumura Togyu’s ‘Maelstrom at Naruto’, which is especially good when viewed from a distance; the lush, luxuriant, deeply swept greens of Omoda Seiju’s ‘Hillside Road’; Sakai Sanryo’s wonderful ‘Cormorant Fishing’, showing cormorants and fishing boats in the foreground, the lights of the lamps illuminating the darkness as huge mountains loom in the background; and Goto Sumio’s ‘Waterfall’, in which the flattened perspective of the painting is very effective, particularly on the side of the canvas next to the waterfall, where the forest and rocks spread out tantalizingly.

One of the more modern paintings (from 1981) is Matsuo Toshio’s ‘Cranes Flying over the Northern Vastness’, which is not only a great painting but also a wonderful title.

Another painting with a great poetic title is ‘Sounds of Wind through Pine Leaves’ by Ito Hoji.

This painting is very large, one of the biggest in the exhibition.

It shows a lone figure sitting on the ground amongst pine trees.

That’s it.

Nothing more.

It’s powerful, though. The man sitting there in the pines looks solid, literally and spiritually grounded, in a state of harmony with the world akin to that which reiki practitioners seek to achieve.

Amongst all these superb paintings, one stands out. It is Iwahashi Eien’s ‘Splendor of the Setting Sun’, an absolutely stunning picture that glows so much that you feel warm just looking at it. This is one of those paintings that grabs your attention and won’t let go.

I am not the only person entranced by this magnificent painting. Another visitor can’t drag himself away from it, walking right up to it, then taking a few steps back, examining it from all angles.

The only disappointing aspect of the ‘Establishing Modern Art in Japan’ exhibition is that the museum shop does not have a book to accompany the exhibition. It would have been good to have a permanent reminder of this exceptional exhibition.

Feeling uplifted by the wonderful Yamatane exhibition, I take the train from Ebisu to Shinjuku to go see Machete at Wald 9 cinema.

When I get to Wald 9 I can’t believe it when the person at the box office tells me that the 3.30 p.m. showing of ‘Machete’ is sold out.

Usually, the midweek afternoon showings that I go to have only a handful of people in the audience.

In stunned disbelief at not being able to get a ticket for the film, I wander out of the cinema and consider my options.

I don’t have a Plan B, as I hadn’t even contemplated the possibility of the afternoon showing being sold out.

I check out the nearby Musashino cinema but nothing there appeals: ‘Amelia’ with Richard Gere, ‘Brooklyn’s Finest’, and so on.

Along at Ikebukuro, Shin-Bungeiza is showing the original 1954 version of ‘Godzilla’ as part of an Ishiro Honda retrospective, which is very tempting.

But I probably wouldn’t make it there in time for the start of the film.

So I decide to retrace my steps back to Wald 9, where I buy a ticket for the 7.50 p.m. showing of ‘Machete’.

I still don’t understand why the mid-afternoon showing is sold out whereas the evening showing, which you would expect to be the busier time, still has tickets available.

But never mind, it’s just a minor inconvenience, not the end of the world.

Now I am in Shinjuku with plenty of time on my hands before the evening showing of ‘Machete’.

I walk as far as a point near Shinjuku train station from where in one direction I can see the skyscrapers of the Tokyo Metropolitan Government district oozing political power, whilst if I turn my gaze in the opposite direction the bright brash neon sleaze of Kabukicho assails me.

Irish pub Dubliners beckons.

I drop in for a couple of pints of Kilkenny.

Today the price of all drinks is reduced to 500 yen as it is the bar’s anniversary, so my unplanned visit here on this day is a lucky piece of timing.

After the liquid refreshment it is time for some food.

I head over to Numazukou, a conveyor belt sushi joint in the bowels of Shinjuku Station. It’s a great place.

Normally I’m not a fan of brightly lit restaurants, but Numazukou has a good lively atmosphere despite its bright lighting.

The clientele when I get here consists of a mix of salarymen dropping in for sushi and a beer after their day’s work, a couple of families, and one or two stray foreigners like me.

Shouts constantly ring out from the waiting staff, either shouting orders to the chefs or shouting greetings to newly arrived customers.

The sushi is delicious.

I wash it down with a bottle of dry saké from Shizuoka prefecture.

A conveyor belt is such a great way to present sushi. Tempting dishes continually pass by just inches before your eyes. It is so easy to reach out and grab whatever you like the look of.

The place soon fills up and several people are waiting by the entrance to be seated.

Sushi restaurant etiquette dictates that you don’t hang around once you have finished eating, particularly when others are waiting to be seated.

So, well fed and watered, I set off back to Wald 9.

After two pints of Kilkenny and a bottle of Shizuoka sake, I am in a perfect mood to enjoy ‘Machete’.

The film is showing in Screen 7, a cosy 81-seater.

My seat is D1, a very well placed seat on the left hand side of the auditorium quite near the screen.

The only problem with this seat is that I am trapped next to the wall with no means of escape when the final credits roll.

At the end of a film in most Tokyo cinemas, not a single person gets up to leave until the entire credits have finished.

I don’t fancy clambering clumsily over everyone else in my row to get out, so I will be stuck when today’s film ends.

It doesn’t really matter, though, as I’m in no particular hurry to get anywhere after the film.

‘Machete’ is violent, sexy and funny.

Its star-studded cast and tongue-in-cheek bravado make this film a highly entertaining spectacle.

Although it has a serious subject matter – illegal immigration into the United States from Mexico – the film entertains rather than pontificates, albeit its liberal political stance is never far from the surface.

It is quite an achievement to have assembled a cast that includes Robert De Niro, Jessica Alba, Michelle Rodriguez, Steven Seagal, Don Johnson, Jeff Fahey, and Lindsay Lohan.

But the undoubted star of the show is Danny Trejo, who plays the Machete of the title.

Danny Trejo exudes menace.

His intimidating face and withering glare leave you in no doubt that this is not a man to be messed with.

Even though he is in stellar company in such a cast, he carries off his leading role with great style and charisma.

The Japanese subtitler didn’t bother translating one of the great throwaway lines in this darkly humourous romp of a film. When De Niro’s character, a slimy racist Senator, is about to go into a press conference, his assistant gives him his walking stick and tells him to try and make the assembled journalists feel sorry for him. In that scene, De Niro’s character is trying to win the sympathy vote on the basis of a gunshot wound that he himself orchestrated. It would have been interesting to see the Japanese translation of that line.

But no translation is given in the subtitles and so, being the only non-Japanese person in the audience, I am the only person who laughs.

Related Post: ‘Terminator 2: Judgment Day’, Cinema Academia Almadense, Lisbon

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According to official statistics, the sunniest public holiday in Japan is Culture Day, which is held every 3rd November.

And so it turned out earlier this week, when a beautiful autumnal day with blue skies and sunshine drew me and thousands of others to Yoyogi Park to enjoy the leaves that were just beginning to turn red and yellow, the fresh air, and the musicians busking in various parts of the park.

In one area someone was playing a didgeridoo, its undulating drone by chance complemented by a trio of drummers who were playing a short distance further on.

Near the Harajuku entrance to the park, a saxophonist blared unmelodically whilst immediately in front of him a woman with a red wig and white powdered face performed some kind of slow motion dance. The saxophone player then stopped playing his instrument and instead started wailing and screaming, with the dancer continuing her slow motion moves, shooting a beady bulgy-eyed glare at the bewildered passers-by.

I gave the demented saxophonist and his dancer a wide berth and headed towards the takoyaki stand by the entrance gate, where I bought some octopus balls to wolf down as a mid-afternoon snack.

Because the guide books all mention Takeshita Dori as a must-see street in Harajuku, I made my way there from Yoyogi Park to check that street out.

Big mistake.

It was hellish. So many people crowded the street that I could hardly move.

After a few hundred yards I escaped down a side street and ended up in Omotesando, where there is a splendid antenna shop selling products from the Niigata region.

These antenna shops can be found dotted around Tokyo, each shop specializing in products from a certain region of Japan.

At the Niigata store, I stocked up on some terrific beer from the Echigo craft brewery, a bottle of white wine from the Agricore Echigo Winery in Minami Uonuma, and a bottle of junmai saké from Yoshinogawa Co.Ltd.

Three weeks and some great Niigata-related drinking later, it’s now a fine Saturday morning in late November.

The weather is bright and sunny.

The leaves on the trees are turning red and yellow.

As I walk from Azabudai to Roppongi Itchome I kick my way through the crisp dry leaves that are strewn on the pavement, such a satisfying feeling.

The half-litre of saké that I quaffed during the meal last night at Ostrea Oyster Bar & Restaurant in Roppongi is making me feel slightly bleary. Ostrea in Roppongi is a terrific place to sample oysters from different regions of Japan, as well as a few foreign imports.

I hadn’t realized how much variation in flavour there is between oysters from different places.

As well as great food, the service in Ostrea was exceptional even by Japan’s high standards.

As the Friday night went on, the restaurant filled up and became quite boisterous, yet the staff remained good-humoured and attentive as the pace picked up. It was good to see a well run, busy restaurant ticking over so smoothly.

With last night’s hangover slowly dissipating, from Roppongi Itchome I take the Namboku Line train to Tameike Sanno.

I change there onto the Ginza Line for Asakusa.

At Asakusa metro station I emerge from the Azumabashi exit.

The sight that greets me is the famous ‘golden turd’ on the roof of an office building on the opposite side of the Sumida River.

The official city map coyly refers to it as a ‘big golden object’, but everyone calls it the golden turd because of its unfortunate resemblance to a huge jobby. It’s quite a sight.

It is such a beautiful crisp morning that instead of heading straight towards Asakusa Meigaza cinema, I have a wander across the Azumabashi bridge to enjoy the view of the Sumida River under a perfect blue sky.

I don’t linger too long, though, as I have never been to Asakusa Meigaza before and I want to make sure that I have enough time to locate it before the film starts.

It is no exaggeration to say that Asakusa Meigaza is a legendary cinema in Tokyo.

One of the oldest cinemas in the city, it is famous for its downbeat, unpretentious feel.

In terms of a cinema-going experience, Asakusa Meigaza is at the opposite end of the spectrum from the cold corporate multiplexes that dominate today’s market.

Whereas multiplexes are typically sanitized, characterless, over-branded and family-friendly, Asakusa Meigaza is devoid of advertising, oozes edgy character that some will relish and others won’t, and caters to an audience which on my visit today consists entirely of middle-aged men sitting on their own.

There must be around one hundred people in the audience, all of them guys.

And no, it isn’t a porn film that’s showing.

Whilst I certainly wouldn’t put Asakusa Meigaza top of my list for bringing someone on a date, the cinema does have its plus points.

The seats are reasonably comfortable.

You don’t have to sit through endless trailers and adverts as none at all are shown before the film.

For the price of a 1200-yen ticket you can stay here as long as you like and watch a triple bill of interesting Japanese films that are unlikely to ever be shown outside of Japan.

Asakusa Meigaza is easily recognized from the outside by its red-tiled facade.

It is located at the north end of what the local map calls ‘Rokku Broadway’, a wide street that gets tangibly more sleazy as you head down it from the tourist-trap surroundings of Kaminarimon Dori.

There is a porn cinema next to Asakusa Meigaza, and a huge betting complex that looks and feels more like a busy train station than a bookies.

This Saturday morning a couple of down-and-outs are standing in the street clutching their cans of beer, staring at nothing in particular.

Other guys, downbeat but less derelict, are checking out the posters outside the cinemas to see what is being shown today.

Kantsubaki is the film I have come to see at Asakusa Meigaza.

Released in 1992 and directed by Yasuo Furuhata, ‘Kantsubaki’ is based on Tomiko Miyao’s novel about a young woman called Botan who is sold as a geisha by her gambling addict father.

In this new life she is forced into prostitution, a victim of what nowadays would be called human trafficking.

‘Kantsubaki’ is set in 1932, the early part of the Showa Era, and the sets are evocative of that period.

Lead actress Yoko Minamino is very good as Botan, whilst Toshiyuki Nishida puts in a terrific performance as Tomita, the man who is responsible for placing Botan as a geisha but who ultimately helps rescue her from that life of exploitation.

The obligatory swordfight bloodbath near the end is done quite entertainingly.

After that frenzied scene the film meanders to a serene conclusion.

‘Kantsubaki’ is by no means a classic film and some of the editing is pretty abrupt, as if too much footage was shot and some drastic action had to be taken in the cutting room. But the acting is good and the story is compelling.

I emerge from the bowels of Asakusa Meigaza out into the bright sunshine of this beautiful winter day.

Asakusa is such an atmospheric quarter of Tokyo.

As I wander around its street restaurants and shotengai arcades, I can feel the spirit of old Edo lingering in the air.

Tokyo’s shitamachi soul lives on in Asakusa.

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The walk across Waterloo Bridge offers my favourite view of London.

In one direction you can see Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament, whilst in the other direction stands St Paul’s Cathedral and a jagged high-rise skyline. Below your feet the River Thames powers along with surprising force and speed.

But on this dreich Sunday evening the weather does not favour a leisurely amble across the bridge.

The rain is whipped up by a wind so fierce that I cannot control my umbrella, which is getting wrenched inside out and jerked violently by sudden gusts.

So I opt to put the umbrella away and endure a brief soaking as I scurry towards the BFI Imax on the opposite side of the river from where I have come.

Only problem is, I have rolled up to the wrong cinema.

In the foyer of the BFI Imax, I spot the machine from which one can extract pre-booked tickets. I insert my credit card, only to be informed by the machine that there is no booking registered under that card number.

Bemused, I walk over to the box office counter.

The person sitting there tells me that the ticket I have booked is for a film that is showing at BFI Southbank, not BFI Imax.

When I booked the ticket online a few days ago, it struck me as surprising that this particular film – Classe Tous Risques, a slightly obscure French film noir from 1960 – should be showing on the gargantuan BFI Imax screen, a screen on which one would expect mass-market Hollywood blockbusters to be showing rather than more niche offerings.

What a great opportunity to see a slice of stylish film noir on a huge screen, I had thought.

But when making the booking, somehow I thought I was on the BFI Imax website rather than the BFI Southbank website.

Though disappointed that I would not, after all, be enjoying ‘Classe Tous Risques’ on the extravagant Imax screen, a consolation is that BFI Southbank is only five minutes walk from the Imax cinema, so back towards the river bank I go.

“I saw it yesterday. It’s amazing”, the BFI Southbank box office guy says to me as he hands over my ticket for the 6.30 p.m. showing of ‘Classe Tous Risques’.

While sitting in the foyer killing time before the film, on my phone I read a couple of chapters of the Kindle version of Kevin Murphy’s wonderful book, A Year at the Movies: One Man’s Filmgoing Odyssey.

I love his description of how he gets into the Cannes Film Festival without a press pass, using techniques such as ‘credential block’ and ‘mob rush’.

Throughout the book, he brilliantly evokes the joys and occasional pains of filmgoing across a gloriously diverse range of settings.

Murphy’s writing is intelligent, funny and unpretentious; so much more readable than the patronizing showboating of the typical smug film critic.

Before ‘Classe Tous Risques’ starts, I have time for a quick look at a small but stunning exhibition in the Atrium of film posters by Satyajit Ray, the Indian film maker who worked as a graphic designer in an advertising agency before embarking on his illustrious career in films.

His posters are superb, an interesting intersection of art and commerce.

The striking typography and eloquent visual images give these works an artistic quality not often found in commercial posters nowadays, but which seemed to be more prevalent a few decades ago.

From the Satyajit Ray poster exhibition in the Atrium, I wander along the corridor to Screen 1 for the 6.30 p.m. showing of French director Claude Sautet’s ‘Classe Tous Risques’.

What a difference an auditorium makes! Sumptuous, luxurious Screen 1 here at BFI Southbank is so much more comfortable than Screen 3 where I saw Laura a while back.

Tasteful jazz piano plays as background music before the film starts.

It’s good when a venue manages to match the right music to the occasion.

With little in the way of pre-film trailers or advertising, we are plunged straight into what turns out to be a very good film, if not quite the masterpiece that some commentators have made it out to be.

Compared to most gangster films, ‘Classe Tous Risques’ possesses an extra emotional dimension through the predicament of the two young children whom the protagonist must look after. 

Lino Ventura plays Abel Davos, a criminal who has to flee Italy and return to his native France because the law is closing in on him in Italy.

Ventura has a granite-like presence.

He is solid and unsentimental, though not callous, towards his young bewildered children.

Ventura’s unflinching facial expressions are those of a man who has always faced life’s challenges down imperiously, but who is gradually coming to the realization that the forces conspiring against him are now in the ascendant.

Jean-Paul Belmondo as Eric Stark delivers his usual jaunty, carefree performance, beholding the world and its machinations with a wry amused detachment. 

Sandra Milo is also good as the angelic wife of Ventura’s character, unaware of his hoodlum occupation when she married him.

The cinematography is good but not quite imaginative enough to lift it into the very best of film noir.

The dialogue is sparse, minimal; moods are conveyed very effectively by the actors’ posture, movements and facial expressions, all of which are laconic and robust.

The abrupt ending of ‘Classe Tous Risques’, in which the anti-hero’s fate is tersely announced, is fitting in its directness and lack of sentimentality.

Related Post: ‘The Window’, Cinemateca Portuguesa, Lisbon

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East Finchley tube station is a station worth lingering at for a few minutes, instead of bolting out of it the instant you have stepped off a train there.

The station building is wonderful.

Standing on the platform is like stepping back in time to the 1930s.

Designed by Charles Holden, one of the country’s leading architects of the period, one of the station’s most striking features are the two semi-circular towers on opposite platforms, joined by a bridge over the railway track, like glass goalposts and a brick crossbar.

According to the Royal Institute of British Architects, that design is an echo of Walter Gropius’ model factory at the 1914 Werkbund Exhibition.

Another superb feature is the art deco statue of an archer by sculptor Eric Aumonier.

The statue exudes a tremendous blend of poise and power.

It has a boldness that you would associate with New York’s art deco splendours in the streets of Manhattan rather than with this relatively quiet London suburb. But it fits the station and its environment perfectly.

What has drawn me to East Finchley is the chance to see a film at the Phoenix, one of London’s best-loved cinemas.

The Phoenix was built in 1910 as a single-screen cinema.

It is just a few minutes walk north from the station along the High Road.

On the way I spot a tv celebrity – Huw Edwards, the BBC newsreader whose warm Welsh accent is so soothing and reassuring. He is walking along the High Road with a companion.

Both their faces are taut and grim, as if they have had an argument and have not yet made up.

But when I watch the evening news later that night, I realise that that severe facial expression is actually his normal one.

The Phoenix cinema has a sleek and uncluttered modernist exterior enlivened by the bold splash of orange colour provided by the phoenix plaque in the postage stamp corner of the building.

Inside, there is a nicely jumbled up lobby and an upstairs café bar area with some interesting artwork on the wall at the top of the stairs.

I am pleasantly surprised to see Scottish Deuchars IPA on the beer list. I order a pint and quaff it while waiting for the 5.30 p.m. screening of today’s film, Anna Karenina.

The cinema auditorium is fabulous.

Its 1910 barrel-vaulted ceiling, wonderful art deco wall panels from 1938, and the bronze and red colour scheme give the place a cosy opulence that is quite stunning.

The curved backs of the seats give a pleasing sensation of waves at sea rippling from the back of the auditorium down towards the screen.

If you judge it only from the official trailer, you might assume that this version of ‘Anna Karenina’, directed by Joe Wright and adapted from Tolstoy by Sir Tom Stoppard, is little more than a pompous costume drama.

But I’m glad I didn’t let the trailer put me off, because the film turns out to be riveting.

The cast are clearly revelling in the period splendour, but there is plenty humour bubbling away under the surface.

A playfulness in the acting provides a surprising but effective counterbalance to the heavy tragedy that steadily unfolds.

Previously I haven’t been a huge fan of Keira Knightley, but in this film she is terrific.

As Anna Karenina, she embodies dashing enthusiasm and fragile vulnerability in equal measure.

Visually the film is gorgeous to look at, with its opulent sets and costumes, beautifully lit and filmed.

One of the most striking scenes in ‘Anna Karenina’ is the one in the theatre when time seems to stand still as the entire audience turn their judgemental eyes onto Anna. Without any superfluous dialogue or other signals to the audience, at that moment you know that Anna is doomed.

The Phoenix is the perfect cinema to watch this film in.

The glorious auditorium mirrors the feel of the splendour unfolding on screen.

Watching ‘Anna Karenina’ in this superb cinema has been a wonderful experience.

It’s good to have seen the captivating 1930s design of East Finchley station in daylight when I arrived here earlier today, as well as seeing it after dark when I leave.

Illuminated in the mid-evening darkness, the station looks even more like a magical 1930s alternate universe than it had done earlier in the afternoon daylight.

Related Post: ‘Vita & Virginia’, Dundee Contemporary Arts (DCA)

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With this being a Sunday, Smithfield Market isn’t trading today.

But you can still walk through the impressive central passageway, its elegant ironwork painted in vivid pink and purple, the dramatic bright colours like those of Hockney’s recent landscapes.

It would be good to return here early on a weekday morning when the market is in full flow, though even when empty this place has a lot of character and atmosphere.

A minute away from Smithfield Market there is a memorial to Scottish patriot William Wallace, who met his gruesome end here in August 1305 when he was hanged, drawn and quartered.

The memorial is discreet and understated.

I was expecting something more prominent, given the historical significance of the spot.

But I suppose it’s natural for Wallace to be celebrated more in his native land of Scotland than down here in the heart of London, England.

For an early lunch I venture into the Rising Sun, an old-fashioned pub located on a corner site with a couple of attractive white-brick floors above it.

The landlady is friendly, and the Beef Stout Pudding I have is pretty good.

But I don’t linger long because at a nearby table there is a loudmouth holding court, the kind of person who wants the whole place to be his audience.

So I quickly pay the bill and set off along Long Lane to the Barbican cinema.

The Barbican’s appearance certainly lives up to its negative reputation.

What a hideous building.

Its brutalist architecture is repellent and once you are inside, it’s very hard to find your way around.

Just as I am beginning to curse the place, a helpful employee notices that I am looking lost.

He kindly points out how to get to Cinema 1 when I tell him that that’s what I am looking for.

This encounter softens my hostility to this unappealing place; the employee is helpful and friendly, a welcome antidote to the bleak ugliness of the building.

When I eventually find Cinema 1, my mood continues to mellow as that auditorium is superb.

Its comfortable seats, the steep sloping that ensures a good view no matter who sits in front of you, and the pervasive classy atmosphere combine to dissolve the stress of struggling through the rest of the building complex to get here.

I settle into seat F25 to enjoy René Clair’s 1927 silent film ‘An Italian Straw Hat’, with live musical accompaniment by Andrew Youdell on piano.

The film turns out to be absolutely superb.

René Clair’s direction keeps the story in ‘An Italian Straw Hat’ moving along smoothly, with no dull sagging phases that you get when a film is in the hands of a lesser talent.

All the cast are great, especially Albert Préjean in the lead role of Ferdinand, the groom.

Préjean has a subtly commanding presence. He almost dances his way through this performance, always witty, always sparkling.

‘An Italian Straw Hat’ is a comedy of manners. It’s delivered with a smattering of slapstick but mainly achieves its effect through the intensely detailed observations of individual behaviour.

The film is entrancing.

It is very funny, replete with laugh-out-loud moments.

Andrew Youdell’s live piano accompaniment is exquisite and contributes hugely to the film experience.

When ‘An Italian Straw Hat’ ends, there is delighted applause from the audience.

A great film, in a great cinema, with great musical accompaniment.

I feel privileged to have been here to see it.

There is something magical about these classic old silent films.

The style of acting is utterly different from today, the lack of sound technology back then forcing the performers to communicate emotions through marvellously vivid facial expressions rather than through spoken dialogue.

Feeling exhilarated after the film, I manage to extricate myself from the Barbican’s brutalist embrace.

Outside, I walk briskly to Mabel’s Tavern, a good traditional pub just off Euston Road.

I’d arranged to meet a friend here who I hadn’t seen for a while.

We start off with a pint each of Spitfire, an English pale ale that is decent enough but not quite good enough to merit a second pint.

We move on to Kent’s Best, a refreshing English bitter that is much more inspiring, so we have three pints of that before calling it a night.

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