Twelve Films At Christmas - 7 to 11

Another year is nearly done and I have been keeping up my diet of films. Just one more needed to complete the requisite dozen. We shall start with a good film of a very good book, Robert Penn Warren's All the King's Men. The movie (1949) won the Best Picture Oscar and is undoubtedly very good as it comprehensively makes its point that all power tends to corrupt and that absolute power corrupts absolutely. Not quite in the same league as the source novel, though probably more accessible. 76/100. Not to be confused with the 2006 remake which the critics hated.  

The industry engaged in attempting to make a tele-ready Christmas classic is a vast one - for evidence one need look no further than the dedicated Christmas film channels that pop up from September onwards. A Boy Called Christmas is thankfully a good few steps ahead of the general dross. It is captivatingly filmed and, a few limp attempts at liberal politics aside, it marches on rather nicely. It has Maggie Smith and Jim Broadbent in it, always reliable signifiers. Not a great film but miles from being a bad one. 62/100.

I was reluctant to watch the BBC's prize offering on Christmas Day, the final ever Gavin and Stacey. I had an uneasy feeling that it would not be up to the standards that had preceded it in this admirable comic sequence. I was wrong, it was superb. Anyway, the reason I mention this is that the other pillar of the Beeb's Christmas Day schedule was Wallace and Gromit: Vengeance Most Fowl. This too transpired to be a joy. The patience of the stop-frame animating is awesome and the quiet wit at play in the script has you smiling throughout, that is when you are not plain laughing. 77/100. 

In amongst all this joy (my reviews thus far have been generally favourable, I think you would agree) a little rain must fall. Cromwell (1970) is a failure of a film. The source history certainly has potential for drama but what we get here is an austere plod through the Civil War and an awful lot of Richard Harris (Cromwell) being bad-tempered and Alec Guinness (Charles I) being effete. There is potential in both of these characters but these fine actors are ill-served by the pedestrian script. A pity. 54/100.   

Let us finish for today (indeed, unless a I get a sudden fit of imagination, let us finish for 2024) with the joyous interlude that is Field of Dreams. Unless you understand something of the American obsession with the poetry of baseball, you may find this picture slight and rather silly. It is not. All of us who obsess over silly games and couple that obsession with a love of literature will find something redeeming in this film. 77/100.

And now we shall leave it until 2025. Thank you for humouring me with your presence. Happy New Year.

Advent 18

Now for one of those GOAT's. To understand Babe Ruth's iconic status I suggest that you spend some happy hours getting to grips with the statistical niceties of baseball - there are a lot of them, even more than in cricket. Ruth had a career batting average of .342. That is good, very good. But, much more telling, he slugged 714 home runs. Until he arrived on the scene the career home run record had been 139. He changed the face of the game he decorated. And beyond the captivating stats there is the sheer largeness of life that he brought to it all. Google 'house that Ruth built', or 'the curse of the bambino' and you will begin to get what I mean. GOAT.

Rogue Male + RWC Bulletin 6

Courtesy of ITV I watched Quantum of Solace last night. I had previously enjoyed Skyfall (quite a lot actually) and Casino Royale (less so but quite enough) so it was disappointing to find this Bond rather a mess. I suppose it did herald the darkening of Bond so notably continued in Skyfall but it was a bit too worthy in its painting all men (goody or baddy) in shades of grey and Bond himself was a rather a sulky rogue male.  The plot was a morass of non-sequiturs. Set pieces predictably bold but somehow uninvolving. 5/10.

Tonight we have one of those London Bus moments - you know the thing about them turning up in twos. Insofar as I follow a baseball team it is the New York Mets. Insofar as I follow a college football team it is Penn State. At 1.00 am tonight thanks to BT Sport (which we get courtesy of our broadband contract) both will be shown live - the Mets in the National League Championship Series against the Cubs; the troubled Penn State (the institution has still not fully recovered from a ghastly abuse scandal surrounding a former assistant coach) at the number one ranked Ohio State. What is a sports addict to do? All of this on the same weekend as the RWC quarter-finals, kicking-off of course without the pitiful host nation. If pushed to bet I would find it difficult to see beyond the bookies' favourite in each of the four matches, which would mean a semi-final line-up of Australia v Ireland and New Zealand v South Africa. However there are factors counting against this less than bold prediction: New Zealand seem habitually to be weaker at World Cups than they are between; France are a basket case capable of anything from heavenly to horrific; Argentina are ferocious; Sexton is missing for Ireland (and I count this an even heavier blow than the loss of O'Connell); Wales have the armoury (but possibly not the belief?) to down South Africa. The only one I cannot envisage going against the odds is Scotland v Australia. Don't get me wrong Scotland are an improving side but they have been cruelly dealt with by the laughing stock that is the RWC Disciplinary Committee and Australia have the wind in their sails. As for that Disciplinary Committee - well here's the news boys - it's a contact sport.

Good Man, Bad Man And Shades Of Grey Between

Usain Bolt is one of the greatest athletes of all time, a fact he hammered home with victory in the 100m final at the World Athletics Championships in Bejing on Sunday. He narrowly defeated the much villified 'two time drug cheat' Justin Gatlin to seeming universal approval. Some have gone so far as to say that Bolt thereby saved the soul of his sport. But let us unpack this a little.

Firstly I do have to admit that my own affections lay with Bolt but the easy Good/Bad dichotomy strikes me as an over-simplification. Taken to a libertarian extreme, why should we even be concerned what athletes choose to put in their bodies to enhance performance? Let the chemists loose on the whole lot of them and see who comes out best? On balance, no. Impressionable and ambitious athletes should not be put in harm's way by their support teams. However what is the argument for intervention if the drugs are without adverse side-effect? Some sort of notion of athletic purity? And what about the moralising implicit in the anti-doping efforts - why are recreational drugs without performance-enhancing benefits on the prohibited lists?

The unforgiven

Bolt is a media natural - an insouciant showman who revels in the limelight and manages to avoid the fast-twitch chippiness that is the mark of many sprinters. If ever a man was relaxed in his skin it is Usain Bolt. Gatlin seems an uneasy character, a deep insecurity betrayed by the affected pre-race posturing. His first ban was for ampheltamine use, apparently courtesy of drugs prescribed from youth for his ADHD. This we may forgive. The second ban was for steroid use. He claims that a masseur used a steroid based cream without his knowledge. The masseur denies that he ever did so. Whatever the truth, has Gatlin perhaps served his time?

The forgiven

The American attitude to this issue is interesting, particularly as manifested in their behemoth professional team sports, American football and baseball. If you fancy a bit of googling, try searching 'A-Rod drugs ban' to get the low-down on the making, unmaking and remaking of a baseball hero. Alex Rodriguez is plying his eye-wateringly lucrative trade once again for the New York Yankees and this after a punishment far less onerous than that endured by Gatlin. Shades of grey. (As I write 'shades of grey' I wonder if we will ever be able to rescue that useful phrase from the clutches of soft-pornographic innuendo.)    

With A Little Help From My Friends

Saw my shrink this morning. Bloody simple advice is often the best. So for now I am determined to do something about the thing in my life that most irks me. I'll leave you to work out what that might be.

With my mental health duly dealt with I set off to Fairlawns and thrashed my way through 35 lengths of the pool. Inelegant but effective. Then I went and got my hair cut. More inelegance - number 2 all over, tapered at the back. Finally I prepared a self-righteous salad for my lunch. Actually not finally, because I next continued the process of decorating Bert's old room. Perfectly Taupe. Has anyone ever knowingly seen imperfect taupe?

Tonight I am going to watch some baseball on ESPN on the unjust basis that I deserve a treat for being such a good boy today.

See you.

... Are Brilliant Mark XIV

The Golden Fry Chippie in Benllech - where on Sunday I ate the finest piece of battered haddock in history - and I speak as an expert witness on battered haddock. For people who know about these things I need only say that it was even better than Lewis's in Seahouses.

The Anglesey Coastal Path. We were up around Cable Bay on Sunday earning the appetite for the world-beating haddock.

Bangor Pier - it sticks out half a mile and the scones in the café are nearly as good as the Golden Fry haddock.

Dave Podmore's World of Cricket. Catch episodes on BBC iPlayer. There's a small touch of genius at work in this.

Baseball - courtesy of BT and ESPN I've been imbibing this most American of Americana. I don't understand half of what they go on about but I know I like it.