Twelve Films At Christmas: 6-10

It's been a funny old Christmas to say the least. There is no perfect recipe for handling grief - even in the case of someone like my Dad whom dementia had been slowly stealing from us for several years. The finality of his passing leaves me a little numb.

But there is some solace in even the silliest of cinematic offerings and today we have selections from across the filmic spectrum.

First a good new offering even if it falls inevitably short of the joyous exuberance of its half-century old source material. Mary Poppins Returns lacks the attention-grabbing tunes that inhabit Mary Poppins but it stands up as a worthy family film on its own terms. 7/10.

Our next entry is a shortish (which can be a good thing) and action-packed piece of utter nonsense. Olympus Has Fallen was daft but its sequel London Has Fallen is way sillier. The plot lays waste to vast tracts of our capital city (good effects) and makes alarming assumptions about the corruptibility of our police and security services. It is all done with such speed that it holds your attention in spite of what your brain is telling you. Quite possibly the most preposterous film I have seen - and that is quite some statement given what I think of 2001. 4/10. 

It has become culturally compulsory to watch it at Christmas but I still harbour real doubts about the morality of Love Actually. I am wary of my emotions being manipulated so blatantly. In many ways it is one of the most exploitative films I have seen. That however cannot mask the craftsmanship at play and the fine acting of Emma Thompson, Bill Nighy and Alan Rickman. It would be a faux worthy statement to deny that I enjoy it but I feel a little more violated at each sitting. 6/10.

Let us take things onto an altogether higher plane for our two final films. I sat down to watch Some Like It Hot in the company of my Mum. If you want to get picky about these things I suppose you can harbour doubts about the sexual politics of this film but you have to admire the sheer acuity of script, direction and, above all playing that is on show. Jack Lemon. Tony Curtis, never better and Marilyn Monroe completely captivating. As the final words of the film remind us 'Nobody's perfect', but some movies get pleasantly close. 9/10.

And that brings us to a conclusion with, marginally, the best of the bunch. As I get older and soppier (honest guv) the more the end of The Railway Children has the power to move me close to tears. That this was Lionel Jeffries's directorial debut borders the miraculous because every frame of this piece is working its socks off. Less is more. 9/10.

Advent 24

I first heard this song on the Robin Valk rock show on BRMB - some of my contemporaries were John Peel listeners (Radio 1) but for me the favoured guide through music was Valk. For years I did not own a copy of the song other than the tape I took from Valk's show.

With all good wishes for Christmas I give you what I consider, after due deliberation, the greatest song of all time - Comfortably Numb by Pink Floyd. You can of course also make an argument for my old School song but that is not available on YouTube and would, I admit, be a parochial choice.

May your god go with you.

Advent 23

Yesterday we had the best video of the 80s and today we have probably the most cringeworthy video of all time. It comes from a time when George Michael was still masking his sexuality (we forget how far we have come in such regards) but it is coupled with my choice as the greatest Christmas song ever. Yes even better than Fairy Tale of New York and When a Child is Born. Please enjoy Wham's Last Christmas.

Tomorrow we round it all off with the single best song ever written. You know you can't wait what with my taste being so unimpeachable and all.

Brian David Roberts 1934 - 2019

The breaking of so great a thing should make
A greater crack: the round world
Should have shook lions into civil streets,
And citizens to their dens: the death of Antony
Is not a single doom; in the name lay
A moiety of the world.

My father died yesterday. As I stood over him for the last time these lines from Antony and Cleopatra came to mind. My brother, as so often, got it right and more succinctly, 'He was a great man.'

He was a King Edward Foundation scholar at school, A City of Birmingham Exhibitioner at the LSE, RAF officer, schoolmaster, headmaster, rugby and cricket player and administrator, devoted husband, an inspirational father and magnificent grandfather. In a life where I have been lucky to be exposed to many clever people he was the cleverest man I ever met. In his last years he was diminished by dementia but his magnificence remained. He was indeed a great man. Rest in peace. 

Advent 22

I cannot hear this song without thinking of its bonkers Bauhaus video - as I think I suggested yesterday, possibly the best of the bonkers age of the music video, the 80s. Mind you video never did quite kill the radio star.

Advent 21

Best cover version ever? Woodstock is a Joni Mitchell song, written despite Mitchell having had to miss Woodstock due to prior commitments. There is a Crosby, Stills and Nash version as well but it was Matthews Southern Comfort's cover that made the song a hit.

Tomorrow, best video of the eighties?

Advent 20

This for me would be the song to play loud and proud in the car on the way to a rugby fixture - if I was still playing that is. The Groupie and I have seen Muse twice - quite brilliant. Uprising.

Tomorrow we indulge my inner hippy.

Advent 19

I must point out that my Advent calendar is not assembled in order of merit, although I will admit that the final twenty-fourth entry is categorically the best song ever recorded.

That initial caveat aside I proffer the opinion that Judith Durham's voice is the purest of them all.  Mind you, I can hear you (quite properly) yelling 'What the hell do you know about music you big fat pig?'. You are quite right and moreover you are the lucky ones because for you, unlike the Seekers, the carnival is not yet over.

Advent 18

One of the all-time great lyrics, I saw the rain dirty valley/ You saw Brigadoon/I saw the crescent/ You saw the whole of the moon.

The Waterboys with one of the best singalong anthems.

Advent 17

My Dad the English teacher always told me that there are no degrees of uniqueness - the word unique is an absolute, something is either uniqie or it is not. Which brings me to Leonard Cohen. He is/was unique. First We Take Manhattan.

A Hesitant Return To Politics

It may not have passed your attention that OG (don't you just hate it when people refer to themselves in the third person) has been deafeningly silent throughout all the electoral shenanigans that came to a halt last Thursday. What you perhaps will not have forgotten is that OG aka Big Fat Pig (don't you just hate it when people refer to themselves in the third person by two different noms de plume) has expressed a comprehensive detestation of all our political tribes.

All of which means that I was surprised by OG's reaction when the (surprisingly accurate) exit poll was unveiled on the BBC at just after ten o'clock on election night. He punched the air and allowed himself a celebratory beer. It was not that I was delighting in the triumph of the serial adulterer Boris Johnson, but that Corbyn and McDonnell would not be allowed to lay waste a country which, despite it all, I still love.

I believe in the nation state and in a mixed economy which is sceptical of state intervention. I also believe in old-fashioned public decency and education as both a right and an opportunity. Corbyn and the dangerous McDonnell would impose upon us their dreary and West-hating dogma. I punched the air because I knew I would not after all be governed by men who despise affluence and think they know better than I how my money should be spent. Only when the danger had passed did I realise how serious I had been about the prospect of emigrating. Here's hoping that The Boy Boris can pull off that elegant trick of combining fiscal conservatism with nuanced liberalism. The Pig will not be holding his breath but for a small time he will tend to optimism.    

Advent 16

We're still on the folk scene (eclectic, like I told you) following hard upon that nice bit of electro-punk we had last week. This time it is Ewan MacColl (whose daughter's rendition of Billy Bragg's New England narrowly misses inclusion) protesting that he may be a wage slave on Monday but he's a free man on Sunday. The Manchester Rambler.

Twelve Films At Christmas - Or Quite Possibly More - 1 - 5

Christmas is definitely upon us - not only have we had the matchless Biennial Roberts Christmas Party but also I have that vital seasonal accoutrement, the Christmas edition of the Radio Times.

Hardened readers will have noted the slightly different title for this year's filmic blogs. I've got off to a flying start and may not therefore be able to confine myself to the usual round dozen films. Lucky me. Lucky you.

There's some real crackers (Christmas jokelet there - I know I spoil you) in this first batch, not least Coppola's 1974 The Conversation, a taut, claustrophobic thriller with a commanding central performance from Gene Hackman. 8/10. Coppola wrote, produced and directed this at much the same time that he was giving us The Godfather Parts I and II. Talk about being in the zone.

Next up on my screen has been another very good film. You don't see Laurel and Hardy films on the television these days. They were a staple of my youth and I am always wary of recreations which may damage cherished memories. I need not have worried. This biopic is generous to these two comedy titans and it draws fine turns from Steve Coogan and John C. Reilly. Stan & Ollie. 8/10.

An honourable mention next for Disney's A Christmas Carol, Robert Zemeckis's motion capture take on everybody's favourite Dickensian Christmas. It makes a nice companion piece for the same director's Polar Express even if it is not quite as much fun as my personal favourite adaptation of the story (we all know it but how many of us have actually read it?) A Muppet Christmas Carol. Worthy of a place on the Christmas menu, the Zemeckis film gets 7/10.

It is very silly and raises questions of child protection for the humourless but I have to say that I enjoyed Nativity!. Warm-hearted and with a cast of winsome, but not overly so, children. Oh and the main thing, it makes you laugh. 7/10.

Finally in this first tranche I have saved the best till last. An absolute undeniable classic, a film that observes the three classic unities but which never feels thereby constricted, a movie that does all sorts of clever things (for example the way the score merges in and out of the action) but which never becomes self-conscious. Altogether brilliant. High Noon. 9.5/10.

Advent 15

This one speaks for itself. A change in tone from yesterday, to put it mildly. If Ralph McTell gets tired of performing it then he never let's on.

More folk tomorrow. Get yourself another pint of real ale and roll yourself a smoke.

Advent 14

This is the one where I bend the rules slightly. They're my rules after all. The coruscating Never Mind the Bollocks was in my earlier Advent of great albums and you will recall (pay attention at the back) that no artist can be in this current list and the former. For these present purposes Johnny Rotten and John Lydon are not the same artist, just as the Pistols and PIL are not the same band. Public Image Ltd - Rise. As I have said before, anger is an energy.

Advent 13

I wish I could claim that I had this all planned out in advance but it is a sheer fluke that the most miserable song on my list comes up on Friday 13th. Anyway, who believes in all that superstitious bollocks. Here is poor old Morrisey complaining that every day is like Sunday. I know he is a bit of a prat but Morrisey does have the soul of a poet.

Advent 12

I'm not even clear in my own mind how this brilliant track managed to qualify for this year's list. Surely the album One of These Nights should have been in the earlier Advent calendar? What was I thinking? Anyhow, it's all a plus for you today dear reader - the Eagles perform Lyin' Eyes.

Advent 11

This one's a bit corny I know but this is a song that has had the power to move me to tears. Not tears for my father who is still with us but for Grandpa Hayward who was a friend and who did not live to see me qualify as a solicitor, something from which he would have taken joy.

Advent 10

After yesterday's slice of pure pop today we have what Warren Zevon himself modestly desrcibed as a novelty song. It is rather more than that - a tuneful and clever riff and, oh, his hair was perfect (the werewolf that is not Warren - listen to the lyric).

Interesting fact: John McVie and Mick Fleetwood played on the original album version.

Advent 9

I promised you a guilty secret so here it is - any list has to have a girl band in it so I give you Little Mix. A near perfect piece of pop confection with (to this tin ear) a touch of the Phil Spector Wall of Sound about the production.

Tomorrow is very different.

Advent 8

I spoke yesterday of the serendipity involoved in the Spotify Radio feature, heaping particular praise upon the musical journey you will go on if you state a liking for Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. Today we have a track brought to me on that very journey - Stephen Stills' So Begins the Task.

Tomorrow, something very different from the locker marked 'Guilty Secrets'.

Advent 7

There was a time in the seventies when I felt like the only person who did not own a copy of Neil Young's Harvest. As with a lot of good music I came to Neil Young fairly late. Well, the fact is that all those people who got there before me were spot on. Here is the title track.

There is a spiritually profitable game to be played on Spotify - use the Radio feature whereby the clever algorithm composes a playlist for you based on a selected artist. By giving Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young as the baseline for your list you unearth all manner of goodies.

Advent 6

I first heard Goldheart Assembly performing Harvest in the Snow on Radio 4's Saturday Live and was utterly beguiled by it. I could find the track only as a free download on the band's website though these days it can be found on Spotify etc. When I played Egeus in A Midsummer Night's Dream (not a big role but the best production I have been in) I used to pace the woodland surroundings of the open air theatre rehearsing my lines and listening privately to this tune. Tomorrow a different type of harvest.

Advent 5

I make no claims of good taste or discernment - well actually I do but I'm being modest. Today's choice is a near perfect piece of pop schmaltz complete with a corny and self-regarding video. But when all is said and done Jon Secada's Just Another Day is a very superior noise.

Advent 4

The eclecticism continues. This is a hippyish remnant from 1973. Covered by several artists I stick with the original Maria Muldaur version of Midnight at the Oasis. Cactus is our friend - indeed.

Advent 3

My tastes can charitably described as eclectic - code for all over the shop. Anyway, as if to prove the point we have a lovely bit of country today, Glen Campbell's Galveston. Country music tells simple stories with precision and conciseness. I'm a sucker for its better examples.

For copyright reasons (apparently) I cannot embed the video but if you click on the message "Watch this video on YouTube" you will see Glen in all his cravated glory - at least I think that's a cravat.

Advent 2

Today's choice is rousing yet, after sane reflection, chilling. It is a putative Nazi anthem though it was in fact written for the musical Cabaret in 1966. The accompanying clip from the brilliant film version of that musical is cleverly done - at first we see only the face of the young singer. The voice is clear, clean and uplifting. Only gradually is his Hitler Youth uniform revealed. Note as well the old man in the crowd who has seen it all before and refuses to be roused. A stellar piece of music - Tomorrow Belongs to Me. 

A King At Nightfall - Farewell To The Hypertension Kid

After a long illness Clive James succumbed to Leukaemia last weekend. A true great has died, on balance the greatest critic and cultural influencer of the last fifty years.

I've encourged you to do this before but if you have not yet done so please take on board the songs that James wrote with Pete Atkin. They display a gargantuan wit with elegance and affection - pete atkin/clive james

A sample:

Last night I met the Hypertension Kid/ Grimly chasing shorts with halves of bitter/ In a Mayfair cub they call the Early Quitter/ He met my eyes and hit me for a quid

Beautiful and so very clever. As they say in Wayne's World, we are not worthy.

Advent 1

I promised you cheese so here it is. Those of you a certain age and comic sensibility will recall that Johnny Mathis was the musical preference of Gerald the Gorilla. Well here you can hear why - the second best Christmas song of all time. No, you'll have to keep reading to encounter the best.

Advent: The Rules Of Engagement

It is only one day away, the day you look forward to so much. Big Fat Pig's Advent calendar starts tomorrow. It is therefore time to explain the rules for this year's list. Bet you can't wait.

This year we have songs, individual songs, not albums. The further wrinkle is that any track from my previous Advent list cannot be included and indeed no artist from that former list can appear - there is a slight caveat to that second rule but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

So make sure you tune in tomorrow for a seasonal and cheesy start. Yo ho ho.

An Afternoon Of Great Films

The very apex of the yuletide season is fast upon us - the Roberts Christmas party. Today was advance planning day, which means bags of work for the Groupie and a little for Big Fat Pig. The Pig's most onerous task is to choose the wines - he will march on Majestic Wine and taste his way to a decision. It's a hard life.

As the planning was going on around him the Pig happened upon the 1946 version (by a mile the best) of Great Expectations. This is David Lean living up to his surname (his later works are a tad monumental) and directing a pacy affectionate piece of Dickens. 8.5/10.

And while that was going on the Pig was recording Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs for later consumption - he has told you before what he thinks of that masterpiece.

The State Of The Polls

My second alma mater (yes I have two undergraduate degrees, hence the massively witty title of this blog) today played host to the launch of the Labour Party Manifesto. It is Birmingham City University of which I speak. A couple of days ago all post-graduate students (of which I am one) were warned that access to certain buildings would be denied today and that memo seemed to relish informing us that the nature of the event causing such closure could not be revealed 'for security reasons'. What a load of old bollocks - I immediately guessed what it was going to be. After all the Lib Dems had already sounded their pootling fanfare and the Tories presumably have more sense than to show up on a modern university campus. Anyway I just hope we charged Labour through the nose for the privilege.

I've been reading said manifesto this afternoon. It is, on balance, a dire document born of Old Labour shibboleths and bearing the imprimatur not so much of the dreadful Corbyn (or Magic Grandpa as Rod Liddle so aptly styles him) but of the gimlet eyed Most Dangerous Man in Britain, John McDonnell. McDonnell is deadly serious and deadly clever. He hates enterprise with a passion - for him it is the immoral extraction of surplus value created by and belonging to the proletariat. Many years ago I had and kept a copy of the 1983 Labour Manifesto, 'the longest suicide note in political history' as it was described. We could afford to laugh about it because there never was a hope of Michael Foot (another clever man - though more decent than McDonnell) becoming Prime Minister. It is harder to laugh these days because Labour can win. McDonnell's acuity is ranged against a tired Conservative Party led by a dilettante with no moral anchor.

You pays your money and you takes your chance. Last one out, switch the lights off.

The Omen

Why remake a perfectly adequate film? There is I suppose some warped sense in having another go at a perfectly inadequate film, but having watched both the 1976 and 2006 iterations of The Omen, I find myself wondering at the thinking behind the revamp. The second faithfully apes the first and cannot, so far as this limited critic can tell, add anything of substance to the first. I am at least relieved to observe that the later version does not try to up the ante on the gore front - the decapitation scene is perhaps more graphically done but that's about it.

But the similarities between the two pictures at least mean that only one editorial comment is needed. This is an enjoyably portentous, souped-up dip into the world of religion and evil possession. Better (by some degree in fact) than The Da Vinci Code and its daft sibling Angels and Demons, I wouldn't put you off either serving of this diabolical fare but wouldn't recommend that you go out of your way to test either. 6/10 apiece.

It has come to me that I can answer the question I posed at my start above - check out the two versions of True Grit and you'll see where I'm going.

Manchester By The Sea

Manchester by the Sea is not simply one of those worthy but forgettable films that garner awards (Casey Affleck won the Best Actor Oscar), it is not merely a good film, it is a very good one, perhaps on the cusp of greatness. Its subject matter is potentially ruinous dealing as it does with the daunting emotional baggage of Affleck's central character. But in among the tragedy there is a gentle almost painful comic spirit at play and an overriding sense of the possibility of redemption. Ther is no sugar-coated ending but the human spirit remains alive to fight another day and that alone is to be wondered at. Search this film out. 9/10. 

Our Kind Of Traitor

I haven't read this particular le Carre novel but it belongs to his post Cold War oeuvre, a category I find less satisfactory than the classic Smiley texts. But, no matter, the filmed version is effectively done and hammers home the author's disdain for the English governing class.

The title might be taken to refer to the Russian money-launderer who betrays his overlord but can also be taken to refer to the largely unseen British politician who endorses the scam. In the new world order that le Carre so despises such men have become our kinds of traitor. Ewan McGregor is good as the English academic sucked into the murky world of intelligence but the film belongs to Stellan Scarsgard as the charming and vulgar Russian traitor. 6.5/10. 

The Last Jedi - Reappraisal

I watched The Last Jedi for a second time last night (first viewing was over a year ago) and I think I was a tad parsimonious when I gave it 7.5/10 on first encounter. No, it's better than that - perhaps fifteen minutes overlong but with plenty of action and attendant depth. 8/10.

RWC19.7

It may all have been my fault. I should have watched the match from the exact same position as I occupied for the dismantling of New Zealand. Instead I abandoned the right hand side of the sofa in what we rather tweely call the snug and imposed myself upon the hospitality of TW and SW in Milton Keynes. Their hosting was faultless but I still have to live with the fact that I caused England to lose the World Cup final. Sorry.

More realistically we have to acknowledge a good old-fashioned Springbok shellacking, a brutal evisceration of the shell-shocked English based upon a ferociously dominant scrummage. I have my reservations about the modern vogue which referees the scrummage so that the weaker side automatically concedes a penalty once in retreat, but England have benefited plentifully from this perverse jurisprudence in the past, so no complaints from this commentator.

Overall probably the best RWC thus far - organised with flair and dignity by the host nation, whose progress to the quarter-final was the best news to come out of the tournament.  

Jack Ryan And The Roman-Fleuve

Actually not just the roman-fleuve but also film-fleuve, if that is actually a thing - I think you know what I mean. Tom Clancy's techno/military novel sequence is not (bear with me here) without literary merit. If nothing else it is a wonder of sustained pacy story-telling and consistent characterisation and, in the dreadful age of Trump, it gives us in Jack Ryan a leading character of almost super-human quality.

Jack Ryan as a movie/television character has had a chameleon life, being played by a handful of actors and leaping around in time. So far as I can tell the filmic and/or televisual Ryan has not yet ascended (as he does in the books) to the Oval Office but one can almost hope that he does - he would be the best fictional President since the saintly Jed Bartlett. Clancy was a Reaganite (which this blog has never used as an insult) and heaven knows what he would have made of an arch-coward like Trump. I hope he would have detested him.  

RWC19.6

I have let the excitement of the weekend dissipate. It ill behoves an Englishman to be seen as boastful - just take a look (if you can stand it) at the semi-literate bile that dominates the message boards on BBC Sport. Calm down lads and lasses (more, many more of the former than the latter I fear) England haven't won anything yet. I say this as a warning both to proud Englishmen and to the inveterate haters of all things English. For heaven's sake chaps I even heard a radio debate today about where the victory parade should be held. Hubris lads - look it up.

I will keep it to this - I have been watching England matches man and boy for fifty years and I have never seen a better performance than that which dismantled New Zealand on Saturday. All of which is rather splendid but means nothing when you are facing a Springbok team revelling in underdog status. It has the potential to be a compelling and brutal final.

As for Wales and the match that eliminated them, well, both sides were pretty lamentable. Which, again, means nothing in the context of the final. I will admit to some guilty relief at the outcome - I have long held that an England/Wales final would fall to the Welsh. 

Quebec.7

Been back for a couple of weeks now and there has been time for some sober reflection. Considered opinion: Quebec is ace; Canada is ace.

Montreal would not be on my shortlist for best city in the world (its west coast cousin, Vancouver, would be) but that doesn't mean it's not nice - plus you can even get a decent pint of bitter, another international sign of the rise of the craft breweries. But once we proceeded out of the city the scenery and the wildlife (principally those whales) took over and, put simply, soothed this savage beast. All of which natural bounty can mask an important fact, namely that Canada is an intensely civilised nation. I picked up a free copy of the Globe and Mail (still a broadsheet) at the airport on the way home and two items summed this civility up for me. First consider this sane and impartial editorial on the topic of their then imminent election (Trudeau and his hair have since narrowly prevailed):

It wouldn't be much of an election if the leaders confessed the truth - that it won't in fact be the end of the world, and that Canada won't stop going forward and you won't stop getting ahead, just because another party wins the election ... Keep calm, give thanks for the country we have and don't let the cynics get to you. The election matters. Your vote matters. And the country we share won't end if your side doesn't win.

This speaks of the solid moderation that marks Canada. I have just been watching our parliament debating whether or not there is to be a general election and the quality of the debate tells us that here the cynics already rule. And what is more whereas a national paper in Canada can eulogise that blessed moderation, we live in a far more dangerous place where there is the real prospect of a ruinous government. I really do despair.

And on page B 14 of the same paper there is a moving death notice paid for by the friends of David Stewart Fushtey:

A true renaissance man, Dave was a landscape architect, sculptor and multi-talented lawyer. He loved music, art and beauty. Law was everything Dave believed in - discipline, justice and consideration of others without compromising his values.

I would like to have met Dave.

 

RWC19.5

After the various phony wars we have moved on this weekend to the proper stuff - knock-out rugby - you really can't beat it. Yesterday the All Blacks eviscerated an anaemic Irish XV. England dispatched Australia by a similarly convincing margin but that scoreline masked an altogether closer match. Nevertheless we should not devalue England's sheer spirit and professionalism - the marriage of those two things is at the heart of success in contact sport.

From this distance the easy conclusion to be drawn is that the New Zealand v England semi-final will produce the overall winner but, and this is the beauty of sport, it is never as simple as that.

As an Englishman, albeit one with a Welsh grandfather, this worries me about the Welsh - of the three other teams left in the competition I think Wales are best equipped emotionally and technically to beat England. I would back New Zealand (quite confidently) to down the Welsh and South Africa (less so) to do the same. But that hwyl fanned by a self-righteous sense of persecution defenestrates cold logic when it comes to an England v Wales fixture. I have serious foreboding about the prospect of such a final. Apart from anything else one would never hear the end of it. Still, I could always fall back on my Celtic ancestry.

South Africa brutalised Japan's brave Blossoms and the possibility of the Springboks facing off against England's almost equally mountainous pack is interesting. Having said all of this, I am back where I started back in September ie. betting on a New Zealand v South Africa final.

One other technical observation from Dr Pig the rugby guru. Has ever such a good player had so bad a haircut as Jack Goodhue?

go faster hair

 

Quebec.6

So begins the task of getting home. We are ensconced in relative luxury in the Hotel Place D'Armes in Montreal acting out the last throes of the holiday. Ahead of us lies the flight home and the decision whether to get some sleep or to watch some films. The sane traveller (a la Groupie) will opt for the former; the Pig will find it difficult to resist the in-flight entertainment and the free food and booze. He never learns.

It has been a magical couple of weeks in this wondrous country with my soul mate. Best of all, a close call, was the whale watching in Tadoussac. The cable car to the top of Mont Tremblant comes a very proximate second, and Tremblant as a whole was fascinating, in particular the Resort which is contrived and commercial but manages to work (at least to this philistine eye) with the natural splendour in which it sits.

Final thought from Canada- surely Justin Trudeau (shortly up for re-election) dyes his hair. You only get the serious stuff on this blog. Back to Boris and our own mess of a democracy tomorrow. Despite it all, it will be good to be home.

Quebec.5

Since my last report we have moved on a couple of times. We departed Tadoussac (about which I can't speak highly enough) and took the lengthy drive to Bromont, a sleepy skiing town East of Montreal. The accommodation there was the best we have experienced but the area itself was not really set up for even the most cerebral tourist. Canada is pretty damned marvellous but a minor complaint would be that too often the natural beauty flashes past your car window without an opportunity to pull over and savour it. Not enough paths (particularly at lakeside, though that is probably because foreshore is privately owned here) and a lack of comprehensible signage.

Tremblant Resort

After two days we moved on again and we are in the Mont Tremblant region. This place is definitely not sleepy. In particular the Tremblant Resort is thick with tourists. You really have to visit the Resort to appreciate it. It sits at the foot of the South facing ski runs and is a Tyrolean styled modern confection of accommodation, eateries and boutiques, all expensive but artfully carried off. In my postcard home to Mum and Dad I described it as Portmeirion meets Disney.

the only way to travel

The best views of the resort and of the surrounding lakes and mountains are to be had from the peak of Mont Tremblant - a very stiff walk or, as we did it, a brilliant cable car ride away from the Resort. Beautiful.

Today we have a last full day in Mont Tremblant and will be heading into the wilder parts of the nearby national park. Tomorrow it is back to Montreal, drop off the car (we have covered just shy of 2000 kilometres) and one final night before we fly home. We shall miss Quebec.

I'm The Urban Spaceman Baby

I've been turning this particular little essay over and over in my mind, rather fearing that it will expose me as the half-wit thicko I really am. Yes, yes, I can hear you at the back, sniggering and asserting that no new proof is needed. But here goes anyway.

I have in mind three films about space travel  - it's not all they are about but it pulls them together nicely. First Man is the most recent and, despite it being about arguably the defining technological achievement of the twentieth century (I know that's a big claim but we can argue about that next time we meet - over a pint) it is the simplest in plot and cinematic method. Ryan Gosling plays Neil Armstrong, an understated and thereby commanding performance. Liked it, 7.5/10.

First Man put me in mind of the earlier and sprawlier (is that even a word?) The Right Stuff. This epic concentrates on the early American astronauts, whose number of course included Armstrong. The show is stolen by an actor who embodies my notion of cool - Sam Shepard. Shepard was cooler even than Johnny Depp and only a special few people know how dangerously close I come to a man crush on Depp - before his recent uber-weirdness of course. But enough of my predilections, what about The Right Stuff, is it any good? Decidedly so. 8/10. My favourite critic Roger Ebert (like Shepard sadly no longer with us but his acolytes continue the good work of his website) rated it possibly more highly than this and I would never go out of my way to disagree with Ebert. Which will make the next paragraph all the harder.

2001: A Space Odyssey has always had the Overgraduate puzzled. Put bluntly he has tried on several occasions but failed to find where the fascination lies. So on the plane on the way over to Canada, in the comfort of his business class pod, he decided to give it another go. The screen on Air Canada is huge and the earphones are good so the viewing is pretty immersive. I cannot blame the circumstances or the locus for my reaction. That reaction is a mile away from Roger Ebert's which places it as one of the greatest movies of all time, hence my hesitation. But when all is said and done I think this is dangerously close to pretentious tosh (the film not my review). Yes I see certain huge merits: the realisation of life in space still stands up these fifty years after the film was made; the opening ape scenes are visceral and compelling; the classical score is masterful. But, I'm sorry, the final act is a psychedelic mess and a bit of a philosophical cop-out. Do I hear a machine in the background intoning - I'm sorry Dave I don't think I can let you say that. 6.5/10. 

Quebec.4

The Pig has lost his magic touch: no more whale sightings to report although the Groupie did spy a beluga from the viewpoint at the Tadoussac Dunes.

We've taken to the open road for our last two days here in Tadoussac. Saturday saw us heading north alongside the Saint Lawrence, stopping at intervals to take in the scenery. This is a magical part of the world. Today we headed inland to the Saguenay Valley, being particularly taken with the fjord at Sainte Rose du Nord.

Sainte Rose du Nord

More fine dining to report, this time at Le Cafe Boheme here in Tadoussac. Ambitious cooking carried off with aplomb in a cheerful bistro setting. The ambition can be seen from the Pig's choices - home-made black pudding as a starter and halibut cheek served with seaweed risotto and caper croutons, for the main. It all worked beautifully. They even serve decent local craft beers. Recommended, as is Tadoussac in general. Lonely Planet may be sniffy about it but to my mind it does tourism rather acceptably. I could imagine living here, particularly now I've found an English language sports channel. Only joking, if the Pig did settle here he would naturellement learn la langue, even better than he deja speaks it

Quebec.3

The caravan has moved on to Tadoussac, whale watching capital of Canada. A quaint town of clapboard houses set up to receive tourists and to deliver them onto the seas in search of the massive mammals. It's a great place.

We were lucky with the clear skies and calm seas yesterday when Pig and Groupie set out on the pride of the AML fleet, Le Grand Fleuve. This is a far cry from the Zodiac boats which jet out from the quay to get very close to the whales but your intrepid duo are rather more into luxury and had therefore opted for the VIP package on the big ship. Expensive, yes a little, but  a decided success. You get a private lounge with panoramic views and a private deck so that you don't have to charge from side to side of the ship when the beasts are sighted. You also get as much food and drink as you might be tempted to take. Worth the extra. We saw beluga, fin and minke whales and some grey seal. Astounding.

And that was not the end to the day's delights. After a brief rest we walked around the headland by the quay and the usually unobservant Pig spied a fin whale close in to the shore. A free bonus. All of this followed by an excellent dinner at La Bolee where classic French style cuisine meets Canadian standards of service. Again, outstanding. The Pig had beetroot soup, venison and maple syrup ice cream washed down by a very acceptable local Riesling. Today we are heading further up the North Shore for some more coastal delights and some leaf peeping.

An interesting diversion - I have been watching some playoff baseball with French commentary. Tres interessant.

Quebec.2 - Let's Parler Franglais

Le Pig etait en son prime quand il got 'O' Level grade A en le sujet de French. Depuis longtemps it has all been downhill. C'est la vie je suppose.

Anyway mes amis, le plus Nord on va en Quebec, le plus il faut parler Francais. Aujourd'hui nous sommes allee au supermarche et just about got away with it. Nous avons achete du pain, du pate, du fromage etc. Oh et aussi, naturalement, deaux bouteilles de vin. Le weak pound has un lot to answer for parce que le shopping n'est plus cheap ici en Canada.

Un success notable - je filled up le voiture avec petrol et conducte l'entire transaction en Francais. Bien Fait Le Pig. Aujourd'hui Baie St Paul, demain le monde. Au revoir.

RWC19.4 And Quebec.1

Following the Rugby World Cup from Canada is not the easiest - the matches are in the middle of the night and there is not exactly wall to wall coverage. However the interweb thing comes to the rescue of the Pig and he need only report that it is nice to see Australia coach Michael Cheika having a good old fashioned whinge after his side's defeat to Wales. Poor baby. I thought it was supposed to be the English who behaved that way.

Basilique Notre Dame de Montreal

We're now at our second stop on our tour of Quebec - first was Montreal and second is Baie St Paul. The former was good. We attended mass en Francais (but with a written English translation of the gospel readings - a nice touch) at the magnificent Basilique Notre Dame and ate out well - poutine is a must. Poutine or chips and gravy as Northerners might put it.

The Big Owe

Pig and Groupie were impressed by the Montreal Botanical Gardens though to the tutored eye (not) of the Pig the rose beds needed weeding. The Gardens are alongside the Olympic Park. The main stadium itself has a vaguely neglected look to it (it has no permanent tenant these days) but retains a seventies brutalist magnificence. Caustic locals have dubbed it the 'the Big Owe', referencing both its shape and the municipal near bankruptcy which staging the Games inflicted on the city.

The Pig survived the drive from Montreal out to Baie St Paul in the hired Fiesta without any undue incident. It's always vexing when you first drive on the wrong side of the road but we got here in one piece.

RWC19.3

From the comfort of our London hotel room I watched this morning as the World Cup got properly interesting. Poor old Ireland copped the wrong side of a Japanese typhoon and were bearen 19-12 by the host nation. Fully deserved too - a performnce of ferocity, pace and deftness.

Pig and Groupie are en route to Montreal so this bulletin comes to you from Air Canada's Maple Leaf Lounge at Heathrow. Nice. Updates to follow.

RWC19.2

England win. Before anyone gets caught up in optimism let's consider a few facts: New Zealand 92: Tonga 7; England 35: Tonga 3; now I'll admit that these two results are not perfect comparators - the All Black massacre was a warm-up game and England faced that first game of RWC blast that Tier 2 opponents (as they are so demeaningly termed) often produce. However as the announcer on Five Live tetchily (but pertinently) demanded - would the All Blacks tolerate that many handling errors? Overall a scruffy start.

Another worrying fact. Four years ago in RWC15, England scraped a bonus point victory in their opener. What happened next?

As for Scotland's capitulation to Ireland this morning, less said the better.

A Tale Of Depression With A Happy Ending

So here's the thing: the Pig and the Groupie will shortly depart for a richly deserved (on the Groupie's part) holiday in Quebec; they have been to Canada before and the Pig's ancient criminal record (drunk and disorderly in Oxford when still an articled clerk) has not been an issue; they have changed the rules and our travellers discovered this out only ten days before scheduled departure; cue utter panic and depression on the part of the porcine one.

But, praise be, we are rescued by two examples of administrative efficiency - a rare beast indeed. For a fee the ACRO Criminal Records Office in good old Blighty produce a Police Certificate within thirty-six hours. Even better, the Canadian Immigration office, now satisfied that the Pig can be trusted, provide the Electronic Travel Authority within another twelve hours.

So sometimes there is a happy ending but do be warned, for the administrators to crank into full cooperative gear you do first have to navigate the labyrinthine Government of Canada website - the Pig and the Groupie have three degrees and three professional qualifications between them and they were tearing their hair out. Moral of this tale - start the process early - even better don't get arrested in the first place.  

RWC19.1

Six weeks of international rugby are in process. Today's seminar is on what Rugby Pig has been calling the full court press, borrrowing from his basketball vernacular. This style of is much in vogue, not merely in rugby - look for example at what Liverpool do on the football field.

The press demands a vigorous pursuit of every opponent to the end of denying anyone time around the ball. South Africa applied that vigour for the first twenty minutes against New Zealand but then we saw the downside of the press coupled with the acuity of the All Blacks. New Zealand have elevated their skills so that their care of the ball (both in attack and defence - this latter aspect is oft overlooked) can be backed to outlast the ferocity of the press. Thus today New Zealand maintained control of both sides of the ball and crafted their victory. Don't bet against these two sides meeting again in the final.     

 

You Can Checkout Any Time You Want But You Can Never Leave

As with the Hotel California, as seemingly with Brexit, so also with mental illness I'm afraid. Great Big Baby Pig has a weakness and although he has been pretty well for a while now, the dreaded gremlins have been back this week, provoked by events that though vexing should really not have appeared insuperable. Better today. So this is a public thankyou (yet again) to the Pig's rock, the Groupie. The Pig's manic depression has made him particularly mindful of the daily horror that those without such trenchant support must endure. Mental illness is real people. As I say, better now, nothing to see here, move along please. 

An Old Fashioned Sort Of Film And None The Worse For That

The title rather gives away the fact that this is an essay in whimsy, albeit one with a twenty-first century sensibility. The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, whimsy aside, has a hard edge on the topic of wartime occupation and, an added bonus, is stunningly shot - Devon stood in for Guernsey apparently. The film includes predictably strong turns from national treasures Penelope Wilton and Tom Courtenay. A worthwhile watch. 7/10. 

Still Pretty Shocking At Golf

A funny thing happened at Alnmouth Foxton Golf Club on Wednesday. The Pig was hitting the ball quite passably off the tee and almost as well when approaching the greens. But could he putt? Could he bollocks. No feel whatsoever, to the detriment of his score. In the ferocious winds at the magnificent Goswick links on Thursday, this inability continued unabated. So it was left to Big Willy to hold off Mikey B in the battle for the inaugural Dunmore Shield. All great fun in that beautiful North East of England. Non-golfing highlights included fish and chips from Lewis's in Seahouses and a very good early curry on the Wednesday.

Goswick

It doen't half take it out of you all this golfing, eating and drinking an so the Pig has spent an inordinate time sleeping since his return to the family fold. He did however keep awake long enough to watch The Theory of Everything and rather enjoyed it. It's quite an old-fashioned biopic about the remarkable Stephen Hawking but none the worse for that and carried along by Eddie Redmayne's stellar leading performance. 7.5/10.

Why Am I So Shocking At Golf?

The Pig is on tour in Northumberland with Big Willy and Mikey B. Sadly Viperjohn is absent on sick leave but he is in our thoughts and prayers.

Big Willy and the Pig journeyed early and played at Dunstanburgh Castle on Sunday. They got very wet but revelled in the stunning scenery around Embleton Bay. The Pig played notably badly. He did the same at Seahouses yesterday and was mildly better at Bamburgh today. Is there, one has to ask, a more beautiful golf course in the land?

Two more days to go - Alnmouth tomorrow and Goswick on Thursady. I think I've just about got enough golf balls to get me through. Bring it on. I'm well of out of the hurly burly of non-golfing life, a fact brought home to me by the parliamentary proceedings playing out on the television behind me. Said it before, will say it again, what a shower of shit.  

Good Stuff, Bad Stuff, Loads Of Stuff In Fact

Four days have now passed since the miracle at Headingley which saw Ben Stokes, by a combination of megatalent and towering will, lift an otherwise hapless England cricket team across the line to victory. Watch again the last hour of that match and then try to tell me that Twenty20 is other than a tasteless frippery.

cricket, bloody hell

That was good stuff. Bad stuff was the demise of Bury FC. Worse has been the quality (more markedly the lack of it) of debate that Bury's expulsion from the Football League has inspired. Even the usually sane, albeit hyperbolic, Jim White on TalkSport had lost the plot in the immediate aftermath. The questions no one has been asking and which need to be posed are these: What is it that dictates that we absolutely must have ninety-two functioning fully professional football clubs in this country? What other country has, per capita, a similar number of such clubs? Why should the insolvency of a football club be administered by any standard other than that applying in all other industries (bar banking I suppose I ought cynically to add)? I do not deny that football has a particuar problem in being invaded by shyster investors but the crisis of football is all about greed at the top of the mountain and envious chancers looking to scale the immoral peaks.

Brexit, bloody sodding Brexit. Boris Johnson's proroguing (alright I know it's technically the Queen) of parliament has got the Remainer luvvies all of a tizzy. There is sham outrage and pious bollocks about this signalling some death of democracy. Oh good grief, grow up. Parliament will miss perhaps five days of potential debate on a topic it has already wasted three years of fannying about upon. I am no fan of Boris but the outrage arises because just for once a Prime Minister has outflanked the Remainers, a group who have become used to getting their own way in the face of nothing more daunting than Theresa May's crass, appeasing ineptitude. If you're on the same side of an argument as Jeremy Corbyn, Gina Miller, two dozen Anglican bishops and, worst of all, John Bercow, you might just be wrong.  

Two More Films. Good Ones

Roger Ebert the late and great film critic said this of Scorsese's early Mean Streets:

Great films leave their mark not only on their audiences, but on films that follow. In countless ways right down to the detail of modern tv crime shows, "Mean Streets" is one of the source points of modern movies.

The Big Fat Pig (that's me folks - although I have been for a guilty run this morning) is certainly in no position to disagree with Ebert, so he won't. In Mean Streets we see in detail the lives of everyday New York hoodlums, ranging from the misplaced morality of Harvey Keitel's lead to the nihilistic man-child of De Niro's Johnny - the latter a place-holder for Joe Pesci's piece de resistance in Scorsese's later masterpiece Goodfellas. At less than two hours the movie displays a self-discipline from which, dare we suggest it, Tarantino (in the news at the moment for Once Upon A Time In Hollywood) might learn - 8.5/10.

Spotlight has none of Scorsese's cinematographic style but is another important film. Ostensibly one might think it a film about the scandal of sex abuse by catholic priests in Boston, but that is only part of the story. It is also a lament for the lingering death (at the hands of the internet and a twenty-four hour news cycle) of old-fashioned investigative print journalism. An ensemble piece, it is the journalistic procedures it portrays that dominate the piece rather than the stars although we should take particular note of Stanley Tucci's bit part as a principled lawyer. Pointedly unhysterical and never voyeuristic. 8.5/10. 

 

Fahrenheit 11/9

Fahrenheit 11/9 is Michael Moore's furious polemic against Donald Trump. Thus, much as I do not share Moore's politics, I find myself applauding the venom with which he upbraids The Donald and his loathsome cronies. Yes, the dubbing of a Trump speech onto pictures of Hitler probably does not advance the quality of debate, but behind all this is the quite proper fury and mystification at this ever having happened in what styles itself a liberal democracy.

Moore gives Bernie Sanders and his childish politics too easy a ride but Trump is the right target. In addition and refreshingly Moore pricks the bubble of Obama veneration and gives the Clintons a good bashing on his way through. This film should be taken with a largish pinch of salt but it very much should be seen. Ignore the illogical jump it makes in its middle (it gets close to the point when it denigrates the electoral college but then veers off elsewhere) and just feel the outrage. Despite its glaring faults, 8.5/10.

But Is It Cricket?

Steve Smith (whose potential greatness it is foolhardy to question - check the stats) was felled at the weekend by a vicious short-pitched delivery from England's new hero Jofra Archer. Smith took his eyes off the ball and copped it on the neck. His collapse was frightening and it has now been confirmed that he will have to miss the upcoming Headingley test. In  a gruesome way this is very good news for England.

What are we to make of the species of bowling that can produce such results? We have to live with it I would suggest - sport can be, almost must be, dangerous. I think we also have to acknowledge that an unintended consequence of the safety culture that quite properly promoted the wearing of helmets has been the deleterious effect on batting techniques against the short-pitched ball.

When I blogged about the fist test at Edgbaston I condoned the booing of Smith as humorous albeit probably counter-productive. However there is a world of difference between coarse humour and the booing of a stricken warrior departing the scene of his downfall. Smith has been an egregious cheat, still is a phenomenal cricketer. The two sides of the coin need to be considered together.

So, yes it is cricket and I'm sorry if that sounds glib.

In Search Of The Lost Plot

Now don't get me wrong, I am not one of those Eng Lit types who is sniffy about J.K.Rowling - quite the opposite in fact. I'm a huge admirer, as any wannabe (and failed, let's be blunt) writer should be. What then to make of the mess of a movie that is Fantastic Beasts: the Crimes of Grindelwald? I can only repeat the sentiment I expressed about the later Harry Potter novels, specifically that Rowling's huge success seemed to have rendered her too important for meaningful editing. Her grasp of character remains in place and her invented world is capacious but in the Grindelwald instalment at least the text is overpopulated and drowns the plot. What we get is an extended scene-setter for later episodes to come. The special effects are superb and you keep watching in the hope that somehow it will all become clear. It is all good fun in its limited way but ultimate reaction must be one of confusion. A pity because Eddie Redmayne and Ben Fogler give good accounts of themselves. I think there was a theme of the blurred lines that separate good from evil and some less than subtle hints of the rise of fascism - both undoubtedly important topics but these get lost (at least for this spectator) in the gloopy porridge of the plot. 6/10 - could do better. 

What Have I Done To Deserve This?

I think I've posed this question before but sod it, this is my blog and I'll cry if I want to. And look at me daringly ending a sentence with a preposition - oh no it's not - of course it's an infinite marker in this usage.

So what's winding up the Big Fat Pig today? Well here I am, finding myself a citizen-subject of a country in which within the space of a couple of days arch-berk Jeremy Corbyn, arch-joke Harriet Harman, and arch-windbag Ken Clarke have all expressed their willingness 'to serve' as caretaker Prime Minister as Boris steers us knowingly over what most people think is a cliff but others believe is the tiniest of tiny steps. It tells you how little I think of this trio of selfless volunteers that I believe all are less well-suited to the premiership than the amoral Boris. Don't start me on Philip Hammond and Nancy Pelosi - two exemplars of a self-regarding righteousness that might almost put La Harman to shame. Let's just say this Phil: don't presume to tell me why I voted as I did you patronising twat. Let's just say this Nancy: I saw the IRA collection tins in Boston bars in the eighties that helped fund the bombing of innocents in cities like my own beloved Birmingham and it made me sick. And before you write in, yes I am a catholic.

But there are reasons to be cheerful. DN2 is in transit back to Brum for the weekend and she will be joined by DN1 tomorrow. We can all share the celebration of The Groupie's latest commercial triumph - she came back from That London yesterday having endured a sale process that has dragged on for three quarters of a year. Saying I am proud does it all less than justice.

While the Groupie was in the Big Smoke I watched, with no great expectations, Solo - a Star Wars Story. Here's the thing, it's good fun. It's really a western set in outer space and it overstays its welcome by perhaps twenty minutes but, as I said, it's good fun, certainly better than the first three volumes of the core Star Wars. 7/10. So, reasons to be cheerful. Oh and I forgot to say that I stocked up on wine yesterday and a sophisticated Chianti will be calling me a little later.

In Bruges

My short visit to the country estate (and for any new readers, don't worry I'm attempting humour - it's a bungalow) was marked not only by trying to find a solution to the gull-nesting problem but more pleasingly by watching two excellent films. I've already told you about American Gangster and next in line was In Bruges.

This is a tautly told morality tale cum black comedy with fine turns from Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson as hitmen and Ralph Fiennes as their deranged but oddly moral boss. Any film that manages to include this summation of a haphazard orgy, 'Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf', deserves my vote. Another 8.5/10.

American Gangster

American Gangster is a fine film. Ostensibly a gangster film it in fact presents one of the most intelligent dissections of free market capitalism to have been committed to celluloid.

The ever excellent Denzel Washington is the gangster - murderous but oddly civilised. Just as good is Russell Crowe as the incorruptible cop who eventually brings Washington down.

This is superior film-making, on nodding acquaintance with The Godfather and (a lesser film) Serpico. 8.5/10.

It Took Less Than A Month

... and already we're crap at cricket again. We had a bloody good stab at losing to Ireland in their first test match at Lord's and not content with that then proceeded to have a totally successful stab at losing to Australia ... from a seemingly impregnable position. Half way through day one at a predictably raucous Edgbaston, Australia were trying manfully to rescue themselves from the rubble of their first innings - they were 122 for 8. Read that again - 122 for 8. The Aussies were revived by the brilliance of Steve Smith and eventually they despatched England thanks to yet more Smith excellence (a century in each innings) and the staggering uselessness of England's second innings batting - on which score has an international sportsman ever behaved as unprofessionally as Jason Roy? Luckily the day which unquestionably belonged to England was day two and that was the day that your correspondent was sunning himself in the Hollies Stand, that repository of coarse wit and wisdom. Great fun.

Bradmanesque?

Steve Smith presents us with a problem of course. He is beyond question a great (as distinguished from merely very good) batsman - the statistical evidence is incontrovertible. He is also the man who was captain of his country when he assented to an egregious piece of cheating and then cried in front of the cameras when he got caught. The answer to the Smith problem is obvious however: one should both boo him as pantomime villain and stand to applaud his almost (almost I say, let's not get carried away) Bradmanesque accumulation of runs. Mind you, there has to be a suspicion that the booing merely serves to motivate this run machine, in which case we should perhaps adopt a steely silence or possibly that most English of weapons - a painfully polite and condescending ripple of applause.

So apart from a jolly good day at the cricket, what else has the Big Fat Pig been up to? Well, every morning he checks the interweb thing for news of what Trump has been up to. I find him eerily fascinating and still cannot quite believe that I live in a world that has allowed this to happen. Apart from that I have a tiresomely painful right knee which is so the doc tells me merely displaying wear and tear consequent upon overuse. Go not gentle into that dark night Pig. And we've got bloody gulls (flying rats) nesting on the roof of the country residence. They are of course protected so it will presumably cost an arm and a leg to safeguard our property.