The Tolkien Franchise

If J.R.R. Tolkien is looking down on us, I wonder if he is rueful about the abundance of riches that have been showered on the hugely significant but lesser literary figure of J.K. Rowling. This (admittedly not very novel) thought occurred the other day as I watched the Japanese Anime stylings of Lord of the Rings: the War of the Rohirrim. 

I have ben immune to the Anime bug but I have to admit that this bit of cartoonery was perfectly passable fun. Nuance and violence nicely mixed, which seems to me to be a fair description of Tolkien's lore. 69/100.
  

Noblesse Oblige And Other Dead Reckonings

Not that I think it causes you any worry but this blog is hard to write these days. I find myself mired in a contrary sludge of happiness and apathy. Happiness at my own good fortune and apathy about the state of local and global politics. We may be going to Hell in a handcart but at least Big Fat Pig has got a nice cart. 

I used to be an employer of a reasonable number of people. I hope I took my responsibilities seriously. Actually let's put false modesty aside, I know I did. Virtue, in this respect at least, is its own reward. Not a point that self-appointed class warriors ever appreciate. I do believe in noblesse oblige even if that makes me a patrician old fart. This is not a point that Donald Trump would understand, even if he could speak French.

His Vileness the Donald is on his second state visit to the UK. Realpolitk perhaps makes this necessary but I would prefer that the odious one not be here. We have, as a country, played host to plenty of worse dictators but we are entitled to expect better from our 'closest ally'. America should know better. Noblesse oblige.

Prince Harry and Meghan Markle - what a pair of tone deaf grifters. I won't bother wasting virtual ink on Prince Andrew and his horrendous ex-wife.

The rule of law. What happened to that as the underpinning of true sovereignty? 

Apathy overwhelms once again. I can't be arsed to moan any further. Take my advice - seek out healthy institutions of any size and concentrate your good offices on their survival. If we all refuse to be worn down by the mediocrities (this is being generous) who govern us and do our small bit, then hope exists.  

   

A Better Space Odyssey

I have been looking back at the various mentions I have made over the years of the alleged masterpiece 2001: A Space Odyssey. I addressed my difficulty with that film in an entry dated 11 October 2019 and gave it a rating of 6.5/10. More interesting than that is the fact that I trace references to it in most other reviews I have posted of science fiction movies. So whatever I have to say (which I accept is of minute significance) about 2001, I have to concede that its influence is far-reaching and that, even to a sceptic like me, it is the reference point for sci-fi.

All of which is a very round-about way of introducing a space movie that I think is better than 2001. Ad Astra (2019) is not without its longeurs but it holds its own as an odyssey played out in the vastness of outer space. It has Brad Pitt giving his best performance and it has the highly estimable Tommy Lee Jones in support playing the enigmatic father Pitt goes in search of. 79/100.  

Cinema Paradiso

I have previously disclosed my misanthropic objection to attending cinemas. Modern home screen facilities are so good that there is little enough reason for me to mend my ways. But I accept that I ought to try. Anyway, enough of that and, via one of my characteristic diversions, I will tell you about two movies recently viewed.

But first that diversion. I am here on the island and sitting proud in the bookcase (note to self: we need a new bookcase) is my copy of Halliwell's Film Guide (2nd Edition), a present, I note from the inscription, from the Groupie on my twenty-third birthday. This was a long time ago. A very long time. I was musing (to myself, no one else listens) about the essay Leslie Halliwell appended to his edition titled The Decline and Fall of the Movie. Writing at the turn of the seventies into the eighties, Halliwell found himself dismayed at what he perceived as the film industry's collapse into self-indulgent meretriciousness. He had a point although his ambivalence about the early work of Martin Scorsese is a point of view from which I hasten to distance myself. Reading it again at this distance, I am pleased to be able to report that fine films are still being crafted. I'll give you a couple of examples (one of which pre-dates Halliwell's pessimistic essay) of good craftsmanship.

Young Winston (1972) tells (without being too hagiographic) the early life of Winston Churchill. It is engaging despite some  asides to camera (disguised as responses to an out-of-shot journo) that really don't work. Despite that it is, as Halliweel might have it, well crafted 62/100.

And now for something of a much higher order and a suitable riposte to Halliwell's pessimism - A picture that is concise, witty, amusing and provocative. And in case you protest - yes I know it's not intended to be accurate history. But it is clever (Stoppard and Norman wrote the script) and keeps you on your toes. We have, I suppose, to skate around the fact that it was produced by the odious Harvey Goldstein. 84/100.  

Touching Wood

Plas Piggy and Casa Piggy both sit on hills - Casa at the very top of one, Plas three-quarters of the way up the route to the beach. This shared characteristic means that neither residence is in danger of flooding. Which is good. It also means that hills have to be tackled on any run, always assuming that I want to end up back where I started. Which I generally do. So the hills are a nuisance, though probably good for me.

I have regaled you with the comical seqence of injuries that I have inflicetd on myself. There was the bike calamity over a year ago and, now that I look back on it, I really did make a good job of hurting myself. The knee injury is pretty much (bit of residual stiffness apart) straightened out and, as previously announced, I am back running and cycling. All is going to plan. Touch wood.

When it comes to the distinction between jogging and running, the most useful rule of thumb I have encountered is that the boundary lies at twenty minutes of sustained physical effort. Certainly as old age pursues me around every corner, I am happy to accept this designation. Thus I was pleased last week when I shuffled past the twenty minute mark back at Casa Piggy. Today I am at Plas Piggy (boiler emergency) and i managed thirty minutes. I feel good. Touch wood.  

The Oddity Of The Dominance Of The Combover

One should not descend to personal attacks against the way people look. That is low. But there are exceptions, particularly in the case of fascistic *****. So here the OG stoops low because his targets deserve ridicule. Who says satire is dead? And before you ask, yes I am balding (very).

 

La Dolce Vita Cymraeg

Here on the Island with my soul mate. We have had a wonderful week - pottering, doing some minor works on Plas Piggy and taking in the scenery on some mildly taxing walks. Yesterday brought to mind how Ynys Mon keeps favouring us with good times.

There are some excellent beaches on the Island but in high season it perhaps makes sense to head for the less immediately prepossessing. One of our favourite walks takes us from the decommissioned nuclear power station at Wylfa along the Anglesey Coast Path to the village of Cemaes Bay. Cemaes is a hidden gem. It has free parking just off the High Street; it has proper old shops (there is even a picture framer to whom we took some recent purchases on Monday); it has a presentable and uncrowded beach. But yesterday's great discovery was the cafe operating out of a utilitarian stone shed on the beach car park (£4 - so you're better off walking down from the free parking). Caffi Bach does wood-fired pizzas. Absolutely excellent. The Groupie and the Pig shared a margherita and a generous portion of chips. We ate these on a beach-front bench - delicious and not a scavenging seagull in sight. Life is good.