How David Brent cut me to shreds
Last night I watched David Brent: Life on The Road, for a bit of light distraction and a wind-down.
I ended up weeping uncontrollably. Over and over again, several times.
What is, on the surface, a comedy movie about a deluded, socially-unaware twit painfully failing to become a rock star, is really a much sadder tale of man who feels incredibly alone, doesn't quite know his place in the world, and who, like all of us I guess, desperately wants to be loved.
And it just struck a nerve. Though I am generally a pretty happy chappy, I do from time to time, feel very lonely. As I touched on in my previous blogs, the solitary life of a musician is a big contributing factor to my wanting to change careers, and I make no apologies for that.
But I don't wish to burden you with my woes. I think I'm simply making the point of how wonderful art can be at cutting to our core.
I felt fine. I'd had a good week, a good day and was just chilling out. But that something about that film got me nonetheless. And I'm grateful for it.
The weeping was beautiful, cathartic and therapeutic. Although it was melancholic it wasn't painful. Letting down my armour felt good. And I feel better for it.
I found it interesting, as it reminded me how there is so much of ourselves we perhaps don't understand or don't acknowledge - that can only be touched on by great art (or perhaps a good psychotherapist).
We can be going along quite happily for weeks and months on end, and then something might happen that can unlock all our defences and remind us we're perhaps not quite as strong as we think.
I'd love to hear your thoughts on this readers; if you've had any similar experiences, or can relate in anyway, it would be great to hear from you.
Wishing you all a great weekend.