An Important Primer On A Degraded Profession

Before I became a lawyer I had failed in my initial desire to be a hard-bitten, truth-searching, investigative journalist. My heroes were Woodward and Bernstein. You might think that there is something wrong with a boy/man who had successive ambitions in the loathed professions of journalism and the law. You would be wrong. I will argue the toss with anyone about the social value of ethical lawyering and I hope you would agree that good journalism is as important now as it has ever been. This latter sentiment is all the more important in the age of that loathsome toad Donald Trump.

All of which leads me in a roundabout sort of a way to a good film that makes a hero of the objective journalist. Mr. Jones is not up there with All the President's Men but it is a worthy bit of cinema all the same. It tells the story of Gareth Jones and his heroic exposing of Stalin's Holodomor, the deliberate starving of millions of Ukrainians, sacrificed on the altar of Communist orthodoxy. In addition to a fine central performance from James Norton there is a nicely chilling portrayal by Peter Sarsgaard of the real-life villain (he won a Pullitzer on the back of untruthful reporting of Stalin's 'miracle') Walter Duranty. Look Duranty up if you want to get a measure of this particular creep. Fake news is not new.

 Back to the film - it has a slightly clumsy framing device that brings George Orwell into the picture and it wanders around thematically on occasions but, overall, this is godd film-making. 69/100.  

The Rest Of The South-Western Odyssey

I abandoned you, I admit it. I was having such a good time in Cornwall last week that I could find neither time nor inclination to give my usual tiresome running commentary. Well, I'll just list a few more highlights in support of my conclusion - that Cornwall is bloody brilliant.

First up. Stein's Seafood Restaurant - the place where the benevolent capitalism of Padstein has its roots. Top draw. The Groupie was perhaps not bowled-over by her turbot but Big Fat Pig was a very happy camper with the Fruits de Mer. Picture of the actual portion below -and bear in mind that the Pig had eaten a load of it before this was taken.

A final word on the restaurant. It has no pretensions about Michelin stars - it obeys Stein's own mantra, fresh fish well cooked. It's good.

We weren't yet finished with the Stein empire. On Friday we attended (yes both of us) the Cookery School to learn how to prepare fish dishes. I was a tad worried that I wouldn't enjoy this but, pleased to say, that this was, I repeat myself, bloody brilliant. We filleted fish, we fried, grilled and cured any number of species. We got to eat what we prepared and were kept full to the gills with wine. Try it - most excellent. You could become, as BFP now is, a bore about the value of good kitchen knives.

However, the true beauty of Cornwall lies not in the culinary delights of Padstein but in its scenery. Camel Trail - excellent. Even better, Trevose Head. Breath-taking. Good for the soul.  

 

And, as if we had not already been blessed, the M5 was clear for our return journey.
  

Big Fat Pig Gets Bigger And Fatter But Only After Feeling Younger

BFP is late-middle-aged. At least. However he and the Groupie have been indulging in the activity best suited to making you feel young again - visiting National Trust properties. On Monday it was Trerice and yesterday Lanhydrock. Both are excellent, Trerice a smallish Elizabethan manor house, Lanhydrock a grand Victorian estate which manages to feel liveable. In case you have missed the point, one feels younger when visiting such sites because of the general decrepitude of the other visitors. Works for me.

Trerice

 

 

  

Lanhydrock

As for getting bigger and fatter, well last night we went to Padstow's oldest pub, The Golden Lion. Beer was top draw - Doom Bar. The food was excellent and gargantuan. See below my plate of gammon, egg, pineapple (a seared wedge not some tinned crap), mushrooms, tomatoes, and onion rings (best ever - and when it comes to onion rings I'm a professional) - you can't even see the chips which came in a side dish. Highly recommended.

Today we are going to do some walking on the Camel Trail before resuming the weight-gain programme at Rick Stein's Seafood Restaurant tonight.  

The Trouble With Running Downhill

The trouble with running downhill is that, on the assumption that you are returning to your base, there is always a compensating uphill stretch. Back at Casa Piggy we are at the top of a hill so I always finish with an incline. Well we have decamped (Groupie and I) to drizzly (the forecast has it getting better as the week progresses) Cornwall, Padstow to be precise. And, what do you know, our accommodation (very nice) is at the top of the bloody great descent to the harbour. The think is that when you are on your hols and want to go running, you have to get down to the sea. There is no fun to be had in meandering around the sunlit uplands. Thus Big Fat Pig made his way down to the harbour this morning at his usual slow pace. That final push back up the hill was murderous and my thighs are protesting now. Do I feel righteous? Too bloody right. I view the whole process as generating an excuse to fill my face at every opportunity. It's my life, as Bon Jovi so rightly puts it.

Was Elizabeth Taylor the twentieth century's most attractive woman? Ava Gardner and Vivian Leigh might have something to say about that. And, yes, I do do know that the question itself betrays a shallowness on my part. It's my life. Anyway, the reason I raise the point is that I recently watched (for the umpteenth time) Cleopatra, a film that has long exercised a fascination for me, in fact ever since I read in my Christmas Guiness Book of Records about its status (long-since superseded) as the most costly movie ever made. As a spectacle it works. As serious art it does not. But who cares. Never mind Burton and Taylor, the best performance comes from Roddy McDowall as that mealiest-mouthed of mealy-mouthed pragmatists, Octavius. Best viewed at Christmas on the biggest screen you can find. 68/100. I eschew my usual  editorial practice and afford space for a larger edition of the film poster. 

In all seriousness, Taylor's physical allure raises a mildly interetsing academic point. Although the film owes nothing to Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra, the Taylor effect does have an effect on how a modern audience receives the play. The expectation of arresting looks (matching Shakespeare's poetry) is not a burden that Jacobean audiences would have to bear, the part of the matchless queen being played by a boy. I know, I know, I'm being all shallow again, But scratch back that shallow surface and there is a point that bears on reception theory. OK, I'll stop digging now. 

The Age Of Chivalry Is Not Dead

So this is what happened. The Groupie and I went to that London for the day to see Daughter Number One and her fiance (I know, exciting isn't it) and we did what environmentally responsible people do - we caught the train. On the way down we were an early enough stop to get seats but on the return journey Jean-Paul Sartre was again proved right - hell is other people, or to be precise, l'enfer, c'est les autres. A headlong dash to the train served to get us seats but the crowds kept on coming. I gave up my seat to an elderly lady. The age of chivalry is not dead (though clearly dying to judge by the unusualness of my gesture) but the age of manners may well be - miserable sod didn't even say than you. Oh well, Big Fat Pig will perhaps get his reward in heaven (stop laughing at the back).

All in all it was impossible not to compare the experience to my other recent experience of a long-distance train. Marseille to Paris was also very busy but everyone had a designated seat. Flexible tickets do have something to answer for.

Apropos of nothing at all, I will confess to a wry smile crossing my lips as I watched Eddie Jones's discomfiture at the hand of Warren Gatland's Wales. I like Gatland almost as little as I like Jones, but you have to say that he has galvanised Wales even if he did need Matthew Carly's barely moral refereeing against Fiji. England meanwhile lunber their way forward with Farrell seemingly re-established at fly-half. It will end in tears. 

A Shrinking Translation

Film versions of successful television shows often fail to expand into the big screen. For no reason of personal preference (I was with my Mum who had just had a cataract operation) I last week watched the second Downton movie - we ignored the first which was hidden behind a pay-wall. Downton Abbey: a New Era was in no manner displeasing but Julian Fellowes had obviously mailed it in. For those who like this sort of thing, this is the sort of thing they will like. Of no note in cinema history. 50/100.

And wouldn't you know it, just like London buses, no sooner had one spin-off crossed my screen than along came another. We chose to view Luther: the Fallen Sun for the very good reason that the Luther television series had been one of the best things on the box in the past decade - dark, gory and carried by two central performers (Idris Elba and Ruth Wilson) from the top drawer. Instead of expanding Elba's character into the corners of cinematic possibility, the film shrinks into cliche and wild improbability. It perhaps best serves as Elba's screen-test to be the next Bond (a development I would not find unjustified). A missed opportunity. 51/100.

Les Petites Vacances

Rugby World Cup 2023 is well and truly underway and the Overgraduate was in the South of France for an extended weekend of sport and general jollity. Before anything else is said I must thank AO, JRS, AW, AS, and BH for their company on the trip, most particularly to those of them who had a hand in the organisation. OG steered well clear of taking any responsibility in that regard - my role was to pay up when asked and to make as good a pass as possible at being acceptable company. A brilliant trip.

OG's chosen reading - quel poseur

We travelled by train - Eurostar to Paris and then on to Marseille by TGV. These trips were a reminder of just how awesome train travel can be. Reserved seats, no over-selling and clean toilets. On the outward leg I read Private Eye - is it my imagination or did this used to be much funnier? On the return I did my faux intellectual bit and tried to make sense of a copy of Cahiers du Cinema. A barely-scraped French A level more than four decades ago is not the best equipment for this task. Fun though. 

We stayed in the stunning La Ciotat, twenty miles outside Marseille. AO had harnessed AirB'n'B and come up with a ridiculously luxurious apartment. On arrival the suave owner told us we could use any of the building's three pools. As for La Ciotat, well what a nice place. This is a mild understatement.

La Ciotat Vieux Port

Even the moments of mild trauma that inevitably accompany such a trip turned to our benefit. On Saturday under the blameless, burning skies we walked to La Ciotat's quaint railway station (where the Lumiere Brothers filmed their famous steam-train arriving and ushered in the age of cinema) only to receive the news that there was a local train strike. How were the intrepid half dozen to get into Marseille for England's opening match against Argentina? Here that shitty A level finally came into its own. A fractured call to our property manager, Sarah (whose English was on a par with my French), somehow managed to convey that we needed a taxi for six to the Stade Marseille. Sarah came up trumps and we all crammed into a Skoda for the trip. Our driver even arranged our return trip with his mate Phillipe. This proved a turning point in the weekend - Phillipe and his absurdly luxurious Tesla (I take back all I have ever said about Elon Musk) became our transport of choice - he took us back into Marseille for the Scotland v South Africa match on Sunday, took us home that evening and carried us to the station at La Ciotat on our Monday departure. Bravo Phillipe. From this near-disaster it transpired that we had avoided all manner of tribulations with local public transport.  

France had been a joyous host, boosted into a good mood by their team's dismantling of New Zealand in the opening match of the tournament. I should however point out that the stradium authorities in Marseille got it badly wrong for the England v Argentina match. The arrangements for entry into the stadium were dire and dangerous. The goodwill of rugby fans rescued the situation as boisterous Argentinians and wary Englishmen (most of them expecting an Argentinian victory) demonstrated admirable restraint. Enough will have been written elsewhere about England's short-handed victory - they spent almost the entire match reduced to fourteen men after Tom Curry's dimissal. Suffice to say this was a spirited, stoic, professional performance.

I will finish on a vaguely sour note. Phillipe got us back to the apartment on Sunday in time to watch the thunderous game between Wales and Fiji. The sour note? Matthew Carley's refereeing. I had hoped we might have got past the institutional elitism that sees the mistreatment of the 'tier 2' rugby nations. Sadly we have not. Just ask yourself this - would the All Blacks have been as mistreated as were Fiji? No they would not.