We’re big fans of London publisher, Fitzcarraldo Editions, and their championing of innovative and enduring fiction, enfolded in elegant Yves Klein Blue covers. Brian by Jeremy Cooper is the third of his works they’ve launched into the world, and a novel of rich interiority. It chronicles several decades of the sedate life of Brian, loner, Camden Council employee, and cinephile. Carrying past trauma and a lifelong sense of being different, in Cooper’s inspired melding of bittersweet fiction and film criticism, Brian is set to find solace and belonging at the British Film Institute on London’s South Bank.
Middle-aged and meticulous, Brian believes he’ll remain ‘bent over his housing department desk’ until the day he retires, his unexciting life revolving around such considerations as what time to take his trousers to the dry cleaners, or the trials of commuting on the Northern Line. Harbouring a sense of semi-invisibility in the world and awkward in company, Brian is ‘barely able to recognise himself unless alone’, and consequently feels safest at home, watching TV with a cup of tea and his favourite biscuits.
This apparently contented solitude is, however, occasionally punctuated by a visit to the cinema, and one fortuitous day, the cinema happens to be the BFI, portal to film heaven and a space for fellow enthusiasts to bond in their own, often idiosyncratic ways. This is where ‘the buffs’ hang out, a type of middle-aged man disconcertingly recognisable to Brian, and an unexpected future source of impassioned debate and companionship.
In quiet acknowledgement of singular souls everywhere, Cooper’s beautifully understated novel follows the evolution of Brian’s relationship with both film and buffs. This begins with his first tentative steps towards the isolated corner of the foyer where the buffs gather in intense discussion, their easy-going welcome a green light to the pleasures of film critiquing with companions similarly driven to distraction by ‘the mid-film munch of a Mars Bar,’ or ‘maddening crinkle-crunch of a packet of crisps’.
In private, Brian fills notebooks with thoughts on the films shown at the BFI; in the company of the buffs, he begins to hold forth on all manner of points. There are strong opinions to be shared on, say, Klaus Kinski’s insane vanity, or Dennis Hopper’s need to be loved. He is moved by Werner Herzog’s blazing integrity, and bemused by the narrative techniques of film sex, deciding to view as much as possible, in order to ‘widen the angle of his film experience.’
But what Brian really really loves, is Japanese post-war cinema, and there is considerable kudos to be gained amongst the buffs for being an expert in this somewhat niche subject. Also, extended discourse on the likes of Yasujirō Ozu handily diverts any questions about his life, and a personal history which Cooper suggests lies in shadow.
Peppered with spectres from his past, the tale of Brian’s late blossoming and self-acceptance is a subtle, empathetic delight, providing a cinematic read of the gentler kind.
Brian by Jeremy Cooper is published by Fitzcarraldo Editions, 184 pages.
