A Move Away From Emotionless Aplomb

I remember reading some Martin Amis when at university (second time around) and thinking myself moderately smart when I described him as easier to admire than to like. His early stock in trade was, putting it mildly, the world weary.

When his tenth novel Night Train was published in 1997 (I have only just read this one) the Guardian reviewer mentioned Amis's history of 'emotionless aplomb' (wish I'd said that) but only to distinguish Night Train from its cynically arid predecessors. Because this one is not without feeeling. Nor is it without faults but it reads easily enough and leaves you with an oddly gratifying sensation of sadness. Clever. It also succinctly (the best way) shows an understanding of my own illness;

There goes out clear blue sky. Because lithium is used in the treatment of what I have heard described as the Mike Tyson of mental disorders: Manic depression.

That capital letter after the colon is not a transcription error - it reflects a typographical affectation that punctuates the novel. It's probably me being silly but I have to admit that vexed me.  We are nothing without our prejudices I suppose.

Billy Elliot

Some things surprise you when you come back to them. Such transpires to be the case with Billy Elliot, a film I have seen several times but which I now suspect I was taking for granted. I paid proper attention this afternoon and can say this - it is a beautiful thing, affecting and  just on the sensible side of cloying. Fine acting all over the piece but particular credit goes to Gary Lewis as Billy's beleaguered father. Not a wasted frame in view. 86/100.

Now for something a deal removed from ballet but possessed (to certain of us) of a beauty of its own. It is the Pig's recurring nemesis - golf. First of all a positive note - played at Stonebridge with the rugby lads last week and, praise where praise is due, encountered greens as fine as I've played and, despite rumours to the contrary, I have played at some nice courses.

But that, I'm afraid, is enough of the positivity because someone in golf has got my goat - enter stage left Bryson DeChambeau. Great name, very fine golfer but more than a bit of a plonker. It is not his scientific approach to the game that I dislike though I find his method inelegant. No, it is his demanour that grates. During the first round of the WGC currently being played in Memphis he sought the connivance of a rules official in deeming a single red ant a burrowing animal. The official quite properly stood his ground though fell short of employing the language the Pig would have deployed, namely 'Play it as it lies you spoilt brat'.

The Overgraduate has been known for his pithy golf commentary in the past, indeed the purple prose of 'Tiger Woods is a knob' still attracts hits on Google. Don't get me wrong I do not question the athleticism that Woods brought to the game, nor do I object to DeChambeau bringing sheer power to bear on the game. However until Bryson mends his manners I will not be rooting for him. Grow up you knob. You play a game for a (very healthy) living and some humility would not go amiss.   

They'll Love Me When I'm Dead

I've found another interesting thing on Netflix. If you haven't yet taken my advice and watched Citizen Kane and The Magnificent Ambersons on iPlayer, I urge you to do it now and then go to Netflix and take in the fascinating but infuriating documentary They'll Love Me When I'm Dead. It is the fractured story of the making (or not) of Welles's  last film The Other Side of the Wind, a picture only released thirty-three years after Welles's death. I've not yet seen that film but will track it down and let you know. But for the curious cineaste the documentary is, despite its weaknesses, a treat. It jumps all over the place (apparently a nod to the atmosphere of The Other Side) and unless you are very up on Welles you will wonder who the numerous contributors are - their names are not shown in subscript and some voice contributors - I noted Simon Callow's distinctive tones - go unattributed altogether. It is though, as Welles himself, beguiling and an insight into the creative process. 77/100.

The Road To Unfreedom

The Road to Unfreedom is one of those tomes that American academia can produce - the outpourings of a suave professor (in this case Yale no less) that can knock on the door of the bestseller lists. And, as it happens, quite right too. Enticingly written it ranges over Trump, Putin, Brexit and much else and has serious things to say about serious subjects.

Snyder and I would disagree over Brexit (like most Americans he doesn't get it) but we can park that because my enemy's enemy is my friend. And Snyder clearly loathes Putin and the man he regards as that rogue's Manchurian candidate, our old mate Donald Trump.

We are in the realms of Right Hegelians (Lenin) and Left Hegelians (Ilyin and latterly Putin). We are in the danger zone where an inevitablist view of history disappears up its own behind and abandons the field to the eternalists. We are in the death-zone for individualism.

The politics of eternity cannot make Putin or any other man immortal. But it can make other ideas unthinkable. And that is what eternity means: the same thing over and over again, a tedium exciting to believers because of the illusion that it is particularly theirs.

 

 

A Speculation On Faith

Don't worry this is not me getting all theological though I can't promise never to bother you with my half-formed views on the mysteries of faith. No, for today I am concerned to review The Two Popes. There are serious critics who are bothered by the entry into film production of the big streaming services. The Two Popes is a Netflix production, a very good one. There is nothing LCD about this, nor does it tip over into morose seriousness. It is a speculation on the meaning of faith, most particularly the meaning of faith to successive popes. It invents a dialogue between Popes Benedict and Francis, the pair played brilliantly by Anthony Hopkins and Jonathan Pryce respectively. It is warm, occasionally funny, and adult. Highly recommended. 85/100.  

That Tricky Second Album Syndrome

Orson Welles' first picture was Citizen Kane which I think we have to agree was one hell of a debut. Next in line was The Magnificent Ambersons, a film legendarily maimed by RKO Studios who took the final editing out of Welles's hands and left us an eighty-five minute film whose ending is hurried and unsatisfactory. That much is unfortunate (particulary since the excised hour of footage was destroyed - a considerable act of vandalism) but what is left is nonetheless arresting. Welles is a master of shadow and his chiaroscuro palette is on fine display, as in Citizen Kane and as it would be deployed so brilliantly in the later Touch of Evil. All in all we have what remains a great (yes I use that term advisedly) movie but one that leaves that sensation of what might have been. 83/100.

Both Kane and Ambersons are currently available on BBC iPayer. Reason enough to pay the licence fee. Well nearly.

Croeso - Encore Une Fois

How's that for a polyglot heading? Admit it you're impressed - a Pig of hidden depths. Well you will probably have guessed that Big Fat Pig is at Casa Piggy Cymraeg again, ostensibly to meet a roofer to get a price for a new roof - the original seventies roof is now held together by a lot of moss. That moss is much loved by the pestilential gulls who are once again nesting on the roof, their offspring now thumping around on the flat section and shitting everywhere. Possibly a shiny new roof will be less attractive to these flying vermin.

I say ostensibly here on account of the roof but of course I need little excuse to decamp here, even if it does separate me from the Groupie who puts the Pig to shame by her work ethic.

Anyway enough of my domestic arrangements - here's the news: for the second week in a row the Pig took his long run in Anglesey, this time heading inland and back to Benllech. Ninety-two minutes (and two seconds - it all counts) in a refreshing (for the runner at least) drizzle. Oakleys were worn, otherwise I doubt that the Pig could have made it. Thus continues the fitness drive - the Pig can now pull his unbelted trousers down without having to undo them. He does not, naturally, do this in polite company - mind you he does not often keep polite company.

Whilst writing this I have been listening to a brilliant album by the most disappointing act I have ever seen live - the album (taut and compelling) is Armed Forces, the band Elvis Costello and the Attractions. I am pleased to say that that evening at the Hammersmith Palais was more than rescued by the two support acts - John Cooper Clark, and Richard Hell and the Voidoids. It is not a little frightening when I realise that this all took place more than three decades ago.

It is also nearly twenty years since the Pig and the Groupie took Daughters Number One and Two on a four week Australian holiday. It was completely fantastic. But I won't bore you with the details, instead I will refer to one small episode that sticks in my mind from that vacation. We transited via Paris Charles de Gaulle and were in the Club lounge (Groupie had a lot of air miles from her business travel - the major factor in the Pig's predilection for turning left when he gets on planes) where the decision to shut the smoking area was causing an uproar. The area in question was merely a demarked section of the room, no physical separation being in place. In short the room was (as we had found when on our outward journey, the closure occuring in the interim) Passive Smoking Central. The Pig is not a vehement anti-smoker, indeed enjoys the occasional crafty cigar, but there is a world of difference between endangering your own health and the freedom to infect your fellow man. As something of a libertarian (admit it, you'd noticed) I wrestle with these sorts of things but at some point common decency ought to intrude - first do no harm. What am I getting at? Well, take  a look at this video of boorish libertarians in the States - https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/av/world-us-canada-53411955/you-call-me-selfish-for-not-wearing-a-mask

They have a point - but that point is wrong. First do no harm. Primum non nocere. Which by my count means that smart arse Pig has now used four languages in today's tirade. Pig out.