Northern Irish talks break down: who is to blame?

We awoke this morning to the news that, despite the apparent best efforts of the players involved, no agreement could be reached over the issues of flags and parades in Northern Ireland. I wonder whose fault it was? It should come as no surprise to learn that the two holdouts came from the unionist side of the divide. Why? Because it has usually been those people who have stood resolutely in the way of equality and justice in the Six Counties. I use the term "six counties" because that is how everyone in the South sees the situation.

In 1922, the Irish finally shook off the yolk of being an occupied territory of the British Empire. But the British hung on to the six counties of the north, claiming that the majority of the population there were British and wished to remain so. Of course they did. Britain had been carefully populating the region with its own even before Cromwell introduced his "plantation policy" 350 years ago. And from that time they grabbed all the best arable land and pushed the indigenous Catholics into the margins, denying them the same human rights the British immigrants enjoyed, modifying electoral boundaries (a process known as "gerrymandering") to ensure the natives were never able to win political  power. And when they rose up in defiance, they were crushed by military might, as happened at the Battle of the Boyne in 1690. This is the battle still commemorated today in parades and marches across the North, reminding the Catholics who is really in charge. And they insisted, as they still do today, that they march where they please. And where they please means right through the heart of Catholic communities, rubbing their noses in it, braying their hatred in the faces of the locals who have no option other than to take it.

Not everyone took it though. Protest began to grow among the republican people; fights broke out, heads were broken, people died. Still the prods demanded to march wherever they liked and wave their Union Flags wherever and whenever they felt like it. We may have had the Good Friday Agreement, they said, but we're still the majority and if the Papists don't like it they can go and live down south can't they? This is our land, and if necessary we'll die to keep it that way.

But there's a little problem the protestants have to face: They're dangerously close to not being the majority any more, and, OMG, they must be saying to themselves, what's going to happen when we are the minority?

There's a phrase very much in the vogue at the moment: "Moving forward". Normally I hate it, and have contempt for the people who use it. I feel that way because more often than not it is used to cover up the mistakes of the past, to divert attention from their culpability in any given issue. "Moving forward" has come to be synonymous with "Stop talking about the past and move on will you? What's wrong with you that you're obsessed with what's already dead and gone? " (besides which, the past embarrasses me and makes me uncomfortable, so leave it out). Hence we are constantly seeing officials using the phrase to shield their responsibilities from exposure.
However, despite all this I believe there is one place where they really should be "moving forward", and that's Northern Ireland. What they need there is some sort of Peace and Reconciliation Commission along the lines of the one introduced by Nelson Mandela in South Africa. If they ever decide to do that though, they'll find they have their work cut out.

I visited Northern Ireland three years ago and was horrified by the level of hostility and paranoia which seemed to pervade the very air of the place. I stayed in County Antrim, where there are very few Catholics, and the people there seem very anxious to keep it that way. One woman said to me:
 "Protestants from Scotland  have been coming here to live for 500 years, well before  Cromwell's plantations, so..."
And she really did trail off after this pronouncement, as if that was all it was necessary to say. But there's a lot more to say. Like, hey, I'm sure you're right and all, but isn't it time to move on now? Because you may have been here for 500 years, but you pushed the locals aside and rode roughshod over their rights. So isn't it time you lived together in peace and harmony, and throw off the shackles of the past?

So I wish a happy New Year to you all, Catholics and protestants, Jews and Muslims, Hindus and Buddhists, tree huggers and Jedi knights. Next year let's try a bit harder to just get along, huh?

December book and film review

BOOKS

MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT, by Charles Dickens. A young man, cut adrift by the elderly uncle he was relying on for financial support, takes Horace Greely's advice and goes west in search of his fortune. But the "Land of the Free" turns out to be less inviting than he thought...
Containing all the usual ingredients of a Dickens classic; an innocent and beautiful waif, an insufferable youth who eventually learns some wisdom but at great cost, comedic characters, and of course, Dickens's favourite, the great hypocrite, Martin Chuzzlewit threatens to be the definitive Dickens novel. Personally I loved it, especially the nightmarish sojourn in America, where young Martin is fleeced, hoodwinked and generally conned from the moment he steps ashore in New York. I find this a little strange, because apparently Dickens actually liked America himself, and it was certainly good to him. He conducted several highly successful (and lucrative) tours there, reading from his books to rapturous audiences. Talk about biting the hand that feeds you...

THE GENERAL FROM THE JUNGLE, by B Traven. After decades of ruthless exploitation by the landowners and an uncaring dictatorship, Mexican peasants finally rise up in revolt against their masters. From among their number a leader is chosen to spearhead their fight against a corrupt and incompetent army. They are far better equipped of course, but to the soldiers it's just a job, but the peasants are fighting for the future of an entire generation... Viva la revolution!
A gripping little tale, Traven's first book about war is tight and at times horribly detailed. We get inside the minds of the peasants and their antagonists in a vivid and sometimes terrifying way. And for me it illustrates what I have always believed about leadership: that leaders should be dragged out, kicking and screaming if necessary, and made to lead, rather than allowing the ambitious to climb the greasy pole all the way to the top, which is the way it happens here and around the world. People who want power should in no way ever be allowed to have it, and this is Traven's most powerful message.

CONSTABLE: THE PAINTER AND HIS LANDSCAPE, by Michael Rosenthal. John Constable, Britain's favourite painter, was born into a moderately wealthy landowning family in Suffolk in the late 1700s and was most fortunate to be indulged in his hobby of painting, a hobby which became his life's great passion. His intention was to show the noble efforts of the rural labourer in providing food for the nation, and the beauty of the landscape created by their efforts. The result is a number of iconic images which have entered the national psyche in a way no other British painter has achieved. Prints of The Haywain and Flatford Mill can be found in schools, office buildings and private homes up and down the country to this day.
But did Constable really get inside the lives of the workers? I think not. He regarded himself as a hard worker, and certainly in artistic terms he was as productive as any we could name, but did he really think, even on his busiest day, that his energy output came anywhere near the workload of the average farm labourer his paintings so lovingly depict? I doubt he gave it a single thought.
Michael Rosenthal is an astute critic as well as an accomplished writer, lending this book more readability than you find in most art books. And the prints in my copy were sumptuous.

NAPLES '44, by Norman Lewis. In the aftermath of the German occupation of Naples, a young British officer is seconded into the intelligence services to help keep law and order in the now impoverished city. He soon finds, between the local mafia and the desperate measures taken by a population on the verge of starvation, his job is next to impossible. But he tries...
Norman Lewis has established a reputation as one of Britain's most insightful travel writers, and many people consider this book his masterpiece. As indeed it is. Written in a delightfully self-deprecating style, he tells stories of great tenderness and the most horrible savagery with the same cool voice. Like the young corporal who, in attempting to prevent children jumping on the back of lorries and pilfering everything they can carry, lurks inside the truck, waiting for someone to grab the handrail at the back. When a hand appears he hacks at it with a hatchet. Our hero puts a stop to his brutal technique when he hears of it, but not before several children have lost fingers. A quite marvellous read, so good I read it slowly in order to savour every single word.

FILMS

THE WIND THAT SHAKES THE BARLEY (2006) D- Ken Loach. As the IRA struggles for independence from Imperial Great Britain, ordinary folk who have no particular political agenda are dragged into an increasingly vicious struggle. Winner of the Palme D'or at Cannes in 2006, Loach finally won recognition for his consummate cinematographic skills, and perhaps also for his unswerving commitment to the cause of the weak and powerless in society. The film itself is harsh and uncompromising, indeed, as harsh and uncompromising as the struggle the film describes. And, lest we forget, that struggle is not yet over. For the six counties of the north remain under British dominion, carefully loaded with British supporters to ensure "democracy" keeps it that way...

KING LEAR (1971) D- Peter Brook. A foolish King decides to retire and divide his kingdom among his ungrateful daughters. He lives to regret his folly. Big time...
Peter Brook's bleak, unforgiving interpretation is brought stunningly to life by Paul Scofield's King, playing out his agony in a landscape that was shot in southern England, but which seems almost Arctic. The wind screams, flags are ripped, one almost feels the cold harshness of the landscape in one's bones as the tragedy marches towards its grim conclusion. Watch out for the famous scene where the King, having been rejected by his daughters, goes off in a strop straight into the heart of a great storm. Unforgettable stuff.

THE ACT OF KILLING (2012) Documentary, D- Joshua Oppenheimer. In the 1960s, Indonesia felt itself threatened by the spread of communism. So the government under Sukarno and later, Suharto commissioned a number of special, autonomous squads to go out and "bring them to justice" This meant torturing suspects to betray their fellows, then assassinating them, one by one. Hundreds, perhaps thousands died in this way. Somehow the director Oppenheimer tracked these men down, and, even more incredibly, persuaded them to speak on camera about their unspeakable crimes. Completely unrepentant to this day, these men clearly believed communism was the devil's work and that any means necessary were justified to rid Indonesia of the Red scourge. The result is an horrifying account of torture and murder unprecedented in its unabashed frankness Not for the faint hearted...

A ROOM WITH A VIEW (1986) P-D Merchant/Ivory. Around the beginning of the 20th century, a diverse group of Brits in a Florence Pensione interact in a very British way. And when they return to leafy Kent the interactions continue. Can Lucy overcome her idiocy and marry the right man, and do we care? Of course we do, because the players are skilled enough to involve us, (they include promising newcomers Helena Bonham-Carter and Julian Sands, alongside old stalwarts like Maggie Smith and Denholm Elliott) and most importantly, the story is told with all the finesse we have come to expect from the Merchant/Ivory team. Superior stuff.

OZ THE GREAT AND POWERFUL (2013) D- Sam Raimi. A second-rate magician is transported via a tornado from Kansas to a strange and garishly coloured world, inhabited by witches, some of whom are good, others not so nice...
If Hollywood likes anything more than a sequel it's a prequel, and here we have the forerunner to The Wizard of Oz. The producers have tried hard to recreate the atmosphere of the original, despite being handicapped by the original film's owners, Warner Bros, denying them permission to use all sorts of devices from its progenitor. Thus we are only shown subliminal views of the Yellowbrick Road, the Munchkins are nowhere to be found (perhaps a mercy, come to think of it), but within these constraints Sam Raimi and the production team worked wonders in producing a kind of Technicolor, art-deco look to the film which is most attractive. James Franco turns in a sound performance in the title role (they wanted Robert Downey Jr, but what can you do?) and Mila Kunis is excellent as the Wicked Witch of the West. On the whole, I think we can say the whole $200 million spent on the film does appear on the screen. Creditable.

SIGHTSEERS (2012) D- Ben Wheatley. Having lost her beloved puppy, a young girl abandons her mum to go on a sightseeing tour of Britain with her boyfriend. It isn't long before people start dying in places they've visited. Horribly. First a litterbug is taught a lesson in civics by being run over. Then a nice middle class gentleman tourist the boyfriend Chris decides is a stuck-up snob gets pushed over a cliff. The couple then steal his dog, which reminds the girl of her own puppy, but when he is allowed to befoul a stone circle and they are chastised by another tourist, he ends up with his head flattened against one of the standing stones. It gets worse...
We have already seen Ben Wheatley in  action this year with A Field in England, but this is a simpler, even more savage tale than that. Some have said it is reminiscent of Mike Leigh's Nuts in May, only far, far darker. and I'd say that's about right. The film was "devised" in a manner not dissimilar to Mike Leigh's celebrated method, with all the main players being given writing credits.
Scary, man, but kind of fun too.

MONEYBALL (2011) D- Bennett Miller. In 2001, the Oakland As baseball team is languishing at the bottom of the league. With limited funds at his disposal, the general manager (played by Brad Pitt) tries to assemble a team which will turn the tide of defeat. He decides on a new and untried method, relying on a kind of American version of Statto to analyse the statistics and thereby determine his choices. Going against 100 years of tradition where the talent scout ruled, slowly but surely, the team begins to win matches. Soon they are approaching an unprecedented 20 wins in a row in the major leagues. Can they do it?
Based on a true story, Moneyball was tremendously popular and critically acclaimed in the US, though it enjoyed less attention beyond those shores, basically because hardly anyone here understands how big league baseball actually works. But the fact remains this is a very good movie, held together strongly by Brad Pitt in one of his best roles. Worth a try.

What's with this Santa Claus thing anyway?

How old were you when you discovered Santa wasn't the real deal? I was six, and I think my analytical, "enquiring" mind, as people referred to it at the time, was already having existential doubts, because I went to my brother, four years my senior, and asked him:
"This Father Christmas thing, is it really true?"
And I got the dread response, no, it wasn't. Something died inside me that day and I was never quite the same again. I never really trusted my parents from then on, and why should I have? They foisted an untruth on me, a ridiculous one at that, and my plastic, childish mind took it all on board without question. After that I was far more cautious about what they, or anybody else told me, and I was right to do so.

Why do parents do this? Why do they want their children to believe in a piece of hokum that they know to be false? To put a little "magic" into their lives would I suppose be the commonest answer, but why? Is it because there is something lacking in their lives, especially in a world where religion, in the west at least, takes a back seat to vampires, zombies and Marvel comics Avengers? I have an alternative: Why not tell them about the wonders of the Universe, something far more amazing and wonderful than any myth?

Despite this, the whole Santa Claus culture remains undeniably fascinating, having a great deal to do with spiritual faith. Like God, we are invited to accept the existence of an invisible, yet omnipotent being. He clearly has God-like powers: he can deliver a present to every child in the world in one night, a feat that makes feeding the five thousand look like a cheap party-trick. He can look into our souls too:

He knows when you are sleeping, he knows when you're awake

Even more than that, he knows if you've been good, and whether your conscience is clear. Is Santa Claus God? Discuss. And when you're done, have a good festive interval.

Suffering: the new dirty word

My wife attended a meeting recently to do with her work as a music therapist. Present were various professionals including social workers. At one point my wife mentioned a client who "suffers from Alzheimer's disease" and was immediately called out for the use of such a pejorative word.

"We don't use the word 'suffer' any more", she was politely told. My wife is much more civilised and restrained than I am, and it is perhaps just as well they didn't try that line on me. I would have responded, with some warmth:
"You can't say 'suffer' now, huh? Tell me something. Have you ever actually met anyone with Alzheimer's? And you didn't notice they were suffering? Exactly what kind of idiot are you?"

But that's me. As a doctor, I've been used to saying people are suffering from cancer, TB, depression or whatever. I know some people make a better fist of "suffering" than others, and I know disabled people often don't wish to be identified in terms of the disease that disabled them. I understand that and support it. But suffering is real, and to deny that people are, is just failing to accept reality. For instance, I have asthma and eczema. They are conditions which wax and wane in their severity. When they're in remission I'm fine, and not suffering at all. But when they kick in, I do suffer, and no politically correct social worker is going to tell me I don't. It's real life. man! Get used to it, and be happy if you're avoiding suffering right now!

Vapo, vapo man

I wanna be your vapo man! That's right! Pelagius has joined the increasing numbers of smokers changing to "vaping"; the practise of inhaling water vapour laced with nicotine. Minus the tar and carbon monoxide, it is reckoned to be far safer than actually smoking a cigarette, cigar or pipe. Whether it is completely harmless is a question that will need a lot more research to establish, though simple reason dictates it must be safer.

I tried doing it in a restaurant the other day, and nobody said Jack to me, though there are apparently moves afoot to ban it in public places, on the grounds, not that it may be harmful to others, which I doubt, but that it continues to encourage the use of a highly addictive drug. This I cannot argue with, and would be happy to confine myself, like homosexuality, to be restricted to its use only by consenting adults in private. Meanwhile I have halved my cigarette intake overnight, and am working on reducing it still more. We'll see what happens...

STATE FUNERALS

I like a nice state funeral. The first one I remember is Winston Churchill's. I was only 14 at the time, but I still remember the cranes of London's docklands dipping low in respect as the funeral barge processed down the Thames. That and Richard Dimbleby's sombre, immensely noble commentary.

There was Diana's of course, though I didn't watch that live, preferring instead to play a round of golf. (though I did wear a black loop in my lapel) I wish I'd seen her brother, the Earl Spencer's speech in the Abbey, when the audience began (much against established protocol) to applaud, a theme which was then taken up by the crowds outside. What a moment in history that was!

However, the one I recall most vividly was Indira Ghandi's funeral in 1984. My wife at that time declared her desire to watch the whole thing and as I watched with her, I, and the rest of the world could look on in wonder at the quite marvellous Hindu method of despatching their dead. They are cremations, of course, and carried out in the open air where everyone can see everything. For me the most wonderful moment came as the corpse burst into flames, and one of the holy men cast fragrant herbs and spices onto the pyre.
"This presumably carries a spiritual significance in the Hindu faith" said the commentator to the resident Indian "expert".
"Oh no", he replied. "That's just to mask the smell of burning flesh."

Evan Davies: all is forgiven

Hitherto I have not formed a good opinion of the newish resident member of the "Today" team. An economist by profession (you may have seen him on Dragon's Den; I haven't, cause I don't watch it), he clearly buys into the whole capitalist machine.  But this morning he redeemed himself, in my eyes at least. The news was of the far-reaching agreement achieved by the 153 members of the World Trade Organisation. We could hear cries of hysterical applause from their ranks in the auditorium as the agreement was sealed. But when a spokesperson was wheeled out on air today, Evan asked him:
"This seems a very good deal for the richer countries, because they have been able to secure much more open markets for their goods to be sold in the poorer countries, but there appears to be no such reciprocal agreement to allow poorer countries to export to the richer ones. Isn't that wrong?"
No it wasn't, according to the spokesperson; Evan had just got it wrong.
Evan Davies getting something about money wrong? I don't believe it. We know when someone's been nailed, and it happened this morning.

The WTO has been accused of being a rich man's club, looking after its own interests while the "developing world" (which is what we used to call the Third World, but that name referred to the 3 divisions: the west, the communist bloc and the remainder of the poor countries, but now communism's gone phut it doesn't work any more) can go screw itself. And this morning's report shows nothing's changed.

The greatest man of his age

95 years. In his life, who could compare with our man (that's right, our man, your man, everyone's man) in terms of the net good achieved for humanity? I think the answer fairly definitely is no. Would you give your life or your freedom for your beliefs? I'd give a lot, but I wouldn't do that. He did. He survived on his natural intelligence, total commitment and sheer persistence.

I remember Vorster saying, like Hitler, that his cruel regime would last a thousand years, and in the dark days of the 70s and early 80s, when Reagan and Thatcher said they were perfectly happy to do business with it, I feared he might have been right. But we underestimated the raw power of Mandela's appeal to the world to help him free his people.

When Nelson was freed in January 1990 my second wife was alive, though only just. Within three months she was dead, but she said she was so glad she lived to see that day. She also lived just long enough to have seen the Berlin Wall knocked down, another marvellous and, to us in the safely cocooned west, unanticipated event. This was another huge event she lived to witness, but now, 25 years on, it is hard to say which of these great occasions was more significant. It's close, but in simple human terms Nelson clinches it, with his modesty, self effacement, his quiet but massive determination, his refusal to allow vengeance to rule following the fall of the whites, he was the man.
He is the man!

people or profit? Cameron makes up his mind

On the side of profit, of course. He's just been in China with one of the largest trade missions ever mounted from this country to that. There were quite a few small business owners along for the ride, but many of the party included Cameron's own pick of his most powerful and influential friends.

Gone was any admonishment of China's treatment of the Tibetan people, China's "lebensraum", where China's writ runs deep, and the indigenous way of life is being steadily eroded away to nothing. But what does DC really care of them, when billions of pounds of exports are concerned? So he has kept his own counsel on the subject of human rights, lest some other even more cynical nation state gets in under our noses and steals our trade.

The other night I watched a fascinating and moving documentary on the life of Ai Wei Wei, designer of the "Bird's nest" stadium for the Beijing Olympics, but who became so disillusioned by the way people came last when the authorities were planning the Olympiad that he boycotted the games altogether. Entitled "Never Sorry", the film showed  him making the middle finger salute which has become his trademark, to all the icons of Chinese culture: Tienanmen Square, the Forbidden City, the government buildings and so on. He's saying, Fuck you Chinese state: I'm not buying into your totalitarian crap. We even watched in awed horror as he raised a priceless Neolithic vase above his head and then dashed it to the ground, symbolically reflecting the destruction of Chinese culture that goes on every day in China, but which remains for the most part unreported.

Yet he was allowed to make this film, banking on his currency as an undeniable hero of the Chinese People's Republic. They have locked him up in the past, of course, but they left him alone for the making of this film at least. But it struck me that had he been a North Korean the project would never have got off the ground: he would have been under permanent house arrest years ago, or worse. However bad China may be, we can be sure of one thing. It's even worse in North Korea- God help them.

Christmas comes earlier every year, don't it?

This year, the day after Remembrance Day, ie the 12th November, my next-door neighbour put up her Christmas decorations. She wasn't alone. Within a week they were up all over the place. By the end of that week a local shopping street did its big Xmas thing, with the lights, even a petting zoo complete with reindeer- and all a week earlier than last year.

I am not so naive as to wonder what this is about, at least from a commercial perspective. But the ordinary citizens who buy into a Christmas that begins in the second week of November: what are they on? Could it be something to do with an issue I discussed a couple of weeks back, namely, letting go? Or in this case, an attachment to something that hasn't even happened yet?

When I was a kid I started to get excited about Xmas once the advent calenders started to appear. Opening each door was such a delightful process, though even then there seemed to be an awful lot of them to open before the great day of the presents finally arrived. I say, preparations for the Big Day should not begin until December has dawned. This still gives everyone 24 days (surely adequate for anyone who hasn't got some serious form of Xmas OCD) to get their acts together, and by everyone I include the stores. Stop trying to make us feel all Cristmassy no sooner than we've binned our poppies- it's crass, man!

November book and film review

BOOKS

I'm afraid there are no books to review this month. I am 800 pages into Dickens's classic Martin Chuzzlewit, but there are still 140 pages to go, and I wouldn't be much of a reviewer if I did it now, would I?. See my December review, however, to find out what I thought of it. As an appetiser, consider this: Dickens himself felt that while the semi-autobiographical nature of David Copperfield made it his favourite book, he considered Martin Chuzzlewit his best book. We shall see...

FILMS

GRAVITY (2013) D- Alfonso Cuaron.   There's nothing like making a rule and then breaking it. For the  truth is, I haven't seen Gravity. Why wouldn't I, considering it is a massive world-wide success, with two hyperstars involved in what has been called "the wildest fairground ride in film history"? OK, I'll try to explain. First, it's in 3D (and I have made my feelings plain on that subject more than once) and unlike other films like Thor: The Dark World  (see below) there is no 2D version. Second, I am informed that lovers of physics may have certain objections to its scientific authenticity. Here's the news: I do love physics, and hence I think that would be a problem for me. I prefer space films like 2001: A Space Odyssey, where Kubrick went to extreme lengths to keep it as real as, well, real life in space would be. And it didn't detract one bit from the film's drama- who will ever forget Hal going rogue and attempting to kill the fallible astronauts because they couldn't do a job as well as a computer that was incapable of error? Third: when I want a wild fairground ride I'll go to Alton Towers, or wait for the "Gravity ride" at Disney world- which I'm sure is in the planning stage as we speak.
 I may catch a 2D version when it eventually comes to TV, but right now I am refusing to buy into it.

THOR:THE DARK WORLD (2013) D- Alan Taylor. Everyone's favourite demigod goes into battle again against the forces of darkness and chaos, exemplified on this occasion by a barely recognisable but truly demonic Christopher Ecclestone. In order to win he must ally himself with his evil half-brother, Loki. Now look, Thor, are you sure that's wise? I mean, we all saw Avengers Assemble and we know you can't trust a god with severe BPD. Don't say I didn't warn you... The first Thor was directed in great style by Kenneth Branagh, who played it as much for laughs as anything, and although there are jokes in this too, somehow it just doesn't hack it, despite the fact that the chosen director this time is Alan Taylor, who has distinguished himself superbly in the field of fantasy with his work on Game of Thrones. You know what? I think I've had it with the Thor franchise. In fact I think I've had it with the whole Marvel comics superhero thing. Let's try something new, people!

COME AND SEE (1985) (Belarus) D- Elem Klimov. A teenage lad living in a remote village in the Russian steppe in 1941 is given a harsh choice: join the partisans and fight the Germans, or be branded a coward for life. Not surprisingly, he takes his rifle and goes off with the fighters. But he has a poet's heart, not a warrior's, and soon the things he sees have traumatised him beyond anything imaginable. Then to make matters worse, he is soon captured by the Germans...
 For those of you not familiar with Hitler's Barbarossa campaign, when the German army roiled into Russia in 1941, they had a dedicated group with them, the Einsatzgruppen.  And they weren't there as a military fighting unit, they were there to murder Jews, and anyone else they didn't like the look of. In a couple of years they had killed 800,000, and their activities were only curtailed when it was decided it was too expensive to shoot everybody and that gas chambers were a far more cost-effective method of mass-murder. This film, powerful. moving and containing some of the most shocking scenes ever committed to celluloid (at one point we watch, in intimate detail, as an entire village is crowded into a church which is then torched), is perhaps one of the finest ever to come out of Eastern Europe. Watch it, if your stomach is strong enough.

BRAVE (2012) D- Mark Andrews. A tomboy princess is a whiz with the bow and arrow, but mum wants her to be all demure and get married soon. So our girl hires a witch to change her mum's mind. This she does, though not in a way anyone would have predicted. That's the thing with witches: you just can't trust 'em.
The Disney/Pixar group has been turning out one piece of quality animation after another for some years now, and this is no exception. The voice characterisations (including Kelly McDonald and national treasure Billy Connolly) are first rate and the plot leaps along vigorously throughout. Not bad.

PLEASANTVILLE (1998) D- Gary Ross. A teenage brother and sister from the nineties somehow find themselves transported into a wholesome, 1950s sitcom. At first the denizens are shocked by the modern ways of their two visitors, but they soon learn to adopt some very 1990s behaviours themselves...
Hollywood has had a thing about "timeshift" fantasies for some time (Peggy Sue got Married, The Lake House, Back to the Future et al) and like a not wholly dissimilar effort, The Truman Show, they can make it work rather well. One of the hooks in this picture is the way everyone, even the newcomers, appears in black and white, but as they begin to catch onto the new ways, they transform into technicolour, reflecting their spiritual and emotional growth. But there are some hold-outs, notably the excellent William H Macey. Interesting stuff.

THE LONG MEMORY (1953) D- Robert Hamer. John Mills is framed for a murder he didn't commit and does fifteen years hard time. But his memory is long (geddit?) and once free determines to track down those who screwed him. Filmed in bleak, but immaculate monochrome, this film is in itself memorable, most notably for the stand-out performance of its star. I've always loved John Mills, loved his passion, his total commitment to his role, and the way his face can betray a whole range of conflicting emotions with just a scowl or a furrowing of his eyebrows. Now there's a national treasure for you...

MONSTER'S BALL (2001) D- Mark Forster. Halle Berry's hubbie (Sean "Puffy" Combs) is on death row for killing a cop and what with a compulsive-eater son to look after, we can't blame her if she simply can't cope. Following the execution, she seeks solace in the arms of Billy-Bob Thornton. She has no idea that he's one of the corrections officers who presided over her husband's last moments, and because she didn't attend the execution, he doesn't know who she is either...
A truly heart-wrenching piece, what we might have called a "tearjerker" in another era, though maybe it's too tough and raw to be included in such a category. But everyone concerned acts their heart out, not least a youthful Heath Ledger, who is simply stunning in his cameo performance as Billy-Bob's doomed son. Superior movie making.

Harry's game

So, Prince Harry is going to trek 200 miles to the South Pole across some of the most inhospitable conditions to be found anywhere on Earth. Good for him. He is doing it for charity, (I'm not sure which one, could it be Help for Heroes?) and he should, given enough publicity, make an absolute bomb. But I have a little question. Who is footing the bill for protecting our intrepid boy, to prevent him becoming some sort of latter-day Captain Scott? Doubtless he'd make even more money if he did, but the state isn't about to let that happen. Just like when he was in Afghan, an elaborate machine will be put in place to ensure he comes to no harm. In a war zone this is hard (and expensive) enough; but in Antarctica the logistics will be tremendous. And just like in a theatre of war, those protecting him will be putting their own lives at risk too. You just can't get anything wrong in such an unforgiving environment, and I can already imagine the fleet of aircraft that will be needed for the job, circling overhead, getting his party in their benevolent sights, making sure everyone is safe, warm and well fed. I shouldn't be surprised if Harry ends up getting sick of the constant drone in his ears and tells them to bugger off and leave him in peace for a while. But they won't. They can't. He's too damn precious.

What I'm saying is, take out what it will cost to prevent Harry from dying from hypothermia, knock it off from the money he will raise: how much will be left? It's like people (and I know one or two personally) who do things like climb Mount Kilimanjaro for charity: couldn't they just donate the airfare and hotel bills instead and stay at home? It'd be a lot greener.

When my wife and I climbed Snowdon in the summer of 2006, there were literally dozens of people sharing the mountain with us who had already climbed Ben Nevis and Scafell Pike in the same day- the so-called "three peaks challenge". Most of them were doing it for charity. And although a number of them ended their epic journey staying at our hotel, there was no talk whatsoever about the green cost. This challenge involves, not just a lot of shoe leather, but hundreds and hundreds of gallons of petrol and diesel. Maybe I'm being a curmudgeonly old bastard, but there isn't enough consideration of these issues when people are doing what they want to do: whether it be raising money for charity, or simply having fun around the world. Travel is cheap, so the argument goes, so why not? Why not indeed...

I'm out of here

Today something big happened. In view of just how big it was I am more than a little surprised by how good I feel about it at this moment: I decided to quit my job.

As observant followers of my blog may know, I took my retirement from the NHS in 2011 when I turned sixty. However, although I sold my practice and was no longer the senior partner, I continued to work on as a part-timer. I worked two sessions a week at my old surgery, and also extra sessions when other partners were away on leave. Looking back, I think I was fearful of stopping work altogether at that stage because I realised how much it meant to me. And indeed in theory I could keep going like this indefinitely. Amongst my GP peers it is common practice to go on until they "die in harness" as the phrase goes, literally going sparko with a massive coronary right in the middle of a surgery, aged ninety-seven or whatever. But I didn't see it like that when I was in my late twenties. The idea of a well funded early retirement sounded like paradise, and I grabbed it with both hands.

 Back in the late seventies the NHS opened up a brief window (they withdrew it seven years later) which enabled GPs to "buy extra years", by paying increased superannuation fee which then, if you so chose, enabled you to retire at 60 while retaining the same pension you would have accrued had you worked all the way through until sixty-five. In other words, you could pay extra in advance to retire early and not lose out financially.
However, despite the culmination of my financially shrewd move, ingeniously planned all those years ago, when it actually happened I was reluctant to give up the role that meant so much to me.

 But then my son died in 2006 and that changed everything. Medicine has always been a huge part of my life, but after my son died, I guess it assumed an even greater significance. And I never calculated for that, now did I? Saying goodbye to a world that has brought so much over nearly forty years of doctoring proved harder than I thought.

Problem is, humans aren't very good at letting go. If they were, half of the world's worst problems would disappear overnight. However, the Buddhists and sage counsel from across the spiritual divide seems to agree on this constituting an all-pervading neurosis in our species. And that to succeed in your letting-go process is the essence of spiritual wisdom; possibly even something towards enlightenment. They also acknowledge how difficult it is in practice. Personally, I would characterise it as being hard-wired into our screwed up mental genetics, like anger and grief. Perhaps there's even a survival factor going on there.

Is letting go a superhuman task, beyond the scope of  us fucked-up normal types? And should we even try? I say no, it can be done. It will be hard work, but then great achievements are not won without great effort. And if it worked, the payoff would be huge. We'd be happier.

 Going back to my little exercise in letting go,  I have now had nearly three years of this half-way house situation; just hanging on to a little bit of what was my former life was about, but not feeling strong enough to quit it for good. And in fact it may actually have been therapeutic for me to do it in this way, tailing off my "addiction to work", you could say. However, at a deeper level I have known for a while what needs to be done. I must finally cast off my medical mantle and move on into a truly retired life, but one that with any luck could still hold a lot of opportunities for me to continue becoming myself. And do you know what? Having made the fateful decision this morning and given in my letter of resignation, it doesn't feel too bad. It's still a novelty right now, naturally, and I know my feelings may change as time passes. They usually do. But I'm looking forward to seeing what happens.

Wish me luck.

Back to Earth, back to reality

If your contract at work meant you had to work nights and weekends throughout your working life, and then some government came along and said: you don't have to do that any more, and here's more money for your (less) trouble, wouldn't you grab it with both hands?

That's exactly what happened to GPs in 2004. And of course, we grabbed it in our greedy little mitts like anyone else would. But then the opposition began. At a personal level, even some of my own friends expressed their disquiet over the highly favourable deal the BMA had secured with the labour government of the day. With the ending of our responsibility for covering our patients "out of hours", the government instead put in place special centres designed to replace us. That's when the problems really started. People were poorly informed about the changes, and started using A and E departments as their OOH cover, placing intolerable strains on that service. Then an influx of immigrants arrived who naturally used A and E all the time because that's what they did in their own countries.

Now, and some would say, not a moment too soon, the coalition has introduced plans to return some of these OOH responsibilities to the people who are best placed to carry them out. And I have to say, much as it goes against the grain to agree with a Tory plan, it's probably a good thing. Problem is, it's going to take years to re-educate the public in how the new system will work, so expect more chaos and lengthy waits at A and E before that happens. This winter could be the worst one yet, especially if we get a nasty flu epidemic, which is overdue on statistical terms at least.

GPs used to be some of the most respected people in our community. I fancy this has changed now many see us a greedy, money-grabbing and workshy. Perhaps now we can rebuild our image as caring professionals who demand a solid working wage but are not afraid to do a bit of extra work to justify it. And in terms of how we are viewed around the world, we've got to make the NHS work, if we are to be a model of excellence and the gold standard for health care, and not the object of contempt and derision.

Storm surge

No one who has seen the effects of Hurricane Haiyen could fail to be moved by the enormity of the human suffering it has wrought. For the dead there is sympathy, but they are gone, gone in a rush of fast flowing water or crushed by a falling house. It is the survivors who have the real problem. As in the Boxing Day tsunami of 2004, perhaps 250,000 people died in seconds, but is was the millions left homeless and destitute that touched our hearts. A new tsunami of aid arrived from the wealthy west; some said it was too much, that it threatened to overwhelm the authorities in its sheer volume. As the campaign to raise funds for the hapless residents of the Philippines rapidly gains momentum, will the same happen there? I hope not, and perhaps they will be able to distribute the aid better than in 2004, because that embattled little archipelago is used to disaster and dealing with its terrible consequences.

One wonders if our opulent country would do any better if we had been struck by such a storm. If the early accounts are to be believed, wind speeds were the highest ever recorded at something over 200 mph. My house is made of sturdy brick and stone, but it was not designed to cope with such a battering as this. Its roof would have been ripped off in a heartbeat and left it uninhabitable. Low lying areas would have been inundated; had the storm hit London the Thames barrage would have been of little help. If it roiled up the Bristol channel, where I live would be under several feet of water. It is as if not a hurricane, but a massive tornado had struck the Philippines, as can be seen from the views from the air that have been seen around the world: huge areas where every structure has simply been blown flat. We are used to tornado tracks in America's mid-west; they look very similar but they are at most a mile wide. In the Philippines the track was hundreds of miles wide.

So let's get out there and donate! I'm giving my cash to Oxfam, because they have an unimpeachable record for getting the aid to where it is needed and wasting a minimum on administration. You give to the charity of your choice, but for God's sake give!

No poppy for Pelagius

Close observers of this blog may recall my reluctance to toe the poppy line. Last year I looked at the case of Jon Snow, the eminent broadcaster who announced he would only wear one on Remembrance Day itself, and was pulled  from his job at Channel 4 as a result.

I am not the only one who has noticed the total poppy hegemony that operates from around the last week of October to the 11th November. Every news presenter, every politician, everyone, it seems, has to wear one. Perhaps it won't be too long before a non-wearer will be offered a kind of white feather, given to those disloyal  blackguards who refuse to take part in a nation's grief at the glorious dead.

If asked why I don't wear one I would summarise my feelings as "it glorifies war" and I am perfectly well aware of the counter argument, viz "It's not glorifying war; it's paying tribute to those who gave their lives for our freedom" or something like that. But it's all cant.

In an absolutely brilliant piece in The Independent  on Thursday, Robert Fisk explained his reasons for not wearing one. Essentially, he challenged a number of fondly held myths about warfare, and he should know. He's lived in Beirut for over 40 years and has literally been part of the conflict throughout that period. He pointed out that for the most part there's nothing glorious about death on the battlefield, and that those deaths are usually ordered by people far removed from the theatre of war who have no real interest in who dies or how. Tony Blair, Bob reminds us, always sports a poppy, yet he presided over the deaths of hundreds of thousands of innocent civilians, as well as thousands of plucky grunts whose major concern was for their fellows in the foxhole, and not for any "higher cause".

He also wondered why the recognition only seems to go back as far as the first world war (which was fought in the belief that it was the war to end all wars, and as AJP Taylor observed, the politicians were prepared to fight more wars to prove that). What about older conflicts, like the Boer war or the Napoleonic wars? What about those glorious dead?

Finally, a point of my own. Let's look at Lord Kitchener, that iconic hero, tragically lost at sea in 1915 at the height of his powers. How did he establish his reputation? In no small part to the Battle of Omdurman, where a small British force devastated the mighty hordes of fuzzy-wuzzies to ensure our influence in that part of Africa for a generation. But what really happened? The "horde" that Kitchener attacked was in fact a vast rabble of men, women and children, many of them slowly starving to death, straggling across an arid plain, when a highly trained array of cavalry charged in with sabres flailing, followed up by an infantry with rifles, a technology unknown to the Africans. The result was an enormous massacre of the largely innocent. Glorious dead preserving our freedom? Give me a break.

We take part!

That's right! On Halloween we engaged with our local community and positioned an exquisitely and scarily carved (if I say so myself) pumpkin in our front window, thoughtfully illuminated by a candle placed deep in its eviscerated core and waited for the trick-or-treaters to arrive. For our scary pumpkin was there, not to scare away evil spirits but as a beacon, announcing the fact that this house was open for business. We didn't have to wait long.

We have never done this before, because over the last few years Halloween has been an opportunity for a mini-riot, with gangs of rat-faced scumbags roaming the streets, throwing fireworks and egging whatever they thought deserved it: cars, my front door, etc etc. However in the last couple of years things have been changing. Now we are beginning to adopt the American way, as exemplified by episodes of The Simpsons and Family Guy, along with countless other TV programmes. So now groups of children made up to their horrific nines (sometimes accompanied by their parents, sometimes not) are going door to door to collect confectionary.

The chocolate companies have been remarkably quick to exploit this new trend. Brands like "Cadbury's screme eggs" "monster bites" and whatever have appeared in supermarkets and sweetshops up and down the country; indeed, we ourselves availed ourselves of several of them to hand out to our visitors. There were quite a few: nine in all, in 4 separate batches (2 of them Polish), some brilliantly made up with wounds, scars and fangs. The atmosphere was warm and friendly, almost euphoric in fact, as for the most part the rain held up. One bedraggled pair lost out and were drenched by a brief downpour; to these  I offered them a double handful as compensation for their trouble.

At one level I thoroughly approve of the de-thugging of Halloween, but make no mistake. The main winners from this little social interaction are the good people of Haribo, Cadbury's and Nestle. Capitalism in action, and who can blame them? That's the trouble with capitalists: they're so damned smart.

October book and film review

Welcome to this month's media review. Three books and eleven films, so strap yourself in for a diverse and exhilarating ride!

BOOKS

THE PRINCE, by Niccolo Machiavelli. Are you a commander of men, new to your role? Want to know the secrets of consolidating your power and even expanding it? Then you need look no further than this user's guide, which contains everything you need to holding on to your position and seeing off any threat to your authority. Whether you attained your power through luck, an accident of birth or by military force, you will need this book and its wise counsel if you are to flourish. For instance, how about that old chestnut, is it better to be feared or loved? Mach is clear on this one: fear is better, though love ain't bad, but strictly optional. What is not good though, he reminds us, is to be hated. Hatred ferments revolution, and sooner or later either the nobles or the mob will drag you from your castle and string you up. So, keep the aristocracy sweet, and con the people into thinking they're getting a good deal. Meanwhile, be good to your army. Military might is the key to your power, and you don't want the generals turning on you. You may need them, not to keep down your own people, for they will only stand that for so long, but to ward off threats from neighbouring princes.

Machiavelli cites a number of examples of good "princes"; Cyrus, Alexander and Julius Caesar are three of his favourites, though the last of these is cited as having had almost everything a prince needed, but suffered the sin of arrogance. However I couldn't help thinking of more recent examples: Napoleon for example. Where did he go wrong? Overreached himself, of course, stretched his lines of communication too far, was not content to settle for most of Europe, he had to try to subdue Russia as well. This is something Machiavelli warns against more than once. A century later Hitler made the same mistake. They should have paid closer attention to this book. More recently, Presidents Marcos and Ceausescu could have learnt much from perusing its pages and maybe even kept their heads...Fascinating stuff.

A ROOM WITH A VIEW, by E.M. Forster. At the turn of the twentieth century, a pretty young girl from a good family is visiting Florence with her prim, slightly less genteel cousin/chaperone. There she meets the Emersons, obviously well off but a trifle too plebeian for her taste. Today I suppose we'd call Mr Emerson and his son George nouveau riche, a phrase I'm sure the Edwardians would have loved. George and Lucy exchange a surreptitious kiss, but then she's mortified with embarrassment and flees to Rome, but this tale isn't over quite yet. Back at her home in the garden of England she discovers to her amazement that the Emersons have rented the cottage next door! Whatever next?

Some say Room with a View is Forster's most perfectly realised novel (no less a critic than Virginia Woolf admired it) and I certainly loved its delicate, meticulous rhythms. But others said the characters of the Emersons are poorly drawn, perhaps because Forster himself had little experience of dealing with people living outside his relatively rarefied strata of society. And if true it would be a major problem, because they are, in a sense, the lynch pins of the whole book. But it isn't. I find the Emersons as real as the other characters; their gaucheness seems perfectly pitched. But what do I know? Only that this is a terrific little book.

A ROOM OF ONE'S OWN, by Virginia Woolf. In 1928, the great one was asked to give a talk to a WI meeting entitled "Women and Fiction", and this extended essay is an expansion of the talk she gave all those years ago. She begins, tellingly, by recounting an experience she had when trying to enter the library at Kings College, Cambridge. She was confronted at the door by the beadle. "Oi! Where d'ya think you're going?" Turns out women in those days were permitted entry into the hallowed halls only if accompanied by a (male) fellow of the college, or by a letter of introduction from the dean himself. After this sobering experience, she repairs to a local tea room where she consoles herself with a nice hot cuppa and a cream bun. This she is able to pay for out of her own pocket, because she has been fortunate in being left a legacy of £500 per year for life. Indeed, the piece could have been called "Five hundred pounds", because as Woolf explains, a woman needs both a room of her own with a lock to it and an income if she is to compete on anything like equal terms with men.

In her usual immaculate style, Woolf goes on to cite many examples from history to illustrate how the lives of women are blighted in a patriarchal society. She speculates what would have happened if Shakespeare had been a woman. Shakespeare the man, his mind fizzing with brilliance, made his way to London to make his mark and did so in the most spectacular way imaginable. But if he had been a female, most likely she would never even have made it to the capital without being robbed, raped or murdered, and even had she made it her voice would never have been heard. And, more worryingly, the situation hadn't changed much by the 1920s. Sure, progress had been made, women had the vote by then; some women had even written great books. But precious few. Woolf reminds her audience that change only comes about through struggle, and that it could be more than a hundred years before anything like real equality might be achieved. We're not far off that 100 year mark now, and there still seems to be a long way to go. And as for women outside the "sophisticated west", it's longer still. Because the way she described the lot of women in the 16th century sounds a lot like the position in much of the Muslim world today. Now there's your problem...

FILMS

INCENDIES (Canada, 2010) D- Dennis Villeneuve. The son and daughter of a recently deceased woman are in for a shock when the will is read. In order for them to obtain their inheritance, they must track down their father (believed to be dead) and their brother (they never knew they had one) At first the task seems impossible, but as they trace leads into a war-torn middle east, the truth turns out to be weirder than they could have imagined...
An intelligent, thoughtful film that maintains the tension right the way through. Intriguing.

THE FOG OF WAR (documentary, 2005) D- Errol Morris. A fascinating portrait of Robert Macnamara, one of the critical figures in post war American politics. Following a distinguished war record, a youthful but brilliant Bob became a high-powered executive with General Motors, transforming the ailing car builder into one of the most successful companies in the world. Seeing his potential, he was given a job with the state department, from which he became one of the principle architects of the war in Vietnam. It occurs to me that Machiavelli would have liked Bob a lot...

MISSION TO LARS (documentary, 2010) D- James Moore. Tom Spicer suffers from a form of autism called "fragile X syndrome" and inhabits a strange world of obsessions and isolation. But he's heard of the rock band Metallica, and admires them enormously, especially its drummer, Lars Ulrich. His two siblings Will and Kate decide to achieve Tom's fondest dream: to see the band and meet Lars. They fly out from Britain to Las Vegas, hire a camper van and go in search of the super-group. But can it work? Tom is so odd, so fickle and capricious (perhaps eccentric would be a kinder word) that even if he is granted an audience with his hero, will he even show up? The tension builds steadily as the Brits draw closer to, but then further away from, their ultimate goal. An incredibly moving and skilful film as well as a highly revealing insight into the world of autism. Highly recommended.

CHOCOLATE (aka Zen-The Warrior Within. 2008) D- Prachya Pinkaew. A Japanese gangster upsets his boss by having an affair with the wrong woman and flees with her to Thailand. They have a daughter who turns out to be autistic. She spends all day watching martial arts movies and before long becomes a supreme adept. She learns her mother has been cruelly treated and that she needs money to treat her cancer. Our girl takes on the job of recovering her debts, even when the debtors turn out to be vicious murderers. Not so vicious as her though...
Not to be confused with several films of  a similar name, you might think you've been there with youthful karate expert movies, going back to The Karata Kid series and lots more in recent years, this is better by far than those; gritty, unforgiving, and thoroughly entertaining.

NOTHING SACRED (1937) D- William Wellmann. A hard nosed reporter tracks down a country girl (the luscious Carole Lombard in one of the last films she made before dying in a plane crash) who is said to be dying of radium poisoning. The fact that her doctor has just given her a clean bill of health fails to deter the hack from bringing her to New York where she is feted as a dying heroine. But you know how it is, the truth always come out in the end... A delightful and hilarious romp conducted at a furious pace, as good as anything Capra did around the same time.

DJANGO UNCHAINED (2012) D- Quentin Tarantino. A dentist turns up in town (Christoph Waltz) but it's a cover. Really he's a bounty hunter, searching for a high-priced felon, but doesn't know what he looks like. But slave Jamie Foxx does, so he buys him and together they go in search of their quarry. Much blood and guts is spilt along the way...
When Reservoir Dogs was released upon an unsuspecting public in 1993 we knew were in the presence of a major new talent. For me it remains one of the best films of the 90s, and since then Tarantino has gained the reputation of making films which demand attention. And here we see vintage Quentin in action: innovative cinematography, a slew of references to other movies (in Kill Bill it was kung fu movies; here it's spaghetti westerns) and lots, I mean lots, of violence.
 The violence doesn't bother me, though it has some people. Other film makers, including Peckinpah and Kubrick, have already cornered the market in violence-become-art, so there's nothing especially shocking about Tarantino's blood-letting, except perhaps the sheer amount of it. As I say, Tarantino continues to make movies which demand to be seen, but for me he has never bettered his first effort. Its spare, lean perfection is something he might do well to revisit, rather than the sprawling epics he likes to do these days, and with far less impact.

LADY OF DECEIT (1947) D-Robert Wise. aka Born to Kill, we might also call this film The Man Without a Conscience. When Clair Trevor (remember her as the lush in Key Largo?) returns to her hotel room having just obtained a Reno divorce, she finds her friend and her paramour murdered. She does nothing about it and goes home to LA. Then by a twist of fate the murderer (an excellent Laurence Tierney) snags her sister and marries her. Trevor once again does nothing: she kinda fancies him and he likes what he sees too. An essay in psychopathy, this film still chills the bones 65 years on. One of the better films in the noir series BBC 2 is showing early on Sunday mornings. Set your TIVO on record and have your lie-in uninterrupted. Remember when you just had to be there or miss out? Seems like the dark ages now...

UNDERGROUND (1995) D- Emir Kusturica. aka Once Upon a Time there was a Country. Two wide-boy brothers carve out a fun loving existence in Yugoslavia. Then the Nazis arrive and everything changes. Not all to the bad, however. One brother does well on the black market, while the other finds himself running a sweatshop. When the war ends brother A cons brother B into staying underground (geddit?) in his factory because he has been duped into believing the war isn't over. This is all meant to be a commentary of the fate of Yugoslavia; how the warring factions were brought together by war, held together by the sheer charisma of Marshall Tito, and finally dissolved back into its ethnic enclaves once Tito departed this world. OK, but is it a good film? I would say yes, even though we have to sit through 165 minutes of semi-farcical tragi-comedy before reaching its conclusion: And we never get rid of a brass band which seems to follow the players through almost every scene. Perhaps we should think ourselves lucky. The director wanted the film to go out in its original length as made for television- a cool 346 minutes. The producers, thank God, disagreed.

LAST YEAR AT MARIENBAD (1961) D- Alain Resnais. A man meets an attractive woman in a vast French chateau: haven't they met before, specifically at Marienbad, last year? He cites various events that occurred, other people who were also there, and so on. One little problem: The woman has no idea what he's talking about; indeed she is about to report him to the authorities as a loonie. But he persists, and she can't help herself listening to his strange story. As we watch, a number of  possible scenarios are put before us for our consideration (or confusion) to add to, or detract from, the picture we have built up of what might have happened. Last year. At Marienbad.

This film, I think we can safely say, has had mixed reviews. It won the Golden Lion of St Mark at the Venice film festival; and some see it as one of the great surrealist movies. But it also makes an appearance in a book I have entitled "The Fifty Worst Movies of all Time", where it appears alongside some of the most disgraceful abortions ever committed to celluloid. Is that fair? I don't think so. Because although it is difficult and sometimes annoying to watch (you never really work out what the hell's going on) it is actually a serious and well-made film which does hold one in a sort of dreamy, claustrophobic grip. Alain Resnais has said that the film is a commentary on the nature of human thought, and seen in that light the film begins to make more sense. For the fact is that much of our thinking time is made up of replaying the past and playing out alternative scenarios in our heads. That's when we're not speculating about the future, which takes up pretty much the rest of our waking hours.
Does the film work today? Alas I fear not. But as part of the discerning movie-goers canon, it should not be overlooked.

EPIDEMIC (1987) D- Lars von Trier. Two men are writing a screenplay for a film about a lethal pandemic which sweeps the world. And what we have is the old "film-within-a-film" concept, where scenes of the writers engaged in their creative process are cut with sequences from the film they are devising. Lars went on to make some really outstanding films after this (Dogtown, Dancer in the Dark) but unless you are a seriously committed fan, you could probably miss this one out. Most mystifying is his decision to imprint the name of the film, in red, on every frame of stock, like some sort of watermark. I actually thought it was a mistake until I read up and found it was deliberate. Lars, man, what were you thinking?

BLUE JASMINE (2013) D- Woody Allen. Jasmine (Cate Blanchett) is a New York socialite living the perfect life until her husband (Alec Baldwin) is exposed as a fraud and goes to prison. Having fallen on straitened times, she goes to live with her more modestly equipped sister in (and can you believe this of Woody?) San Francisco. And she doesn't think much of her sister's aspirations to the upper crust, especially now she's broke. Jasmine has to find a way back to the good life, but how? A dentist fancies her, and that could work (dentists are loaded, right?) but she doesn't like him. Then the perfect guy comes along, big house on the coast, a salary with seven noughts on the end of it and gorgeous into the bargain. All she has to do is wear some of the designer clothes she's kept form the IRS, make a favourable impression, tell a few white lies and she'll be home free. Or will she?

I have saved the best until last this month. This film is brilliant, perhaps the best thing Allen has done in more than twenty-five years. Woody has made four truly great films: Annie Hall, Manhattan, Hannah and her Sisters and Crimes and Misdemeanours. And he's made four outstanding movies that are nearly as good: Love and Death, Sleeper, Broadway Danny Rose and Radio Days. I'm not certain which category this film fits into, though I am veering toward the former, ie one of his best ever offerings. I couldn't stop thinking about it for days afterwards; its social insight, its savage and uncompromising truth-telling, the sheer perfection of Cate Blanchett's performance. What's wrong with it? Absolutely nothing.

A little dash of shameless self promotion

Forgive me, but if you can't plug your book on your own blog, when can you?

It is with great pleasure I can announce the appearance of my story "Old Man Walking" in the Amazon annals, which can be downloaded onto one's kindle for the princely sum of 99p if you so wish. The introductory blurb for the story, which comes in at around 10,000 words, goes as follows:

Harry Jones, an elderly widower, is arousing concern among his friends and family over his memory loss. Harry has heard of Alzheimer's disease, but has no idea what it might be. He would say he is the same now as he ever was, just a bit slower on his pins than he used to be. This story traces the events of one day in his life as he struggles to maintain his independence in an increasingly confusing world.

And there you have it. I have based my account loosely on the life of my father in law (peace be upon him) whom I was able to witness as his faculties gradually faded over the last three years. I feel privileged to have known him, and grateful to have had the opportunity to chronicle some events in his life, albeit in a fictionalised form. Do have a look at it on Kindle if you have one, or download it in other ways as appropriate to your needs. Some discerning friends have described it as the best thing I have written to date, though obviously you must decide for yourself. I do hope you read it and enjoy!

Jim Ratcliffe 1: Unite (and Scotland) didn't

That much we all know. The Unite members, ie the workers at Grangemouth, suffered a humiliating defeat at the hands of one of Britain's richest men, and have to endure the reduction in pensions that formed part of their original dispute. Or did it? The fact is it's very hard to find out from the media exactly what the dispute was about. "Alleged mistreatment of a union official" is as far as I've been able to divine and certainly the "establishment media", by which I mean the BBC, ITN and Sky are not the slightest bit interested in reporting stuff like that. We even had the sinister re-appearance from the shadows of the BBC's Nick Jones, wheeled out today to tell us with his usual relish how the unions got well screwed, and jolly good too, just like he did, day after day, during the miner's strike of the 1980s. And they say the BBC has a leftward bias? Give me a break. All they are interested in talking about is the union's climbdown. But who's to say the workers at Grangemouth aren't actually the heroes of the hour? Aren't they by sacrificing the prospect of a decent pension actually securing the futures of thousands who depend on the petrochemical plant for their livelihoods? You may say they had no choice. I'd say they've got guts.

So who is this this Jim Ratcliffe? Seems he's worth £2.3 billion, although he was hit hard by the world financial crash; probably got down to his last £500 million, but then he relocated his HQ to Switzerland for tax purposes and now he's doing awfully well. So well in fact, that he can hold the whole of Scotland to ransom and get away with it scot free because, well, he owns the fucking joint, so what can you do? Even Alex Salmond seems reluctant to call him for what he is: the ultimate capitalist who can trample over people's lives and act according to principles that would look attractive to an 18th century Whig. I say: take the whole thing into public ownership  offer some compensation to Jim Ratcliffe and tell him to go fuck himself. I know it isn't going to happen, but once again, I must point out that this is what happens when you sign up to a capitalist system of economics where only profit counts, and people don't, even though it's them that makes the profit happen in the first place.

No more nukes, for pity's sake!

Here we go again. The government has given the green light to the French energy company EDF and the Chinese to build a series of nuclear power stations in Britain to replace our ageing stock. They have offered the builders very tempting terms and conditions. They will pay the initial building costs, but will then be able to charge well above the going rate for the energy they supply. Sounds like they are going in for a lot more forward thinking than the government who has permitted this gravy train to be put on the rails.

Don't you find it interesting that this French firm is going to do this over here, whereas their own country is starting to reel back its commitment to nuclear power, just as Germany and other countries around the world have. Most advanced societies have at last concluded that nuclear is expensive, difficult to maintain and potentially dangerous. Plus of course the irritating little problem of what to do about the waste, which we can dump in mine shafts and bond into glass blocks or whatever the latest idea is. At least we don't have to worry about it, but our descendants will, and they will wonder what the hell this generation was thinking when it went down this disastrous road.

When we were flying back from Norway this summer the plane passed over a vast forest of wind turbines sitting out in the North Sea, near the Dogger Bank. Ah! I thought. That's the way to do it. The only way to do wind power efficiently is to do it big, just like this huge wind farm. And it's not even upsetting the nimbys who can't even see it from the coast. What we should be doing is ploughing enormous resources into research into how to make it serve our needs better- and if we didn't spend billions and billions of pounds on what is essentially an obsolete method of power production, there'd be all the money needed to develop wind power, and the array of other sustainable energy production methods currently out there, but currently withering on the vine through lack of investment.

Media supplement: Monk and Game of Thrones

MONK

Here's the thing: Adrian Monk is a failed detective in San Francisco. A sufferer of OCD since childhood, the death of his wife in a car bombing has sent him over the edge into a severe grief reaction which has only exacerbated his bizarre and disabling obsessional tendencies. However, his extraordinary skills in police work cause him to be used constantly (well, throughout five highly successful series shown on Universal television) as a "consultant". In order to remain functional he requires the assistance of a "helper girl" who is always on hand to provide wet wipes should he have to touch anything, or even shake hands (Monk has a thing about germs). So there we have it. A flawed, dysfunctional genius who has all the ideas, while those around him wallow in their own brand of incompetence. Each programme climaxes with Monk's incisive overview of the case, which always opens with the immortal words: "Here's what happened".

His "team" includes lieutenant Randy Discher, a rock star manque, who seems continually distracted by thoughts that have little or nothing to do with the job for which he is paid a living wage. What he is doing there, and how he ever rose to the rank of lieutenant, is never explained.Then there's his boss, captain Leland Stottlemeyer (Ted Devine) a man with such deep anger management issues he is as likely to trash his office or beat on his juniors as he is to solve a case- something he will never do without Monk's help. Again we wonder, how did he make it to captain?

Monk was part of a rash of amazingly talented, if slightly odd detectives that emerged from American TV in the early years of the Millennium, but who are faithful to a tradition that goes back as far as inspector Poirot, or even to the original genius with a problem, Sherlock Holmes. We have had Dr Calvin Lightman (Tim Roth) in Lie to Me; a man able to detect falsehoods by analysing the slightest micro-expressions on suspect's faces, and Patrick Jane (Simon Baker) in The Mentalist, a former fake psychic who uses his skills as a cold reader to solve murder after murder. I should mention as an aside that although the series uses the term "mentalist" in its correct meaning, ie one who by artifice is able to give the impression of being able to read minds, for me, the term has come to denote an insane person ever since Alan Partridge used the term to imply that some twenty years ago. But I digress.

Back to Monk. My wife and I have become somewhat addicted to it in recent months, for reasons that remain slightly hazy. Sure, Tony Shalhoub has brought the character to life in a quite marvellous way, but I think part of the attraction is just how divorced from reality the shows are. Sometimes they take the form of pure farce: the murderer is almost the first cocky character that appears; we know that and it's only a question of time before Monk, who has spotted the perp immediately and simply needs a little time to gather the evidence. This he manages to do without any assistance whatever from the team of cops around him, who are willing to accept the first explanation on offer, and who as I have already stated are handicapped by their own issues.

One of the show's other highlights is the regular sessions Monk has with his psychiatrist (elegantly played by Stanley Kamel). In fact these are the only authentic-looking parts of the show's design. The rest is a kind of crazy, but highly entertaining fantasy world. And just occasionally, we are treated to a "Monk moment", one in which we see that our hero is not simply a talented detective, but also a kind of preternatural savant, not at all like you and I. There was one of these just recently. Monk sees a middle-aged woman in the street who for reasons even he doesn't understand, becomes obsessed with finding. He stops sleeping and loses his customary flair for work. Who is this woman and why is she so important to Monk? Finally he tracks her down and the reason is revealed. She received a corneal transplant the same day his wife was murdered, and is now seeing the world through the eyes of Monk's late wife. So that's why Monk became obsessed!

Monk (Universal Television), created by Andy Breckman

GAME OF THRONES

In a land, or even a planet, far, far away, there are seven warring kingdoms. Sort of think the Wars of the Roses, the Hundred Years War and then stretch your horizons even further, to Ghengis Khan or Attila the Hun and you've got an idea of what goes on in this remarkable TV series. HBO has been responsible for some truly great television in the last few years: The Sopranos, The Wire and Mad Men, and I think with GOT it has produced a series to stand confidently with them.

To me I think it is the imaginative sweep of the series that really grabs the attention. Based on George R.R. Martin's series of fantasy novels A Tale of Ice and Fire, we are transported into a brutal medieval world which at once seems astonishingly authentic and totally other-worldly at the same time. In the far north of this land lies The Wall. Is it in fact the southernmost reach of a vast glacier? We're not sure, but we do know that terrible, mythical (or not) beasts inhabit the region and a permanent garrison exists at the base of the wall to protect the rest of the realm against any incursion. Further south we have a number of rich and powerful families, each with their own fiefdoms, and who vie amongst themselves to be overall king. Their methods, murder, betrayal, outright war, are ones that are familiar to us today. Other things are not. There is talk of summers that last several years, and winters that may last even longer. Are we on a planet that has some sort of elliptical orbit, which swings them closer to, then further away from, their life-giving sun? We are not told. The imaginative power emanates from the pen of George Martin, but the greatness of this series is the translation of his plots to the screen into a superbly atmospheric tableau. Rarely if ever have I seen the grim and vicious life of the Middle Ages brought to life so vividly.

Further south again, we come across a realm of savages (at least by the standards of the north) who are content to war among themselves, until they hear that untold riches lie across the Poison Sea (where have I hear that phrase before? Oh yes, The Vikings). Only problem there, they're afraid to cross the sea. Or at least they are until one of the families from the north marries one of its daughters off to a savage potentate. Thing about her: she's said to have the blood of dragons flowing in her veins, and maybe that isn't just a myth...

With its huge sweep of characters and interconnecting plots, the series has threatened to become absolutely the best thing on television at the moment, though as series two begins to progress, I am beginning to wonder if it isn't getting a bit too complicated. Nonetheless, I can see myself watching it for quite a while longer, you know, just to find out what happens. You could do worse yourself...

Game of Thrones, HBO TV and Sky Atlantic TV, created by David Benioff and D.B. Weiss

Turning a profit

I was watching the news over the weekend when a spokesman for one of the big energy companies (they're pretty much all owned by the French, aren't they?) was wheeled out to justify the 8% hike in energy prices. This figure, well above the inflation rate, was, he explained, necessary to maintain the 5% profit margin the shareholders had a right to expect. And that was the end of that. 5%. Who plucked that figure out of the air and said it was perfectly reasonable for us, the customer, to maintain this vast flow of cash out of the pockets of the ordinary and into the far, far deeper pockets of the wealthy? Was it you? I doubt it. Was it millionaires David Cameron and George Osborne perhaps? Naturally any signed-up members of the ruling elite would also support it; after all, without a healthy profit, how can the wheels of finance work- why, without it the whole capitalist machine would simply grind to a halt and society fall apart overnight. Allegedly.

But I say, how about 4%? Or even 3%? Do you know what? Those huge energy companies would still make billions of £s each year, and we'd have a little more cash in our not very deep pockets, money to improve our quality of life. And maybe then these shareholders would think twice before they spent £65,000 on a drinks bill in a Mayfair restaurant, as was reported over the weekend when two Russian oil magnates became locked in an "I'm richer than you" contest and spent £130,000 between them in a single evening, apparently mainly in order to impress their respective girlfriends. These are the obscene beings we encourage to live in Britain with our incredibly generous tax laws. These are the people who buy apartments in Park Lane for £20 million and pay for it out of petty cash. Do they insist that a 5% profit margin is necessary to maintain their standard of living? Or perhaps much more?

Let's put a stop to this excessive profit making. We could start with the energy companies, by limiting their profits to, say, 3%. And when we've done that we could go after the big supermarket chains, who I understand operate even healthier profit margins, nearer 10%. Why should they go on bleeding ordinary citizens white? So they can "develop"? From what I see, that just means setting up more and more outlets in places that don't even want them anyway, as has happened right here in Cardiff, as well as around Britain. They're not going to rein themselves in. It's up to us.

Coming Lleyn

I'm sitting on my hotel bed, savouring my Penderyn "Madeira" variety single malt whiskey, produce of this principality and wholly appropriate as we are in the Lleyn peninsula: that long, lean witch's finger of North Wales which points to its Celtic neighbour across the Irish Sea.

We have so far been blessed with clement weather, by no means a certainty in a region boasting up to 100 inches of rain annually. Thus we have been able to visit a 5000 year old megalithic dolmen, as so often situated in a position to command stunning views of the surrounding countryside. The ancient Celtic people built these graves with great care: how else could they still be here to fill us with awe all these centuries later?  Makes you wonder how many structures the present generation has built will still be extant in 7013... The Lleyn is an amazing place: a profusion of long extinct volcanoes jutting out above stunning granite coastlines; ancient trackways in continuous use since those dolmens were built (and even better, delightfully free of traffic). I tell you there's enough material here for a month of holidays and not just the 3 days we have allowed ourselves.

I live in Cardiff, where about 10 percent of the population speak Welsh. Of these, the vast majority are from the middle class intelligentsia, or the "Taffia" as they are known. But up here, in the heartland of rural North Wales, the figure rises to over 80 percent. And it's not just the well to do either. We were wandering the mean streets of the little resort of Abersoch this afternoon, when we espied a gaggle of hoodied yoof, all going in to a local hostelry and jabbering away furiously in the language of their forefathers. Who said Welsh was a dead language?

And then they put him in the ground

Funny things, funerals. All sorts of things happen that have little or nothing to do with the act of mourning. Allow me to share a couple of random thoughts.

As we followed Victor's coffin down the aisle at the conclusion of the service, I found myself looking intently for a friend amongst the crowded pews. We had fallen out a few months earlier, but he had shown sufficient grace to be there for this solemn day. I was able to spot him and shoot a quick wink of recognition. It was what the occasion demanded and I was glad I was able to do that small, but important thing.

Then we processed the four miles up to the cemetery for the interment. There I espied one of my wife's oldest friends who, having lost a little weight, was glowing with an unusual level of sexual attractiveness. My lustful thoughts were disturbed as the priest began his final words, words of such power and beauty there has been no need to change them despite the passage of centuries since they were originally penned. By whom? I wondered. But then I felt a little robbed when the priest omitted the words:
Man hath but a short time to live and is full of misery. He groweth up and is cut down like a flower.
But of course he couldn't leave out the most important utterance:
Earth to earth, dust to dust, ashes to ashes.
The time for words over, the undertaker passed around a little pine box of earth so that the mourners could toss a little handful down onto the coffin, a final act of bidding good-bye to the departed. How old is this tradition? For all I know it could pre-date Christianity itself.

As we walked away from the grave, where presumably at a later time will be filled in by others, I reflected that cremation is a less satisfactory form of dispatch than burial. In cremation the coffin simply disappears behind a velvet curtain and that's it. I've often thought it would be far better if we could actually see the coffin burn, perhaps by providing some sort of heat-proof window so everyone who wished to could come forward and watch the process of immolation. In the Hindu tradition the cremation is carried out in the open air so that everyone can witness it if they wish to. But I guess it will be a while before we see that in our uptight culture. Pity.

When a relative dies, until the funeral is over, especially if the responsibility for organising falls on us, the process of grieving is put on hold as undertakers are contacted, invitations sent, funeral service designed, and so on. Only when the wake is over can we settle into  a process of adjusting to their loss as best we can. Which is where we find ourselves today. The pain, in my case already beginning to ease, is a daily phenomenon which allows us to get used to the feeling of loss. Few people reading this blog will have no idea what I am talking about. May your grieving be bearable.

September book and film review

BOOKS

THE COTTON PICKERS, by B Traven. An itinerant American labourer looks for, and finds, a variety of low-paid jobs in 1930s Mexico, and learns much about the exploitation of the working class in the process. The first of Traven's Mexican novels, and all the essential elements of his books are already in place: an acute social conscience, a lively wit and endearing characters. Worthwhile reading.

THE SAVAGE DETECTIVES, by Roberto Bolano. A motley collection of "visceral poets" in Mexico City hang out, get drunk, fuck and write deathless verse. Then they get mixed up with a whore who is being threatened by her pimp and decide to skip town. They also decide to combine their road trip with a search for the woman poet who founded the visceral poetry movement some thirty years earlier..

Written as a series of interviews with the main players, who (though this is never made explicit) are asked the question: "what can you tell us about the visceral poets?" What follows is an extraordinary collection of personal accounts, some standing alone, while others, Rashomon style, offer a variety of versions of the same event. The overall effect is astounding. Not since reading Ulysses four years ago have I been so totally overwhelmed by a book so innovative, stylish, funny and brilliant. Genius is an overused word these days I know, but it's one I tend to sprinkle very sparingly. However it is definitely deserved here. The book is not easy to read, but like Joyce's masterwork, it rewards magnificently. Here is a tiny fragment which despite its brevity conveys something of the book's atmosphere. It comes early on, where the book opens by "quoting" from a young poet's diary:
December 23
Nothing happened today. And if anything did, I'd rather not talk about it, because I didn't understand it.
Here's another quote, this time from the account of Joaquin Font, a man who has been confined to a lunatic asylum, though his utterances sometimes seem more sane than many of his compadres on the outside:
Then, humbled and confused, and in a burst of utter Mexicanness, I knew we were ruled by fate and that we would all drown in the storm, and I  knew that only the cleverest, myself certainly not included, would stay afloat much longer.

One of the greatest novels I've ever read.

FILMS

STATION WEST (1948) D- Sidney Lanfield. A gold shipment goes missing; its guardians murdered. A drifter (ex-juvenile lead Dick Powell) arrives in town: no one suspects he's working undercover to bring down the bad guys. He is soon distracted by the feminine whiles of the saloon owner, the luscious Jane Greer. But is she all she seems? Basically a remake of Destry Rides Again, but lacking the sheer verve of that great western. Not bad though.

IN THE MOOD FOR LOVE (2000) D- Wong Kar Wei. In the overcrowded and claustrophobic atmosphere of  1960s Hong Kong, a young couple do their best to retain their dignity amidst the squalor. But then the wife begins to suspect her husband of harbouring a paramour. Oddly, the husband living next door is beginning to fear the same thing about his wife... Visually beautiful and  very moving, it is especially notable for the series of stunning chiamsung dresses worn by the female lead, Maggie Cheung. These dresses, skin-tight, with high necks and all exquisitely printed, grace the film from first frame to last. The wonder is, living in a space no bigger than a large cupboard, she can find anywhere to hang them all up.

SERENITY (2005) D- Joss Whedon. In a star system far, far away, a group of rebels try to stay out of the reach of a heartless government. Then they take on an unusual cargo: a genetically modified girl, whose special powers include psychic ability and a 14th dan black belt in kicking ass...
When Gene Roddenberry approached Paramount with his idea for Star Trek, he pitched it as a sort of "Wagon Train in Space", a series of self contained episodes with a central theme allowing for character development. Joss Whedon must have had an almost identical pitch prepared for his TV series Firefly. His CV was certainly impressive: he was coming off the back of the popular and critically acclaimed Buffie the Vampire Slayer. He got the backing, but the series failed to catch fire with the viewing public and the series was cancelled after only 11 episodes. Which brings us to his feature film, designed to give those people who did love Firefly a chance to enjoy it again on the big screen. It still didn't work though. Joss cried for a while, then it all came right again when he was given the job of directing Avengers Assemble, one of the biggest blockbusters of all time. Good for him.

THE THREE STOOGES (2012) D- Bobby and Peter Farrelly. A trio of muttonheads are dumped on the doorstep of a convent, and grow up to be warm-hearted idiots who, when the convent is threatened with closure, join forces to save it from the evil developers. I was prepared not to like this much, but oddly I did kind of enjoy it, if only for its irrepressible enthusiasm for reconstructing the great comedy trio of the 40s and 50s. Those I loved unconditionally as a twelve-year-old, would wheeze with laughter at their zany antics, especially the rib-tickling brutality of Moe, the Stooges spiritual leader. Speaking of this, one of the high points is the dead-pan warning given at the close of the movie by the directors, who warn viewers against actually poking anyone in the eye (which Moe does to almost everyone throughout the whole movie) as it actually is a pretty dangerous thing to do.
So, now we know.

THE VALLEY (OBSCURED BY CLOUDS) 1972) D- Barbet Schroeder. The pretty young wife of a diplomat decides to venture into the heart of Papua New Guinea in search of bird of paradise feathers. In so doing, she goes on a strange and mystical journey into her own psyche (you couldn't make this up, right?) and awakens her own burgeoning sexuality into the bargain. This sort of "journey of self discovery" thing was very trendy around the dawn of the 1970s, and unfortunately this movie shows its age most revealingly, right down to the soundtrack by Pink Floyd. I really should have seen this film 40 years ago, because now...

ROSETTA (1999) D- The Dederene brothers. Rosetta's life isn't easy. She's got a job paying below the minimum wage, and then has to go home to her alcoholic mum who lives in a rundown trailer park.... You'd think her life couldn't get any worse, but it does... A powerful, well made film which was actually instrumental in changing the law in Belgium to prevent the exploitation of minors in work. Disturbing stuff. And the star, Emily Dequenne, shines so very brightly.

THE GATEKEEPERS (documentary- 2012) D- Dror Moreh. The Gatekeepers in question are the Shin Bet, the Israeli equivalent of the FBI. It is hard to believe any of the players would ever agree to talk on camera, but that's exactly what the director, Dror Moreh, was somehow able to achieve. The result is an incredibly revealing portrait of a secret organisation of immense power and resources, charged with protecting the foundling nation, and prepared to go to pretty much any length to do so. Their remit includes targeted assassinations of Hamas leaders (some of which took out a number of innocent civilians in the process), mounting extensive networks of informers in the occupied territories, and finally the protection of its leaders, something which went so catastrophically wrong when the prime minister Rabin was murdered right under their noses. The members of Shin Bet come over as the sort of ruthless, efficient secret agents you come across in James Bond books and whom you wouldn't want to cross- ever. The film deservedly won the Oscar for best documentary last year.

THE GIRL ON THE TRAIN (2009) D- Andre Techine. A young woman loses her job and interviews for another without success. Then she takes up with a promising wrestler who turns out to be a drug dealer. No sooner than they hook up, he gets busted. In a moment of "reactive madness" she fabricates a tale of being racially abused. Her friends appeal to her to come clean, risking the ire of the whole community. Will she do the right thing? Interesting tale starring the ubiquitous Emily Decquenne, who as usual distinguishes any film she appears in.

A MIDWINTER'S TALE (1995) W-D- Kenneth Branagh. A bunch of rep stalwarts are brought together for a production of Hamlet. This disparate group, after a shaky start, finally pulls together. Around this time, Kenneth Branagh was the wunderkind of all things British and theatrical, and I'm sure had none of the difficulties bringing the production together that we see on the screen. There are some good cameo performances, especially that of Richard Briars, but the whole fails to convince. Me, at any rate.

SILVER LININGS PLAYBOOK (2012) D- David O Russell. A young man (the estimable Bradley Cooper) with alcohol and personality "issues" is released from rehab and struggles to find his way in a world he never made. Then he meets Jennifer Lawrence, and things start to look up. Or do they? 'Cause she's every bit as odd as he is...
Really terrific piece of film making, with strong performances all round, especially the incomparable Bob de Niro as the hero's dad (is that why his son's so weird?) Possibly the best film to come out of Hollywood last year.