Brian is a profoundly moving meditation on the meaning of a solitary life, on the role of art and cinema in shaping our perception of and connection to the world, on the hidden depths of the human soul often concealed for fear of misunderstanding and stigma, and on the importance of companionship and community.
This is a subtle novel of remarkable depth, centred on the richness of an interior life nourished by art. Jeremy Cooper thoughtfully and empathetically chronicles the life of a gentle soul over the course of three decades, beginning in the early 1990s and continuing to the present day. Historical events, such as the 2005 London bombings and the technological revolution brought about by smartphones, quietly unfold in the background of Brian’s life. The novel is also, in many ways, an ode to London. its neighbourhoods, its topography, and the rich cultural landscape the city has to offer. Cinema lovers, in particular, will appreciate the wealth of film references woven throughout the narrative.
Brian is a Northern Irish man in his late thirties when we first meet him. During the early years of his working life, he genuinely tried to socialise, but he struggled with the unwritten rules of small talk and social interaction. He never quite knew what to say. He works in a clerical role at Camden Housing Department, having previously been employed as a clerk at a builders’ merchant in Clapham, South London.
Every weekday, Brian has lunch at precisely 2:15 p.m. at Il Castelletto, a café just off Camden High Street, where people like him feel safe, accepted, and quietly welcomed. For many of the café’s regulars, it is not simply somewhere to eat—it is a refuge and often their most meaningful human contact of the day.
“Within a group of people, he felt pushed to the periphery (…). 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. In another attempt at company, he took up football (…). This was a failure too, leaving him post-match on Saturday evenings with an even greater sense of isolation. (…) He longed to be included, and dreaded it, equally. During these interim years he had had various jobs and an assortment of rented rooms. His first place in London was the one he had liked best, the dormitory in the St Pancras hostel where he had stayed for years, until Mr Trevor felt obliged to turn him out for being far beyond the age limit. He had eventually ended up alone in his present small, rented flat above the Taj Mahal on Kentish Town.”
At work, Brian keeps to himself and forms no close friendships with his colleagues. He copes with the discomfort of superficial social interaction by making himself as inconspicuous as possible. Instead, he finds reassurance in checking files, refining systems, and perfecting order. Solitude is not simply his preference; it is where he feels safest.
Brian is particularly vulnerable to even minor disruptions to his carefully constructed routines. He struggles with unexpected change, avoids attention whenever possible, and finds comfort in repetition. In his private life he is meticulously organised and deeply self-critical. Above all, Brian avoids revealing anything personal about himself.
“In his daily life Brian was endlessly anxious, often about the same repeated, insignificant and ridiculous things (…) Brian physically anticipated in advance the trajectories of each day (…). He was afraid of saying the wrong thing… Brian kept his possessions to a minimum, nothing left lying around, everything put safely back in its appointed place on completion of use.”
As an antidote to his self-imposed solitude, Brian becomes a member of the British Film Institute (BFI). Cinema makes him feel less alone. Anonymity is an essential part of its appeal: fellow filmgoers never ask about his job or his private life. Instead, they simply discuss the film they have just seen. There is, as Cooper writes, “no false familiarity, no banality, no banter.”
During his early years at the BFI, Brian experiences a sense of acceptance unlike anything he has previously known. It gradually becomes his second home. In the darkness of the cinema, he can disappear into the audience while simultaneously feeling that he belongs.
“In the cinema he disappeared as a person and was accepted as a member of the crowd.”
Over the next thirty years, Brian develops an enduring passion for classic cinema, particularly post-war Japanese film. He treasures the works of Ingmar Bergman, Krzysztof Kieślowski, Kon Ichikawa, Nagisa Ōshima, Yasujirō Ozu, Federico Fellini, Yılmaz Güney, Ken Loach, Abbas Kiarostami, Werner Herzog, Agnès Varda, Robert Bresson, and Chantal Akerman.
As retirement approaches, Brian feels deeply conflicted. He worries about how to fill the long, empty days ahead and even considers returning to work to supplement his modest pension. At the same time, society is rapidly becoming digitalised, adding another layer of anxiety to his life. Even buying a smartphone proves stressful because of the bewildering range of models available. Eventually, he chooses the simplest one he can find. Meanwhile, streaming gradually changes the way people watch films, and the number of regulars attending screenings at the BFI slowly declines.
Within three years of retirement, Brian begins to experience problems with both his eyesight and his memory. It is at this point that we, as readers, quietly leave him.
I cannot adequately express how much I loved this novel. It is the story of a solitary man who discovers a sense of belonging through cinema. Brian carefully constructs a life that protects him from the unpredictability of the outside world, finding meaning in routine, art, and the quiet rituals of everyday existence.
This is an understated novel of extraordinary emotional depth. More than anything else, it is a compassionate portrait of a man whose rich inner life remains largely invisible to those around him. Brian has become one of the most memorable literary characters I have encountered in recent years, and certainly one of the most relatable.
I wholeheartedly recommend Brian by Jeremy Cooper. I hope this review encourages you to discover this remarkable novel, especially if you enjoy character-driven fiction that celebrates quiet lives and the transformative power of art.
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