Funeral In Berlin ... Funereal In Westminster

Things I like: the work of Michael Caine; the writing of Len Deighton. These two elements collide to moderate effect in Funeral in Berlin. The plot wanders hither and thither and I rather lost trace of who was following who in divided Berlin but there are plenty of worse cinematic ways to pass a couple of hours. 6/10.

Things I don't like: self-aggrandising, affected politicians. I mention this because I am at present watching half-interestedly the parliamentary shenanigans over Brexit and it is spoilt by the showing-off of that twerp John Bercow. He clearly sees himself as a bit of a character. He is right but that does not make it a good thing  

Carter Beats The Devil

Glen David Gold's debut novel is a weighty tome, five hundred and sixty pages' worth to be exact. But reading it is no chore. It weaves a dose of fact in and around far heavier doses of fiction and populates a murder mystery in the world of stage magic. The overall effect is impressive. OG recommends to you Carter Beats the Devil.

It is no secret that I am a fan of that dying sporting form, test match cricket. England are having another feckless attempt at hastening the form's demise even though they have of late been quite good at it. England chose to prepare for the first test against the West Indies by playing a couple of meaningless two day matches and nothing else, bar, one assumes, time in the nets. Result: England were yesterday bowled out for 77 by the supposedly weak host team. Negligent, arrogant, call it what you will, it insults the sport. Having said that there is cheer to be had in the West Indian revival, most particularly the two hundred runs scored today by their elegant captain Jason Holder.

Mind you even as I rail against England's hubristic approach to the task at hand, test cricket gives us stuff at which to wonder. Yesterday eighteen wickets fell. Today, same pitch, same weather, no wickets. Cricket lovely cricket.

A Further Retreat From Hell

(Let us paraphrase) Let's talk about sport baybee, Let's talk about you and me, Let's talk about all the good things, all the bad things that may be.

The various purveyors of radio entertainment I was listening to on my drive back from the island, were at pains to designate today as Black Monday, the most depressing day of the year. Well, (and again I paraphrase) I have the only cure for life, And the cure for life is joy, I'm the sporting boy that everyone calls laughing boy. Which is a very roundabout way of saying that sport touched the stars last night. Forget about the stratospheric salaries and the hype and feel the quality of the drama in the small hours as both NFL conference championship games went to overtime. You couldn't script it. The day of the two conference finals is actually my favourite of the NFL season, better by far than the Super Bowl. A late night that was worth the staying up.

Before I watched the American Football I viewed another example of a film that won the Best Picture Oscar that isn't that good. Long, worthy and beautiful to look at The Last Emperor flits around Chinese history but never locates its soul. 6/10.

A Retreat From Hell

There's an easy way to divert yourself from the hellish state of the country - drive to a western extreme and occupy your happy place. So here I am in Anglesey with a glass of the decent stuff at my side. I'm only here for a couple of days to make sure all is in order at the old country estate but much of the weight of the world has slipped off my shoulders. Sod Trump. Sod Brexit.

I've indulged myself and watched a lot of European rugby, the last round of the group stages in what I still can't help calling the Heineken Cup. Instructive - once again Saracens are left alone to carry the English flag in the knockout stages. I've heard some ill-informed speculation on the reasons for this 'crisis', but I can give you one word that explains it - relegation. And long may that be the case, notwithstanding the entitled whingeing of certain club owners.

It's good to be back. Tomorrow I face the world again. 

This Sceptred Isle

I can bear it no longer. Having wailed for an age that we were all going to Hell in a handcart, it is my sad duty to announce that we have finally got there - please make sure you take all your belongings with you when leaving the handcart and remember that when alighting, never mind a gap there isn't even a bloody platform.

A new acronym has been floating around my poor befuddled head - BRINO - this one apparently stands for Brexit In Name Only. It is bandied about by those Tories who think (correctly) that May's benighted deal was inadequate. Maybe, just maybe, no better deal can be negotiated, actually no I withdraw that prevarication - of course a better deal could have been struck if we had ever been serious about it. And now that nice but ridiculous man Jeremy Corbyn wants us to go back to the negotiating table having publicly forsaken our right to walk away. I'm bloody glad I never had Jezza for a client.

I no longer care very much whether or not we depart the EU - we are led by such cretins (with other cretins standing in the wings to take their place) that it all makes no difference. What a complete mess. Those in government are not fit to govern. The alternatives are mostly barking mad. Was this my fault? That thought honestly keeps me up at night. I do know it wasn't all my doing but should I have taken up arms against this sea of troubles? Whilst I have (fairly) quietly been minding my own business, paying my taxes on time and being a good citizen, morons have taken over the country. Whenever my infant daughters used to say that they 'hated' something, I used to scold them not to be so vituperative - hate is always too strong an emotion. Well here's the news: I hate our political class. And I rather hate myself for feeling that way.

Oh well it's only a game - time to get back to researching the best place to which I can afford to emigrate.  

Twelve Films At Christmas - 12

I got there at last - a week after twelfth night but better late etc.

My final film was a treat - The Ballad of Buster Scruggs. That most modish of things, a Netflix production, this is a set of six vignettes on themes of the old West, written and directed by the Coen brothers. It is by turns funny (Buster Scruggs himself is a great creation - a smiling, homicidal singing cowboy), stunning to look at, and almost painfully poignant.

The six segments are linked only by their geography and classic Western tropes. There is no commonality of cast or plot and that might, I suppose, give a somewhat fractured feel but overall this is a classy piece of film-making. 8/10. 

Twelve Films At Christmas - 11

Yes, yes, I know that it's not Christmas any longer but I've not watched quite as many films as I usually do. I'll get there, don't worry.

Today we have something gloriously and calculatingly weird, Being John Malkovitch. A puppeteer working his days in a shrunken half storey office space (that is only the start of the weirdness) discovers a portal to the mind of John Malkovich and he and his alluring business partner set out to exploit the portal commercially. Soon the portal has taken control of four lives - the puppeteer, his wife, the alluring partner and Malkovich himself (yes he is in the picture). It's bonkers and very well done. 8/10.

Twelve Films At Christmas - 10

Another old favourite accessed by happenstance on terrestrial television: The Jungle Book, the proper cartoon version not the laudable but ultimately unnecessary real life/CGI effort from last year.

The cartoon is a great movie - the art flamboyant and the musical numbers uniformly brilliant. it was the last film made under the supervision of Walt Disney himself and it would be two decades before the studio fully relocated its animated mojo with The Little Mermaid. 9/10.

Twelve Films At Christmas - 9

Phantom Thread is Daniel Day-Lewis's final film and, assuming he remains true to his word and doesn't essay a comeback, it is a good note on which to finish. He captures his enigmatic character with studiousness and avoids the temptation to make his enigmatic performance too likeable. The piece has its longueurs and is just too wilfully obscure particularly in its ending but it looks and sounds marvellous. 7.5/10.