The War of Nham

I recall the days spent with copious amounts of alcohol, of which I hardly touched, toasting away at the ever-glorified adage of obscure Eastern European movies. We would sit around reciting profane verse, spitting at the latest Oscar Nominated piece of thrash, as it played on the telly, and in retrospect, I can only remember the bile and phlegm as the spittle shot out from our lips. It was usually at these heightened moments of derision that we would take steps back from our bold, single-track minded assault on the movies born of the Hollywood Studio system, and realize that our contempt for said establishment and it's film was really only given life because of the one earnest fact; we never wanted to touch the American's self proclaimed golden chalice of cinema. The plateau where all great movies are made, my arse!

I do not remember how we all got together that night, but it was certainly a night to remember. Three years had gone by in a flash; too many bad movies and too many nights reflecting on how to change American cinema. We just had to get drunk this time! Maybe, even get laid.

Laid? The idea worked for some of us. It was strong enough to compel us toward a singular drive. One shallow enough, that for one night, we could forgive the superficial, untruthful depiction of the American peoples in their film and just believe for one minute that human beings were as simple as portrayed in these movies.

Justin Hirschorn, the unwavering Church of England Christian, would not for the life of him be caught dead on one of these debaucherous nights out, not that he never adjourned his distaste to sit with us for drinks. He was a friend, and like most friends at film school, he formed tight cliques and practiced the art of camaraderie, the art reserved only for those in war and/or in emotional turmoil, where, for those lucky enough to be placed in this state of affairs, life seemed fleeting and the world was illustrated for us, as if it were in disorder. He stuck with us for all three years. Maybe, we had that air of a unified stance that he was so accustomed to while growing up.

Justin had a prior engagement with his family and could not join us on this final night out at the student union, the union we had grown so habituated to getting drunk at. Though, he did promise to meet us after the party was over. We forgive him, not so much because he had to spend time with his other family, but because the festivities were not specifically organized for our graduation. We figured, and after careful deliberation as well, that we would toast a toast to the good fight once again, someday.

Richard Chynoweth, the son of a Lord, a happy-go-lucky proprietor of an Akira poster and the joyfully dyslexic - for he had gotten a brand new computer because of his condition - and aspiring Hollywood Blvd, James Bond Impersonator - yes, he would most definitely give up a life of luxury to adorn the customary tuxedo and neatly trimmed hair-cut, giving up his punk-rock spikes in the process, Richard - was a content little lad to say the very least.

He, unlike Justin, was along for the ride, and had brought a date. From a far, it certainly looked as if he would be the only one to be getting any on this night. And, as brotherhood is the theme of all this, we could not be happier for the poor little rich boy, despite the fact that he spent the night staying sober and courting his lady friend. With brotherhood, it is customary to inform the rest of the discerning faction, of the exploits of the previous night - or in this case, the night to come - especially if it involves a woman. But, as we are an auspicious bunch we will leave the details for those who care to imagine.

Benjamin Sutcliffe, the altruistic atheist - if there ever was a man more capable of self-irony, let me know - is the man I credit for keeping us together all these years. I especially recognize him for keeping me in the loop, being that I live some 13,000 miles away. Thank God for facebook, maybe. He has this repressed sentimentality that shines through despite his numerous attempts to shield his, err-hmm, excuse me, sappiness, with crude, cutting remarks. This may sound like ridicule to him, but God bless his soul, for without him this war would have been lost a long time ago, and though he would be the last to sit with you and talk about camaraderie, brotherhood, friendship or the like, he is the one that believes in all this most.

Ben decided that this was going to be an all boys night out. So, as to fully exhibit our machismo, to the rest of the leftovers from lower years, he resolved to leave his girl friend, her Greek housemates and sole English lass to their own discourse. He starts us with a round, paid for by his earnings as a late night security guard at the afore-mentioned student union, as I was saying, a round of shots of Whiskey and pints of whatever we had called for. Let the festivities begin!

Anthony Ward, the man who was not there, only joined us in spirit, for he had left us for greener pastures some time in the first year. He had accepted a scholarship to attend Cal Art University in Los Angeles. It was the animation school Tim Burton had graduated from. It is really all I know of this establishment, but it sounded impressive to me at the time, anyway. Like I say, he may not have been physically there, but for the sake of storytelling, let's say he was. I laugh as I tell you this, but the reason I have decided to include him in this incantation of the downy, is because of the images that he had conjured up for me along my travels through film school and the oh-so-illuminated image he would conjure up for me as we made our march through town, across the highway, up the hill and toward our Farnham town home, of which I will tell you about later.

Anthony's conversations with Dominic Mitchell, about film, story and Apes would resonate in my mind for years to come. Heaven knows that I would never have understood the intricacies of the Planet of the Apes franchise, not to mention the idiosyncrasies of both their personalities, had I not sat in on those streams of dialogue. And for those of you who missed it, Anthony had gone to Hollywood to fight the greater fight, and in spite of my prior spiel, his going to the city of angels was met with the utmost support, from us and especially Dominic. Before I carry on, let me remind you that this was still a war we were fighting. They say; when you are 15, we fight against society; when we are 25, we fight against the politicians and the establishment; when we are 35, we fight against our boss; when we are 45, we are just famished and ready for some grub. With this prospective understanding in mind, let no one ever judge us for our hostility. It is all in the name of friendship, after all.

Dominic Mitchell would spend nights, as he lived in the same house, dreaming up and brainstorming ideas with Anthony Ward. Somewhere amidst their myriad of life altercating ideas, shunning the studio establishment method of getting films made became commonplace. That was until Anthony got accepted into Cal Art. I remember the conversation well.

"If you have a scholarship and your father is paying for it, then you should go!" says he, with the spirit for revolution.

And just like that, it all changed. No more were we going to shun the likes of studio execs and ostentatious creators of commercial art. No, because someone from our ranks, the lowly ranks of film students, had a chance, a shot which he could utilize to take a proper crack at the Hollywood machine. I guess we all have our price; we just need to know how to think about it. What I found most interesting was Ant and Dom's next hair brained scheme; missing-link productions, a sub-genre of successful hybrid films, which harmonized the commercial, saleable aspects of mainstream American cinema and the art-house, independent flavor of a Dominic Mitchell show. When I think back, these ideals really were about keeping us together, even when in the façade of their impending separation, and our university graduation.

Dominic was the first to hit the dance floor. He downed both his shot and his pint before taking a second breadth. It was he also; that decided the union was a pie hole and that we should move onward toward the house. But, let's give it a moment.

Jay Lim, not his real name, but a nickname given to him when Richard decided there were too many Johns' in the world, is really named Jonathan, and though he likes that name, he doesn't really care what he is called, as long as he gets to hang out with this alternative/Indie student film crowd. Please afford me the opportunity to apologize before the jig gives itself up. I apologize for referring to myself in the third person. I assure you that it is not to make myself stand out, but just the opposite. Consider that if I were to revert my voice to that of the first person, it would be as if I were blowing my own trumpet and making my stanza stand out and seem different than the rest of the above mentioned aspirants of brotherhood.

Jay, as he had been called for the 3 years at the Surrey Institute of Art & Design BA Honors in film and video production, stands in between Justin, Richard, Ben, Ant and Dominic, undertaking their collective perspectives, confusing the s--- out of himself in the process, chooses not to speak much on this particular night, though it was not ordinary for him to keep his mouth shut all the time, for fear of intent - be it concern, indifference, contempt or worry, for these are words he would prefer not to express - sits quietly in a dank corner sipping his beverage, biding his time, before moving on to the quieter venue, the house. He is okay like this, really!

The crowd is thick and sparse in an increasingly tattered underground-like enclosure made up to form the student union. The place is reminiscent of a venue that would befit the likes of the Seattle grunge movement, not that I have ever been. Flash forward to a few drinks later, and no one else cares but the six of us.

Justin is on his way to the house. Richard was already there with his girlfriend. Ant, Ben, Dom and I are marching onward to meet them, with a for sale sign, Ant had pulled out of some lawn, flung over his back. It was the funniest thing I had ever cared to imagine. And, as for that image that he conjured at this instant, it was that of us, just like toy soldiers, or just like them suicidal dwarfs from one of Dom's plays, of which, I understand has been produced at an East End Stage, but no, like pretend soldiers, in this grand ole` war, not fought against anything or anyone, but fought for the sake of being friends, and for these moments, moments like these.

We arrive just as Richard is setting up the stereo in the kitchen and just as Justin walks through the door. We sit ourselves down on the damp, dirty, but comfortable couches, in our make shift living room, of where we have spent many after party nights. There is nothing left to say, this war is almost over and it is just about time to claim victory. Justin adds a comment:

"The funniest has left us."

Etymologically, the word war is derived of an old German word, Werra, signifying turmoil, confusion, discord, strife, or being the precursor of dystopia, and warranting the birth of camaraderie - a word for each of us to understand and communicate to the group. These distinguishing definitions of the word, war, need not be limitative, but they will be for our cause. Let me be clear, war in actuality, is a state of belligerence, it is a feature of a very specialized category of macro-level violence, at least in the modern sense of the word, but this is not the war we have fought. The war we have fought, involved no violence, it involved only the etymological aspects of war, and as a result the victors are indeed us, who stand glorious in that we went through Farnham Film School... together.

And as we carry on with our lives, many adventures with or without each other after Farnham, we can affirm ourselves of the fact that we had gone through this, through university, with brothers-in-arms. Wars are fierce, brutal and aggressive, and there is hardly a war that is fought without the propagandist posturing of the mass media. This only makes it worse, of course. Let us be reminded that the intent was never to instill an idea of this continuation of political intercourse, but to infuse the idea of the twenty-something struggle, while growing up in foreign territory like University, and away from home for the first prolonged period of time. It was the objective to burn that into our psyches, so that we could take it with us wherever we went. We fought this fight, for camaraderie. Real wars are usually fought for socio-political positioning. Not this war!