july book and film review

BOOKS

THE GIFT OF THE MAGI AND OTHER STORIES, by O Henry. The language and style of these stories have dated somewhat in the 100-plus years since they were written, but O still teaches how it is done: good characterisation, a narrative that sucks you in then delivers a surprise ending almost in the last sentence. If you only want to try one, then read the story from which the book derives its name: it's an absolute gem.
PARIS STORIES, by Mavis Gallant. Gallant's stories are much subtler than O Henry's with layers of meaning unstated in the text, but floating in the air around the story. Absorbing.
BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY'S and other stories, by Truman Capote. The story that brought the attention of the world to Capote's great creation, Holly Golightly. Quite simply, a minor masterpiece. And the other stories, especially "House of Flowers" are a delight too.
THE SONG OF ROWLAND (French, anon, early 12th century) In the 8th century, Holy Roman Emperor Charlemagne and his trusty lieutenant Rowland clash with a Moorish army intent on occupying France and converting all Europe to Islam. An epic tale of valour and betrayal that they ought to make into a Hollywood blockbuster. One is immediately drawn into an alien and frightening world, which continues to hold its grip on the reader even 800 years after it was first set down on paper.
FINNEGAN'S WAKE, by James Joyce (Naxos audiobooks, read by Jim Norton) Well known as one of the most impenetrable books of the 20th century, this is perhaps a reasonable taster for the real thing. It may be abstruse or even apparently gobblydegook at times, but it is also extremely funny and moving. Jim Norton's gentle Irish brogue brings the narrative to life, while the listener settles into a world of delight and confusion.
My best FW story: a friend, an eminent man of letters who read classics at Oxford, told me the only person he'd ever met who'd read it all the way through was the night porter at Merton Collage. Sweet...

FILMS

SALT (2010) D-Philip Noyce. Angelina Jolie plays one of those communist sleepers (remember the Manchurian Candidate?) but exactly whose side is she on? It's a slick, high-end actioner, but the end result is essentially sterile.
FLASHPOINT (2007) D-Wilson Yip. In pre-handover Hong Kong, cop Donnie Yen fights the evil drug dealers. The new Bruce Lee he ain't, but if you like a lot of highly authentic-looking kicking and punching, you'll like this a lot.
THE TURNING POINT (1979) D-Herbert Ross. A prima-ballerina is approaching her sell-by date, while her friend, who abandoned her dancing career to raise a family, compare notes. With a stellar cast (Shirley Maclaine and Anne Bancroft) and a top director, this should have been excellent, but it seems strangely dated today. Only the scenes of the actual performances, especially when the incomparable Baryshnikov is on screen, still shine.
CENTRAL STATION (1998, Brazil)D-Walter Salles. A woman befriends an abandoned child, and for reasons unclear even to her, helps him search for his father. A touching little piece, beautifully realised.
MAN OF ARAN (1934) D-Robert Flaherty. In the remote Aran islands off Ireland's west coast, a family ekes out an existence that hasn't changed much for a thousand years. One of the first "mocumentaries", this moving, highly naturalistic film was enormously influential in the development of the documentary film. Amazing.
THE DEVIL, PROBABLY (1977) D-Robert Bresson. A young man tries politics, psychotherapy and even the Catholic church in his search for meaning, but despite the fact that a number of very good-looking women seem to find him irresistible, happiness remains elusive. One of Bresson's best, with his usual slow-motion style nonetheless gripping the attention throughout.
SHE DONE HIM WRONG (1934)D-Lowelll Sherman. A good-time girl gets mixed up with the mob, while an incredibly youthful-looking Cary Grant can't take his eyes off her. But is he everything he seems? Early Mae West vehicle which showcased her talent as the wise-cracking vamp who's smarter than everyone around her. Watchable.
THE VIRGIN SPRING (1959) D-Ingmar Bergman. A family of devout Christians live out their lives in rural Sweden, but their adopted daughter makes secret offerings to Odin... Tremendously atmospheric piece from the master. Unmissable.
RESIDENT EVIL: AFTERLIFE (2010) D-PWS Anderson. From the sublime to the... One of those movies that has spun off from a computer game, and it shows. Most notable for its strong female leads (Milla Jovavitch and Ali Larter) who don't need no men to prevail against evil.
IT'S COMPLICATED (2009)D-Nancy Meyers. Yes, and a bit boring too. Streep has been distinguishing every movie she's been in for 3 decades, but even so I found this over-long and pleased with itself.
TAMARA DREWE (2010) D-Stephen Frears. A novelist and his wife rent their house to aspiring writers, but then their own behaviour begins to provide material as well as B and B for their guests...Based on Posy Simmonds' graphic novel, this is the kind of film we Brits do well. Good acting, writing and directing make this a perfectly satisfying and undemanding piece of light entertainment.

big friday, long saturday

Yesterday I filled in for one my partners and covered the Friday afternoon surgery. Well known as being often the toughest gig of the week, I was certainly out of practice.

When I started out in general practice I did every Friday afternoon for 4 years. I then took my earliest opportunity to hand it on to the new junior partner, who then handed it on herself when a third partner was introduced. Yesterday's surgery showed how dramatic these things can occasionally be.

My very first patient was a 1 year old boy, said to have been unwell all week with flu like symptoms. His temperature was 40.7, and more worryingly seemed irritable, in a way very different from the tired, can't-be-arsed irritable thing little ones often get into. This can be a sign of cerebral irritation, or "meningism". I phoned the hospital to arrange admisssion and next for a taxi stat, knowing this would be the quickest way to get him there. I do hope the whole thing was a false alarm. I love making mistakes, especially ones like being too cautious.

I misjudged my brother, it seems. Within 36 hours of our little chat he had caught the train home, thanking everyone most humbly for all their help and confirming what was plain to see; namely that the sea air has done him a power of good. Good for you mate!

Today we undertook a 9 mile walk through the countryside north of Ross-on-Wye, specifically to catch 2 ancient churches: the church at Dymock, a bluff Norman edifice that even has some of its Anglo-Saxon beginnings still visible, and St Mary's church at Kempley, another Norman church, but notable for its extraordinarily well preserved medieval wall paintings. How they escaped the Puritan vandals I have no idea.I took a few shots, but it's hard to do them justice. The roof is the oldest surviving timber roof in England. I love that sort of thing. Plus it didn't rain, preferring instead to be a delightfully balmy (some call that humid) day out.

the art of willful forgetfulness

Yesterday I had arranged with my brother to go out to the coast where he is recuperating with my mum. We had agreed to share a Chinese take-away. I arrived at 12.15, 15 minutes late, but he had already left, without troubling himself to consult me about my particular preferences. When he returned he had brought egg-foo-yung and sweet and sour pork. I have been allergic to eggs since my earliest childhood, whereas I have never really liked pork, and even if I did it would have been difficult to eat with my teeth in their current state. I allowed myself the luxury of calling him a "fucking idiot", though what I really meant to say, but was unable in the event to articulate, was "You fucking selfish idiot".

In the interests of general concord I let it go at that. However, seeing how much he had improved, I did enquire as to how long he would be staying with mum. He replied that it would be soon, and I had to remind him how tired mum was looking, and pointed out that it would be a shame if he recovered completely but she then collapsed with exhaustion. He took it on board, though it remains to be seen if he heeds my advice. Historically, he has been no better at taking my advice than I his. That's brothers for you...

a chat with the psych

Up to the local DGH (District General Hospital)to see my psychiatrist last Friday. I must be getting better I suppose, because the intervals between appointments are getting gradually longer. It's been nearly 3 months on this occasion, and we agreed that the next will be of the same length.

I had been a little concerned coming up to this appointment, because I really have been feeling relatively OK recently, and didn't really have anything substantive and meaty to offer him. I did talk about my recent dental disasters and the problems with both my mum's and my F-in-L's Alzheimer's. But these, as we conceded to each other, are just normal "life things". And with my writing going well I really do feel as good as I have felt for some time.

Would it be fair to call me happy at the moment? Not sure. I've never put much store by the whole happy thing. To me it's always a retrospective thing: "That time before, when I did that or that was happening, I was happy then." Right now, you're just getting on with stuff, hoping it will be trouble free and trying not to get annoyed about it if it isn't,

I don't think I have ever deliberately sought happiness. Just tried various things to do that would hold my interest. A technique, if you like, for avoiding UNHAPPINESS. Now that I do believe in, and of course like everyone, I have spent quite a bit of time there.

getting shit in perspective

COMMENT

Yesterday we were all glued to the box as powerful people were brought to book over the failings of their subordinates (or so they would have us believe). But an aid worker speaking on this morning's Today Programme brought us back to Earth. Everyone was obsessed, he said, with a shaving-cream pie in the face trick, whilst in the Horn of Africa a famine had been called, but almost ignored.

Good old Britain has "poured" £52 million into alleviating the problem, but don't we spend nearly as much as that every week in Afghanistan? Come to that, one of the world's richest countries lies just across the narrow expanse of the Red Sea, and what are they doing to help their co-religionists in Somalia? I fear the answer is not a lot. Why not? Is it, I hesitate to ask, because they is black? Maybe they just say it's the Will of Allah. It is what they usually say when something goes wrong, like that time a few years ago when a crowd in Mecca panicked in a tunnel during the Haj and 1200 were crushed to death. I can't help finding that attitude a tad complacent, but then my maco-politics have always been a bit naive.

There is no reason on Earth why a famine should happen anywhere today. The resources are there to solve this problem; indeed, to prevent it happening in the first place. Somalia itself has lots of money, loot the pirates have purloined in the last few years. Is any of that going to be used to help their own people? I doubt it. Is any of the $40 billion of the Murdoch empire going to be aimed at it? See above.

Once again, ordinary middle-class people in the West will dip into their pockets to finance the aid agencies, and nations will donate minute fractions of their GDPs to addressing the problem. And, as always, much of this money will never find its way to ground zero, where millions of men, women and children face one of the most unpleasant fates there is: slow death by starvation and the horrible diseases that engenders. I tell you, we're a shitty planet sometimes, and I'm a part of it. So are you...

johnny doesn't lose his marbles

COMMENT

As many expected, not a lot has emerged out of the grilling of the Murdochs and the Big Haired One, apart from the fact that their media groomers have done their job well, earning their 5 (or even 6?) figure sum for their services. Except perhaps that Murdoch Snr, who hasn't retired, but looks and sounds as if he probably should. He is 80, for chrissakes. My vote for unvarnished honesty goes to Jonnie Marbles, who did what millions must have heartily wished they'd had the guts to do. Good on ya mate!

And let us remember what kind of person dear Rebakah is: a few years ago she was attending a party where she bumped into Chris Bryant. "It's after dark, Mr Bryant", she said. "Shouldn't you be on Clapham Common?"
Her husband at the time, Ross Kemp, was moved to say: "Shut up you homophobic cow."
Their marriage did not survive for long...

awkward illness

While we were away in Budapest my mum informed me that my brother had been rushed into hospital. She didn't have any details, and I reasonably assumed it was his kidney stones again. But no. Turns out he had returned from his second home in Burgundy sporting a high fever and barely conscious. Officially he was a case of "PUO", or pyrexia of unknown origin, though their money was on some tic-borne disease such as Rocky Mountain spotted fever, which despite its name is not confined to the American mid-west. The hospital (in Canterbury, where he lives)cracked him on a range of powerful intravenous antibiotics and he improved slowly but steadily each day.

I decided it would be wise to see for myself what was going on, so I made the lengthy journey cross-country to check him out. I was shocked by what I found. He had lost weight and looked very weak and grey. The fact that he hadn't shaved for over a week probably didn't help. But he was ready to be discharged, as his blood indices had improved since his admission to the point where they had now returned to normal, and indeed all the tests failed to provide a definitive diagnosis. There had been an idea for him to come over to my mum's place to convalesce, which considering her parlous state did not seem the greatest idea, but it was clear he would be hard put to look after himself for the next few days, so I acquiesced. Irritatingly, because of the Open golf being played out only a few miles away, I was unable to secure any accommodation nearer than Sevenoaks, more than 50 miles away (my brother's own house being unavailable for reasons I do not intend to discuss here).

So yesterday I brought him back by car and deposited him at my mum's house. No moneys were offered to offset my considerable out-of-pocket expenses, though I was handed a nice bottle of 2006 sauternes for my trouble- better than nothing. How long he will stay au maman is uncertain, though I would calculate anything up to a fortnight. I wish them both well...

a trip down memory lane

This afternoon I accompanied my mum to her twice-yearly visit to the memory clinic.
The poor love is still preoccupied by her driving embargo, and indeed an appeals form was sent to her while we were away in Budapest. Despite her promising to wait for me to return before completing the paperwork, she did just that and popped in the post straight way. I find it hard to believe she filled the forms in perfectly (which of course they must be) and certainly she did not include a current photo which they asked for, on the grounds that "they've already got one". Give me strength!

Her performance at the clinic was good, although her subtracting serial sevens from one hundred was poor, but then a lot of people have lousy mental arithmetic. In the end her "mini-mental" score was 28 out of a possible 30, which sounds like there isn't a lot wrong with her, but this speaks more to the inadequacy of the test than anything else.

Humourous note: on Sunday she asked us to bring her a copy of the last NoW, having cottoned to the fact that it was closing down. On looking at the many sample headlines from their illustrious past, she saw one which ran:

"JACKO DEAD"

"Jacko dead?" she cried, incredulous.

.

hack hacks; hacks then hacked: now all hacked off

COMMENT

Every time I leave the country something seems to happen. Boy, did it ever this time. On Thursday afternoon I was sitting in my un-air conditioned room in Budapest's elegant hotel Gellert, where the temperature was only a few degrees below the 36 it was outside, when Sky News announced that the NoW was to be sacrificed at the alter of capitalism. Already it is clear what is going on.

Allow me to look inside the mind of James Murdoch:

"Well, Dad told me to cut it loose, and I couldn't care less. I hate newspapers as much as dad loves them, but he loves the idea of controlling BSkyB even more. So with all the advertisers jumping ship and polls of the public indicating no one is going to buy it again, it was already dead in the water. Never mind. Dad can have a "son of NoW", a "Sun on Sunday" or whatever, so he'll be happy, and we'll soon me making millions again. Not that that matters too much. Our family's still making billions from our other holdings, so who cares? Dad also told me to be nice to the big-haired one. Knows too much, apparently, even about us. Christ! Can't let all that come out. Me? I've never trusted redheads. In fact if I could put a contract out on her I would, but I suppose it wouldn't look good having her die in a car crash right now."

reporting live from budapest

Yes, we are in the Hungarian capitol for 3 days, and a good thing too. I phoned my mum this morning, who told me it was grey and cool at home, with heavy rain on the way. Here the sky is an unbroken blue, and the temperature hovers around 32 degrees. Fortunately the humidity is low, so the heat is bearable; indeed it is quite gorgeous. I was born for this sort of weather, though admittedly as I write I have retreated indoors until it cools a little. There is no air-con in the room, but there is a powerful fan and the curtains and windows are closed to prevent ingress of the oven-hot air. This will count later on when we try to sleep.

Budapest is an ancient city, with evidence of settlement going back well before the Roman occupation. However, much was destroyed in the convulsions of the 1848 revolution, and what was left was smashed flat by the Russians as they roiled through here on the way to Berlin in 1945. Consequently, trying to find things of interest here is a bit tricky. I don't really fancy their biggest thing, the parliament buildings (modelled on the British Houses of Parliament, allegedly, though I don't recall the Brit version featuring a huge red-tiled dome)) so this morning we visited the "Castle District" (there's no castle- bombed out and not rebuilt), but there is St Mateus's church, heavily restored in the late 19th century and fortunately not smashed by the Ruskys. It seems to be a blend of Eastern orthodox and neo-Byzantine influence. It must be of interest to the Chinese and Japanese, who throng the place in their hundreds and thousands. I tell you, their penetration is absolutely world-wide these days.

This afternoon we shall sample the famous hot spring baths which are part of the hotel, and in the list of top ten sites in Buadapest according to our travel guide. And it's right downstairs! Tomorrow night we are off to a concert by one of Hungary's most famous sons, Kodaly, in a performance of "Hari Janos". Hari, an old soldier, tells his life story through a series of tall tales a la Baron Munchausen. It's great favourite of Hungarian children, apparently. Sounds promising...

party weekend

It was our big summer bash yesterday, with nearly 50 people attending in shifts between 4 pm and around 1 am when we gave up and threw the stragglers out. Many of our oldest and dearest friends showed. Some old timers had excellent alibis, but in the event it didn't matter as unexpected people appeared as in their place. One girlfriend from more than 20 years ago came; older and more experienced in the face to be sure, but as svelte and fizzing with life as she ever was. I invited several patients so they could catch a glimpse of me as someone other than their doctor. This worked extremely well.

What also worked well was my wife, flitting effortlessly about the place with her matchless shmoozing, but I know for a fact she worked bloody hard throughout proceedings.

At one point in the early evening, with a warm sun still bathing the scene, all the painters seemed to gather in a circle in the garden. There they conversed in quiet, meaningful tones and as they did so, waves of brain power rippled out from them. I felt 8% more intelligent simply by being near them.

Elsewhere, the subjects were drinking steadily. By kicking out time one had lapsed into a very strange altered state which enabled her to sing a song quite sweetly, but which none of us had no way understanding in any way, except that it appeared to be about pain. And we all know something about that. It was sort of beautiful in a way, though I was little preoccupied by the fear that she might heel over mid-warble and sweep down some objet d'art en route to the deck. It never happened, and even our brand-new sofa remained free of cigarette burns.

All in all a great, great party.