So It Goes

I like the concept of serendipity. Sometimes things just come together. So it goes, indeed. Which brings me neatly to the two rather excellent films I have watched this week - Kurt Vonnegut: Unstuck in Time, and Nomadland. 

The Vonnegut documentary is a labour of love by its director Robert Weide but it never descends into unthinking hagiography, rather it is born of admiration and affection for its subject. I like Vonnegut's fiction and I will read more of it, having been provoked by this documentary. You can find it on Sky Arts. I recommend it strongly. 80/100.

A wise sentiment (one of many) that I picked up from my father was his admiration for the way that America, despite its manifest faults, was so good at washing its dirty laundry in public. He first said this to me as we watched The Candidate together. I have written of that before. I mention this because as Nomadland started to unfold, I had the feeling that I was about to witness another such piece of soul-searching. In fact the movie is more subtle than that. I will let you see the film for yourself and give no spoilers. Suffice to say it evokes the unexpected warmth and humanity you find in great texts such as The Grapes of Wrath (film and novel). As for Frances McDormand in the lead role, this is a superb actress giving her best performance. A film for the age. 90/100.

Bloody Hell, I Didn't Expect That!

Well I did say that I would eat humble pie, so I am. Wales -14, England - 68. No that is not an error - 14-68.

England did get much the more of the luck that was going, but bloody hell, this was a rout. Ruthless, quick, skilful. Dewi, my acquaintance here on the Island, was quite right. After the first match of the tournament (Wales got nilled by the French) I told him I thought there were some small reasons for optimism for the Welsh. Dewi countered by saying, 'No, we're shit'. I bow to his acerbity.    

Some Old Guff

Instead of going to Cheltenham this year I was actually earning, doing a welcome and interesting bit of consultancy work. I sometimes forget how much I can enjoy being a lawyer and the great thing is that these days I get to choose the nice bits. Confidentiality and your boredom threshold means that I won't burden you with any of the details.

I kept an occasional eye on the racing without having a bet but I did hear plenty of old guff about how the Festival can regain its old lustre. Too late. You can rip-off your core customers for only so long. So yet another great sporting occasion has gone - Twickenham is these days a braying corporate disgrace and, now that Cheltenham has prostituted itself, there is very little left. Roll on the European Rugby Finals in Cardiff. Now that is fun.

I am writing this before the final round of the Six Nations kicks off. France will, barring a miracle, win the championship. Ireland will win in Italy but nothing can expunge the memory of their evisceration by France last weekend. I have a mildly dread feeling that England will struggle against Wales. This is an England team that lacks a killer instinct and (yes it's a cliche) Wales will be really up for it. For the Welsh the model of what they must do can be taken from last night's U20 international in which hwyl completely submerged England. You can catch that match on iPlayer and I recommend that you see it. It was notable for a dangerously inept refereeing performance (a performance which I must emphasise disadvantaged Wales more that it did England) and for a Welsh passion that forced the favoured English into mute mediocrity. I hope I am wrong and that I will, humble pie duly eaten, be getting back to you about a famous Scottish victory in Paris and a stout England win in Cardiff.    

It's Still A Funny Old World

I've been away from these pages for a few weeks. Apologies to my regular readers - yes there are a few of them - a very few. I note that the last time I wrote, I was mildly despairing of the world at large but happy in my own skin. Well the world at large has got worse - who would have guessed that Trump's VP would turn out to be an even bigger **** than the Donald himself. Yale Law School must be so proud.

But enough of such whining - you don't need me to tell you that the United States has fallen under the spell of narcissistic sociopaths. Instead let's talk about some of the good stuff. The Six Nations has been fun and I apologise for those who look forward each year to my minute analysis and, in particular, to the bestowing of the Ronan O'Gara Memorial Gobshite Award. This particular decoration has become harder to award as the game more and more allows all and sundry to question the referee and demand rugby's equivalent of trial by television replay. Such is professionalism. The other symptom is the Bomb Squad problem - the ugly feature by which the bench is emptied of replacements and an all-but-complete new pack takes to the field. Anyone know how to put genies back in bottles? No matter, there has been plenty to admire: France's hubristic self-immolation against a gallant but out-gunned England; France's brilliant destruction of Italy; France's even better pricking of the bubble of Irish entitlement. As I say, all good stuff. As for the weekend just passed - Scotland at last showed up but only for two-thirds of a match; Wales only condescended to play once they were safely condemned to lose; I seem to be alone in the view that England were turgid against Italy. In Cheltenham week (not going - I'm afraid I'm getting old) my fun bet is not to do with the horses but a speculative wager on Wales to beat England in Cardiff. The Welsh are rather touchingly obsessed with beating the English and this England team are fragile.

Enough of rugby (not something you would have heard me say in my wild youth) and back to the subject of Cheltenham. Tomorrow's card looks set to feature four odds -on favourites. Where is the fun in that? The dominance of the Irish (or more particularly of the brilliant Willy Mullins) is also a problem. I have no answer to these factors, nor to the increasing numbers of skinny-suited young men who do their betting on their phones even though they are but a step away from the most exciting betting ring in the sport. I'm just saying it's a pity.

Let me tell you of a good weekend, or rather a long weekend. My trip to Ynys Mon last week could only have been bettered if the Groupie had been with me. Work could not spare her. What her absence did mean is that having checked out the bricks and mortar of Plas Piggy (all sound), I was free to have a ridiculously self-indulgent few days. I watched five games of rugby (Six Nations and U20 Six Nations), I played golf on a gloriously sunny and calm afternoon on the deserted links at The Anglesey, and on Saturday evening I watched The Magnificent Ambersons. I reviewed this long ago (25 August 2010 when this blog was in its infancy) but was not at that time in the habit of giving a rating to pictures. I refer you to that early brief review but now add a rating of 90/100. That good. Even better when accompanied by a bottle of Barolo. I made myself a rather good cheese omelette for my tea. And to cap off the trip I had an unobstructed return journey and broke my PB for the route. There may be three steps to heaven but who knew that one of them takes only two hours and thirty-two minutes.   

 

It's a Funny Old World

On the macro-political side of things, it's been a bloody awful week. On the micro-personal side of things, I've had an absolute blinder of a week. It's a funny old world.

The bad stuff first. One really cannot get away from that bastard Trump and his shameless lies. He works on the principle that if you say a lie often and loud enough, it will mutate into a truth. Thus Ukraine 'started' the war and the embattled Zelensky is apparently nothing better than a dictator. Of course Trump neither wants nor cares to convince effete liberals like me that his sordid dissembling represents some new truth. He merely has to carry with him enough of his enablers to continue in power. I was wrong - his is not a policy of America First, rather closer it is America Only. Even that is wrong in the ultimate analysis - in this age of the unrestrained grifter, what we are witnessing is Trump First/Trump Only. 

To happier things. I have eaten well and sensibly this week. I feel good. Golf: on Tuesday, in partnership with MB, we posted a net 62 in the Winter Alliance. I think we might have won although I have not checked yet. Just nice to be in contention. I feel good. And best of all, yesterday I enjoyed a joyous lunch with eleven men with whom I had started at KEGS Aston back in 1971. To JRS, ICW, CDL, SH, MN, DC, SS, RGB, SW, TS, and NN, my heartfelt good wishes. Some of these I had not seen since the late 70s when we all left school. The years fell away. I feel good. I hope they all do as well. Particular chapeau to the good doctor, MN, who put it all together. 

Listening to the Moody Blues. I feel good.

The Death Of The Public Intellectual

For those of us with second-rate minds and of a certain age, the doings of public intellectuals used to be important. A.J.P. Taylor, Kenneth Clark, Jacob Bronowski et al had an impact on our ability to reason. I deliberately select three academic practitioners whose wider impact was televisual. That says much about how I imbibed my learning. 

Intellect has been privatised. And what brought all this to mind? Two missed opportunities that's what. Melvyn Bragg and Simon Schama are definitely public intellectuals. Lord Bragg (an entirely justified enoblememt by the way) brings us the staggering In Our Time every week on Radio 4 and his South Bank Show was a beacon of high-brow television. As for Schama, he has been bringing us provocative television for decades. All of which means that their recent offerings come as a disappointment. In Why Art Matters (Bragg), and The Story of Us (Schama) both men come across as weary - understandable maybe, but disappointing nonetheless.

Bragg's lament (I was going to call it a rant, but it is too quiet for that) at the dying of the artistic light in  modern Britain preaches to the choir. His Lordship interviews a succession of creatives and asks them to agree with his proposition that the arts are in crisis. All agree. Duh! Dissenting voices would have been interesting - maybe there aren't any. An opportunity missed. As I write this it occurs to me that I am being ungenerous - this may be so and perhaps Bragg is fully entitled to be exhausted after a working lifetime spent carrying the torch for the arts. Nonetheless, a disappointment.

Schama's The Story of Us, purports to be a modern cultural history of the United Kingdom. Schama too comes across as tired of carrying that torch. The three part series (the shortness of the series says much about the poverty of BBC commissioning) only really comes alive in its final portion when it considers Northern Ireland. Of all people it is Bono (I know, bloody Bono) who, interviewed by Schama, sheds a discerning light on the interaction of culture and politics. 

I feel mean writing this since both Bragg and Schama have plenty of credit in the cultural bank. They have more than done their bit.   

The Great Dictator

If pressed for an opinion (well, in fact, I rarely need pressing - I accept this) I would profess a preference for the silent works of Buster Keaton over those of Charlie Chaplin. Chaplin is too cloying, too mawkish. And this prejudice makes assessment of The Great Dictator difficult because what is an important piece of cinema descends into mush at its conclusion. Thus the film is condemned to be more important than it is good. 

Despite this final disappointment, this is a movie with much good in it. Taking the piss out of Hitler (Chaplin's character is the pathetic Adenoid Hynkel) and out of Mussolini (an outstanding performance from Jack Oakie - Trump should be made to watch it) is manifestly a good thing and it should be granted to Chapiln that it was a brave thing to do at a time when 'America First' was a loud siren cry,

Despite its faults, 76/100.