Not Everything Is About Me

The Groupie (the wisest person I know) frequently advises me not to keep reading about Donald Trump - it only makes me angry. She has a point. America's very public psychosis feeds my own.

All of which comes back to me as I contemplate, inter alia, five films recently watched. Four of them are American movies, one British. You  might not believe it but I do actually give it some thought before I put metaphotical pen to to virtual paper with these film commentaries. And recent cogitation has brought home the fact that any trace of decency in any film that analyses the human condition merely provokes me into observing either that Donald Trump should be made to watch it, or that he wouldn't get the point.

So here are those five films. First up is Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, a picture that has that ubiquitous Tennessee Williams atmosphere of strangulating heat. Has cinema ever deployed a more beautiful leading couple than Elizabeth Taylor and Paul Newman? They fight and tear at each other in the cage of their doomed marriage. Burl Ives plays the vile American patriarch with portly panache - I will resist the deployment of a Trump reference - oh no, I've done it already. In truth this film never fully escapes from its stage roots but it smolders nicely. 69/70. 

Burl Ives gives us another display as the vile patriarch in The Big Country. On this occasion he got an Oscar for his efforts. This film lives up to its name - it is big. The landscapes are big, the stars are big, the cinematography is big (Technirama), the fights are big. The humans almost fade to insignificance against the backdrops. It has pretensions to talk about the truth of Manifest Destiny and, given its age (made in 1958) it is probably making some heavy-handed points about the Cold War. Altogether glorious to look at. Its denouement suggests that bad men must die to allow civilisation to grow. Trump ... no too bloody obvious. 69/70. 

3.10 to Yuma (the 1957 original not the 2007 remake) is a taut Western notable for a superb performance of smooth menace by Gelnn Ford. Its ending is a surprising concession to decency in the midst of vicious singularity. [Insert Trump reference here]. 70/100. 

I will set the British film aside for now and instead turn to a very good American movie from a master of the medium that, for me, sits in the middle ranks of his oeuvre. Casino sees Martin Scorsese repeating much of the narrative technique of his (for me) masterpiece, Goodfellas. This time it is the Las Vegas casino industry of the mob-dominated 70s and 80s that comes under Scorsese's acute microscope. Joe Pesci, gives us his best Joe Pesci, Robert De Niro is compelling as the uber-clever gambler who becomes a casino boss but who finds himself undone by love and by the advance of the junk-bond ecnomy (a voodoo economy in which Trump crashed and burned but by the immoral rules of the game lived to fight on). However the star turn comes from Sharon Stone as de Niro's booze-addled nemesis. Great soundtrack as well - a recurrent element in Scorsese's films. 80/100.

I have bitter-sweet memories of a family holiday in Denmark. Sweet because I love my family and because I happened at that time to think (wrongly as things transpired) that I was at the peak of my powers as a businessman. At our coastal lodge I would rise early, go for a run, then swim in the sea before making myself some proper coffee and reading a management tome. Bitter because I returned to England and my professional life collapsed. That is s story for another day - or, perhaps better, a story never to be told. Denmark struck me as a peaceable country at ease with itself. Again I may be wrong. No matter, those memories were stirred by the modest British production, Denmark. Rafe Spall plays a down-at-heel Welshman who resolves that his best hope of a comfortable life is to earn himself a spot in Danish prison. From this unlikely conceit is spun a nicely beguiling redemption tale. 72/100. I'm pretty sure Trump wouldn't get it, but who am I to say.  

       

Tempus Fugit - And Takes Automotive Technology Along For The Ride

As you will know if you have been with me on this blog's meanderings for the past decade and a half, I own my Precious Jag - a beautiful Jaguar XK8 that spends most of its life sleeping idly in the garage. It may be a small and stupid thing but it is, for me, a piece of automotiive pornography. It is getting on for thirty years old and runs beautifully. 

Overgraduate with his Canyonero

But enough of such mild boastfulness because today I am saying goodbye to the more prosaic car that has been my main vehicle for eleven years. It is a Kia Sorento, it has done a shade under one hundred thousand miles and has been hardly any trouble. I shall miss it - the Canyonero as Daughters numbered One and Two and I dubbed it - you have to be a Simpsons devotee to get the reference.

 

Krusty with his Kia

 

And let me tell you how to measure automotive sophistication/progress. The Precious Jag has a CD player which I had to have specially fitted. Canyonero came with a CD player as standard and also has a bafflingly unreliable digital radio which I had to buy as an extra. Canyonero has been superseded by a Dacia Bigster (terrible name I know but a lot of car for the money) and that has an efficient digital radio and Android Autoplay so that I can listen to Spotify via my (also new as it happens) phone. No CD player in sight - so last century!

I like the new car  and here's a thing - it's a hybrid. Will that be defunct by the time I next change cars? 

The Myth Of Those Italian Trains

I'm afraid that it is not true to say that Mussolini got the trains running any more efficiently than before he seized power. I know this to be the position because various search engines and a touch of AI have told me so. As any fule kno, the internet never lies.

I mention this nubbin of information only because it has robbed me of a ready cliche to deploy in making my reaction to the recent editions of the television spectacular that is The Donald Saves the World. Now before you go scurrying off to check-out this programme, no it doesn't exist (although I would confess that I can't be arsed to check out this statement), it is merely my glib way of wrestling (as I have been for weeks) with the self-proclaimed saintliness of Donald J. Trump as he goes around the world stopping wars and generally dispensing balm.

My (highly unoriginal but it cannot be said often enough) point is that truly bad men can do good things. So I might have started by saying that Mussolini made the trains run on time, but we have already established that this was not actually the case. No matter, what I will say is that Hitler revived a moribund German economy and that nice bloke Stalin galvanised Russia to defeat said Hitler. Either or both may have made trains run on time.

So here's the thing, Trump's peace accord in the Middle East (actually it's that most annoying of legal things - an agreement to agree) is to be welcomed. Hamas and Likud are, how should we put this, both bat-shit-crazy and would happily have carried on their wanton acts of destruction and desecration until the sacred cows come home. So an abeyance is good. We might carp that Trump could have brought Netanyahu to heel fifteen months ago but better late than never. Will it hold? Let us pray so - though to which version of God we should pray is a matter of contention.

As I say, truly bad men can do good things. Trump has done such a thing. He remains a malignant narcissist whose driving passion is that we should all love him as much as he clearly loves himself. Fat chance.    

A Suitable Obsession For The Old

JTC was a wise and amusing man, much my elder. He was a stalwart member and Honorary Life Vice President of our rugby club and, in his more decorous moments, a member of that great seat of affluenec, Little Aston Golf Club. Many years ago I was chatting to him at the bar and mused out loud that I might play more golf. Jim counselled me against this and uttered the sage words, 'play team games for as long as you can'. In this, as in so much else, Jim was right.

I played rugby until a week short of my forty-eighth birthday, by which time I was held together by strategically applied tape and over-medicated on anti-inflammatories. I loved close to every minute of it. I had played my last game of 1st XV rugby at forty and thereafter grew old gracelessly.  

I mention this only because I spent a fun two hours this morning on the practice ground at Clwb Golff Ynys Mon. I was merely tatting around and it was only when I switched on my computer just now that I noticed the date (a boon in being elderly is that the date is a matter of only passing import) - tomorrow is the fifty-first anniversary of my first game of golf. Founder's Day 1974. I love golf in all its infuriating detail but my advice, should you choose to hear it, remains, play team games as long as you can. 

Spirit Of Monochrome

The first time I saw Alastair Sim's performance as Scrooge was in a lamentable 'colorized' version of the movie. I next saw it in a sharp, restored monochrome edition. The second viewing was all the better for restoration to its original format.

I mention this only because I am a bit of a fan of black and white film stock. Amongst the many things I tell myself I am going to get around to doing, is to buy a decent camera and use it to take atmpospheric black and white pictures. Of course I will probably never get around to this but a man can/should dream. 

All of which brings me to four excellent monchrome films I have watched recently. I may be an old romantic but I think each of them is better for being shot in monochrome. I will turn first to David Lean's 1946 adaptation of Great Expectations - this is a top grade movie, previously reviewed here and I confirm my past prejudice to give it 85/100.

Lean was at it again in 1953 with the screen rendition of Hobson's Choice. Atmospheric monochrome magic. The quietly brilliant John Mills is once again the youthful hero. As for Hobson himself (a part for which I would break my unlamented stage retirement) this role falls into the hyper-capable hands of Charles Laughton. 86/100. 

Another reliably excellent actor is Henry Fonda and he has the conscience-stricken lead in 1957's Twelve Angry Men. This is a claustrophobic masterpiece that speaks gradually louder as to the importance of the rule of law. In an age where the President of the United States clearly has no conception of the rule of law, this is a film that cries out to be re-watched. Innocent and not-gulity are not the same thing. 88/100. 

I have talked of reliable imprimaturs - Lean, Laughton, Fonda. Today's last film comes courtesy of another such, or more accurately another two such - Powell and Pressburger. The Small Back Room. Although not nearly in the class of their gloriously colourful classics, A Matter of Life and Death, and Colonel Blimp, The Small Back Room is a taut monochrome dissection of trauma and courage. 79/100.

Monochrome. all that glisters is not gold.   

The Bankruptcy Of A Genius

The genius of whom I speak is Jacques Tati and his financial catastrophe was brought about by the financial demands of his magnificent comedic confection, Playtime.

This film invites you to laugh at the noble silliness of Tati's M. Hulot as he winds in and out of the widescreen modernity of Paris. The dialogue is a glorious mishmash of English and French but the spoken word operates merely as a backing track. I will not spoil any of the recurring gags by describing them because if you get the chance to see this film, I fervently urge you to do so. In the end modernity cannot quell the very human ability to have a good time. In our scarred present, this is a bold tonic. 90/100.   

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.   

Lions 25.10

The final verdict? A tour bordering on the tedious. Australian rugby is not truly deep enough to sustain a Lions tour, particularly if their test match players are hidden away for the provincial matches. The Lions became a poor shadow of recent Ireland teams, coached efficiently but rather unromantically by an uber-professional Englishman. I was wrong - the series did not end 3-0. I have been wrong plenty of times before. Will be again. Maro Itoje is a great player, notwithstanding anything Murray Mexted might have to say on the subject. In four years it will be New Zealand's turn. Now that really is a tour. 

Lions 25.9 - The Satisfying Sound Of Whinging Aussies

At last a proper edge-of-the-seat test match, albeit one that owed much to an awful first thirty minutes from the Lions. And at the end we had a nice controversy which illustrated much that can go wrong with the current application of the laws. The Lions scored the try that their persistence merited, only for the Australian captain to lobby the (almost but not quite overwhelmed) Italian referee about the estimable Jac Morgan's actions at the final ruck. Here's the truth - rugby is a rough old game and we cannot allow it to be completely emasculated. Justice was served and the try stood. Cue more and more Aussie whinging. Excellent. What everyone should be concentrating on was the theatrical dive taken by the Australian hooker in an attempt to buy the penalty. Sod that for a game of soldiers.

And now a lesson from the Pig's personal history. I was taught tackling technique by Ray 'Taff' John at the age of eleven. No teacher/coach can give you the courage needed to apply those techniques but the bare bones of the method will stand you in good stead. Tackling techniques in the face of a massive physical assault (as Australia predictably brought to the match) are a sturdy resource. The Lions abandoned such techniques and slavishly attempted to 'win the collisions'. They missed scores of tackles. Anyway, all is well that ends well.

One other mention of Taff John (still with us and a great man) - he also taught me French and to this day when I attempt (as I do only in extremis) to speak that language, I do so in a Neath accent.  Bonjour, bore da.  

In Defiance Of Age

I fell of my bike last year - but that is an old tale, told in earlier entries. I hurt myself, most problematically my left knee. That knee is now properly operative (or as near as is possible for an old wreck) thanks to the ministrations of the physios at Little Aston. Thank goodness for private health insurance. 

Big Fat Pig redux

But where fitness is concerned, there is always something waiting around the next corner to sabotage our hero, Big Fat Pig. Most recently it has been a painfully damaged right ankle (the injured knee was my left), an injury I further aggravated treading on a large pine-cone in the trees to the right of the 11th fairway at Royal Pype Hayes. It is still not right but I today judged it sufficiently stable (having strapped it up inexpertly) to go out for a run/shamble. You will be pleased to hear that the Pig survived thirteen minutes of what seemed massive exertion.  

Lions 25.8

Boring. A hyped-up combination XV playing against a cadre of Lions reserves, several of whom should not be on the tour. The Lions won. As I say, boring.

Now we turn to the side selected for the second test on Staurday. I hope Ellis Genge has gone off on one with the coach because his dropping is a crime. The press seem to be of the view that his has been done to beef-up the impact from the bench as the second half drags on. I righteously despise the term 'impact player' and also all the perfectly lawful 'bomb squad' tactics brought to us by the South Africans. I've said it before, professionalism has much to answer for.

Lions to win.   

Lions 25.7

Yesterday was a day for sports watching - first the rugby and then the third day of the Open Championship at Royal Portrush. Both events started attractively only to descend into a weird and rather boring predictability.

The Lions first. They came out of the traps in an angry rush and, truth be told, they had put Australia away within the first quarter of the match. Huw Jones and James Lowe both butchered try-scoring opportunities but this did not matter against an impotent opponent, Tom Curry and Tadgh Beirne showed themselves to belong in that over-used categorisation 'test match animals'. I must admit that I had been against Beirne's selection - I am an admirer of Ollie Chessum. I was wrong. Beirne was commanding and, in the best sense, destructive. The last thirty minutes of the match desceneded into that product of the modern squad game, disjointed replacement-strewn boredom. I stick by my 3-0 prediction, however the Lions missed a chance yesterday to demoralise utterly their opposition.

It's certainly not his fault but I'm afraid Scottie Scheffler's brilliance on the golf course is a tad boring. He is superb but I doubt that anyone would call him charismatic. I was never a Tiger Woods fan but one does have to admit that he had a whiff of cordite about him. Despite my misgivings, I will be tuned in for the final round of the Open this afternoon hoping to be proved wrong.

Criminality And Charisma

Ask me to identify my two favourite actors. Go on. Thanks. Christian Bale and Johnny Depp - probably in that order. Thus it will not come as a surprise to discover that I liked Public Enemies, Michael Mann's 2009 gangster pic. Depp plays the chillingly charismatic John Dillinger, the murderous bank robber who is hunted down by Bale's single-minded FBI agent Melvin Purvis.

Depp and Bale are both excellent (you knew I was going to say that) in a movie that is arresting but falls just short of greatness. 71/100.   

Lions 25.4 - 6

The phony war is almost over and on Saturday morning the Lions will play Australia in the first of the three tests. Yes, yes, yes, I hear all the stuff about the difficulties of bringing together players from four nations. Blah, blah, blah. Here's the truth - the Lions should win the series 3-0. I completely concede the sporting excellence of the Australian nation but the fact is that rugby union is in a fallow rut in Aus just at the moment. 

I won't bore you with an anlysis of the latest tour games - each rather tedious for a variety of reasons. What I will excoriate is the complete lack of romanticism in the attitude of the Lions' management. Owen Farrell is parachuted into the squad. Leinster's third choice tight-head prop likewise. The shirt is devalued. Read John Reason's books on the 1971 and 1974 tours if you want to know how magnificent things used to be. It is a sporting civilisation gone with the wind. Oh well.  

And incidentally the most pertinent international rugby of last weekend was played in Argentina where England (shorn of a whole team by the Lions) won a titanic clash with Los Pumas. Maybe, just maybe, Steve Borthwick is getting to grips with this international coaching malarkey. 

The Enticing Serendipity Of Satellite Television

I watch a lot of films, more old than new. Sometimes I bore you with reviews. I rarely go to a cinema - as Sartre so aptly put it, 'L'enfer, c'est les autres". Sorry about that. I do however cherish those visits where a rapt silence seems guaranteed. I was on one occasion precisely one half of the audience for an afternoon screening of Hoop Dreams. 

Modern multi-channel televisision is awash with films. Much dross but also plenty of good stuff. I mention serendipity and I will give you an example. I recently watched Went the Day Well?, of which more anon. I have also (along with the Groupie) watched the 1947 adaptation of Nicholas Nickleby. The serendipity? Well that comes in the identity of the man who directed both, credited on screen simply as 'Cavalcanti'. This got me intrigued. Who was this exotically titled auteur behind two such arrestingly English films? In full he was Alberto de Almeira Cavalcanti, Brazilian by birth but a citizen of the world, ulitimately blacklisted as an alleged communist. Look him up on the interweb thingy and marvel at a nomadic life of creativity.

Went the Day Well? was made at Ealing Studios in 1942. It is, I suppose, a propaganda film but it is rather more than that in its imagining of an English village invaded by the Nazis and the magnificent and resourceful resistance of the villagers to the Germans. It crops up on Talking Pictures TV, the merits of which I have previously advertised. 72/100. Another factor that recommends the film is that the source story is by Graham Greene. 

From 1947, Nicholas Nickleby is not in the same league but it is highly enjoyable - I have guiltily to confess yet again that I find Dickens easier to enjoy in adaptation than in the original prose. Nickleby perhaps suffers in inevitable comparison with David Lean's masterful translations of Dickens to the screen. Nonetheless very viewable. 66/100.   

Lions 25.1-3

The British and Irish Lions are now well into their tour of Australia. It may be a far cry from the massive adventures of old but hey-ho that is professional rugby for you and I won't grumble on about that subject again. The ship has sailed.

 

Thus far the Lions have endured a predictable roughing-up in Dublin at the hands of Argentina followed by two less than brilliant wins against sub-standard Aussie opposition. It really is time that we stopped demeaning the Pumas and recognised them as full members of rugby's top table. As to the the denuded Force and Reds teams that the Lions despatched, well you do just wonder whether Rugby Australia really understand what they have got in the shape of the Lions. But enough of such churlishness.

What can we say about how the tour is shaping up? The latest speculation that I have read posits that Andy Farrell (a deeply pragmatic coach) will pick as many as nine Leinster players in his test side. I hope not - we all seem to be forgetting that Leinster defeat to Northampton. Tommy Freeman deserves to be in the test side. He is the only English back I would pick. Tom Curry has lost form just at the wrong time. Jac Morgan has refound his mojo and must surely be revelling in playing some unfamiliar winning rugby. The kick-off receiving has been an embarrassing mess. Kelleher is not a better player than Jamie George who has been left to the consolation of touring with England. Nobody seems to have mentioned it but I am particularly impressed by Fin Russell's defence - he looks like a man on a mission to me. Modern strategic myopia and some misguided law changes have conspired to diminish No 8 as a specialist position but I would pick Jack Conan ahead of a converted flanker. This is a subject on which I willingly declare my bias.

The Lions should win the series. Should.  

 

Two More Films

Lee is a commendable biopic about the storied female photographer Lee Miller. I wouldn't normally specify the sex of the principal but it is germane in consideration of this film - Miller broke down the barriers placed in her way and produced some of the most arresting images of World War II. In the title role, Kate Winslett gives a compelling performance. Something, however, stops this from being anything more than a good film. Perhaps we are these days too inured to the horrors of the Holocaust but I found myself admiring the workmanship evident in the movie rather than, as I think was intended, being shocked at what Miller (and by extension we the audience) saw. 68/100. 

Lee has modern gloss and a big star. My second subject today is an altogether different kettle of fish. An Honourable Murder is a 1960 British 'B' feature but one that has a nice whiff of ambition. It is a reworking of Shakespeare's Julius Caesar - the action is shifted to corporate London. It is a concise adaptation, a shorter reworking of a short source. I (immodestly) credit myself with knowing a little about Julius Caesar - it was the first Shakespeare I ever studied even vaguely seriously (O Level 1976!) and a chapter of my thesis is dedicated to it. I did not resent the purloining of the plot and attendant themes (afer all Shakespeare himself liberally stole from Plutarch) and rather enjoyed the entertainment on offer. I located this film thanks to my daily checking of the listings for Talking Pictures TV - a channel that shows some right old dross but also carries gems and curios. 60/100. 

Of Heroic Failures

Last week was the Graham Scott Memorial QMT golf tour. This year's venue was Hawkstone Park Hotel, our first visit and, one has to say, it ticked all of the boxes I can think of. Two courses, a well-staffed bar, decent food and, the final ingredient, excellent weather. Congratulations to PC, our new champion, but the greater part of the trip was all about our aged frailties on the course and our eternal ability to laugh at each other. Bloody great fun. 

Now I could belabour you with details of my birdie on the 6th on the Hawkstone Course, but, quite frankly, you would not believe the brilliance of it. Instead let me tell you about our last day and the Texas Scramble on the Championship Course. Big Fat Pig was on the tee ten minutes early - an atempt to live down the shame of his hung-over tardiness on the previous day. He was in a team with CC, RP and RW. The Pig had his personal moments but, then again, too few to mention. No, the highpoints of the round were twofold. First up was RW's sublime driver off the deck on the fifth hole - it went like a tracer bullet and, yes, we made our birdie. Perhaps better was RP's mishit tee shot on the short ninth which unerringly blind-sided a goose pecking at the ground to the left of the green. The bird seemed none the worse (if a little peeved) for its encounter with a scuffed Callaway. Laugh? We nearly shat. RP later redeemed himself with a sterling performance on the last par five and with some clutch putts. We came second, one under gross. Roll on next year. 

 

   

A Mad World My Masters

As the pace of change quickens, the good things can get obscured by the avalanche of the inane and the downright immoral that make up so much of modern life. You will not, of course, be surprised if I allude to Donald Trump and his wicked cohorts being at the forefront of much that is bad. However I will steer clear of pontificating on the Donald for now. If, like me, you are a gob-smacked Trump watcher, you will perhaps join me in hoping that he will be brought low by his own glaring crassness. I wish I was more optimistic.

Let us, then, steer clear of global politics. Instead let us consider the precarious state of my two favourite team games - rugby union and cricket. I was passably competent at the former and an occasional fumbler at the latter but it is cricket that I prefer watching. Both games stand at a precipice of commercial oblivion. And when I say this, I am talking about the two sports in their pure forms.

A fanciful imagining of BFP in his prime

Rugby Union Football has been worn down by professionalism to a mere shadow of the glorious, muddied oafdom that was so deliciously available to earlier generations. Fifth team rugby is now a thing of distant memories and it will never return. BDR used to say that if a game is worth playing, it is worth playing badly. This ostensibly glib remark masks a lost truth. I am partly to blame because I played and coached rugby with a distinct desire to win. However I hope I never quite lost the instinct that it does a man (or indeed a woman) no moral harm to be bested every now and again. That is part of sport/growing up. Myriad genies are out of the rugby bottle and cannot be put back: misplaced professionalism; tactical substitutions; impact players; the advancement of the interest of the paying spectator over that of the players. The latest new kid on the block is the wrteched R360, a devil-child rugby version of the woeful and divisive LIV Golf. Shame on you Mike Tindall. I am glad I played when I did, from my early efforts at prop aged eleven to my final joyous season at No. 8 for the fourths at AOE at the age of forty-eight.

As I write this I am listening to commentary of the first day of the World Test Championship between Australia and South Africa at Lord's. I am delighted to say that there is a full-house and will allow prejudice to prompt me to add that South Africa seem to be getting the better of it - I can't be doing with that Steve Smith, brilliant as he can be.

Have you ever tried to watch the entirety of an IPL game? It takes for ever. The ingenuity of the batting, I will grant you, is staggering. The fielding is sublime. But it is nothing more than glorified (very glorified) pub cricket. Pop has eaten itself. Enjoy test cricket while you can - it will not be re-invented.  

     

A Long Way From Anywhere

Every time I go to Cornwall I wonder why I don't spend more time there. It is a magical county. And then I endure six or seven hours on the M5 and I remember why we bought in Anglesey instead. Cornwall is a long way from anywhere - nothing can be done about this, nor indeed should anything be done. The otherness and remoteness are part of the charm.

This time we went all the way down to Falmouth to attend the wedding of H and S. H is my nephew - he teaches down there and has gone fully native, an enviable state. What a great day the wedding itself proved to be - the sun shone and H's speech even brought  a tear to these cynical old eyes with an affectionate reference to my late father.

The Clan Roberts had descended en masse on Cornwall for the week. The Groupie and BFP were accompanied by Daughters Numbers 1 & 2 and their respective husband and partner. We had a whale of a time. Indeed whale was one of the few acquatic species not represented on the seafood platter I gorged myself on at the Muddy Beach Cafe in Penryn. No pretensions, just good service and top food. Now I style myself a good judge of a seafood platter and I have to say this was superb. If you have the chance to try it, eschew a starter and go for the platter with optional extra of a dressed crab. Squid, scallops, king prawns, shrimp-loaded skins, mussels, crab. Superb. I never usually bore you with photos of the Pig in action but I will make an exception so that you can see the plate (or rather board) before I tucked-in. And no I didn't have a pudding. Superb.

The State Of The Nation

What exactly is the point of Kemi Badenoch? No seriously, what has happened to right of centre politics - we seem to be left with a vast wasteland where once was important ground. Still we can at least take some comfort from the fact that the morally ungrounded Keir Starmer is turning out to be the best Conservative prime minister since that nice Tony Blair.

Enough of such gloom (well actually ther might be some more to come - sorry) because I am on one of my flying inspection visits to Plas Piggy. The sun is shining and the Great Orme smolders in a heat haze in the distance. The wretched flying vermin gulls are nesting on our roof again but that cannot take away the attractiveness of this place.

And last night I watched an interesting film, a Danish/Icelandic speculation on humanity and morality - Godland.  It follows the travails of a Danish pastor tasked with building a new church in the remoteness of South-East Iceland. It is a tale of endurance and obdurance. Three men die, as do two horses. The pastor is a pioneering photographer and the movie is shot in an almost square ratio with rounded corners that mimics his glass-plate photography. A serious film. A good film. Available on iPlayer. 78/100.

The VE Day celebrations last week were moving. I particularly enjoyed how much it all meant to my mother who remembered the sheer joy and relief of that end to war, celebrated in her case as a ten-year-old in Gloucester. That generation who lived through WWII have been the guiding influence on my generation and as we lose them we need to reflect on our own actions upon those growing-up behind us. Are we, the baby-boomers, as wise an influence as our own parents have been? Such thoughts can cast a pall over my day so I have risen from my desk and looked out once again over the sun-dappled sea. I may even have a third cup of damned fine coffee. Life's been good to me so far.

 

Manifest Destiny/The Mystery Of Faith

I have wrtitten before about the doctrine of Manifest Destiny that drove the white American conquest of its continent. It is one of my principal obsessions and I have come to realise that a misguided modern conception of the doctrine drives much of the putrid immorality of MAGA. 

A more measured contemplation of Manifest Destiny can be found in the cumbersome 1962 Cinerama movie, How the West Was Won. Fealty to the original Cinemascope  format means that the modern televisual print is shown in a distracting letterbox but that is better than a truncated cut. I would like to see this in proper cinematic projection but I don't run to my own theatre.

I say that this is a cumbersome film and so it is. Three strands held together by the constant presence of Debbie Reynolds, each with its own director and a fleeting appearance in each chapter by a giant of the western genre, James Stewart, John Wayne, and Henry Fonda. It even has three directors. Ponderous it may be at times but it should not be dismissed. Its examination of Manifest Destiny is modestly nuanced. 68/100. I depart from my usual layout and reproduce the poster in an imitation of Cinerama.

A recent film to have been given a boost of relevance is Conclave. It records the imagined machinations and political manoeuvres of a papal election. Quite early in the piece the central character makes a cogent case for the important differences between stubborn certainty and its more flexed cousin, faith. I'm not at all sure that this film is quite as good as it wants to be but it rattles along nicely and is buoyed by a proficient cast. 70/100.

Are Brilliant ... Mark XXVIII

It must be my age because here I go again repeating myself. However as a small tide of wisdom laps at my weary feet, I have to concede that certain things are worth repeating, especially if they relate to sanity (mine not yours).  

My own experience of manic depression is that you are never rid of it. It lurks and some days it stands up and slaps you in the face. In my particular case it is the depressive side of the coin that has to be watched out for most often, though, just to keep my poor minders on their toes, the manic stuff comes ranting out of the shadows when you least expect it.

All of which is a way of saying that for no reason at all I found myself feeling shit this weekend. Thanks to my medical and spiritual minders (chief amongst these the Groupie) I have got much better at dealing with these incursions into my well-being. Which in turn brings me back to the subjects of this blog - most of them things I have touched on before. 

OG's precious mower

The precious petrol mower has been serviced by the estimable people at Hughie Willett Machinery. On the basis that good service should be applauded I recommend Willett - Hughie Willett . The precious mower is cutting beautifully and the act of cutting the lawn dipels depression. 

OG's precious bike

This one will not surprise you - after a moderately major crash last Summer (see blog 5 August 2024) I am at last back on the precious bike. Having head-butted the highway as part of my crash, I have done as advised and thrown out the old helmet (which bore the brunt of my arrested decent) and bought a new one. I also had the bike thoroughly gone-over by Sutton Runner and they have done a bang-up job. New brakes, cables and chain and she's running like a dream. It is good to be back in the saddle and the knee that I tried so hard to ruin in my crash, is very much better. Running will be the ultimate test. One step at a time Pig. Bike repairs at Sutton Runner 

OG's precious Jag

Last of all and the most expensive item in my holy trinity of precious objects - the Jag. I took this out for a run in the countryside yesterday. The misfire that had plagued the car for several years has been cured by the good souls at Mere Green Motors and the full thrill of motoring has been returned to me. They also service my workhorse Kia Sorento (eleven years old and seemingly bomb-proof) and I cannot recommend them too highly. In a nice old-fashioned touch they don't seem to have a website! Don't let that put you off, they are seriously good at what they do and don't overcharge. 

So, in conclusion, (not that you would) don't worry about me, I'm feeling better already.

The First Thing We Do, Let's Kill all The Lawyers

The above line in Henry VI Part II always gets a laugh, even from the affluent lawyers who make up an inevitable portion of the audience at performances of Shakespeare's lesser plays. Quite right too.

Q: Why don't man-eating sharks attack lawyers?

A: It's a matter of professional courtesy.

Q: What do you have if you have a lawyer buried up to his neck in sand?

A: Not enough sand.

Q: What do you call one hundred dead lawyers?

A: A start.  

I've heard them all before and am quite happy to join in the laughter. The lot of the lawyer is often a lucrative one (not always and not to the unworthy extent of some other professions) and, done properly it is a job that can be spiritually rewarding - yes, I do mean that. Good lawyering is important labour.

But something has happened to cast us all in an unfavourable light and that is the advancement onto the world stage of J.D.Vance, Vice President of the United States. Vance is an odious bigot and a massively educated (Yale Law School no less) lawyer. This, I'm afraid, casts a shade over all of us and we must call it out. So here is a variation on yet another of those lawyer jokes.

Q: What is the difference between lab rats and J.D. Vance?

A: You can get attached to lab rats.

 

Odeon Ynys Mon

 I am on one of my solo sorties to the island. Yesterday was a fine day. I went to C.G. Ynys Mon and spent a fruitful (well hopefully) hour sharpening (it was very blunt) my short game. As if that was not enough I wasted my money backing Perceval Legallois in the Grand National and found time to watch two very different films.

Father Brown is a 1954 piece of British whimsy capped by a superb performance from Alec Guinness in the tile role. It puts the flimsy modern television version of the tales of the priest/sleuth to shame. Somehow films of this idiom are all the better for being in black and white. A wholly worthy piece of movie-making. 70/100. 

Hang 'Em High (1968) is an altogether different kettle of fish. In fact not a kettle of fish at all, rather a plate of spaghetti americano. Hard upon the success of Sergio Leone's three Clint Eastwood westerns, America reclaimed Eastwood as its own and made this paleish imitation of a spaghetti western. Eastwood speaks more than in his seminal role(s) and the sheer visceral quality of Leone's pictures is missing. Notwithstanding this daub of filmic polish, there is enough to get your teeth into and there is, if you look hard enough, a moral speculation trying to get out. Worth a watch. 64/100.

The Quality Of Mercy

A vote of thanks to ICW who stirred me from my intellectual torpor and organised our outing to the Birmingham Rep to see The Merchant of Venice 1936 last week. I like the Rep, a theatre where you are guaranteed comfort and an unobscured view.

You don't need me to tell you that The Merchant of Venice is a troublesome text. I last reviewed it in these pages on 26 May 2011 and my re-reading of that blog confirms that I enjoyed the production at the RSC. Merchant 1936 was better - a provocative pitching of the action into the East End of 1936 with Mosley's British Union of Fascists properly excoriated. even if the climactic political message goes mildly over the top. Tracy-Ann Oberman's female Shylock is forcefully rendered and I didn't mind at all the skilful editing of Shakespeare's text. At the end you are left pondering not only the disease of intolerance but also just how many wrongs can make a right.

And how nice to be in a full auditorium.   

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.