Radio On

Chris Petit's seminal philosophical road movie

Radio On is a subtle, masterfully understated meditation on late 1970s Britain. It's a journey through underground arthouse cinema from the 40s to the 70s, and an experiment in European forms of cinematic expression. But Radio On is also a journey in itself: a kind of existential road movie. It traces the strangely melancholy story of a protagonist disconnected from his job, his friends, his family and his surrounding environment. Upon hearing of the death of his brother - which may or may not have been a suicide - the leading character decides to make a necessary trip from London to Bristol, perhaps to uncover an unknown truth.

Along the way, the protagonist meets a diverse collection of characters. There is a soldier driven to violence and psychosis by a job he despises. A guitar player (played by Sting) who finds himself nostalgic for an idyllic past, dreaming of a future career in music that's been "lost in the post". There is a German woman disconnected from her homeland, her family, her language and her own sense of identity. And then, of course, there is Robert B., the leading character: an individual of no apparent origin and no apparent destination.

Radio On's loose, barely-existent narrative is told through a rich monochrome print of ghostly whites and glossy blacks, presenting fractured, dehumanising Ballardian urban backdrops alongside gloomy, ethereal rural landscapes. There are resonant panning shots of cityscapes saturated with the detritus of defunct nineteenth century industry alongside boarded-up, dilapidated buildings, abandoned petrol stations and empty hotels. All contribute to a profound and poignant sense of wonder and dread. Beautifully crafted static shots seem to emphasise the empty meaning of modern existence through images of blank, static television screens, monotonous flickering marquees and lurching fuel-pump dials.

The soundtrack that underscores the entire film lends context to the time it was made, but also adds a dreamy, abstracted depth to the cinematography. David Bowie's 'Heroes/Helden' opens the film as a camera slowly pans around an austere apartment; the familiar English lyrics juxtapose with a German rendering of the song that throws all listeners into strange new territory.

The familiar quickly becomes unfamiliar, the natural unnatural, the real strangely unreal. Kraftwerk's contributions offer some strange contradictions: an odd, compelling mixture of the human and the inhuman: nostalgic yet distant: human ghosts lost in the machines. Robert Fripp's otherworldly 'Urban Landscape' plays over shots of a city at night, of sound and light... again, familiar yet somehow intangible. There is a distinct, pensive tone to this waking daydream of a film.

Radio On is ultimately a film about a time and a place. There is a sharp, distinct, yet inexplainable mood that saturates every note of every song, and every grain of every shot. The tone of Radio On expresses a time and a place where everything rests on the cusp of inevitable change. The central irony of the film being the final victory of a universal cynicism, as Britain spirals into political turmoil and the unforgiving, authoritarian political agendas of Thatcherism take grip.

There is no final sense of resolution as the film draws to a close. Radio On is an experience to be absorbed rather than a story to be followed; the circumstances that surround Robert's brother are never really made clear. Instead, Radio On dwells on its own thoughtful ambiguities, opening the possibilities not only for the self-discovery of its protagonist, but for the self-discovery of its audience.

Radio On is not a film that espouses truth, or that claims to grant a closure or sense of direction to the lives of its audience. Instead, it is a film situated upon such problems, and choosing to tackle them head-on. Radio On attempts to confront the absurdity and disenchantment of 20th Century living. It is a reflection on existence: a meditation on a time and a place that reflects the circumstances that created it, and that still holds a strong relevance for audiences today. A beautiful, gloomy, melancholy masterpiece, and an absolute must-see.

Watch Radio On free at A Piece of Monologue

Moleskine Notebooks

Do you love them or hate them?

I think I'll always love writing in Moleskine notebooks. They come in all kinds of shapes and sizes, but have a wonderfully simple, classic design. I use one almost everyday, and even make gifts of them to loved ones. But there is something unwholesome about the image of the Moleskine notebook that's deep-rooted and unsettling. And it bothers me.

The Moleskine advertising campaign is a perfect example of aspirational consumerism. Its far-reaching romantic mythology is little more than a marketing ploy, intended to pamper a narcissistic sense of our innermost creative selves. I mean, really: who among us doesn't secretly consider themselves a creative and free-thinking individual? Moleskine is a cunning little exploitation of this rather pleasant feeling: and it prompts our sense of selves more fully, but at a price.

To inscribe your name onto the front page of a Moleskine is not so much a practicality as a pledge: in the case of it being lost, we are forced to ask ourselves how much we would be willing to pay to ensure its safe return. And so, even though the item is still in our possession, we are already selling our Moleskines back to ourselves - no doubt under the vain pretext of essential personal insights it might one day contain.

It's very easy to judge a notebook by its cover; to value the brand of a product rather than its content; but it's worth remembering that if you want to write down your thoughts you don't need to pay a fortune for the privilege. Picking up a Moleskine does not make you a Picasso, any more than drinking a Martini makes you James Bond. The idea that artistry passes somehow exclusively through a specific brand-name is laughable. Think about it: Picasso, Chatwin, Hemingway. What links these men together? Okay, aside from their convenient iconic status as artistic cornerstones? Not much.

These men aren't even linked by the Moleskine: a notebook that was not mass-produced or branded while any of them were alive.

I'm surprised by how far Moleskine have gone to secure some kind of stable link with the artistic, creative community. For a start there's 'Detour': "a Moleskine project dedicated to traveling culture and creativity worldwide. An itinerant group show that features Moleskine notebooks created by internationally recognized artists, architects, film directors, graphic designers, illustrators, and writers..." Yes, yes, we get the picture. But where do we fit, exactly? After all, when we walk into our nearest stationary store the Moleskine notebooks are all blank aren't they? Isn't it us who should be doing the writing?

The UK Moleskine website has even stooped to modifying literary quotations, in a rather embarrassing attempt to secure greater respect for the brand. Example? I call Oscar Wilde to the stand: 'I never travel without my notebook. One should always have something sensational to read in the train.' The well-read among you will be aware that the word notebook is incorrect here. Wilde, of course, never travels without his 'diary'. (I hope Moleskine are taking notes.) But the difference is negligible, isn't it? Perhaps we could go a little further and say Wilde never travels without his Moleskine? So much for the respect of the artists.

Call me cynical, but there's something about the Moleskine notebook that gets under my skin. They're over-priced vehicles of pretension. In fact, if they didn't look and feel so lovely I'd probably stop using mine altogether.