The Mystery Of Faith

I woke early here on the island and came upon King of Kings showing on the BBC at a strange early hour. It is not a great film but the underlying biblical story is a fabulous one. I'm a sucker for the gospels.

Anyway it put me in the mood to attend mass at Our Lady of Lourdes RC church here in Benllech. And jolly good it was too. A congregation combining locals and manifest holidaymakers was treated to a measured and wry performance by a Scottish priest. All of which got me thinking about my own conflicted catholic agnosticism. It is the proclamation of faith that always gets me and the attendant ceremony over the offerings. I came away feeling still in a state of negotiation over my own faith but pleasantly uplifted. And yes I did take communion - a cynic might call that having my bread and eating it. I can live with it.  

The Cambrian Williams

This is a tale of Cambria and two Englishmen called William who have moved there. Both have appeared in these pages before - they are my brother WJR and my dear friend Big Willy Mac. Over the past two days I have enjoyed  a game of golf with each in turn. The weather has been kind but with a wind that made the game gratifyingly difficult. First up was a chastening defeat at WJR's hands at Welshpool Golf Club. I actually started competently but two lost balls on the ninth presaged a collapse in morale on an epic scale. This has happened before and, as night follows day, will happen again.

At the high point of Welshpool Golf Club

I urge anyone who has a feel for truly rugged golf to go to Welshpool, a James Braid course that improbably climbs up and down hills and is a test of imagination and stamina. There is not a single sand bunker on the course - it doesn't need them. A snip at less than thirty quid. Next time I'm going to play better.  

Golf as God intended - Harlech

From Welshpool I drove on to Ynys Mon and Plas Piggy. Slept like a log and then undertook the drive to Harlech where Big Willy (who has transplanted his life to Criccieth) is a member of the truly wondrous Royal St. David's Golf Club. This is golf on an epic scale. Amongst a plethora of great holes, perhaps best is the fiendish 15th that takes you up a narrow gully between the dunes. I played a little better than at Welshpool but could not better Big Willy's nous and local knowledge.

Feeling a little foot-sore today and will recuperate with an impertinent Argentinian red whilst watching the Open from Royal Troon. I've said it before - when I grow up I want to be me. 

The State Of The Pig's Body

It was back on 23 May that I made mention of the latest calamity to assail Big Fat Pig's ageing body - plantar fasciitis in the left foot. I''ll tell you what, it's bloody painful. It has put a real crimp in my golf season (I wear a strap and layers of padding on the offending appendage) and I have had to admit defeat and use a trolley, something I loathe doing. I played (very unsuccessfuly) my first round without the trolley on Tuesday and was foot-sore aferwards but will persist. I'm such a martyr.

More trying than the injurious effect on my golf game, is the fact that I had been hoping to get myself a little slimmer for Daughter Number One's wedding in September in that London. Running is out of the question and even the precious bike was impossible when the pain was at its worst. However I am now back on the mean streets on the bike and thereby acquiring a feeling of outrageous well-being. I even mangaged an ascent of the Col de Hillwood this morning. Even better news for those of you who worry about the Pig's immense sense of self-esteem, he has been measured for a ludicrously expensive suit, so he will look gorgeous on the big day. The Pig's style guru (better known to you as Daughter Number Two) accompanied him to the fitting so everything will be in the best possible taste. Now let's turn our attention to that speech.  

  

More Adaptations, Less Theory

In fact I won't bog you down with any theory this time. What we have here are two films both of which won the Oscar for best picture, and both of which are adaptations, one from a novel, the other from the stage.

I have betrayed my love of Gone with the Wind on previous occasions and what prompts me to return to the subject is that the Groupie and I watched it for the umpteenth time when at Plas Piggy last week. It is cinema on a monstrous scale, carried to heights by the charisma and chemistry of Gable and Leigh, the brilliance of Olivia de Haviland and a matchlessly ambitious mis-en-scene. I can mouth most of the dialogue as it trips along but the sheer aptness of the delivery still captivates. 98/100.

A very different film is A Man for All Seasons, adapted from Robert Bolt's stage play. As thought-provoking historical drama goes this can hardly be bettered. No longeurs, a constant thread of intelligence and a commanding central performance from Paul Scofield. Add to that two rumbustuous supporting efforts from Orson Welles and Robert Shaw and you have a thoroughly good movie. 91/100.   

True Grit And A Theory Of Adaptation

I've had this on my mind for a while. I have been re-reading Linda Hutcheon's excellent textbook A Theory of Adaptation and what led me to pull it off the shelf was watching the 1969 film of True Grit, mostly remarkable since it won John Wayne his only Oscar, an honorary consolation aside. The 1969 film is good but not great. Wayne is fine but the role is not remotely on a par with his work in two brilliant movies, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, and The Searchers. As Rooster Cogburn Wayne wears his eye-patch on the left. Glen Campbell as LaBoeuf is, sad to say, rather dreadful. As I say, a good film. 65/100.

2010 saw the estimbale Coen Brothers giving us their take on True Grit and it was watching this that made me want to read the source novel. The Coen offering is a far better film than the Wayne vehicle. Jeff Bridges is superb as Cogburn, wearing his eye-patch on the right. Having now read Charles Portis's novel (1968) I can safely say that the later film is not so much a remake of the earlier, rather it is a more faithful adaptation of the novel. Which brings me back to Hutcheon who nails the nature of artistic adaptation: 'An adaptation is a derivation that is not derivative -  a work that is second without being secondary. It is its own palimpsestic thing.' 

True Grit (2010)? 86/100. A worthy adaptation of what transpires to be a very fine novel. If the book comments on which eye Cogburn has covered, I have forgotten it. This is the best novel I have read in an age. Brevity can be the soul of wit and this is a brief novel, 206 pages. The Great Gatsby is not a long book and that fact does not stop it being spoken of as the Great American Novel. All of which speculation is silly but I will say this - True Grit is a great American Novel.