The title of this biopic should have warned me. The term genius littered the first minutes of this film and regularly reoccurred throughout. The documentary adopted the tired formula of so many others, for example, Hunter S Thompson’s biography released a few years back. The story starts with the early years, homing in on some unusual relationship with the mother, then the instant rise to acclaim where the genius of the artist is most apparent, then their fruition, where in art and life they are temporarily fulfilled, know brief happiness with a woman (as all these geniuses are men) and possibly children, however the destructive, obsessive element of their genius comes back to wreak destruction on both life and, in the end, art. Period footage, either in blurred black and white or bleached colour alternates with contemporary interviews in jarringly sharp focus with a series of talking heads – ex wives and girlfriends and childhood friends make good material. Like Thompson’s biography one or two of these informants stand out for their gentle insights into the subject in question. In this film the son of the woman who lived with Gould for four years brought some unaffected honesty to the story. When there was no period footage, the director made up for it with shots of an actor dressed as Gould walking moodily through Toronto streets at night.
I was pleased when it ended. I learnt a few things about Gould’s chronology but got no insight into what his musical genius really consisted of beyond his good looks and nerve. Would that have been too much to ask?
music
John Martyn dies
To be honest I hadn’t thought about him much since the late 70s early 80s when everyone I knew in Cambridge seemed to be playing his records and trying to sound like him. But now that I am listening to him singing ‘When the hurt in your heart is gone’ I am completely blown away by the power and emotion of his music. I must get hold of that album Grace and Danger and get back in touch with this genius.
Is it summer- is it autumn?
The sky is dark now at 9 o’clock and summer, that time that we all yearn for and want to cling on to, is edging into autumn, the time that school years begin but the time that blows the leaves off the trees and that reminds us of our own ageing and death. The earth’s season’s go round and round but we, obviously, have only one life, and once we are in its autumn, there is no waiting for the spring, just a savoring of where we are, finding new things in it, a way to inhabit it (or maybe we dye our hair).
A holiday without a holiday. Four weeks off work but without an expedition. Holiday’s aren’t always what they are talked up to be. The Proms end in the first week of September, then the summer is over. Bartok’s Bluebeard’s Castle is playing now on the radio. I know the story but don’t have a clue which door we are about to open, they are clearly doors into the unconscious. There is some passion and terror happening at this moment! O no, do not insist on opening that last door!
Rhythmic Thrust at Man in the Moon
Youth from Hills Rd Sixth Form College in Cambridge and probably other places converged on music pub Man in the Moon the other night for a fest of strangely retro bands, among them Rhythmic Thrust which includes my entire personal progeny. Youth nowadays seem unprejudiced and eclectic when it comes to the music they listen to – and are seen listening to. RT has a kind of early Pink Floyd sound. 
Here’s other gigs at the Man on the Moon.