In one of my extended stays in London, I went to the British Film Institute (BFI) as much as possible. There are many things to do in London, but I desire to go to the BFI the most. I remember they had a Jean-Luc Godard retrospective but only focused on his political films between 1968 and 1972, his Dziga-Vertov cinema collective. I remember the people around me thought I was crazy not only to focus but also to go every night to see what some believe are unwatchable films by Godard. I loved them and was secretly happy I was the only one to love this work. And I remember taking great pride that the audience was getting smaller and smaller, yet here I am, loving every moment of watching these films. I forgot that experience until I read Jeremy Cooper’s novel, Brian.
The novel is about a solitary, middle-aged fellow with a quiet life, a steady occupation at the same place, and company for numerous years. Yet, he has the habit of attending the BFI to see two films every evening. His whole schedule’s foundation is based on the programming of the BFI, but even with that, he is not making choices among the movies but chooses to see all films and make a record or note of it. One-hundred-sixty-eight films are mentioned in the book, which is essential to me. If the main character, Brian, is going to these films, as a reader, I want to know the exact quantity, titles, and directors. I’m fascinated by where he eats daily, his work habits, and how he goes to the theater, usually by bus, but sometimes by the Underground. As you can gather by now, I identify with the lead character of this novel.
Anyone who goes to a specific second-run theater tends to run into the same customers, and they usually have their seats mapped out, and in many ways, it becomes private property to them. It’s social but only focused on the subject matter of films and their filmmakers and stars. Things are rarely discussed beyond the agreed-upon subject matter. Brian artfully conveys that world, and I think many who participate in cinema-going will recognize people like Brian. It’s vital to notice that a structure is set in place, such as eating at the same restaurant or going to the cafe near the BFI theater in London. When the structure is broken, one feels unease about the world, but once you are back on the schedule, things begin to have a purpose. And there are shocking but quiet moments in the narrative.
Jeremy Cooper is a writer of great interest to me because he captures that obsessive way of living. I have read a few interviews with him, including some essays, and he seems comfortable with his life, which does have a structure or acknowledgment of time being used wisely. From Fitzcarraldo Editions, I ordered two of his other titles published by his publisher, Bolt From The Blue and Ash Before Oak, and I’m very much looking forward to reading them. Since I have become Marcel Proust-obsessed this year, I feel that Cooper can be part of this small but essential world for me, and therefore, I’m excited to enter his world through his writing. A man who has never seen a Facebook page or been on a Twitter platform is a plus.
Here are some Jeremy Cooper essays of significant note:
Thanks again and again Tosh. Another author unknown to me and I too love the films of Godard.
"Brian" is an excellent book. I've read the three novels by him from Fitzcarraldo and, although I've found each of the three novels excellent, I think "Ash before Oak" remains the most emotionally intense of the group. "Brian" is beautiful in its understatement, and in that quality I think it reflects Brian's own admiration for mid-century Japanese films.