Film Museum Duesseldorf. Avoid

A postcard. Of a Cinema. Yes, it is that exciting.

Last Weekend the best girlfriend ever and myself made one of those unavoidable journeys to Germany that tend to ruin the weekend as there is the inevitable early morning dash to the airport, the never-ending desire to throw something at Germans who just can’t queue and far too much Weissbier. To alleviate this conundrum we extracted ourselves from our family duties and ventured to Duesseldorf (also known as Ork-City), to visit the city’s Film Museum, combining lore and light entertainment. Placed in an attractive street of this otherwise drab town, the entrance of the Film Museum bristles with toned down efficiency, and a friendly attendant takes your money and sends you up the stairs. There you enter the ‘panthenon of directors’, a circular collection of pillars with a picture, quotes and some trivia on famous and rather obscure directors. I have no problem with the fact that the curators find Andrzej Wajda as good as Howard Hawks and Hitchcock (but omitting Kazan and Houston) but please, at least tell us which films they were responsible for. Movies past 1980 don’t seem to be included, so no Fincher, Spielberg or Polanski.


The rest of the museum is an uninspired, haphazard collection of old projection and recording material thrown together with some postcards of cinemas worldwide, some programmes from the forties and thirties and a ludicrous motley accumulation of figurines (and a Harry Potter cup). The shelves are dusty and the whole place looks like someone has taken some cinematic collections and randomly placed them around the limited space. There is no programmatic thread and no cohesion.

Heartily uninspiring and disappointing. Avoid.

Cultural and religious references wasted on the innocent.

Today, while listening to the radio driving along some non-descript country lane, Ken Bruce on BBC Radio2 allowed some vacuous young man to play the ‘tracks of his years’ (mostly an opportunity to plug a new album). After playing Genesis’ “Jesus he knows me” the chap (apparently somebody called ‘Matt Cardle’ who won some TV-contest) commented what a deeply religious song this was.

Pardon me?

“I believe in the family with my ever loving wife beside me But she don’t know about my girlfriend or the man I met last night Do you believe in God, ‘cos that’s what I’m selling And if you wanna go to heaven, I’ll see you right You won’t ever have to leave your house (oohoh) Or get out of your chair (oohoh) You don’t even have to touch that dial (oohoh), ‘cos I’m everywhere”

He might want to check his references.


Itunes Sharing

So there I was, sitting pretty having a coffee in the corner of a so called ‘Conference centre’ when I felt the urge for some digital therapy. After getting the Macbook out, putting the headphones on and listening to some sweet Steely Dan I suddenly noticed that my shared folder list had suddenly multiplied. Normally only occupied by my office PC, it suddenly sprouted an amazing array of names.

Now, I normally switch off all sharing on my control panel as soon the MacBook leaves the secure confines of its home network, but I wonder whether these people know that their personal taste in music can be seen (and listened to). I then did a quick check of my network folder, and indeed: dozens of mac users with easy access to machines.

Maybe the majority of these user should -before yelling at facebook – make sure their own machines are fiddle proof?

Manbags. Effeminate? What, really?

Charlie Porter is a fashion features editor for i-D and writes for the Guardian. He was recently given a new manbag for his birthday and when airing it proudly in Canary Wharf was promptly accused of nicking ladies’ handbags. That’s not nice. At all. But he is obviously oblivious to the impact a manbag has on other men.

It was a disquieting and humiliating experience, this apparent fashion crime. Humiliating because first he thought I was a petty thief, and then he judged me as effeminate.

Pic borrowed from the Guardian

Well, Duh.