Spoiler alert: this post will reveal plot points in In Bruges, so if you haven't seen it (and if not, why not?!) be warned.
There is something odd about Bruges. You step off the
bus and before your foot hits Belgian turf it has shoved a chloroform rag over
your mouth and wiped all memories of the outside world.
The place is beautiful, serene and incredibly neatly turned-out, and while she
greets you warmly, openly and friendlily out of the corner of your eye you see
her skilfully shoving reality under the rug with dainty be-clogged feet.
There’s a line in my favourite film, In Bruges, where Ken, played by Brendan Gleeson, bitterly describes
Bruges to his boss, Harry Waters (Ralph Fiennes). “It’s like a fucking
fairytale or something,” he shouts down the phone. Harry sends Ken and Ray
(Colin Farrell) to Bruges to “hide out” after Ray’s first hit goes wrong, and
Ken feels at peace walking among all the old buildings and that. He later finds
out they are not in Bruges simply to hide out, rather Ken is in Bruges, on a
job, on a job in Bruges. Ken feels
tricked by Harry, but also by Bruges itself for being too good to be true, and
resolves to disobey orders even if that may have fatal consequences.
The four days I spent
in Bruges were fantastic. When Filmsoc decided to organise a trip to Bruges, I
didn’t even have to consider it for a moment. A flimsy reason it may be, but my
love for In Bruges is such that I
couldn’t say no. Imagine being invited to visit, say, Minas Tirith from Lord of the Rings, or the Death Star. A
perfect balance was struck between culture and fun, which involved canal trips
and the like in the day followed by getting incredibly wasted and staying out
with great friends until 4am two nights out of three (the first night ended at
a feeble 2am). The magic of Bruges even took effect on my hangover, or lack thereof,
resulting in a far more comfortable coach journey home than anticipated.
Our trip was at an
unfashionable time of year, in a town not renowned for a thriving nightlife, on
Sunday, Monday and Tuesday, so perhaps it was understandable that there were
few people around beyond 12am, but this resulted in the weird feeling that we
had the run of the entire town. Now, alcohol-induced haze may have something to
do with this, but I barely remember encountering a soul while wandering around with
my mates. Consequently, it felt like the bars were there for us specifically,
the locals mere further embellishments of the pretence of realism. There were
some other decidedly surreal moments in our stay, too. We ended up in some
backstreets, and while the main areas were thronging with people these streets
were deserted; how strange then to come upon a huge cathedral, which, as we
were walking past, began to emanate with song. We entered to find a
twenty-strong youth choir performing enthusiastically to an audience of…two. As
with the deserted late-night streets, it was like the town was putting on a
show, literally and figuratively, just for us.
Elsewhere, shortly after arrival we were stood on a corner
getting our bearings, a few of us slightly in the road. Horses and carriages
are two-a-penny in Bruges, but this one, possibly the very first one we saw,
was different. The driver, a woman, was forced to depart from her course by a
few inches so as not to run us oblivious tourists over, resulting her in saying
the most impressively and staggeringly sarcastic thing I've ever hear anyone
say. ‘Keep standing there, well done!’ she beamed at us, ‘no need to move!’ Her
sarcasm was so deep and flawless that it took me a moment to even realise she
was being sarcastic. It was an odd moment in an otherwise completely smooth
stay that in hindsight feels like a crack in the surface.
The last moment I want to recount is when we went up the
famous belfry in the last few hours of our stay. At this point the illusion was
still in place: I was convinced that Bruges was living in a postcard, or a film
set, or a fairytale. The place is a photographer’s dream, point your camera
anywhere are you’ll get a good snap, 100% guaranteed. Up the really windy
spiral staircase I went, singing Raglan Road as I did so, and emerged at the
top. Nearby, a man proposed to his girlfriend. She said yes. I looked over the main
square, and it was lovely. I pretended to shoot someone down below, my fingers
in the shape of a gun, as does Ken in the film. Then I looked up slightly,
beyond the dusty orange rooftops and church spires. And I saw industry. I saw
factories. I saw smoke. I saw the outside world, and felt like I had been
duped. There is an element of exaggeration in this piece, but duped really is
how I felt. It took a while to put my finger on it because when you’re in
Bruges you don’t realise that you’ve fallen for its bewitching charm, but the
power of hindsight indicates this is the case.
This is one of the things Martin McDonagh is getting at in In Bruges. Until this week, I had
forgotten about something he once said about his first visit to Bruges, that it
is perfectly wonderful but also the kind of place that would drive a man mad.
Bruges is somewhere between heaven and hell: the film presents it as purgatory –
it is where Ken, Ray and Harry go to be judged. I’m not so sure. Like the
endless chocolate that fills endless chocolate shops, Bruges is fantastic in
reasonable amounts. Not enough of Bruges and places like it and life would be
too dull, too much and you’ll get fat and die of a heart-attack while
navigating a windy staircase.
Spotters Guide: I slipped in In Bruges references liberally throughout this blog, ten points to Gryffindor
if you spot them all.
