The Blue Danube

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink. No; I jest ~ that would be eminently impractical and wet, seeing as ours is currently blocked. I write this sitting in my North London flat. My flatmate is working in the kitchen. The sounds of his 100 Wartime Memories album float through the divide and I note with slight amusement that I know all of the words to these songs and yet remain wholly ignorant to the current top ten. (Steps aren’t cool anymore, are they? Do people still say cool?) (Is the top ten still a thing?)

How odd it is to be twenty-eight and have a frame of reference at least seventy years out of date. I often find myself feeling a sub-intellectual dolt when topics of current affairs arise, but I can chat for hours on Hitchcock’s use of mise-en-scène or Hepburn and Tracy’s love affair. (Note – if you haven’t read Katherine Hepburn’s Me, do so. Her frank revelations of their relationship are beautiful).

I was on a date about a year ago, a twenty-something London tradition I do not look upon with great fervour. Unless sparks fly, it becomes a formulaic box to tick off – ‘at least I’ve tried, nobody can say I haven’t’ – with too much talk of siblings and television and not enough connection. This chap however, was fairly pleasant and the evening didn’t involve as much clock watching as per usual. (This sounds bloody awful, but I’m not a hideous date. I don’t sit there tapping my foot, or anything. And I always offer to split the bill). It culminated in a walk along the Southbank, an area of London I actually adore.

The night before, I’d watched Goodbye Mr. Chips for the fiftieth time. The 1939 version that is; don’t get me started on Peter O’Toole (God rest his soul) and as for the Martin Clunes version… no, this is the solid gold Robert Donat and Greer Garson original, based on the book by James Hilton. Hilton writes beautifully and optimistically; his Random Harvest is wonderful (I will talk of the touchingly romantic film version another time) and he won an Oscar for his Mrs Miniver screenplay ~ clearly he and Greer Garson made a wartime Dream Team).

Donat’s Mr Chipping and Garson’s Kathy only share a relatively small amount of screen time. They meet and fall in love whilst on a mountain – he: shy, reticent and courteous, her: vibrant, chatty and personable.They continually bump into each other around Europe whilst both on biking holidays – “We always seem to meet in a mist!” – until the inevitable happens and they marry. Unfortunately (SPOILER) Kathy and their child both die a year later… but we shan’t think of that just now.

Whilst bound for Vienna on a boat, both Chipping and Kathy both comment on the brilliant blue of the river. Their companions point out wryly – “The Danube is only blue to the eyes of people in love.” Strauss plays on and a beautiful romance is born.

Anyhoo, I’ve digressed. There I was, with this perfectly lovely man, walking along the river in London. We stopped and consider the river in silence and he steals a look at me. I think this is the bit where a kiss happens, or something. Oh dear. I glance at the Thames and it is dull, grey and milky. I understand there is no Strauss legend connected to it, but surely this indicative of something? Wouldn’t it at least be all shiny if I were meant to be with this nice man? I laugh awkwardly, slip away and say I have to be in an early meeting. I don’t have meetings. I run off and don’t call him again.

My point is, have old films and their idea of romance tainted my view of modern relationships? Is it possible that there is no ‘Here’s looking at you, kid’ no ‘You want the moon, Mary?’ no Blue Danube? Did I let go of a thoroughly decent bloke because of Robert Donat?

Probably, yes. But I’m quite happy with my incurable romanticism. Life would be a little duller if it weren’t in black and white.