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.
Thursday, 31 October 2013
Wednesday, 30 October 2013
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!
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!
Saturday, 26 October 2013
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.
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.
Wednesday, 23 October 2013
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.
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.
Sunday, 20 October 2013
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
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
Tuesday, 15 October 2013
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.
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.
Friday, 11 October 2013
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?
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?
Sunday, 6 October 2013
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.
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.
Wednesday, 2 October 2013
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.
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.
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