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Brian
A tender meditation on friendship and the importance of community, Brian is also a tangential work of film criticism, one that is not removed from its subject matter, but rather explores with great feeling how art gives meaning to and enriches our lives. Perennially on the outside, Brian has led a solitary life; he works at his local council, lunches every day at Il Castelletto café and then returns to his small flat in North London. It is an existence carefully crafted to avoid disturbance and yet Brian yearns for more. A visit one day to the British Film Institute brings film into his life, and Brian introduces a new element to his nightly visits to the cinema on London’s South Bank. Through the works of Yasujirō Ozu, Federico Fellini, Agnes Varda, Yilmaz Güney and others, Brian gains access to a rich cultural landscape outside his own experience, but also achieves his first real moments of belonging, accepted by a curious bunch of amateur film buffs, the small informal group of BFI regulars.
184 pages, Paperback
First published May 1, 2023
About the author
Jeremy Cooper
47 books36 followersJeremy Cooper is a writer and art historian, author of six previous novels and several works of non-fiction, including the standard work on nineteenth century furniture, studies of young British artists in the 1990s, and, in 2019, the British Museum's catalogue of artists' postcards. Early on he appeared in the first twenty-four of BBC's Antiques Roadshow and, in 2018, won
the first Fitzcarraldo Editions Novel Prize for Ash before Oak.
the first Fitzcarraldo Editions Novel Prize for Ash before Oak.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 332 reviews
September 11, 2023
I’ll be out here just thinking about Brian from time to time
November 24, 2025
2 stars
Brian is a solitary, deeply introverted man who rents a flat in Kentish Town, London, and works quietly as a council clerk. He structures his days with almost military precision, arranging every detail to ward off stress and keep anxiety at bay. His guiding rule is simple: “Keep watch. Stick to routine. Protect against surprise.” Life for him is measured in small rituals—lunch at the same Italian café each day, a haircut scheduled every six weeks—habits that anchor him in predictability.
While Brian's external life is uneventful, his internal life is supposed to be rich, largely due to his deep engagement with the world of cinema at the British Film Institute (BFI).
This premise sounds compelling to some readers, myself included.
Apparently, the novel sets out to be a meditation on how art can enrich a person’s life, offering both identity and belonging. Brian seems to find a kind of community among the regulars (or “buffs”) at the BFI where he can share his passion for film without the strain of small talk or the burden of social cues.
But then why does “Brian” turn out to be a disappointing experience?
The biggest problem is that, throughout the journey, you feel the author’s dark heavy shadow looming overhead who, unsurprisingly, is an art historian. The result is an indecisive narrative that is neither novel nor essay. Perhaps, like Brian with his passion for Japanese cinema, Cooper hoped to craft a Japanese style narrative, where an intriguing story might emerge from the seemingly dull lives of the characters. Instead, he rambles on about obscure films and flaunts his knowledge of cinema, which can sometimes be frustrating even to the most devoted fans.
At times, it seems he forgets all about his character and instead proclaims: “Look how sophisticated I am! I possess all this erudition. Forget about Brian—after all, his life has nothing interesting to narrate unless I shoehorn my pretentious trivia into his dull existence.” Meanwhile, hapless Brian seems to be standing alone in the corner, scuffing his shoe against the floor, and since he doesn’t even have a phone to scroll through, he has to wait patiently for the pontificating author to end his lecture.
Okay, well done, Mr. Cooper, you’re splendid! You must be so smart to have packed all those showy flourishes into a so-called novel. But you know what? If you had kindly let poor Brian live his miserable life without your constant interference, many more people—and definitely many more film buffs—would have enjoyed your book. But congratulations, you’ve made it abundantly clear that this book is about you, and nothing else.
Brian is a solitary, deeply introverted man who rents a flat in Kentish Town, London, and works quietly as a council clerk. He structures his days with almost military precision, arranging every detail to ward off stress and keep anxiety at bay. His guiding rule is simple: “Keep watch. Stick to routine. Protect against surprise.” Life for him is measured in small rituals—lunch at the same Italian café each day, a haircut scheduled every six weeks—habits that anchor him in predictability.
While Brian's external life is uneventful, his internal life is supposed to be rich, largely due to his deep engagement with the world of cinema at the British Film Institute (BFI).
This premise sounds compelling to some readers, myself included.
Apparently, the novel sets out to be a meditation on how art can enrich a person’s life, offering both identity and belonging. Brian seems to find a kind of community among the regulars (or “buffs”) at the BFI where he can share his passion for film without the strain of small talk or the burden of social cues.
But then why does “Brian” turn out to be a disappointing experience?
The biggest problem is that, throughout the journey, you feel the author’s dark heavy shadow looming overhead who, unsurprisingly, is an art historian. The result is an indecisive narrative that is neither novel nor essay. Perhaps, like Brian with his passion for Japanese cinema, Cooper hoped to craft a Japanese style narrative, where an intriguing story might emerge from the seemingly dull lives of the characters. Instead, he rambles on about obscure films and flaunts his knowledge of cinema, which can sometimes be frustrating even to the most devoted fans.
At times, it seems he forgets all about his character and instead proclaims: “Look how sophisticated I am! I possess all this erudition. Forget about Brian—after all, his life has nothing interesting to narrate unless I shoehorn my pretentious trivia into his dull existence.” Meanwhile, hapless Brian seems to be standing alone in the corner, scuffing his shoe against the floor, and since he doesn’t even have a phone to scroll through, he has to wait patiently for the pontificating author to end his lecture.
Okay, well done, Mr. Cooper, you’re splendid! You must be so smart to have packed all those showy flourishes into a so-called novel. But you know what? If you had kindly let poor Brian live his miserable life without your constant interference, many more people—and definitely many more film buffs—would have enjoyed your book. But congratulations, you’ve made it abundantly clear that this book is about you, and nothing else.
January 6, 2025
I've always had a soft spot for a particular genre of book and that genre is... 'oddball men with poor social skills who fixate on a thing whilst allowing their lives to pass them by.' It's a very specific genre and yet one which, more often than you'd think, comes along quite frequently. And thank goodness because they always speak to me in some way. And so here is another entry, this time about a bloke called Brian.
And I loved it. The writing really appealed to me, was so easy to read, and insightful, and the subject matter was extremely engaging.
The book begins by sparing us the banal details of his youth and early adult life; instead we jump straight into his life when Brian is in his late thirties. Because this is the point in his life when he begins to take an interest in films (especially arty, foreign language films), an interest that will gradually become an obsession. He visits the BFI every day after working another dull day in his office job which only briefly gets fleshed out. He has colleagues but only casually knows (or cares about) them. His family are non-existent; and he has, despite being open to the possibility of either gender, no sex life to speak of. It isn't explicitly declared but there does seem to be a potential for Brian to be autistic (cliched yes, but often accurate). And so he works, reads, travels by bus, eats at the same restaurant, watches the football, and consumes new films each day at the BFI. Understandably, there are other oddballs like him, equally nerdy and obsessive, who also regularly watch films at the BFI, and he comes to know most of them, even regarding them as (albeit distant) friends. Jack (a connoisseur of film scores) in particular becomes a confidante.
Brian develops a specialist interest in Japanese cinema whereby he becomes the groups resident expert. As the book goes along, and Brian ages, into his fifties, sixties, seventies, you're essentially given a catalogue of views and opinions regarding works by all manner of disparate filmmakers (all excellently done). There is something appealing in the way Cooper mirrors Brian's intricate and obsessive knowledge by offering these film (and actor) criticisms throughout the book. In fact, it's hard not to conclude that this is precisely what the book is about -- male isolation and the fetishisation of things. None of the film buffs are women of course. Why would they be? This kind of solipsistic love of stuff seems to be a uniquely male experience. There are subtle hints to this at various points in the book:
It's also hard not to conclude that Cooper is celebrating this male world of fixation, especially if it possesses some degree of artistic merit. I tend to disagree here and consider Brian's love of film as inconsequential as anything else. Brian has wasted his life. But then... who doesn't? Even as he ages and begins to develop physical ailments (including poor eyesight), he takes refuge in his life choices which, from an outsider's perspective, can seem rather trivial. But the best existential novels always leave you wondering why. What was the point? Did any of it matter?
There seems to be a spate of novels these days (presumably due to women's dominance of publishing) that focus on female oddballs. But these books always focus on feelings, attitudes, and mental health. In such times, we are reliably told that men should deal with their mental health more like women, by talking and exploring emotions, and looking inward. But I think this is awful advice. Men need to do things, fix things, obsess over things -- books, football, sex, war, anything. If you know a man who is depressed, don't ask him to talk about it. Ask him to fix the fence in your back garden. Things are important. Things matter. Fences always need fixing. Men understand things.
Brian's life is unquestionably a pointless waste of time. But it's his life to waste (and he does so in an appropriate way to him). And the bottom line is... I like oddballs who waste their lives (without all that mental health narcissism and blubbering).
Brian is more discerning, and definitely worth getting to know.
And I loved it. The writing really appealed to me, was so easy to read, and insightful, and the subject matter was extremely engaging.
The book begins by sparing us the banal details of his youth and early adult life; instead we jump straight into his life when Brian is in his late thirties. Because this is the point in his life when he begins to take an interest in films (especially arty, foreign language films), an interest that will gradually become an obsession. He visits the BFI every day after working another dull day in his office job which only briefly gets fleshed out. He has colleagues but only casually knows (or cares about) them. His family are non-existent; and he has, despite being open to the possibility of either gender, no sex life to speak of. It isn't explicitly declared but there does seem to be a potential for Brian to be autistic (cliched yes, but often accurate). And so he works, reads, travels by bus, eats at the same restaurant, watches the football, and consumes new films each day at the BFI. Understandably, there are other oddballs like him, equally nerdy and obsessive, who also regularly watch films at the BFI, and he comes to know most of them, even regarding them as (albeit distant) friends. Jack (a connoisseur of film scores) in particular becomes a confidante.
Brian develops a specialist interest in Japanese cinema whereby he becomes the groups resident expert. As the book goes along, and Brian ages, into his fifties, sixties, seventies, you're essentially given a catalogue of views and opinions regarding works by all manner of disparate filmmakers (all excellently done). There is something appealing in the way Cooper mirrors Brian's intricate and obsessive knowledge by offering these film (and actor) criticisms throughout the book. In fact, it's hard not to conclude that this is precisely what the book is about -- male isolation and the fetishisation of things. None of the film buffs are women of course. Why would they be? This kind of solipsistic love of stuff seems to be a uniquely male experience. There are subtle hints to this at various points in the book:
"He had joined a book – reading club, mostly of women, jolly, middle-aged, who ridiculed his proposals of novels to read, listened in silence to his halting comments on the book-of-the–month and moved promptly on the topics of their own concerns."
It's also hard not to conclude that Cooper is celebrating this male world of fixation, especially if it possesses some degree of artistic merit. I tend to disagree here and consider Brian's love of film as inconsequential as anything else. Brian has wasted his life. But then... who doesn't? Even as he ages and begins to develop physical ailments (including poor eyesight), he takes refuge in his life choices which, from an outsider's perspective, can seem rather trivial. But the best existential novels always leave you wondering why. What was the point? Did any of it matter?
There seems to be a spate of novels these days (presumably due to women's dominance of publishing) that focus on female oddballs. But these books always focus on feelings, attitudes, and mental health. In such times, we are reliably told that men should deal with their mental health more like women, by talking and exploring emotions, and looking inward. But I think this is awful advice. Men need to do things, fix things, obsess over things -- books, football, sex, war, anything. If you know a man who is depressed, don't ask him to talk about it. Ask him to fix the fence in your back garden. Things are important. Things matter. Fences always need fixing. Men understand things.
Brian's life is unquestionably a pointless waste of time. But it's his life to waste (and he does so in an appropriate way to him). And the bottom line is... I like oddballs who waste their lives (without all that mental health narcissism and blubbering).
Brian is more discerning, and definitely worth getting to know.
May 21, 2023
People like Werner Herzog, whose book Brian was currently reading, published in paperback translation, Conquest of the Useless: Reflections from the Making of Fitzcarraldo. In amazement that Herzog felt such things, for weeks Brian had recited to anyone with the patience to listen:
This is the 60th of the blue-covered fiction titles from Fitzcarraldo Editions, all of which I've read and reviewed, but it sadly confirmed my hypothesis: their taste and mine in Anglophone male writers simply doesn't overlap.
Fitzcarraldo are known for their excellent translated fiction - 3 books out of the 13 on this year's International Booker longlist, and those weren't even their best books of the year. And the Anglophone women writers they've published, or co-published, have been uniformly excellent - Camilla Grudova, Gina Apostol, Vanessa Onwuemezi, Katharina Volckmer, Claire-Louise Bennett, Daisy Hildyard, Kate Briggs and Natasha Soobramanien (with Luke Williams). But, with the very honourable exception of John Keene, novels from Ed Atkins, Joshua Cohen, Patrick Langley, Keith Gessen and Adam Mars-Jones have left me cold.
As have the two previous novels from Jeremy Cooper, Ash Before Oak and Bolt from the Blue, which contained a lot of nature and modern art respectively but which failed, unlike works from authors such as Sara Baume and the hybrid art/novel works that are a trademark of Les Fugitives, to draw this reader in and makes me want to seek out the things referenced. And Brian does the same, or rather fails to do the same, with film.
The novel opens:
Brian became a regular at the BFI in stages. He did everything carefully, testing the water up and down the beach before taking the occasional swim. Prior to this big change in his life, he had gone to the movies casually, half a dozen times a year, maybe more, to the cinema nearest to wherever he was living. Though Brian was keen on film, his nervous concern focused on work, on holding down his job, leaving little energy for anything else, content to spend most evenings in front of the television with a mug of tea and packet of Chocolate Creams, his favourite biscuit. Without knowing quite why, or needing to find out, since missing its release a decade earlier he had always wanted to see Clint Eastwood in The Outlaw Josey Wales, a clip from the trailer fixed in permanent memory, the moment when a bounty hunter tracking Eastwood muttered to his partner: ‘Not a hard man to follow. Leaves bodies everywhere.’ Brian adored this remark, and used to repeat it under his breath at moments of stress during the day, to beneficial effect. He could not now recall where he had heard about a revival screening at the British Film Institute down on the South Bank, just when he had given up hope of ever seeing the movie. Grateful for such a good thing happening to him, by chance, unexpected, unearned, Brian bought himself a ticket.
Brian is a middle-aged man, working in a clerical job at Camden Council, with no real friends or, until he, after exercising his characteristic caution and detailed preparation for trying anything new, he enters into the world of classical world movie, joining an informal crowd of film buffs that watch showings every day at the BFI at the Southbank.
There is an oddly detached tone to the novel which is narrated in the third person, almost like character notes for someone playing Brian in a movie, or the interview notes of a psychologist (although the only time Brian does seek help his GP tells him the NHS no longer funds such things):
All his life, everywhere he went, Brian had shunned attention, the scars unhealed from being singled out at school in Kent as different and blamed for being so, by teachers, by other boys and by his mother. To ease this hurt he had made himself an expert at forgetting, a skill by now matured, able most of the time to erase unwelcome thoughts and happenings. It did mean that he needed to hold himself on constant alert, ready to combat the threat of being taken by surprise, a state-of-being he had managed to achieve without the tension driving him crazy. There had been costs, by now discounted and removed from memory. The increasing curvature of his spine was one, outbreaks of eczema another. Accompanying the physical reactions to Brian's taut self-discipline, the mental and emotional strains were easier, he found, to suppress, to pretend did not exist. All of which helped explain why Brian had adapted unquestioningly to nightly visits to the BFI, by which he was enabled, he felt, to escape his destiny of defeat.
We do gradually get hints of a very troubled childhood which Brian wishes to forget, his estranged father a bigoted unionist and his, now deceased, mother having spent his early years in prison, Brian placed in an orphanage, for facilitating UVF terrorism.
The book is at its strongest in portraying the comeradeship, if not really relationship, Brian enjoys with his fellow buffs, many of them socially unconventional, and indeed Brian looks down on some of them in the same way that Beavis has contempt for Butthead.
But much of the novel is a catalogue of the various movies Brian watches, and the observations of him and his fellow buffs on the films, and on various actors and directors (Brian himself building expertise in post war Japanese cinema). And, as with the two previous Cooper novels I've read, this is done in a way that is rather impenetrable to the reader with less interest in the topic. If the intent of the novel was to portray the rather tedious musings of someone obsessed with a topic and with little empathy for those who aren't (the one time Brian snaps is when he finds himself chatting to a fellow film fan only to find, to his strongly expressed horror, that the 'cheat' has watched the films on a laptop rather than a cinema) then it succeeds, but by definition does so my making for a rather tedious read.
This morning I woke up to terror such as I have never experienced before: I was entirely stripped of feeling. I was completely empty, without pain, without pleasure, without longing, without love, without warmth and friendship, without anger, without hate. Nothing, nothing was there anymore, leaving me like a suit of armour with no knight inside.
This is the 60th of the blue-covered fiction titles from Fitzcarraldo Editions, all of which I've read and reviewed, but it sadly confirmed my hypothesis: their taste and mine in Anglophone male writers simply doesn't overlap.
Fitzcarraldo are known for their excellent translated fiction - 3 books out of the 13 on this year's International Booker longlist, and those weren't even their best books of the year. And the Anglophone women writers they've published, or co-published, have been uniformly excellent - Camilla Grudova, Gina Apostol, Vanessa Onwuemezi, Katharina Volckmer, Claire-Louise Bennett, Daisy Hildyard, Kate Briggs and Natasha Soobramanien (with Luke Williams). But, with the very honourable exception of John Keene, novels from Ed Atkins, Joshua Cohen, Patrick Langley, Keith Gessen and Adam Mars-Jones have left me cold.
As have the two previous novels from Jeremy Cooper, Ash Before Oak and Bolt from the Blue, which contained a lot of nature and modern art respectively but which failed, unlike works from authors such as Sara Baume and the hybrid art/novel works that are a trademark of Les Fugitives, to draw this reader in and makes me want to seek out the things referenced. And Brian does the same, or rather fails to do the same, with film.
The novel opens:
Brian became a regular at the BFI in stages. He did everything carefully, testing the water up and down the beach before taking the occasional swim. Prior to this big change in his life, he had gone to the movies casually, half a dozen times a year, maybe more, to the cinema nearest to wherever he was living. Though Brian was keen on film, his nervous concern focused on work, on holding down his job, leaving little energy for anything else, content to spend most evenings in front of the television with a mug of tea and packet of Chocolate Creams, his favourite biscuit. Without knowing quite why, or needing to find out, since missing its release a decade earlier he had always wanted to see Clint Eastwood in The Outlaw Josey Wales, a clip from the trailer fixed in permanent memory, the moment when a bounty hunter tracking Eastwood muttered to his partner: ‘Not a hard man to follow. Leaves bodies everywhere.’ Brian adored this remark, and used to repeat it under his breath at moments of stress during the day, to beneficial effect. He could not now recall where he had heard about a revival screening at the British Film Institute down on the South Bank, just when he had given up hope of ever seeing the movie. Grateful for such a good thing happening to him, by chance, unexpected, unearned, Brian bought himself a ticket.
Brian is a middle-aged man, working in a clerical job at Camden Council, with no real friends or, until he, after exercising his characteristic caution and detailed preparation for trying anything new, he enters into the world of classical world movie, joining an informal crowd of film buffs that watch showings every day at the BFI at the Southbank.
There is an oddly detached tone to the novel which is narrated in the third person, almost like character notes for someone playing Brian in a movie, or the interview notes of a psychologist (although the only time Brian does seek help his GP tells him the NHS no longer funds such things):
All his life, everywhere he went, Brian had shunned attention, the scars unhealed from being singled out at school in Kent as different and blamed for being so, by teachers, by other boys and by his mother. To ease this hurt he had made himself an expert at forgetting, a skill by now matured, able most of the time to erase unwelcome thoughts and happenings. It did mean that he needed to hold himself on constant alert, ready to combat the threat of being taken by surprise, a state-of-being he had managed to achieve without the tension driving him crazy. There had been costs, by now discounted and removed from memory. The increasing curvature of his spine was one, outbreaks of eczema another. Accompanying the physical reactions to Brian's taut self-discipline, the mental and emotional strains were easier, he found, to suppress, to pretend did not exist. All of which helped explain why Brian had adapted unquestioningly to nightly visits to the BFI, by which he was enabled, he felt, to escape his destiny of defeat.
We do gradually get hints of a very troubled childhood which Brian wishes to forget, his estranged father a bigoted unionist and his, now deceased, mother having spent his early years in prison, Brian placed in an orphanage, for facilitating UVF terrorism.
The book is at its strongest in portraying the comeradeship, if not really relationship, Brian enjoys with his fellow buffs, many of them socially unconventional, and indeed Brian looks down on some of them in the same way that Beavis has contempt for Butthead.
But much of the novel is a catalogue of the various movies Brian watches, and the observations of him and his fellow buffs on the films, and on various actors and directors (Brian himself building expertise in post war Japanese cinema). And, as with the two previous Cooper novels I've read, this is done in a way that is rather impenetrable to the reader with less interest in the topic. If the intent of the novel was to portray the rather tedious musings of someone obsessed with a topic and with little empathy for those who aren't (the one time Brian snaps is when he finds himself chatting to a fellow film fan only to find, to his strongly expressed horror, that the 'cheat' has watched the films on a laptop rather than a cinema) then it succeeds, but by definition does so my making for a rather tedious read.
March 17, 2026
I was scared to read this becuase I loved the blurb so much that I felt there was no way it could live up to my expectations—but it did.
It's very low-key, just like the protagonist. Brian watches films, daily, to "escape from the world and at the same time learn about it" (as Truffaut said). He sticks to routine, obsessively, "coping with the general business of living, and feeling that so many others find life easy, or at least give the impression of doing so."
As the years roll by, and more details emerge, I found myself trying to decide what was simply personality, and what was pathology. Which I guess is a question we can all ask ourselves in the mirror.
The book is a densely-packed 180 pages, with short paragraphs but no chapters or even line breaks, so it can easily be read as one continuous passage. But the amount of film trivia jammed into it (often for entire pages) made me read it in small chunks, before a wonderful concluding 60-page session.
It is also interesting from a writing technique perspective. Cooper ignores the 'show don't tell' advice for the entire novel, recounting all the events without a single instance of live dialogue. And yet, it was still engaging, and I felt I could easily picture myself in the moment with Brian, and live all the episodes with him.
I now have a burning desire to watch more obscure films, an irrational wish to move to London and become a BFI regular, and a more realistic goal of reading Jeremy Cooper's other novels.
It's very low-key, just like the protagonist. Brian watches films, daily, to "escape from the world and at the same time learn about it" (as Truffaut said). He sticks to routine, obsessively, "coping with the general business of living, and feeling that so many others find life easy, or at least give the impression of doing so."
As the years roll by, and more details emerge, I found myself trying to decide what was simply personality, and what was pathology. Which I guess is a question we can all ask ourselves in the mirror.
The book is a densely-packed 180 pages, with short paragraphs but no chapters or even line breaks, so it can easily be read as one continuous passage. But the amount of film trivia jammed into it (often for entire pages) made me read it in small chunks, before a wonderful concluding 60-page session.
It is also interesting from a writing technique perspective. Cooper ignores the 'show don't tell' advice for the entire novel, recounting all the events without a single instance of live dialogue. And yet, it was still engaging, and I felt I could easily picture myself in the moment with Brian, and live all the episodes with him.
I now have a burning desire to watch more obscure films, an irrational wish to move to London and become a BFI regular, and a more realistic goal of reading Jeremy Cooper's other novels.
July 2, 2023
I feel like I should have liked this book more. I feel like I was the target audience for it, but it just didn't work for me.
I studied in London and graduated in 2000 often visiting the BFI, then got a job working at an independent cinema in central London where we showed loads of the films named in this book. I ended up working there for a decade and being the creative manager of that cinema, and in my years there I met and befriended hundreds of film buffs.
But this book just didn't work for me. It felt more like reading a never ending cinema programme than a novel. But there's no explanation about any of the films, just the briefest of nods towards them. So even though I'd seen dozens of the films in the book and could often decipher what the author was alluding to, even that didn't really help. God forbid you've not got an encyclopaedic knowledge of cinema.
The main character was likeable enough, but again you felt like you scratched the surface of him, picking up odd clues between the barrage of film listings.
It felt like a chore to get through, which was a real shame as I was really looking forward to it.
I studied in London and graduated in 2000 often visiting the BFI, then got a job working at an independent cinema in central London where we showed loads of the films named in this book. I ended up working there for a decade and being the creative manager of that cinema, and in my years there I met and befriended hundreds of film buffs.
But this book just didn't work for me. It felt more like reading a never ending cinema programme than a novel. But there's no explanation about any of the films, just the briefest of nods towards them. So even though I'd seen dozens of the films in the book and could often decipher what the author was alluding to, even that didn't really help. God forbid you've not got an encyclopaedic knowledge of cinema.
The main character was likeable enough, but again you felt like you scratched the surface of him, picking up odd clues between the barrage of film listings.
It felt like a chore to get through, which was a real shame as I was really looking forward to it.
July 3, 2023
On paper it sounds like an exaggeration but The Arts really do have a transformative effect on people. Jeremy Cooper’s novel Brian goes into this, the medium, in this case, is cinema.
The titular character is an office worker who lives a cautious existence, until, after a long process of thought, becomes a BFI member. Slowly he starts to become enamoured by cinema and the book documents his progress from the 90’s all the way to the present day.
This type of book can work on many levels: on one it’s a look at how film and the film buff have evolved: from attending cinemas to streaming, plus the availability of global culture became more accessible by the 2010’s and so a wider variety of films were being screened with the technology to clean them up as well.
Brian can also be seen as how art reflects life. Just as Camilla Grudova’s Children of Paradise was a Dario Argento take on a group of cinephiles, Cooper uses a more elegant technique. As Brian loves Japanese films, especially the works of Ozu, the book is a mirror of that genre. Brian (the novel) moves at a leisurely pace taking in all the details from the ordinary to the extraordinary.
Brian’s character is worth noting: he is anti social, loves routine and can only communicate with other film lovers and even then he is very secretive about his life. At one point on the book he manages to find a copy of a rare Japanese film and refuses any type of credit. It could be how film can help, or exacerbate mental health.
Brian is a quiet book and yet there’s something profound in it’s depiction of the main characters life. This is the story of a man who loves cinema and will do anything to escape in the world, which ironically does bear similarities to his own life. Aside from the story there’s a ton of film and historical references so the book is fun trying to pinpoint them. Definitely a book for film buffs. as I’m sure a lot of people can and will relate to Brian.
The titular character is an office worker who lives a cautious existence, until, after a long process of thought, becomes a BFI member. Slowly he starts to become enamoured by cinema and the book documents his progress from the 90’s all the way to the present day.
This type of book can work on many levels: on one it’s a look at how film and the film buff have evolved: from attending cinemas to streaming, plus the availability of global culture became more accessible by the 2010’s and so a wider variety of films were being screened with the technology to clean them up as well.
Brian can also be seen as how art reflects life. Just as Camilla Grudova’s Children of Paradise was a Dario Argento take on a group of cinephiles, Cooper uses a more elegant technique. As Brian loves Japanese films, especially the works of Ozu, the book is a mirror of that genre. Brian (the novel) moves at a leisurely pace taking in all the details from the ordinary to the extraordinary.
Brian’s character is worth noting: he is anti social, loves routine and can only communicate with other film lovers and even then he is very secretive about his life. At one point on the book he manages to find a copy of a rare Japanese film and refuses any type of credit. It could be how film can help, or exacerbate mental health.
Brian is a quiet book and yet there’s something profound in it’s depiction of the main characters life. This is the story of a man who loves cinema and will do anything to escape in the world, which ironically does bear similarities to his own life. Aside from the story there’s a ton of film and historical references so the book is fun trying to pinpoint them. Definitely a book for film buffs. as I’m sure a lot of people can and will relate to Brian.
June 15, 2023
Hard to put into words just how much I loved this story of a solitary Northern Irish man who experiences a sense of belonging for the first time after getting a BFI membership at the age of 39.
I will never again roll my eyes whenever I hear the rustle of a plastic bag in NFT1
I will never again roll my eyes whenever I hear the rustle of a plastic bag in NFT1
October 15, 2023
a beautiful, subtle, tender reflection on art and anxiety, told via our protaganist Brian, who lives a simple life of going to the bfi every day, and whose life is saved by the routine. very lovely.
January 22, 2024
Disappointing. Despite being a film buff myself (and a BFI member to boot) I eventually wearied of being told Brian's (sometimes not very insightful) views on various obscure films.
The prose style was rather bland for my taste. However it gets a bit of a bonus for mentioning places in London I know quite well.
The prose style was rather bland for my taste. However it gets a bit of a bonus for mentioning places in London I know quite well.
December 9, 2023
Exceptional read for me and for any film loving lunatic.
March 22, 2026
This was a recommendation and a good one. Brian is an enjoyable meditation on how art can provide a solitary life with a sense of meaning and belonging.
Jeremy Cooper's slim novel follows Brian from the late 1980s to the recent past. He has no family, no friends and no close relationships. Little happens in terms of dramatic incident.
Thanks to the nightly screenings he attends at the National Film Theatre on London’s South Bank, Brian's inner life is rich and fulfilling. Before long he falls in with an informal group of film buffs who congregate in the lobby after screenings and where he participates in their discussion about the film they have just seen.
It doesn’t sound like much of a novel however I was charmed from start to finish. If you like books about London, films, and film criticism, then you should find much to enjoy here.
4/5
Jeremy Cooper's slim novel follows Brian from the late 1980s to the recent past. He has no family, no friends and no close relationships. Little happens in terms of dramatic incident.
Thanks to the nightly screenings he attends at the National Film Theatre on London’s South Bank, Brian's inner life is rich and fulfilling. Before long he falls in with an informal group of film buffs who congregate in the lobby after screenings and where he participates in their discussion about the film they have just seen.
It doesn’t sound like much of a novel however I was charmed from start to finish. If you like books about London, films, and film criticism, then you should find much to enjoy here.
4/5
March 24, 2025
It is such an original idea that I really enjoyed the first 50 pages. I like film and fiction and combining the two seemed such a wonderful brainwave. Later it became repetitive and eventually boring. If at the start I had a certain sympathy for Brian, I quickly lost it. How can an ordinary man unrelated to the film industry be so observant and retain so many facts and names, was not made credible to me. I ended up thinking when I scanned the last pages that maybe the author likes films and decided to write the book using his own film notes, but who did he imagine would be the reader? Not for me.
February 4, 2024
i thought this was genuinely brilliant -- tender, cautious, fantastically well observed: the literary equivalent of a soothing mug of Horlicks. the interwoven films and accompanying critiques worked wonderfully, both within the context of the book, and as separate works of criticism. it was also refreshing to see a book about self-discovery and growth which didn't conclude that relationships are and must be the solution (turns out you can just got to the cinema loads instead)
October 5, 2025
I rarely cry at a book
June 16, 2025
Brian hit me like few novels do. As someone who lives a quiet, obsessive life with film, I saw something of myself in Brian’s routines, his withdrawn rhythms, his devotion to art as a private and important act. Jeremy Cooper writes with such stillness and grace, giving full weight to the life of someone who doesn’t need the world to see them. There is a wider personal history to Brian, but much of it is left unexplored and unsaid. No melodrama, no catharsis, just quiet persistence. An introverted 'film buff' who finds comfort and solace in daily screenings and light conversations about filmic works.
There is no significant change to Brian’s outer life, but there is a deepening. A quiet shift towards acceptance, and the sense that this way of being is not a compromise, but a complete and considered life.
I found it profoundly moving.
There is no significant change to Brian’s outer life, but there is a deepening. A quiet shift towards acceptance, and the sense that this way of being is not a compromise, but a complete and considered life.
I found it profoundly moving.
January 29, 2024
Brian is an autistic, neurotic Londoner, working at Camden Council, who one day discovers the world of cinema at the BFI (British Film Institute). He becomes a member, starts going to the cinema every evening and joins an informal group of cinephiles, or buffs, as he calls them, participating in post-screening discussions about films.
Jeremy Cooper’s “Brian” is a delightful novel for everyone who loves cinema. It covers 25 years of Brian’s BFI membership and views on a lot of films, mainly Japanese (but not only), as Brian develops expertise in them. I read it with great pleasure and loved Cooper’s descriptions of Brian’s conviviality with other buffs as well as the joy found in his routines. “Nobody asked him his name or anything about his job, the conversation exclusively about film, to Brian’s relief. As none of them appeared to address anybody by name there was no false familiarity, no banality, no banter, no point-scoring, and in those early days Brian felt received with greater warmth by almost all of the shifting band of regulars at the BFI than he had ever experienced anywhere else in his entire life.”
With time, Brian develops friendship with Jack and learns about himself “(…) that being a buff was the consummation of self, that at work or on the tube and in those dreadful sessions in the pub he was not himself at all, was no-one, nothing, in fact, at it was only in the cinema that he became a person.”
Brian’s passion for cinema, the way he deals with his health-related predicaments after his retirement, his responses to unexpected changes and immense pleasure found in analysing the most minute connections between certain films as well as comfort he finds in making lists and categorising and archiving film ephemera, made me relate to this character more than to any other I have encountered in literature (with the exception of Aaliyah from Alameddine’s “An Unnecessary Woman). “The sense of security experienced on noting the titles and times of a whole month’s movie bookings in his diary was immeasurable. It had never occurred to Brian that he might one day feel such contentment.” - it was as if I was reading about myself. A subtle, gorgeous novel.
Jeremy Cooper’s “Brian” is a delightful novel for everyone who loves cinema. It covers 25 years of Brian’s BFI membership and views on a lot of films, mainly Japanese (but not only), as Brian develops expertise in them. I read it with great pleasure and loved Cooper’s descriptions of Brian’s conviviality with other buffs as well as the joy found in his routines. “Nobody asked him his name or anything about his job, the conversation exclusively about film, to Brian’s relief. As none of them appeared to address anybody by name there was no false familiarity, no banality, no banter, no point-scoring, and in those early days Brian felt received with greater warmth by almost all of the shifting band of regulars at the BFI than he had ever experienced anywhere else in his entire life.”
With time, Brian develops friendship with Jack and learns about himself “(…) that being a buff was the consummation of self, that at work or on the tube and in those dreadful sessions in the pub he was not himself at all, was no-one, nothing, in fact, at it was only in the cinema that he became a person.”
Brian’s passion for cinema, the way he deals with his health-related predicaments after his retirement, his responses to unexpected changes and immense pleasure found in analysing the most minute connections between certain films as well as comfort he finds in making lists and categorising and archiving film ephemera, made me relate to this character more than to any other I have encountered in literature (with the exception of Aaliyah from Alameddine’s “An Unnecessary Woman). “The sense of security experienced on noting the titles and times of a whole month’s movie bookings in his diary was immeasurable. It had never occurred to Brian that he might one day feel such contentment.” - it was as if I was reading about myself. A subtle, gorgeous novel.
December 11, 2024
It gives me no pleasure to report that this didn't really work for me at all, & it's been a good while since the disconnect between my anticipation & reaction to a book has diverged quite so drastically.
The life of a cinephile—which entails intentionally anti-social behavior of long solitary stretches of observation sitting in front of a screen—is an admittedly tricky one to capture through words in a compelling way, & unfortunately I never thought Cooper discovered a way to actually accomplish this. I had initially assumed that the certain... wanness of the prose was intended to evoke the drab daily life of the mild-mannered, attention-dodging titular character. But that proves to be the invariable narrative mode as we follow Brian through literally decades of his life; he remains a perplexingly flat character to the very last page, forever kept at a slight distance from us the reader.
I could have understood (actually, quite liked!) this narrative strategy if it was contrasted to the vividness of the film experiences we're told Brian undergoes, but I also found that surprisingly anemic too. We're constantly told how Brian has become an expert on Japanese cinema & about the films that move him, but this feels more like facts conveyed than intensely visceral experiences, which is my own experience of cinephilia, & itself has included a stretch based at the BFI Southbank.
Other reviews make it clear others connected to this & describe the kind of readerly connection I was hoping to experience myself, but alas that just didn't pan out. My search for the great novel on the cinephile life continues.
"He stopped suddenly and looked up. Not at anything at the café, at something which had appeared in his head, the realization that Truffaut's remembered remark applied to him too, that his contradictory purpose in watching film was to escape from the world and at the same time learn about it."
The life of a cinephile—which entails intentionally anti-social behavior of long solitary stretches of observation sitting in front of a screen—is an admittedly tricky one to capture through words in a compelling way, & unfortunately I never thought Cooper discovered a way to actually accomplish this. I had initially assumed that the certain... wanness of the prose was intended to evoke the drab daily life of the mild-mannered, attention-dodging titular character. But that proves to be the invariable narrative mode as we follow Brian through literally decades of his life; he remains a perplexingly flat character to the very last page, forever kept at a slight distance from us the reader.
I could have understood (actually, quite liked!) this narrative strategy if it was contrasted to the vividness of the film experiences we're told Brian undergoes, but I also found that surprisingly anemic too. We're constantly told how Brian has become an expert on Japanese cinema & about the films that move him, but this feels more like facts conveyed than intensely visceral experiences, which is my own experience of cinephilia, & itself has included a stretch based at the BFI Southbank.
Other reviews make it clear others connected to this & describe the kind of readerly connection I was hoping to experience myself, but alas that just didn't pan out. My search for the great novel on the cinephile life continues.
"He stopped suddenly and looked up. Not at anything at the café, at something which had appeared in his head, the realization that Truffaut's remembered remark applied to him too, that his contradictory purpose in watching film was to escape from the world and at the same time learn about it."
March 1, 2024
Brian's story begins as he approaches middle age, in the late 1980s. He has lived in a hostel near St Pancras until he was too old, and finds a bedsit above an Indian restaurant on Kentish Town Road.
He is a self-confessed expert at 'forgetting’, who is able 'most of the time to erase unwelcome thoughts and happenings’ from his mind. He has developed a coping mechanism, or a resilience, for a solitary existence that may in others result in depression. He avoids social interaction, previous experience has been cruel to him, but not long after moving into his flat, decides on a trip out, to watch a film at the British Film Institute.
The story then occurs over the next few years during which cinema plays a key role in Brian’s life. He also plucks up the confidence to eat at the local Italian cafe, where he finds one its staff, is something of a kindred spirit. After a few months, Brian is attending the BFI monthly, then weekly. He develops a love and knowledge for the history of cinema.
Much of the novel is given over to Brian’s thoughts on the films he sees, in many ways the story becomes a homage to cinema. Brian himself though remains unchanged, an introvert, but with a couple of friends he meets at the cinema who are similar to him.
I didn’t find it a particularly easy read, though did appreciate the message of how an interest can transform a person’s life.
He is a self-confessed expert at 'forgetting’, who is able 'most of the time to erase unwelcome thoughts and happenings’ from his mind. He has developed a coping mechanism, or a resilience, for a solitary existence that may in others result in depression. He avoids social interaction, previous experience has been cruel to him, but not long after moving into his flat, decides on a trip out, to watch a film at the British Film Institute.
The story then occurs over the next few years during which cinema plays a key role in Brian’s life. He also plucks up the confidence to eat at the local Italian cafe, where he finds one its staff, is something of a kindred spirit. After a few months, Brian is attending the BFI monthly, then weekly. He develops a love and knowledge for the history of cinema.
Much of the novel is given over to Brian’s thoughts on the films he sees, in many ways the story becomes a homage to cinema. Brian himself though remains unchanged, an introvert, but with a couple of friends he meets at the cinema who are similar to him.
I didn’t find it a particularly easy read, though did appreciate the message of how an interest can transform a person’s life.
February 10, 2026
2.5 stars
Whilst some of the film references & insights were interesting they aren’t revelatory, as though a semi interested film buff has put together some average archival research of film reviews.
And I felt dubious trusting them as there’s a reference early in the book to “Corio, Geelong, South Australia” whereas Corio (a suburb of Geelong) is in Victoria, Australia. Loose research which made me feel as though I could not trust anything blurred out as “fact”.
As a film buff, who watches 100s of films per year, and having seen most of the films referenced in this book I found it a little flat, not delving too far into Brian’s phobias meant I had little sympathy for the main protagonist.
Is it because of the sheer volume of titles now or are there disappointing titles creeping onto the Fitzcarraldo list?
Passable, easy read but forgettable.
Whilst some of the film references & insights were interesting they aren’t revelatory, as though a semi interested film buff has put together some average archival research of film reviews.
And I felt dubious trusting them as there’s a reference early in the book to “Corio, Geelong, South Australia” whereas Corio (a suburb of Geelong) is in Victoria, Australia. Loose research which made me feel as though I could not trust anything blurred out as “fact”.
As a film buff, who watches 100s of films per year, and having seen most of the films referenced in this book I found it a little flat, not delving too far into Brian’s phobias meant I had little sympathy for the main protagonist.
Is it because of the sheer volume of titles now or are there disappointing titles creeping onto the Fitzcarraldo list?
Passable, easy read but forgettable.
March 8, 2025
Absolutely wonderful. A book to be savoured in its entirety. The character of Brian was so relatable, so awkward, so unaware but yet so very touching; I found multiple elements of myself in him. Never feeling he fitted in anywhere until he discovered the magic of film, which took over his life in the very best possible way. Quietly nostalgic and intensely poignant. Just really lovely, gentle story. I now have to go back and add the films he saw to my watchlist.
July 10, 2026
brian would’ve gone crazy on letterboxd
September 14, 2024
A beautifully written and paced book about a small life gradually warming and filling in ways the protagonist timidly explores embracing film watching and in eventual tentative companionship with the group of other regular "buffs" at the BFI, men who are - it's implied - in similar restrained isolation. The novel reminds me a little bit of the characters in stories like "Turtle Diary" And by the way, the author, and through the growing mind of the character, shows a detailed knowledge of the history of cinema and how movies work or should be seen that is encyclopedic, all in under 200 pages. It's through the recounting of all those films and their background that the bare plot and character sensibility move forward. Humane.
April 18, 2024
Brian has suffered mostly untold trauma in his young life. His days are solitary, lived within rituals which offer small comfort. Sudden unwelcome events disturb the placidity of his everyday existence. One could say that he is hiding from life. Then things begin to change, very, very slowly. Brian becomes a connoisseur of movies. He begins to interact with a group of fellow film buffs. Like a chrysalis he gradually emerges from his small living space.
As a fellow film buff, I understand Brian's attraction to the darkness and the big screen.
As a fellow film buff, I understand Brian's attraction to the darkness and the big screen.
May 30, 2025
A novella about movies. Kind of a sneaky thing, really, because there isn’t much in the way of a story, it’s mostly just Brian going to the movies and then inserting his commentary on them into the narrative. More here. I’ll be returning to this book from time to time when I’m at a loss for something interesting to watch. It’s neither a great novel nor great film criticism, but it’s more than the sum of its parts and ends up being a good book. Strange.
May 18, 2026
Pleasant bus read, covers slightly too long a time period to be totally effective
January 2, 2026
A lovely final read of 2025 - possibly the best book blurb I have ever read and the novel really lived up to it
July 6, 2026
Funny and moving, inspired me to finally watch Fitzcarraldo. Loved!
January 6, 2026
a lovely read! i did zone out for a lot of the film descriptions though…
it felt comforting in some sense that the protagonist was northern irish and that he lived in kentish town. his inner turmoil with his identity was interesting to read!
it felt comforting in some sense that the protagonist was northern irish and that he lived in kentish town. his inner turmoil with his identity was interesting to read!
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