Yesterday, I went alone to see 'I am Love' at our new Phoenix Square digital media centre (or cinema). I thought it was incredible; the filming was fabulous and caught the oppressive, formality of a wealthy Italian family with great authenticity. Much of the first fifteen minutes or so focused on the house, as if the family were just bit players. The stilted mausoleum of the palazzio was contrasted with the sensual fecundity of the garden/farm in the mountains, where the affair happens.
Afterwards the place was buzzing, so I decided to stick around for a bowl of pasta and a glass of wine. The next film started at eight, so I was soon left alone, the sole customer. Around me, a band were setting up for a gig. I thought I'd stay a bit longer and maybe hear some of the music and the musicians themselves seemed worth a bit of scrutiny. There was a tall one with a ponytail. So far so good. But what was this? A boy of about seventeen assembled a drumkit and then two guys who could have been Ph.D students studying physics, set up three AppleMac laptops. It was like Kraftwerk but scruffier: check shirts over t-shirts that had seen better days and chins struggling to establish a healthy beard. I wasn't going to stay and listen to laptops. I paid my bill and left.