Tell no one. That is what their marketing literature says. This is of course like telling a child not to touch something; it is the savvy marketer's method of bull-baiting that will guarantee the opposite will happen. To wit: this entry.
But am I bothered or do I feel exploited? No. Not bothered a mundo.
What am I talking about? Secret Cinema. (
www.secretcinema.org). A night out (actually this was a matinee, but more about that later) where you don't know what you are going to see, where you are going to see it; what you are supposed to wear....all this a mystery until AFTER you have parted with your money. Oh yes? I hear you say. Do I look like my middle name is mug?
Trust me. This I know is an unorthodox sale, but there is absolutely nothing orthodox about the experience. You want mainstream? Go to the Odeon. You want to talk about your night (or afternoon) out? Check this out.
What's the drill? You go sign up at the aforementioned website. This costs nothing. Then, a week or so before the event, you receive an email telling you where to meet and at what time, what to wear, and what to bring. That's it. Oh yes. You get parted from your money.
The rest gets left up to your imagination.
A Colombian friend of mine told me about this, and I gave it to my wife as a stocking stuffer at Christmas (now there's a rarity, a gift that is both moderately thoughtful
and painless ...make a card about some random gift you are going to give at some random time in the future, and you get to do it together!). I booked the Saturday night show a few weeks back, just in time to find out that my sister-in-law was coming onto town and I couldn't switch the tickets. I thought I was going to have to swallow the price and wait for the next one (they happen monthly).
Then, last week I received an email saying we look forward to seeing you at either the matinee or evening performance (or some such) and reiterating where to meet, (58 Shepherd's Bush Gardens, in this instance), what to wear (a hat and "something bohemian"), and what to bring ("a blanket and a piece of chalk"). It also attached two passes written in German (DDR, not the Federal Republic of), and said the "guards will check". I perused the passes and, my rudimentary German and amateur lawyer's analytical ability aside, could not find any date or performance specified. Hmm. I thought. I will chance it.
Saturday came and went, as did my sister-in-law, and we trundled over to Shepherd's Bush on Sunday in time for the 1PM assembly time. Having Google Mapped it, I assumed (incorrectly, as it happens) that this was to be held at the Empire, the medium-sized theatre by the roundabout.
Wrong. When we pass by (in search of parking), there is a long queue outside the building
next door to the Empire, which has a marquee which says POTSDAMER PLATZ. There are guards in the telltale DDR green uniforms with their peaked hats, men in long overcoats, and various other folk wandering about. And, of course, a lot of Bohemian types with hats carrying blankets.
We join the queue, and I trawl my cinematic memory bank for the category Communist Krauts, and all I can come up with is The Lives of Others. A guard approaches and barks in German: Papieren, bitte or some such (no I don't speak german save for a few words, so you teutonic spellmeisters will please forgive the orthography). Einshulegen-sie-bitte (one of the few words) I reply, as he chastises me for not having filled in the passes before marching off.
Shortly after, a young girl in tears with mascara running down her face appears, and asks me to hug her. "You may want to ask my wife what she thinks," I reply. I give her one anyway.
There are a lot of men in long dark coats who come and stare silently, and then disappear.
One man is dressed as Columbo, with the trenchcoat, the hunched shoulders, and the shifting gait.
I am none the wiser about what we are about to see.
We approach the front of the queue, and I see two people with a list, TICKING OFF NAMES. Oops.
Busted, I think.
But hey! This is performance art, and
I have passes!
Your name please.
Pettigrew I say as they trawl through the list. No relatives appear, and certainly no Pettigrews. But I know this already. The top of the list says MATINEE, 28 Feb.
What is your first name?
Eric, I reply innocently.
They try the Es. I could have saved them the trouble.
Are you sure you booked the matinee?
Absolutely. Over the internet.
The crowd behind is getting impatient. I seize my chance.
Look I have these passes. (Nevermind that a friend could have printed them off for me).
I look the male guy in the eyes and don't blink. Then the female. They look at each other and shrug their shoulders.
We hold out our hands. Stamp. Stamp. We're in!
We go up the stairs. The stairwell has graffitti all over it. In chalk, and mostly in German. Mystery number one solved. Why the chalk?
Upstairs there is a rabbit warren of various rooms, with cabaret acts, food stalls (hot dogs, the bratwurst being up on the roof), and long queues everywhere. We grab a drink, and wander into the main auditorium. There are about 400 people. There is a circus going on, with a trapeze artist (a woman), a juggler, a unicyclist. The men in overcoats wander around, staring at you.
The room is vast and decrepit. And cold. There is a short film playing endlessly...the same few street scenes looped over and over...the words When the child was a child, it was time for these questions: Why am I me, and why not you? Why am I here, and why not there?
A hand writes in German. My wife translates.
I continue to be none the wiser.
A singer named Fyfe Dangerfield, with a hell of a voice, and two backing violinists, plays a set. There is another short film....not very memorable. It all seems rather disjointed.
Then the film starts.
It is Wim Wenders' Wings of Desire, the 1987 Cannes Festival winner about Berlin, and angels, and life.
Three hours later, all is clear. Nothing was disjointed. Everything was planned. The men in the dark coats are angels. Every other character, the forlorn hug-me girl (a prostitute in the film), the police guards, the trapeze artist ( a woman with the fabulous name of Oceane Peillet)....everything has been planned down to last detail. I was just too ignorant to know.
This is serious cinema. This is a serious undertaking which manages to be fun. I will leave it to the critics and arthouse aficionados to dissect the film, a broad history of Berlin with a melange of normal life, angels, love, a bitter past, Colombo (yes, there to make a film about the Nazi past), partially in black and white, part in colour, part in french or german or english, loosely based on the poetry of Rainer Marie Rilke. The circus is called the Circus Alekan. Nick Cage and the Bad Seeds make an appearance in a seedy bar. It is a mosaic of humans in a city, with each person's thoughts accessible to all, and no lines between the real world and the world of the spirit.
When I say that this whole shtick is fun, I use the term loosely. This is not yuk yuk whoop-it-up fun. This is wow! how did they think this up? fun. And the movie? Well it is only part of the whole
cinema experience.
Humans, huh?
Somebody deserves a lot of credit for this .
Oh yes...Mystery Number Two: Why the blanket? Because it was bloody cold in that unheated derelict theatre, soon to be torn down to be a hotel. It was self preservation, nothing more.
I immediately plan my return for next month's surprise, and this time I will bring my camera...and book the correct performance so I won't have to brave the Stasi....or whoever it might be next time.
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