I hadn’t seen it for years, possibly over 20. Moulin Rouge. Baz Luhrmann’s from 2001.

Spectacular... on many levels.

In the last couple of years I have been yearning to see it again, even though I have the DVD and my laptop is such a 2012 classic (with majorly upgraded innards) that it has DVD capability. As you will know, if you have ever seen it, Moulin Rouge is not a small screen film (even though my laptop is big enough to have a numbers AND letters keyboard side by side, so the screen is pretty generous). But, no, watching it on my laptop was never an option.

I regularly search Netflix in vain (and slowly because of the ridiculous letter selection function) for both Moulin Rouge and The Grand Budapest Hotel. All year round cheesy Christmas films with identical plots, yes. Favourite films, not so much.

But something happened one Thursday night in July, which meant that one Friday I got to see it.

Thursday 4^th July 2024. It was just before 10pm. I was deliberating which news channel to use to watch the general election results. I tend to avoid the news nowadays – too often it is just political commentators speculating and rarely any actual interviews with people doing the newsworthy things. Plus it’s all so fearful and anxiety inducing, and quite frankly, life is too short.

I have been described as an activist in the past, probably because I was one. I used to take an avid interest in politics. I used to watch Question Time every week. I took time to study the Cabinet. I have gone to Westminster to lobby my MP, in person, on more than one occasion. But in recent times, frankly our politicians weren’t listening. For the first time ever, I did not make time to meet my last local MP. I did write emails a couple of times but all I got was crickets… so I quietly detached myself, understanding that no amount of me being agitated would translate into effective action. And as we should all instinctively understand, like a normal person entering a Strongest Man competition and attempting to pick up a car, not being able to change a situation, but persistently trying anyway, is the proven path to a mental health injury.

So I found myself dejectedly trying to choose which channel to watch. I didn’t bother with the BBC – one of their political crew is just known as ‘Smugsberg’ in our house. I had got as far as ITV, only to discover that they had a politician who is currently under investigation (with police, arrests & other drama) and another one who was responsible for very straightened times in this single parent household. The other one was someone who I had had nil respect for when in office but does seem like quite a nice guy, now he’s out of frontline politics.

I didn’t continue searching because the results of The Exit Poll were being announced. That was pretty disheartening, firstly because it said that Reform would get 13 seats, and secondly because the political commentator journalists were very, very excited about that. I had got as far as beginning to consider whether to continue, given that the other major feature of the Exit Poll was a Labour landslide, or just go to bed instead? But I do enjoy election night, dozing on the sofa and people watching. So I was in two minds because there were the political commentators…

Suddenly, there was no decision to make. My freedom of choice was taken away from me

Clearly my elderly Freesat box couldn’t stomach watching it either. It quietly expired. I went to bed.

Friday 5^th July. What a day! What news to wake up to! Landslides, wipeouts and 4 Green MPs!

Although, there were other emotions too. Now the prospect of continued descent into illegal forms of government and law making were lifted, I was experiencing something of a hangover. I hadn’t appreciated the burden of fear I had been carrying around since Johnson, Rees Mogg et al had taken over, or rather whoever it was that was running the project / heist. There was anger too. I had to take myself off and do quite a lot of embodiment practise, to understand what I was experiencing. A LOT of anger and fury, with quite a generous side helping of grief. I think it will take a bit of time to work it out of my system. It is not like flicking a switch.

I was also trying to work out if I could live without TV. We were then currently mid-Tour de France. One of the greatest joys in July and working from home is to be able to invite the countryside of France into my house. Yes, in July, I am generally working from the Alps, or fields of sunflowers, pretty villages or sometimes (although not this year), the streets of Paris. And no, watching on the desktop screen isn’t for me either.

And that, after a short trip across Stroud to Argos, is how I found myself plugging in a brand new Freesat box.

My familiar but geriatric, recently deceased, box had had its functions gradually reduced in recent years, leaving me with TV and access to Netflix and iPlayer. It had never had a particularly busy screen of thumbnails (which suits me nicely anyway – busy home screens are incredibly difficult for me to interact with). The enfant Freesat Box is very busy in the home screen department.

But the first and biggest thumbnail image on iPlayer was, joy of joys, Moulin Rouge.

And what a delicious and perfect way to spend Friday evening, working off a weird political/life existence hangover, than to step into the colourful and full sensory experience world of Baz Luhrmann.

I had forgotten just how delicious it was. The superb use of music. The colours. The transformation of Percy the Park Keeper (back in 2001 his videos were a favourite option in our house). I had also forgotten about Percy the Park Keeper (he's not on Netflix either, I don’t think?!).

I had forgotten about Kylie, the naughty little green absinthe fairy.

I had forgotten just how sad the ending was, how futile those few weeks were.

I had forgotten how Luhrmann portrays these trapped women – and how he celebrates them, their beauty, strength and resilience.

I hadn’t forgotten that ‘Roxanne’ was my favourite part of the film, but I had forgotten just how powerful it was.

I had forgotten the quote:

“The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.”

And now on Sunday morning, I have woken up and (this is the measure of great art for me) there are echoes of it still in my mind, remembering snippets of it, in a delicious haunting. So much so, that I got up and began writing this before breakfast. And outside, because this weekend it is both Wimbledon and Silverstone (and a couple of gliding competitions to boot), the rain is coming down like stair rods - oh to be in England now that summer is there. I may light the fire and watch Moulin Rouge again…

But mostly, I am left with this sentiment, from the ramshackle bunch of bohemian dreamers, the children of the revolution:

“Truth. Beauty. Freedom. But most of all… Love.”

What else is there?