Jonathan Buckley - The Great Concert of the Night

Inevitably, a questioner remarks that the subject of sex is prominent in Vermeiren’s oeuvre; the director is invited to share his thoughts on the subject. Another cigarette is lit at this point; Vermeiren considers the lights in the ceiling. ‘Sex is not that important,’ he pronounces. ‘Sex is of less importance than work,’ he goes on, squinting into the light. Work, productive work, is what makes us human; the separation of sex and work is the basis of civilisation. ‘And I work very hard,’ he says. The cigarette is halted in mid-air, in anticipation of a downbeat. ‘But sex is also of great importance,’ he resumes. Some of the things he says are things that Imogen said to me; the same phrases are used. But he goes further: sanctity and transgression, he maintains, are inseparable. Nobody could deny, he proposes, that the libertine is closer to the saint than is the man who has no desire. His work is ‘profoundly spiritual’, Vermeiren asserts, because ‘the things of the body are the things of the spirit.’ A strong emphasis on sont – as if the syllable were a hammer with which, at a single blow, he shatters the carapace of hypocrisy.

The characters in Le Grand Concert de le Nuit – indeed, in all of Vermeiren’s films – are loquacious, extremely so, a member of the audience observes. ‘They deliver speeches,’ she says, at which Antoine Vermeiren smiles and nods; he encourages her to continue; she is pretty. The question has something to do with rhetoric. The eighteenth century was the golden age of rhetoric, Vermeiren states. That is why he likes that period so much. That is why he loves the music of the eighteenth century. ‘It is reasonable music, but it has passion,’ he says. He suggests that the questioner has identified a paradox that lies at the heart of Le Grand Concert: ‘These people talk about their wildness, but how can wildness have a language?’ He wants it to be understood that Le Grand Concert de le Nuit is not merely set in the Baroque era – it is Baroque in spirit, because Baroque art is concerned with ‘the representation of what cannot be represented’, and is imbued with the ‘melancholy of failure’. There is something of the Baroque in Vermeiren’s answers; the logic is hard to discern, but the performance is enjoyable, like an opera with fine music and an unfathomable libretto.

He must be absolutely clear: he is no apologist for violence. This is something that he deplores in American culture: its appetite for violence without consequence, its use of violence as entertainment. Within a minute he has declared himself to be a vegetarian. This is connected to his ideas on Christianity. Contempt for animals is intrinsic to Christian morality: ‘The beasts are beneath morality, and therefore disgusting,’ he explains. ‘I do not share this disgust,’ he says. ‘Deus est anima brutorum. God is the soul of beasts.’ The cigarette performs an intricate loop.

His next film, he announces, will be based on the life – the outrageous life – of Georges Bataille. A script has been written. He has much to say about Georges Bataille, about the ‘reversal of values’, the ‘profound affinity between erotic pleasure and religious exaltation’, et cetera. The accusations that were made against Vermeiren, a few months later, no doubt played some part in the annulment of that particular project.

Pierre/Vermeiren walks down the main street of Vézelay, so self-consciously that he appears to be suffering the after-effects of cramp; his hands hang like lumps of chicken meat. And the ghastly smile that he does: intended to suggest a deep and dark and illusion-free mind, but more suggestive of toothache. Vermeiren believes, I suspect, that his creativity transcends any considerations of mere technical competence. He can no more act than I can.

Francesca tells me that I should pack a copy of Lucretius for my Roman holiday. I will like him, she promises. How could one not admire a man who, writing in the century that preceded the arrival of Christianity, argued that the gods neither created us nor have any interest in what we’re up to? Why would any deity create a species as vulnerable as humans and then confine them to this inhospitable lump of rock and water? Why bother? Do the gods crave amusement? No – they reside in a place of infinite tranquillity, and have nothing to do with the world in which we live. They do not punish us and they do not reward us. Nature is the ruling force of our world.

As did many of his coevals in the medical profession, Samuel Vickery believed that one could read in the contours of the skull the character of the mind within. The head-bones of criminals were not of the same form as those of the law-abiding, he maintained, and in proof of this theorem he displayed in his consulting room three skulls that he had acquired. They were of Italian origin, and were said to have been removed from the skeletons of a swindler, a violent drunkard and a matricide. All three came into the possession of John Perceval, and are now in room seven. The trio of criminal skulls are placed on a shelf at median adult head-height, so that they may meet the viewer on more or less equal terms.

I showed Imogen the skull of the belligerent drinker; the bumps of the cranium were indicative, supposedly, of a propensity to Combativeness. Having bought this item, John Perceval had shown it to a colleague who, like Samuel Vickery, was an adherent of the pseudoscience of phrenology. The skull, John Perceval explained, was the brain-case of a commedia dell’arte actor from Cremona. From the irregularities of the dome, he proposed, it was clear that this individual had been an exemplar of Wit and Mirthfulness. The colleague, after careful examination of the specimen, concurred with his analysis.

Looking through her reflection at the matricide’s skull, Imogen said: ‘An upholstered skull. That’s what a face is.’ She glanced at me, with a rueful smile. Years later, in her room, she would look at her wasted arm as it lay on the sheet, and say: ‘The bones are just about ready to come out.’

Walking down Union Street I catch sight of Samantha amid the shoppers and strollers, fifty yards off, heading towards me; two seconds later, as if she has sensed that she is under observation, she glances up the road, hitting me immediately, in the instant in which – feigning a sudden distraction – I detach my gaze from her. Having briefly simulated an interest in a display of jackets, I look in her direction, thinking she might have taken the opportunity for evasion. But Samantha would not be party to such pretence; she is approaching; she has prepared herself. So I smile; the smile is intended to let her know that I had seen her immediately, and was simply waiting for her. Her smile tells me that the deception has not been successful.

‘Seen something you like?’ she asks.

I indicate a tweed jacket, the most conservative item on show. ‘What do you think?’

‘A bit too horse and hounds?’ she suggests.

She has a point. ‘How are you?’ I enquire.

Her headmaster has announced that he’ll be leaving in the summer; he’s off to rescue an underachieving school in Liverpool. The topic sustains a one-minute conversation.

‘And what about you?’ Samantha asks.