Popcorn and the Persian Poet: Omar Khayyam's influence on Western Cinema

From the early 11th Century, the name Omar Khayyam has been inextricably, but never faithfully, linked to a number of adorning titles. Khayyam the mathematician, poet, sicentist, philosopher, the soldier. The recognition of Khayyam's innumerable academic achievements documented in Iranian history has allowed his genius, much in the manner of Leonardo Di Vinci, to remain indistinct. These men both embodied a stark juxtaposition, men of many parts, combining both a scientific and artistic ability. However, as with De Vinci's art, Omar Khayyam's reverent poetic verses are what immortalise him as a pioneer of Persian culture.

Omar Khayyam relentlessly sought to deconstruct existential complexities. He used poetry to articulate the definition of life, death and the human condition beyond the explanations that science and religion could provide. The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam is the most celebrated collection of the poets work. Its verses intoxicate the reader with his epicurean style, presenting his complex philosophical ideas on a lavish, word-rich platter. This celebration of life's languor through poetry was welcomed beyond the Iranian boarders. Edward Fitzgerald's 1859 translation of The Ruybaiyat of Omar Khayyam opened the Western world to his work, altering the foreign perception of the Persian Empire at that time.

With the original publication of the Rubaiyat available for a single cent in the early 19th Century, the poetry of the Ruybaiyat offered an alluring opportunity of escapism. The ballads of Persian fantasy denoting tales of war, ethereal romances and the opulence of the Seljuk Empire had Khayyam's growing readership craving for adventure. It was only a matter of time and technology before Khayyam's work would be translated into societies favoured form of circumvention, cinema.

The early 1920s saw the emergence of three silent films, each visualising the mythology that surrounds the life of Omar Khayyam. All three movies, The Lovers Oath directed by Ferdinand Pinney Earle (1922), Omar the Tentmaker, James Young (1922) and Omar Khayyam by Byan Foy (1924) follow a slightly homogenised plotline, borrowing from The Rubaiyat's verses for the film titles alone. Both Omar the Tentmaker (1922) and Omar Khayyam (1924) focalise on the shrouded romance between Omar and his childhood love, Shirin, the Shah's unwilling wife-to-be. These films are all essentially Persian Folklore, stories of love lost and found, with a feel of tragedy and adventure, each depicting Omar as the gallant lover. These initial forays into 'cinematic Khayyam' teach little about his life or his poetic works, but still channel a unique charm and innocence of their time.

Hollywood's fixation with Khayyam's embellished biography continued with the 1957 technicolour talkie, The Life, Loves and Adventures of Omar Khayyam, from director William Dieterle. Its protagonists include Debra Paget as love interest Shirin and Cornel Wilde, who plays a young, Byronic Omar Khayyam. The movies release was paralleled with immense publicity, merchandizing, offering free tickets to budding American poets. Although the general plot seems repetitious of other Khayyam 'biopics', there is an intellectual richness and texture to it that is often omitted from neighbouring films of this era. There is faithfulness to historical events, offering a detailed narrative of the Persian-Byzantine war. While it hyperbolizes Khayyam's achievements, it also depicts known events in his life, such as his reformation of the Iranian calendar. Unfortunately, rather than using Khayyam's poetry to texturize the plot, his verses surface mainly to allow the maudlin character to express his love of fine wines.

Some Western productions have offered homage to Khayyam in a more subversive way, using the words of The Ruybaiyat to aid allegorical storytelling. Films such as the 1946 Duel in the Sun, the 1945 Dorian Gray and Pandora and the Flying Dutchman, 1951 all include direct quotations. Strangely, the use of the Rubaiyat canto which explained the legend of the Flying Dutchman in Pandora was edited out of the US cut, perhaps undermining the US audience's ability to appreciate Khayyam's poetry. A personal favourite of the Khayyam references can be observed in The Music Man, 1957 where a local woman offers her daughter a book of what she lovingly calls "the Ruby Hat". The town librarian scathes her use of 'the dirty Persian Poetry', and then paraphrases Khayyam's verse on the hedonism of youth 'People lying out in the woods eating sandwiches, and drinking directly out of jugs with innocent young girls'.

The echoing influence of The Rubaiyat in contemporary cinema remains, though their recognition demands a love of Khayyam combined with a discerning ear. Recent uses can be seen in Unfaithful (2002) where Oliver Martinez's character offers a copy of The Rubaiyat to the female leader as a note of seduction. A more light-hearted nod to Khayyam can be seen in an episode of Rocky and Bullwinkle where Bullwinkle discovers 'the Ruby Yacht of Omar Khayyam'.

While the legend of Omar Khayyam no longer has a known presence in Hollywood, the thematic content of his poetry resonates through its storytelling. As with the work of Shakespeare, he offers today's filmic bards a stepping stone to tackle life, death and love within their work. As the poet himself once wrote,

With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,

And with my own hand wrought to make it grow:

And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd--

"I came like Water, and like Wind I go."

The Rubaiyat Quatrain XXVIII

THE FLATLAKE FESTIVAL

Next weekend sees the return of the Flatlake Festival 2010. Hosted in Scotshouse outside Monaghan town (IRELAND!) this independent festival has exploded over the past three years. Going against the contemporary grain, Flatlake is an inexplicable medley of art, literature, music and theatre. But don't think in modern day Lady Gaga cabaret, think literary laureates and fornicating pigs!

If you need a more concrete explanation, watch our Flatlake 2009 compilation video.

six and a half loves - chapter two: "their song"

The art of Storytelling

The last leg of the London word festival ran through the doors of St.Leonard's Church, Shoreditch. The word-loving Willy Wonka like organizers had prepared a mingled forum of poetry, performance art and music. Patrons were greeted to the event with an invitation to join 'The Tree of Lost Things', a mystic Neverland web which cascaded from the church ceiling, filled with wistful remembrance of lost objects. Of course, many a new romantic used the web for silent therapy with 'self respect' and 'my happiness' dangling among its branches.

The evening was centered on Ian McMillan's 'Chip Shop' poetry recitation, a clusterfuck of words selected by the public and submitted to Henningham Family Press for spontaneous printing. Words like 'crepuscular', 'spatula' and 'pigeon' were bundled together in the big tombola of Mr. McMillans mind to create a spontaneous poem that surmise the festival. The final product, shown above is available in the form of an original Henningham press print and can be purchased here,

http://www.henninghamfamilypress.co.uk/order.php.

Matthew Robin’s sinister set of creeping story-ballads captured the atmosphere held in the draughty church gables. His ominous piano chords were accompanied by a shadow puppet projection following the adventures of anomalous characters such as the 'mutant moth boy'. Unexpected comedy was found in the wonderful tentative nature of the show with clumsy hands covering the scenes and persistent sound failures. There were times when the show panged of alternative children's theatre, but it was saved by the quality of Robin's vocals. Anyone who has even half smiled at a Tim Burton animation would have appreciated his nonsensical storytelling and archaic imagery. I think a version of 'Oranges and Lemons' sung by some foreboding school children in the pulpit would have suited his set down to the ground. Just imagine the final line resonating through St.Leonard's church, 'I will be rich said the bells of Shoreditch'.

Comedian and animator Terry Saunders allowed us to grow into happy cynics with his homemade film '6 and a half loves' using live voice over. The animated film catalogued the fledgling and failing love lives of three couples. Terry is more one for pub-based realism than Platonian theory, which lead to many a knowing sigh from the audience throughout the screening. His characters don't write sonnets, they drink wine from coffee mugs while waiting for adult free view.

Throughout the evening Dalston based Henningway Family press soldiered on in their makeshift Chip Shop. Instead of oily newspaper parcels, their stall offered on site one-word prints from a stenciled press, letting punters take a printed piece of McMillan’s poem away for just a pound. I went for 'crepuscular', not letting on that I needed to google it’s meaning.

So the evening drew to another inspiring but bemusing close. But to tide me over until next March, I'm planning started my own nostalgic tree on my bedroom ceiling, filled with new and old memories. I give it two weeks before I start drying my undies on it.

Megabus

with both arms draped by the slanket
you look so small
and strangely regal

my head nuzzles beneath
to find muggy launderette breath
and lazy static
braiding our fringes into a greasy wreath

I raise my hand to your pillow lined face
and relieve your eye of sleep
but only to decorate
your crumpled trouser leg

the porcine gent opposite
flips 3 pages of the STAR
grunting with delight
as his aperture eyes
scan the stretched areolas

the nasal girl from Perth
educates the carriage
on the origin of her rubber-band bracelets
before crooking her head to sleep
in a pink neck pillow

Our mouths grow tacky from the heat of boxed breath,
but we just sigh in defeat,
watching our water tumbril
travel the coach floor

the service station pangs of lost opportunity
and cumberland sausage

we sit slumped on the steps of Wimpy
and hear Saxons demand chips
from costa coffee counter

I contort in your lap,
a disgruntled ferret
as I dose to the lullaby
of a scottish couple
loudly debating
their baby's paternity

After 17 lapsed hours,
The engine exhales,
rousing the crowd
to a state nonplus,
as we are ushered
from our ad hoc home
the bastard Megabus

100 days by Josie Long

When I first sifted through the program for The London Word Festival, almost everything in the eclectic mass of off kilter events drew me in. Victorian ghost story gatherings, DIY poetry, prints for a pound and scrabble Sundays. But for some reason, I was completed averted to the title '100 days to make me a better person by Josie Long'. I immediately pictured a one woman post-menopausal show. One filled with preachy, self indulgent anecdotes accompanied by a photo montage of an ex-poet scribbling her sestinas in tears. Even though I had pledged to attend every storytellers meet, scrabble Sunday or contemporary poetry slam on offer, I left Josie Longs 'One Hundred Days project' finale un-circled on my nerdy-word notice board.

After starting this blog, I backtracked after realising that I was lathering myself with hypocrisy. Ask any homeless man with a shopping trolley full of umbrellas and tangled phone chargers, he'll tell you, curiosity keeps you young. So I dragged my tiny friend along to the 'secret' location in Dalston. Secret indeed. After traipsing through the fish market and getting a litre of omega oils absorbed into my canvas shoes, I finally found it-the Stamford Works Warehouse. Apparently when it comes to avant-garde London, Dalston is the new Hoxton. This generally means that men sporting Burberry hats and bulldogs in the town are now outnumbered by young women with 40s headscarves and ukuleles. Even still, the Word festival organisers are veering far from trendy pretence associated with contemporary literary events. Queuing to the unknown, we were met with smiling faces offering wagon wheels and love hearts from paper plates. The Stamford works itself, with its beautiful rough-hewn structure looked like it had been frantically decorated with fairy lights and promo posters. It was as if we were being ushered into a subterranean living-room, especially since the seating area was a bundle of cushions.

The compare for the event was far from post-menopausal Josie Long. This zippy but still self-deprecating lady has a long-established comedi-en career, starting at just 17 when she bagged the BBC New Comedian of the year award. But like most of those British comedians who don’t infinitely feature on the Dave channel, her name is best known to patrons of the Edinburgh fringe. Josie became the Pied Piper of the 100 days project back in 2009, starting an online commitment to do something every day for 100 days to quash procrastination and hopefully, make her a better person. Her website, www.hundreddays.net gathered hundreds of lacklustre followers, all aspiring to better themselves. The most common self contract seemed to be that of young writers vowing to do one hour of creative writing a day. Some commitments were a little less ambitious,

‘I will masturbate every day for 100 days’ or ‘I will take a picture of my cat every day for 100 days’. But the project’s luminary had a bit more moxy in her daily endeavours, engaging in politics, exercising, writing a joke and the basis of her comedy set-talking to strangers every day. Josie’s performance had a wonderful tentative feel as she read her daily-jokes from thumbed out copy books and shared anecdotes from her conversations with pensioners and frightened boys in year seven. What is wonderful about Josie is that she is audacious enough turn someone like Cecil Rhodes into comedy, but will still read mawkish diary entries to a room full of strangers. While the style of her 100 days set may not have always evoked buoyant belly laughs, there wasn't a person in the audience without a warm, contemplative smile across their face. Personally, I think Josie should be given the Perrier award just for her derisive handling of the world’s first 8 year old heckler in the 100 days audience.

Other members of the 100 days performance collective included Isy Suttie, Sarah Pascoe and one man band with the 8 man sound, The Pictish Trail. Isy, unknown to me before the gig, is better known as my favourite Peep Show character Dobby. Her act involved surreal but still homely comedy, along with some of angst of a woman nearing 30 (i.e. all your friends getting up the spout and moving to bath). Isy use eerie folk music to pace her act and with a bellowing country voice to match Gillian Welch's, her songs about the 'Twattyside Countryside' and 'Lol love' are all the more eloquent. Isy has a wonderful Andric way about her, far from the persona of the World-of-Warcraft loving Dobby. Despite her success, she is undoubtedly the most unassuming comedian in Britain. If I could invite anyone to drink cans of white ace in Dalston Park on a sunny afternoon, it would be her

The evening had an unexpected change of pace with Sara Pascoe's set, centred on her 100 pledge to write a letter to one person every day. Sara has previously been dubbed 'the female Russell Brand without the libido' by the Evening Standard for making light of all the topics we consider 'beyond comedy'. Though erratic and breathless, Sara stormed through the 99 back stories behind her letters. For the first 10 minutes, the audience reaction ran cold unsure how to connect with something so personalised. Thankfully, by the time she had reached her contemptuous letter to Germaine Greer, it was clear she had won us over. Sara has an overbearingly cocky nature which exudes on stage, but allows a window of vulnerability to complete an unexpectedly moving performance.

Sara was followed by the reluctant Johnny Lynch, who performs under the pseudonym of The Pictish Trail. Johnny was instantaneously endearing, slugging about the stage in his joggers with a face like an abandoned Beagle. The poor bastard was suffering from tonsillitis and seemed a little bit begrudged about being pulled away from his X-box to dance for us. But Johnny soldiered on with his bizarre set of 30 second songs, all written for his 100 days pledge (reaching around the 70 mark-hopefully with a doctor’s note in hand). Johnny's performance moved away from the austere acoustic folk set to jocular bedroom tunes, probably composed on Windows 7. These varied from moments of unsettling 90s acid house to simple, resonate two line melodies. Not quite Dylan goes electric, but it was impossible not to fall for his tufty face and dry humour.

A wander round the 100 days exhibit was a crucial part of the night. This assembly allowed a handful of the 900 pledgers to display proof of their commitment. Some had examples of their one-a-day comic strips; haiku's and of course, photographs of cats. Favourites of the night were the 100 Lego sculptures (later shoved into purses and pockets) and the one hundred 100 word stories offered to the audience in scrolls. We finished the night with a conveyer belt of chocolate cake passed from person to person through the makeshift living room.

The whole event had the feel of those tranquil moments you spend sleeping by strangers in a festival Speigaltent. Regardless of everything they achieved in those 100 days, Josie Long and her comedy convoy should credit themselves with making art and comedy more accessible than it has ever been. I have no doubt that we all left that building with ethereal smiles and an urge to slip uplifting Post-it notes into a stranger’s pocket. Maybe by now we are all back to subtly giving each other the finger in tube queues. Still, if Long can manage to unite jaded Londoners, I think should deserves the title of UN Goodwill Ambassador. Pity the job is already taken by Craig David.

"Yeah well, you keep doing stuff, you keep pressuring me for sex, you're not so perfect!"

Even if I were bipolar nymphomaniac with cheeks brimming to the gills with viagra I would never expect the words above. But there you have it, myself and my manfriend have finally had our first definitive Oliver Reed argument. One of those beautiful blazing brannigans, normally sparked by someone cracking their knuckles or 'doing that baby voice again'. The catalyst is usually irrelevant but a hefty portion of spirits are sure to keep it a float. For most men, this is usually one of the Pop-Eye bicep bulging spirits like Grouse, Tequila, Black rum. But my lovely lean man has more in common with a 50 year old woman crying masacra tears onto her pink pant suit than Sir Chuck Norris. His cascade into beligerant bastardville was fuelled by a mouth monsoon of gin. At least thats what I am telling myself. After all, I am a lady, I am infallable.

There we were, skipping down our crisp-bag clad road all ready and heady with love. He grabs me by the hand and makes me sprint towards our house and I follow, tongue wagging like an un-neutered dog. But the meek little lady I am, I stopped to force my red-flushed face against a cold stone wall. Mmmm cold concrete against a hot drunk face, heals all wounds doesn't it? Apparently my idiosyncracies weren't as adorable as I had hoped. Within in minutes of my maudling stalling he'd evolved into a some deranged Hulk-Ramsey hybrid. Using words that would turn the virgin mary spastic I might add!The rest of the evening streched out to infinity with pointless exchanges like,
"Why are you angry?"
"Because you never take responsibility for anything!"
"Responsiblity for what exactly?"
"You're doing it again all high and mighty.........aaaahh grumble grumble rant rant."
But I don't blame him, I don't even blame the gin-scapade. The real enemy here is life's mild inconveniences. For all sad sacks with no real problems, like childhood abandonment or Herpes (so much artistic fuel-lucky fucks) we let mild inconveniences build int a subconcious Vesuvius. Sometimes, we need a little liquor shower to vent the indignation we have about how annoying and inane life can be. So the other night, I was quite happy to be my manfriends vulnrable venoum canvas. I was the sand between his toes, the second story on his house of cards, his puddle drenched shoelace, his pavement dance with a stanger. And even though our pillows have little beige stains were my make up mixed with tears, he is officially forgiven. I understand.
But next time he gets a static shock from his jumper or a vending machine eats his coins, I recommend the following alternatives to berating his loved ones:
-Shove fellow commuters harder than necessary and get a few foot stamps in while your at it.
-Tell small children there is no Santa and/or God.
-Spill drinks on bus seats so people will assume they have sat it piss.

Despite all the above, I firmly believe that forgiveness and revenge are bedfellows so for all that don't know, the pale hoodie-wearing Elephant Man in the photo is my boyfriend.

Enjoy.

'Just been to see Will Self-serving braggart at an Alice in Wonderland reading'

Do not let the title mislead you, I do not intend for my first precocious little blog entry to consist of unnecessary slating of England's near literary-laureate. The title is my own attention grabbing statement, which I published, not within the events page of the Guardian magazine, but as my facebook status. The strange thing is, I have nothing against Will Self and other than his sporadic appearances on question time, I know very little about him. And as every Harry Potter critic will expressly say, I haven't even bothered to read the books. In fact, at the Alice and Wonderland readings at the British Library, his talk was eloquent as well as humble. Not only did he demonstrate a frightening knowledge of the Alice in Wonderland, he managed to hold the attention of the audience through a full analogy of its history. Did you know that Lewis Caroll was a well known paedophile and was likely to have been in love with his protagonist? nor did I, but thanks to Mr.Self I am clued in to all the seedy subtext.

I don't know what possessed me to denounce the bugger, but it made me think. Suddenly, the simplicity of status updates has allowed all social net-workers to evolve into embittered critics and observational comedians. Whenever I approach my computer and contemplate a monthly update (I like to keep them infrequent-for tremulous suspense no doubt), I am wrought with anxiety. Its the same feeling I get whenever someone hands me a going away card at work, how do I sit myself on that precarious line between witty and offensive? When scrolling through my page of close nit friends and vaguely known but partially interesting people, I found the following snippets,

'Gurn with the Wind - a Yorkshire based tragedy whose toothless hero succeeds, against all t'odds, in overcoming his debilitating flatulence, and triumphs at t'world face pulling championships bearing and brings a new twist to the bearing of the Olympic flame'-man I am on fire!LOL

'Good to see the the woman who once described herself as a woman who once described herself as an anarchistic feminist left the BIG BROTHER house because nobody was helping her with dishes. Everybody loves a Germaine Greer''

'I lost faith in humanity the other day when I went into borders and saw Trinny and Susannah's book filed under Health'

'GAMBLERS: For a new gambling opportunity, try sending £50 to yourself by Royal Mail'

I watched a fairly banal news report on channel 4 yesterday discussing the diminishing power of critics in today's media as a result of increasing numbers. Its not just in contemporary media, critics are everywhere, everyday procreating all over facebook through their tiny buttoned blackberry's and ipones. All of us are undergoing a metamorphosis into deadpan 90's comedians, spewing witty observations for momentary social approval. We all have the smarmy gummy grins of the worlds"state the obvious" pioneers-Seinfeld, Dane Cook and Micheal Mcintyre (I regret that last one-the boisterous bastard gets a bad rap).

None of us can sit through an event without twit tweeting or static status updating with some inane comment from our cynical repertoire. What ever happened to subjective reflection. Why can't any of us sit through a gig or some stand up without desperately seeking the opinion of acquaintances? Personal perspective should not need to be constantly verified. As the over-sexed Mr.Miller once said,the' man who looks for security, even in the mind, is like a man who would chop off his limbs in order to have artificial ones which will give him no pain or trouble'. Perhaps not so committed as to lob off our hands, but most of us have adopted the iphone and formed it into a physical appendage. Unlike an arbitrary hand, it finds us when were lost, it solves arguments through wikipedia, summarises the Guardian for out pleasure and even gives us access to the official US sex offenders list to insure grope free holiday.

I was mulling on these very thoughts as I left the British library the other night. But as I dreamed up ways of pitching my hypocrisy on-line, I stumbled across a familiar face. A rotund loner hovering around Christopher Lee in the hopes of an autograph. One of those men you always see squinting over bus stop signs holding a selection of plastic bags. Then I remembered, this was not any loner, he was the infamous man in the background. I had once given a half-hearted chuckle at his fleeting appearances on Russell Howard's Good News which showed clips of him relentlessly sticking his mug into the background of live news reports. He would shuffle back and forth into the shot with his wheelie shopping bag. But this fellow doesn't just give a limp background wave like most of the lackluster general public, oh no, he pursues the camera's for his appearances.

Given his latest endeavours, I assumed, as you would, that he had probably just hopped the fence of the funny farm in search of a JLS autograph. I had to speak to him, so as my boyfriend tried in vain to drag me across the road, I broke away and accosted my background Thespian. Excuse me are you? 'Yes Darling, its me, star of Russell Howard', he said, gesticulating like a hooked fish. I was surprised to see that a man who so clearly resembled Friar tuck could so sound so similar to Mr.Humphries. What I thought would evolve in to a fairly stilted conversation about this mans career transpired to be a strange insight into the life of someone on the periphery. "Oh I know, most people don't want to hear the views of a flabby hermit but I have opinions, and if the only way to have them heard is to follow these news readers around, bugger it, I'll do it my darling!'. As it turns out, this fellow was one of those active humanitarians you so rarely meet, rather than one of those '5 pounds goes out of my bank account every week to Oxfam and I dont know how to cut it' humanitarians. Volunteering at care homes, arranging social events for disadvantaged youths, campaigning against the BNP, charity working to beat the band!

Well didn't I feel like a slave to my social conditioning, yes indeed I did. The camera lurker wasn't in search of fame at all, he just trying to get his views heard, admittedly, by some very questionable means. He may have been quick to point out that I was the 261st person to recognise him but that DOES NOT undermine his cause in my book. I tottered home so in awe of my encounter with Mr.Background I decided to write an article describing our conversation in the hope of hi lighting societal flaws, how we ostracise characters like this man of integrity and instead plaster the opinions of vacant celebrities across our periodicals. How poignant, I thought, to quash the pre-conceived ideas the public had carved around this man on account of Russell Howard.

By the time I had read through the finish product, I realised what I had was not an adorning social analogy but a half-arsed piece of investigative journalism which portrayed Mr.Background as a perverse and deplorable fame seeker who got his jollies to Nick Griffin. What I had, was a well-fed facebook status. People don't change, only their costumes do, and because of my anarchistic streak, my costume is not an iphone, but a motorola BLUR.

God help me.