No Footprints in the Sand

It's strange how often I discover, by myself, something that inspires me, and, when in my enthusiasm I check on what others have had to say on it, I find that scorn has been poured upon it unmercifully. This phenomenon is so common in my life that it has come to reinforce the – admittedly egotistical – sense I have that I am 'different' to others. I come to trust those upon whom the most scorn is poured, and come to distrust all that represents general opinion.

This is not how I intended to start this post. In fact, I had little idea of what I was going to say. All that I knew was I had seen a documentary called Unknown White Male that had gripped me from the first minute, and had seemed to hold some profound significance for my own life. It was, I thought to myself, one of the rare examples of something that makes having a television worthwhile. In fact, I have not even seen the film from the beginning. I turned on the television somewhere in the middle of the story. I had heard nothing about it previously. It was something quite unexpected and unlooked-for.

The documentary concerns the life of one Doug Bruce, an 'Englishman in New York', who awoke on a New York subway in the year 2003 with no idea who he was. What the film showed was, in the words of its maker, Rupert Murray, the story of a man with the mind of a newborn baby, but the comprehension of an adult. In his mid-thirties, Doug Bruce was experiencing everything for the first time.

Well, let me first deal with the strangely vitriolic criticisms of this film that I have just encountered online in my attempt to find some background detail for the reader of this post.

From the Sunday Telegraph:

"Muddled but absorbing documentary about Rupert Murray, 35, who wandered into a Coney Island clinic unable to remember who he was. His documentary-making friend, Doug Bruce, was conveniently on hand. The film is good on the extent to which memories form our identities. More interesting is trying to work out whether it is all a hoax."

Notice that the first word here is 'muddled' and that this criticism applies to this review itself. The writer, whoever it is, has muddled up Rupert Murray with Doug Bruce. He or she could not even be bothered to check the facts. No one is paying me to write this blog, and I still check the facts. One wonders how much attention this journalist was paying to the film, and how many seconds it took to write this review. Incidentally, I have found that journalists and reviewers get their facts wrong with astonishing frequency. I suspect it's rare for them actually to read or view whatever they are reviewing all the way through.

From the Sunday Express:

"There is little sense of urgency to Doug's re-awakening and, as he is not in a relationship, not much at stake."

I find the lazy arrogance of some people who make a living by dishing out their opinions to be quite breath-taking. Why should there be a sense of urgency? Why is 'being in a relationship' the only thing that can mean there is something at stake in a situation? And, once again, the journalist has his facts wrong. Doug was in a relationship, and this was shown in the film. Did he watch it all the way through? Did he pay attention? It seems doubtful. Yet his dribbled words have been granted the authority of newspaper black-and-white, and no doubt he has been paid handsomely. In this case, I do know the name of the moron in question. It is Henry Fitzherbert.

[Well, I've just had a phonecall and been invited out, and I feel like I need a change of environment, so I shall finish this later. To be continued…]