Letterbox

Spotted in Norwich city centre. Apparently, Norwich was the first area in the UK to see postcodes introduced, as a trial area, back in 1959.

Rag

'Help. I Lost My Rag With You.'

Arch: Forgotten UEA Bridge

In the woodland grounds of the UEA, somewhere behind the Sainsbury Centre for Visual Arts. Off a track that mainly seems to be frequented by dogwalkers is this little bridge, curving over what is barely a stream. I think in the summer months this pretty much dries up completely. I couldn't tell you its age or anything about it: at a guess, I'd assume this little site was once part of the grounds of Earlham Hall.

Whatever it is, I like this little arch. Equal part fairytale, equal part romantic.

"Junkies Go Home:" Waste Woods

Across the road from Norwich's 'secret garden,' the restored nineteenth century Plantation Gardens, lies a strange scrap of forgotten waste woodland I assume was once part of the same quarry. (The famous 1988 image of the double decker bus sinking into a collapsed hole in the road, courtesy of instabilities caused by medieval chalk mines beneath the surface, happened mere yards away). I don't know what this chunk of crumbling wall is, or how many years it has stood. I like this place as a weird grotty twin to the Plantation Gardens.

"Contained the Remains of Withburga:" Saint Withburga's Well, Dereham

"Wihtburh (or Withburga) (died 743) was an East Anglia saint, princess and abbess who was possibly a daughter of Anna of East Anglia. She founded a monastery at Dereham in Norfolk and a traditional story says that the Virgin Mary sent a pair of does to provide milk for her workers during the monastery's construction. Her body is supposed to have been uncorrupted when discovered half a century after her death: it was later stolen on the orders of the abbot of Ely and a spring then appeared at the site of the saint's empty tomb at Dereham." - Wikipedia entry for 'Wihtburh'

In the churchyard of St Nicholas' Church in Dereham, this supposedly holy well remains, quietly minding its own business. According to another Wiki entry, on the history of Dereham, attempts were made in the eighteenth century to turn the town into a new Bath or Buxton by building a bath house over the well. The building was apparently ugly and unpopular and was eventually demolished in the late 1880s.

I visited on an overcast day. A young woman was sitting on a bench by the well talking loudly on her mobile phone. I felt a bit shifty, poking around with a camera, but she paid no heed. "I f**king didn't! I f**king didn't! I'm f**king telling you, I f**king didn't!" she kept yelling down the receiver. I never found out what she was denying.





















This final image is of the lady herself, on a fifteenth century rood screen inside the church.

Window Photography:

More iPhone photography taken from moving vehicles. These were all taken during a train journey from Norwich to Doncaster a few weeks back, all somewhere between Thetford and Peterborough.

I posted a similar entry back in May, entitled 'Maybe Everything That Dies Someday Comes Back.' It was named after a line in a Springsteen song, from his album 'Nebraska,' because vehicle-window photography (there has to be an easier term...) often reminds me of the terrific, understated cover of that record. And some of these to me do seem weirdly evocative of lonely desert landscapes: ridiculous, considering the actual locations, but still.

I was messing around with a black and white photography app called Hueless, as well as the inevitable Instagram filters.

EastScapes Film Club #1: 'Black Shuck' (2012)

'Black Shuck.' dir. Paul T T Easter. UK. 2012.





I've thought about looking at films on EastScapes for a while, but in my laziness have only just now gotten around to it. East Anglia has been used plenty in film and television over the years, but I'm not interested in the various middle-of-the-road tat that uses Norfolk and Suffolk's various stately homes, picturesque villages, and beaches for chocolate-box backdrops (I'll throw the movie versions of 'The Duchess,' 'Shakespeare in Love,' and various Bond movies out there, for instance). In keeping within the remit for the site, I'm way more into any films that attempt to uncover the beauty, the creepiness, the sadness and the bleakness embedded into the East Anglian landscape. (Excellent examples I'd cite would include 'Patience (After Sebald),' the BBC M R James adaptations, the mighty 'Witchfinder General,' 'The Scouting Book for Boys').

So, 2012's 'Black Shuck.' Despite East Anglia's Devil Dog's long shadow over popular culture - it was a major inspiration for the Hound of the Baskervilles, after all - I'm not aware of any movies directly based on the tale. And, despite Paul T T Easter's film, the wait continues. Despite a barely-audible opening voiceover recounting the gist of the legend, and the presence of the main character's friendly pet dog Shucky, Old Shock is conspicuous by his absence here. Perhaps the director was using the myth for a jumping-off point for his movie, but who the hell can tell.

'Black Shuck' is bad. Extradordinarily so. Yet kind of amazing because of it. I pride myself in being a fan of cinematic undergrounds - experimental, sleaze, no-budget, porn, Z-grade, whatever - but I must confess I haven't seen too many quite like this one. For what it's worth, the basic skeleton of the plot concerns a clean-shaven hermit lunatic living in the woods (director Paul T T Easter) who slaughters his brother (um, Paul T T Easter, playing himself) at the beginning of the film, and spends the remaining hour just sort of wandering around, babbling to himself in a strange mixture of Suffolk yokel and Roland Rat drawl, occasionally bumping off anybody he stumbles across in bloodless, crash-edit ineptitude.

It's possibly the most incompetent film I've ever seen, and this from a man who every once in a while decides to try and work his way through the IMDB Bottom 100. This isn't low-budget underground. I remember hearing Kevin Smith recount a conversation with a studio executive during the filming of 'Mallrats,' dismissing Smith's prior experience by claiming 'Clerks' wasn't a 'real movie.' Similar accusations get thrown at low-budget flicks all the time. It's a ghastly insult. But 'Black Shuck' really isn't a movie. It's genuinely something more akin to something a couple of teens would knock up on a mobile phone in the back garden for each others amusement, rather than an example of grass roots, anti-establishment guerilla filmmaking. Which is certainly what the film claims to be: the first ten minutes of Black Shuck are a talking-head segment featuring Easter ranting against the closed-shop of the UK film industry. All well and good, but his insistence on being a businessman, of his films being no-budget to match his business model, etc, takes the charm off the DIY cheerfulness of it all and makes the supposedly serious enterprise seem a touch ludicrous.

Yet... Weirdly... The film did hold a baffling fascination over me. I think everything of any interest was accidental - the utterly unrestrained performance by Easter is nothing if not brave. I kept thinking of the 'spazzing out' approach of the characters in von Trier's The Idiots, or the freakshows of Harmony Korine - who, incidentally, would probably kill to be able to make a film with such an authentically amateurish aesthetic. Tying back into the usual focus of this blog, much of the location imagery appealed to me. They'd certainly be kind of places I would want to tramp around with my camera. Wintry woodland populated with sad-looking streams and bare trees. Rough farmland scattered with dumped tyres, sleeping bags, old trampolines, tractors, torn sofas, empty gas cannisters, an old canoe. I've always had an idea that the very best horror films ought to make you worry about the filmmaker's sanity (the first 'Texas Chainsaw Massacre' being my favourite example to cite), and I must admit, I would definitely have been alarmed had I bumped into Easter wandering the woods with his camcorder pointed at himself hollering "My wood! My wood! No-one enter my wood... Pheasant!"

It's horrible. It's terrible. It feels like it has crawled out from beneath a rock somewhere, blinking and pale and scrawny, into the sunlight. And I can't quite get it out of my head.

I may have to buy it. Maybe the business plan works after all?