Twelve Films At Christmas - 1 & 2

Let us start on a high. We re-watched two brilliant seasonal films last week. I cannot promise that this annual thread will continue at such an exalted level but I urge you to catch both of these movies. Both have been reviewed here before, the second as recently as 2 January this year. The first of the two is a hackneyed choice but, as I have said before, there is usually a good reason why a cliche becomes a cliche.

It's A Wonderful Life earned the highest score I have ever given to a film. I stand by that.

I have revised my opinion about The Holdovers. I raved about it in last Christmas's thread. I was wrong. I should have raved even more noisily. It is a marvellous film and I underrated it. 89/90. Who would have thought it - OG has a change of mind. I am not guaranteeing that any precedent has been set but I recommend that you keep reading to check this out. I don't get paid but your attention feeds my vanity - a very hungry beast.

 

Advent 13 Non-Fiction

Tall Tales, Test Match Special. Now, let's be clear, I bow to no man (or woman) in my love for Test Match Special, one of the last great remaining pillars of public service broadcasting. But this book of sketches (for that is what it is) is a mildly disappointing hotch-potch of retold favourite stories, and, most criminally, some of those are even repeated within the confines of the text. Badly edited, enjoyable enough but best read when drunk.

Advent 12 Canon

At the last canonical entry on this year's calendar (Advent 9), I made so bold as to compare Trollope and Dickens. I made the insolent (not to mention pseudish) comment that I find Dickens a little de trop. Well today I find myself only three days down the line and having to walk back my prejudice. I have actually read A Christmas Carol. It is, of course, nigh on impossible to come fresh to this text, besieged as we are by any number of adaptations and parodies of it. However I find myself able to say that the original is terrific. 

Dickens is a sentimentalist but a master of the cleverly inserted authorial voice. Take this passage for example where he affectingly draws us in so as to be at his very shoulder as the story unfolds itself. If I were to teach on writing (which thank the lord I do not have to do) I would be very tempted to get my students to excavate this passage for technique and meaning:

The curtains of his bed were drawn aside, I tell you, by a hand. Not the curtains at his feet, nor the curtains at his back, but those to which his face was addressed. The curtains of his bed were drawn aside; and Scrooge, starting up into a half-recumbent attitude, found himself face to face with the unearthly visitor who drew them: as close to it as I am now to you, and I am standing in the spirit at your elbow. 

God Bless Us, Every One! 

Advent 11 Fiction

If he was wrong about the man, it didn't matter. And if he was right, whether the man turned out to be his contact or a mere look-out, it had been foolish to expect anything else; if he was a look-out then he, Roche, was the one person on earth who wasn't worth a second glance; and if he was the contact then the empty roadside was the last place on earth for a comradely embrace and the exchange of confidences. It made him positively ashamed of the new Roche's naivete; the old Roche, that veteran of a hundred successfully clandestine meetings, would never have let his imagination set him off so prematurely.

In matters of fiction, I long ago learned to respect the judgement of one of the best-read men I have known - my late father. He was a man of catholic tastes but he liked a tale that rattled along, preferably with a twist in the tale. Modern(ish) crime and spy fiction fiction fits the bill, Anthony Price most particularly. I have pilfered a few dog-eared Price novels from Dad's shelves (I also got my second-hand-bookshop mania from him) but I found Soldier No More for myself and paid 50p for it. Bargain.

Advent 10 Non-Fiction

Francis Fukuyama may or may not regret having written The End of History? What I would say is that his prognostications under the banner of that title have been wilfully misunderstood, vey often by people who did not trouble to read the text. But that is not my concern today. Instead the slimmer volume, State Building, catches my eye. It was written in 2004 when even the most jaundiced commenatator could surely not have predicted the Trump phenomenon. However Fukuyama's defence of the properly constituted nation state as the bedrock of decency and the rule of law, makes particularly poignant reading as Trump tramples the rule of law underfoot whilst ironically (ironic because his small mind could not fathom the truth) uncovering the importance of the nation state. 

A great deal of both international and national law coming out of Europe consists of what amounts to social policy wish lists that are completely unenforceable. Europenas justify these kinds of laws by saying they are expressions of social objectives. Americans say, correctly in my view, that such unenforceable aspirations undermine the rule of law itself. 

Advent 9 Canon

The irony of that socialist Roy Hattersley being a snob seems to have been lost (as was much else on this undeniably educated man) on the man himself. Hey ho. I remember a television programme celebrating the novels of Anthony Trollope in which the editing had cleverly inserted Hattersley right after an enthusiastic commendation of Trollope by John Major. Hattersley ventured that Trollope was enjoyed by people who didn't really like/understand literature. Now that I have read The Warden, I am afraid that I must confess myself of Major's persuasion. I must also repeat my confession that I find much of Dickens rather de trop. Hey ho.

The Warden is the first of the Barchester novels and I was rather surprised to find it witty, readable and rather enchanting. There is none of Dickens' intricacy and hectoring. Does this make me a bad person - or perhaps a mildly thick one? Hey ho. How about this on the act of writing:

It is indeed a matter of thankfulness that neither the historian nor the novelist hears all that is said by their heroes or heroines. Or how would three volumes or twenty suffice! In the present case so little of this sort have I overheard, that I live in hopes of finishing my work within 300 pages and of completing that pleasant task - a novel in one volume.     

Advent 8 Fiction

That Ben Elton's Stark was written the best part of four decades ago is quite staggering. I won't spoil the plot for you but some of its more extreme prognostications are now echoingly pertinent.

Elton's early writing is like his early comedy - noisy, profane and driven by anger. It can at first be unsettling but once you have submitted to the authorial voice, this is an important book. I read it at the same time as I was conquering my fear of Jane Austen (see Advent 6) which made for quite a contrast. I do not share Elton's politics (no shit Sherlock) but I do have to admire his evisceration of the capital markets. Has anyone articulated the true socialist's bafflement better:

And so the house of cards came tumbling down. That fragile global structure behind which we all shelter. A castle, built on shifting sands from little more than faith, hope and greed, came tumbling down with a crash that shook the world. A mighty crash indeed, considering that the castle was not made of anything of any substance. In fact, it was a castle that existed only in the minds of men. Constructed from nothing more solid than the financial pages in newspapers and the blips on a million computer screens. It was not a castle built from iron, or steel, nor cotton, oil or food. It did not fail because there was no more coal left or because all the cows and sheep had died. There was no physical reason for its collapse, because it was made of nothing at all. You couldn't touch it, smell it or climb it, but without its shelter, despite the appalling heat of the southern summer and the mildest ever winter in the north, the world turned suddenly cold. 

 

Advent 7 Non-Fiction

I'll let you in on a very badly kept secret. The bibliography in my doctoral thesis runs to thirty pages. I haven't read every page of everything cited. I know, shocking isn't it. I don't speak for all academics when I say this but my guess would be that I speak for a majority. The way things work is that your first port of call when faced with a learned text is the index to check for direct references to the item you are researching. This is only the same as the way one uses legal texts when advising on a topic. It's not cheating.

Anyway, I mention all of this because as part of my reading this year I pulled a critical text off the dusty shelf and read it from start to finish. The lucky text was Lucie Armitt's Fantasy Fiction: an Introduction. This one doesn't get a mention in the aforementioned thesis, rather it was acquired for a module on the degree course. It's surprisingly readable if a little on the dry side. I was going to quote a pseudish passage about homoeroticism in Lord of the Rings, but that sort of thing is too easy a target for the cynical. Oh and we should say that Armitt has a point about Tolkien. No, here is a nice take on how fantasy fiction justifies its place in Genre Studies and the wider world of literary criticism:

There is no more pertinent or influential question in the current field of fantasy than the question of the role genre plays in it. We have established fantasy, here, as the type of writing that questions what happens beyond the horizon, but in doing so we remain defined by that boundary, even in the act of crossing it. In effect, the boundary marks the point at which the worlds begin and end - the Primary World versus the Secondary World, the point at which sleep becomes dream. In realism we never reach those boundaries, and so are less conscious of their presence. As a result the realist world gives the illusion of being boundless, but only because we never get the chance to test its limits.       

 

Advent 6 Canon

It says something of both our education system and my own laziness that a man can flaunt a doctorate in English Literature without ever having had the stamina to finish reading a Jane Austen novel. This has been rectified and I will confess that it was at times a chore - Austen is just not my cup of tea. I spent a good part of Sense and Sensibility merely wishing that the worthy Elinor would give her sister Marianne a good slap. 

However it is the way of these things that you get to the very end of a book (Chapter Fifty in this case) and a paragraph leaps off the page and assaults you with its concise beauty. This is writing of luminescence and the journey is worth the toil:

Her family had of late been exceedingly fluctuating. For many years of her life she had had two sons; but the crime and annihilation of Edward a few weeks ago, had robbed her of one; the similar annihilation of Robert had left her for a fortnight without any; and now, by the resuscitation of Edward, she had one again.

Advent 5 Fiction

I would like to have met Kurt Vonnegut. I have raved previously about his masterwork Slaughterhouse 5, and also about the Sky Arts documentary on him - use the search engine at the top of the blog and you'll trace my ravings. Aren't computers clever? And just a tad frightening.

Today we consider Vonnegut's Breakfast of Champions. Definitely one of the best books I have read this year. It is coruscatingly funny yet laden with deadpan tragedy. Its point-of-view is artfully all over the shop. Mesmerising. I will set out a sample below. Those of you paying close attention may trace an echo of another (and on balance slightly lesser) novel mentioned later in this Advent strand.

I had no respect whatsoever for the creative works of either the painter or the novelist. I thought Karabekian with his meaningless pictures had entered into a conspiracy with millionaires to make poor people feel stupid. I thought Beatrice Keedsler had joined hands with other old-fashioned storytellers to make people believe that life had leading characters, minor characters, significant details, insignificant details, that it had lessons to be learned, tests to be passed, and a beginning, a middle, and an end.  

  

  

Advent 4 Non-Fiction

Maurice Garin

The First Tour by Isabel Best is a short and rather shoddy account of the first ever Tour de France, staged over six gargantuan stages in 1903. The competitors covered an unimaginable 3000 kilometres in those six instalments on fixed gear bikes and were responsible for their own repairs - no support cars or domestiques. The winner (by what remains a record margin of two hours and fifty minutes) was Maurice Garin. Notwithstanding the infelicities of the text, this booklet does just about manage to do justice to the super-human efforts of Garin and his competitors.

Henri Desgrange called him The Bulldog, but Garin, a chain smoker, was also known as 'Le Petit Ramoneur' - the little chimney sweep - owing to his job prior to turning pro. He was one of nine children born in a French-speaking village on the Italian side of the Alps. Legend has it that his parents swapped him for a large round of cheese when he was 14, possibly in order to smuggle him into France. Ten years later he set up a bike shop in Roubaix with two brothers, one of whom supported him at the 1904 Tour. Garin was tough enough to survive the harsh realities of early cycle sport. As an amateur in 1893, he grabbed another rider's spare bike when he punctured in Namur-Dinant-Givet, riding on to win.   

Advent 3 Canon

I am more than occasionally of a mind to reach into my ancestral Welshness. One of these moods overtook me when at Caernarfon Castle last year and I duly purchased a copy of The Mabinogion from the gift shop. An English translation you understand - I'm not even remotely equipped to read it in Welsh. The translation is by Sioned Davies. I will quote from the translator's own Introduction and you will get a flavour of what this collection of twelve tales is about:

Brothers transformed into animals of both sexes who bring forth children: dead men thrown into a cauldron who rise the next day; a woman created out of flowers, transformed into an owl for infidelity; a king turned into a wild boar for his sins - these are just some of the magical stories that together make up the Mabinogion.

These stories hark back to an ancient oral tradition. The constant couplings and killings can be a tad wearying when read - I suspect the whole thing would be a load more fun if delivered in the voice of, say, Richard Burton or, here's an idea, Tom Jones. If you liked the film Excalibur with its atmosphere of dark magic, then you will get something out of The Mabinogion.  

 

 

  

Advent 2 Fiction

If you have endured my pergrinations through the blogosphere for any time, you would not expect this year to pass without a reference to the man who, in my scabrous moments, is my favourite author, that old rascal Simon Raven. I am not a great one for re-reading any more than I re-watch many films. These are rules to which there are lots of exceptions. Most particularly I am probably in my fourth joyous saunter through Raven's Alms for Oblivion sequence. In mid-ramble I happily let Places Where They Sing entrance me. It is the sixth volume in the sequence.

Raven puts these words in the mouth of Robert Reculver Constable, a priggish don of whom he does not, I judge, wholly approve. Typical of Raven however the sentiments that Constable spouts would find favour with Raven. Nuance is all my dear.

So much for Tom and Daniel. There remains the question of the left-wing joker ... The Rev. Oliver Clewes, the College Chaplain. He is one of those new progressive clerics who hardly seem to believe in God at all and apparently picture Christ as some kind of revolutionary guerilla from South America. As a nominal Christian, Clewes is mistrusted by most of the left, while as a declared socialist he is mistrusted by all of the right. The few people remaining merely despise him as an equivocating opportunist. The one important thing to be said of him, therefore, is that he will discredit whatever cause he may adopt in the eyes of everybody, so that one can only hope he will not support a good one.         

Advent 1 Non-Fiction

Now don't go saying that I never treat you. Today we open with a volume of non-fiction (well, two volumes to be precise, but they come as companion pieces) and you are offered the chance to read it free and gratis, courtesy of the open access section of the library of Birmingham City University. I make no recommendation of it but I confirm that I have this very year re-read it for the umpteenth time and, at the last count, I found six typographical and/or grammatical errors. I apologise for this for I am the author. This is the thesis that earned me my doctorate - Shakespeare and Bagehot  

I will save you the effort of reading my leaden prose and just give you the concluding paragraph which I hope conveys some idea of what the whole academic shenanigans is getting at: 

The future (as Harootunian reminds us) is part of history. Possibly we may discover, with Shakespeare's unparalleled insight, that there is a form of sovereignty beyond Bagehot's contemplation and yet still within an Age of Discussion. For now and for my own deliberately limited purpose, Bagehot's writing is an analytical tool we can profitably use. Within the confines of his own tragedy, Coriolanus is wrong when he asserts that for him, 'There is a world elsewhere' (3.3.159). We are more fortunate. Bagehot gives us the skills to understand where we have got to. Shakespeare may help unlock the future. 

The Announcement You've All been waiting For - Ex Libris Piggy - An Advent Calendar

A habit I belatedly inherited from my dear father is to have several books on the go at once. This year I have decided to give it some formality and to read around three categories - the canonical (or in other words stuff I really ought to have read already); less exalted fiction (stuff I like); non-fiction. Now my discipline slips and at various times I have been reading multiple volumes from one category, however my efforts have been controlled enough to make this tripartite plan of attack the basis for this year's OG Advent Calendar. I will treat you to eight books from each category. I offer no favourites other than the final three doors of the calendar through which I will reveal the best of each type that I have read this year. All of the books can be found on the shelves of Casa Piggy - books do furnish a room.  

Out Of Ireland, Out Of Wales, Of England

I married my way into the Irish diaspora. It is a nice place to be. I was born into the Welsh diaspora and, despite the turmoil in Welsh rugby, that is also a nice place to inhabit. I am though English and there are aspects of that that concern me. Let me illustrate.

On Friday I took a journey to the doctors surgery I have used since the Groupie and I first married. We have moved three times since then but have never felt any urge to transfer to a surgery that occupies the same supposedly rarified area as Casa Piggy. The service I receive from my doctors is superb and I can say that they have played a central part in keeping me alive. The National Health Service at its best is a thing of wonder. 

My drive to the surgery (I had requested a PSA test and they had readily agreed - no symptoms but I am of the age) takes me through Kingstanding Circle, a place with tender memories for us because we lived round the corner when first married in a lovely little house that cost us the princely sum of £15000. The Circle has been ambush-swathed in Union Flags and Crosses of St. George. I am at heart a patriot but this sort of display has come to feel threatening and somehow indicative of division and rancour. I cannot tell you how sad this all makes me feel as I hunker down in my middle class redout. I feel vaguely estranged from my own homeland.

After my blood sample had been given and I had admitted that, yes, my blood pressure remains stubbornly a bit too high, I drove on down Short Heath Road and up Station Road to Erdington to see my aged mater familias. As I waited for the temporary lights on Station Road to change I observed a slattern coming out of a convenience store dressed in pyjamas and a seedy dressing gown. It was half-ten in the morning. It may be a little thing and I may be a terrible snob, but really is this what we have come to?

Back to Ireland and a question springs to mind. How can that sainted isle produce two such contrasting products as Mrs Brown's Boys (which I'm sorry but I have to say this, is pitiful) and Leonard and Hungry Paul, which in case you haven't seen it is delightful, a sort of Napoleon Dynamite meets Derry Girls.

I don't usually approve of early Christmas trees but tomorrow is a working day for our decorator in chief (the Groupie of course) and next Saturday will be a tad late, so our trees have gone up this weekend and this afternoon I will mount the step-ladder and put up the outside lights (for switching on tomorrow) - all is well, mostly all anyway.

That blood pressure thing - I have been out running on both days since my test.           

A Black Wednesday

When troubles come they come not single spies but in battalions. Well perhaps not battalions but certainly double spies last Wednesday. On that day I heard of the death of two men who profoundly influenced me. One was the best of a very good bunch at school and the other a university teacher (though this was only a minor specimen of his achievements) who was responsible for the start of this blog.

John G. Smith succeeded my father as Head of English at King Edward VI Aston. He took up post two terms before I arrived at the school in 1971 and stayed there until his retirement in 2002. In me he burnished the love of literature already encouraged by my father and his rough wisdom still patterns my thinking to this day. On top of that he was the greatest influence on my rugby both as a player and as a coach. The instinct to ruck rather than to maul was hammered home to me and from JGS I learned the desirability of educated roughness. A great man taken too soon although I am selfishly pleased that he lived long enough to know of my doctorate in English. I supect he found it balls-achingly funny and a proper expression of my pomposity.

Ian Marchant

And it was near the start of that journey to my PhD that Ian Marchant comes into the frame. He lectured/encouraged me in Life Writing in the second year of my second degree and if you go to the very first entry in this blog (27 January 2010) you will get the gist of what he instilled in us. He was novelist/author of critically accalimed non-fiction/broadcaster/scurrilous performer and an all-around good egg. He was only two years older than me but aeons ahead in wisdom.

God rest you both. 

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.