Anyone familiar with the film Get Carter will remember the iconic car park scene in which Jack, played by Michael Caine hunts down and eventually kills the Geordie gangster Cliff Brumby by tipping him over the edge of the multi-story building. It came as sad news to fans of the film to hear that the bulldozers have been fired up and the wrecking ball is headed for the Trinity Centre Car Park in Gateshead, where the scene was filmed. It stood for over 40 years as a gloomy monument to Brutalist architecture, equally loved and derided by locals, as well as something of a Mecca to the bizarre cult of the film fanatic who made annual pilgrimages to relive the grittiness of the original film. As the credits roll for the ‘Get Carter Car Park’, it made me question and re-evaluate my thoughts on London’s best known, but perhaps least loved, example of gritty Brutalist architecture – The Barbican Estate.
Like the Great Fire of London in 1666 provided an architectural blank canvas on which the Baroque movement flourished, post-blitz London needed to rebuild with direction and relevance in what was to become a very different world from what we knew. That vision was the utopian dream of a new architectural movement named ‘Brutalism’. Getting its name from the French architect Le Corbusier’s term ‘beton brut’ translating literally as raw concrete, the style would focus on a building's function rather than what were seen as the ostentatious and unnecessary design features of pre-war movements.
Pioneered by husband and wife design team Alison and Peter Smithson, this new anti-aesthetic philosophy would also change the social fabric of Britain - entire communities would live together in huge concrete blocks designed in the Brutalist style, with shops and amenities built into its internal streets. New housing developments would rise high above the ground with entire streets stacked one on top of the other – a truly revolutionary idea to a working class community used to living in Victorian terraces.
What the architects failed to see however (or chose to ignore) is the grey concrete of Brutalist buildings doesn’t lend itself at all well to our damp grey climate. While Le Corbusier, the Godfather of Brutalism, was creating bright stimulating structures in the charitable climate of the south of France, in the UK the inner-city social decay of the 1970s had started to set in. The country was in disarray, struggling to cope with public spending cuts – in a country that couldn’t afford to keep the lights on tasks like maintenance of housing estates were way down the bottom of the priorities list, leaving many in a state of neglect. This, coupled with a rise in anti social crime, meant inner-city estates and tower blocks, and therefore brutalism, had started to become synonymous with urban decay.
Stanley Kubrick’s 1971 film ‘A Clockwork Orange’ famously used the Thamesmead Estate in South London to characterise the dystopian run-down society of Anthony Burgess’ original novel - a telling forecast of what Brutalist housing estates would come to symbolise in future years.
"What the architects failed to see however (or chose to ignore) is the grey concrete of Brutalist buildings doesn’t lend itself at all well to our damp grey climate."
The Barbican estate built within a badly bombed area of the City of London. A stones-throw from St Pauls, it comprised originally of three tall residential towers and a collection of terraced housing blocks complete with gardens and a lake. In 1982 Europe’s largest performing arts development ‘The Barbican Centre’ was added to the complex, designed by Brutalist architects Chamberlain, Powell and Bon. Entering the estate induces a strange sensual feeling that I can only describe as travelling backwards and forwards in time simultaneously.
On the one hand the tough unforgiving concrete is unmistakably sixties, but instead of feeling like you’re walking around something out-dated or redundant, there is an atmosphere of hope - to explore the grounds is to gain an insight into what all of London may today have looked like had the pioneers of Brutalism realised their utopian dream – similar to watching an old episode of ‘Tomorrows World’. The bleak concrete, sinister looking car parks and imposing tower blocks immediately take me back to the futuristic street crime movies of the eighties – the Robocops and the Terminators. As a child of that decade I feel an excited nostalgia towards it all, but removing my rose tinted glasses for a second it’s easy to see how the combination of bleak potentially uninviting buildings and a community riddled with crime would make for a daunting place for anyone to have to live in.
Within the relatively safe streets of London’s financial district though, and with a vibrant hub of high culture within its grounds, social decay isn’t something the Barbican Complex has had to deal with, therefore it can stand as a working monument to the positive ethics of Brutalism. It’s an exciting thought that this was once the prototype for the future of urban architecture.
Those who voted the Barbican Centre itself as ‘London’s Ugliest Building’ in a recent poll have obviously never ventured inside, for the interior is simply sublime. Wide open walkways, exposed staircases and balconies overlooking each floor, all characteristics typical of the Brutalist idea of displaying a buildings function and workings in the same way a watch will be designed to show its movements. Everything is in the brutalist tradition of stark democratic concrete, which works so much better inside where it can be animated with coloured lights and protected from the elements. Despite its skeletal appearance, the general feeling is an air of relaxation and cosiness – it is a different kind of openness than that of say, the vast emptiness of the Tate Modern’s Turbine Hall.
The first floor walkway overlooks a set of comfortable leather seats on the lower ground floor, with people reading under soft lighting and a warm orange colour scheme. The main entrance hall eventually leads out into a stunning courtyard. People play table tennis in the communal grounds, fountains flow and the benches are occupied by people chatting idly over lunch or reading newspapers, all the while surrounded by multi-storied terrace housing. To the right, the tower blocks pierce the skyline, the balconies jutting out with beautiful metronomic precision. This small peaceful square seems to realize the Smithson’s utopian dream. While it doesn’t give a true representation of what Brutalism came to mean for the general public it’s a nice thought nonetheless.
Though dated and unfashionable by today’s standards, The Barbican Centre does not deserve the title of London’s ugliest building, and the scorn that has become associated with the appearance of the Barbican Complex itself seems to me to be undeserved. Just as conceptual art may not always seem as easy on the eye as a renaissance masterpiece, is it fair that we judge them both purely on aesthetics? Surely the point of conceptual art, whether painting, sculpture or architecture is we appreciate the idea behind what we see. While Brutalism may have failed nationwide in its experiment to bring societies closer together, The Barbican Complex stands proud as a working monument to the ethics of the style.
Thankfully (or regrettably depending on your viewpoint) Brutalism has had something of a renaissance in recent years, in London especially. The Brunswick Centre in Bloomsbury, a former council estate which felt the full vitriol of the modernist backlash, is now a fashionable shopping centre complete with upmarket boutiques and an independent cinema. The Barbican Centre is now a grade II listed building and a recent one-off tour by London’s Open City Architectural Society around Erno Goldfinger’s Brutalist ‘Trelick Tower’ in Chelsea was fully booked within minutes. Let’s hope this renewed interest leads to Brutalism, and in particular The Barbican Complex, getting the credibility it deserves.
Click here for more stories about Life
Click here to follow Sabotage Times on Twitter
Click here to follow Sabotage Times on Facebook