Just popped my Wikipedia cherry by expanding and updating the Maher Shalal Hash Baz entry. Am now listening to their compilation album From A Summer To Another Summer (An Egypt To Another Egypt), the first fruit of their relationship with Stephen Pastel's Geographic label. If you've never listened to their fractured, fragile punk jazz, then do so. Now.
New Belle & Sebastian album next month, Stephin Merritt in March. Things looking a bit cheerier musically speaking. Will be in London Feb 12-18. Any gigs or other manifestations of wonder scheduled for that week, do let me know.
Also... last night watched Lubitsch's Heaven Can Wait (1943), one of those things I'd always thought I'd seen on a Sunday afternoon on BBC2 when I was about eight, but probably never did. It has it's moments, but looks distinctly coy now. On the other hand, one can only admire Lubitsch's ability to succeed in the face of fuckwitted censorship. It's the story of a man who asks to be admitted to Hell because of his own serial adultery; however, thanks to the Hays Code, the words "Hell" and "adultery" are never used. Classy.
And have just started Susanna Clarke's Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, which feels uncomfortably like something else (Dark Materials, Artemis Fowl) that's arrived in the H*RRY P*TT*R slipstream, but I'll give it a go anyway.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Bald, obscure LibDem in man-on-man rudeness shock horror
Mark Oaten, sometime contender for the LibDem leadership, has been caught out playing away from the fragrant Belinda and two kids. Fair cop to the News Of The World, to an extent; he had, after all, used images of himself as a loving hubby in election material distributed to the electors of Winchester.
But there's one sentence in the redtop account that just doesn't do it for me:
"The naked MP then got the rent boys to humiliate him with a bizarre sex act too revolting to describe."
No. I've no idea what the bizarre sex act was, but I'm sure it's pretty easy to describe. What the NotW means is that it can't be described with nudging the paper's Neanderthal readers over the blurry line between prurient schadenfreude and outright revulsion. Three-in-a-bed with rent boys in football kit is OK. But "bizarre sex acts" (chickens? shitting? hot drill bits in the perineum?) aren't suitable for a family newspaper, apparently.
It's not the primness I object to, or the hypocrisy. It's just the lousy, lazy journalism.
But there's one sentence in the redtop account that just doesn't do it for me:
"The naked MP then got the rent boys to humiliate him with a bizarre sex act too revolting to describe."
No. I've no idea what the bizarre sex act was, but I'm sure it's pretty easy to describe. What the NotW means is that it can't be described with nudging the paper's Neanderthal readers over the blurry line between prurient schadenfreude and outright revulsion. Three-in-a-bed with rent boys in football kit is OK. But "bizarre sex acts" (chickens? shitting? hot drill bits in the perineum?) aren't suitable for a family newspaper, apparently.
It's not the primness I object to, or the hypocrisy. It's just the lousy, lazy journalism.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Two films
In the last 48 hours I have mostly been watching...
Titus (1999, Dir Julie Taymor)
When I was 19, I was packed off to Stratford with my fellow Eng Lit undergrads for a week of Shakespeare and associated stuff. The key moment was Deborah Warner's production of Titus Andronicus, starring Brian Cox. I was in the front row of the Swan Theatre, and at one point I got so wrapped up in the action I realised I was half-way out of my seat, wanting to squeeze a zit on the back of Peter Polycarpou (playing Aaron the Moor). As we wondered out, dazed, one of the ushers said that it was a fairly quiet night, because nobody had vomited or had a nervous breakdown, although a couple of people had to be ushered out, sobbing softly. That was when I noticed there was (stage) blood all down the front of my trousers. I don't think I've ever really enjoyed a stage play since - nothing could come close.
And neither can Taymor's version, although it does have its moments. It's one of those consciously anachronistic jobs, with 1930s microphones and cars, 1940s Lugers, stag hunting with medieval crossbows, Roman orgies, modern plastic toys, all kinda zhooshed up together. This does serve to reinforce the contemporary relevance (the rival cliques of Saturninus and Bassianus are represented by the colours of Rome's two modern football teams, Roma and Lazio, but I don't know how many people Taymor expected to spot that) and the film does transcend the Elizabethan video nasty that Shakespeare originally wrote.
The key problem is Anthony Hopkins. No disrespect to the guy, but he can't stop playing Anthony Hopkins. He's got that speech [pause and turn head slightly] LOUD SPEECH [pause and turn head back] speech tic that can work sometimes, but isn't a substitute for acting. Reminds me rather of the quiet bit-LOUD BIT mode that Nirvana ripped off from the Pixies. There's no sense of a Lear-like collapse of a once-great leader... it feels as if one day he just decides all the abuse is two much, and dresses up as a chef for a giggle.
Alan Cumming is admirably reptilian as Saturninus, and Jessica Lange is good as Tamora, queen of the Goths, actually creating sympathy for this bitch from hell. Best performance however is Harry Lennix as Aaron. It's a problematic role, because, as written, he has no real motivation for his villainy. PC directors have attempted to link his wrongdoing to the racist abuse he suffers (cf Shylock) but Shakespeare simple saw him as black, in all senses of the word. And, very bravely, that's followed here, with Lennix offers a sort of understated existentialism. He neither rages against his own vile nature, nor relishes it. He just is, right?
Also on the agenda is...
Mikey and Nicky (1976, Dir Elaine May)
Checking out the DVD cover, I thought this was a Cassavetes-directed film, but JC only stars in it, with his buddy Peter Falk. May, best known for wry observational comedy, in a neo-Woody Allen vein, seems an odd choice to direct this pretty bleak story of gangland losers, betrayal and failure. But as the two characters, Nicky (Cassavetes, who's stolen money from the Mob and is now in paranoid meltdown mode) and Mikey (Falk, the best buddy who claims to be there to help) stumble through the grimy night, stumbling in and out of apartments, bars, cinemas, cemeteries, buses (check out M. Emmet Walsh as the driver!) the essential humour of the situation comes through. It's a nasty, bleak humour, that takes no prisoners: exemplified by the dialogue when Mikey and Nicky go into a black bar (soundtrack - 'Love Train' by the O'Jays).
PATRON: We ain't stupid, you know.
NICKY: Why are you black, then?
Ned Beatty is also at his sweaty, polyester best as the hitman brought in to rub Nicky out.
One thought... you really couldn't make a movie like this any more. For the purely practical reason that much of its plot is propelled by the need to make contact by phone - Beatty and Falk are constantly in phonebooths, leaving messages, losing touch. Mobiles have wiped out a great many plot devices.
It was only when I sat down to write this that I realised both these films were directed by women. I don't know how significant that is, as they are both about very specifically male worlds, and women for the most part are sexual chattels (there's a vicious rape in Titus, and something pretty close in M&N). But was does link them is that they are both about Things Going Horribly wrong. Tragedy, in the truest sense of the word.
Titus (1999, Dir Julie Taymor)
When I was 19, I was packed off to Stratford with my fellow Eng Lit undergrads for a week of Shakespeare and associated stuff. The key moment was Deborah Warner's production of Titus Andronicus, starring Brian Cox. I was in the front row of the Swan Theatre, and at one point I got so wrapped up in the action I realised I was half-way out of my seat, wanting to squeeze a zit on the back of Peter Polycarpou (playing Aaron the Moor). As we wondered out, dazed, one of the ushers said that it was a fairly quiet night, because nobody had vomited or had a nervous breakdown, although a couple of people had to be ushered out, sobbing softly. That was when I noticed there was (stage) blood all down the front of my trousers. I don't think I've ever really enjoyed a stage play since - nothing could come close.
And neither can Taymor's version, although it does have its moments. It's one of those consciously anachronistic jobs, with 1930s microphones and cars, 1940s Lugers, stag hunting with medieval crossbows, Roman orgies, modern plastic toys, all kinda zhooshed up together. This does serve to reinforce the contemporary relevance (the rival cliques of Saturninus and Bassianus are represented by the colours of Rome's two modern football teams, Roma and Lazio, but I don't know how many people Taymor expected to spot that) and the film does transcend the Elizabethan video nasty that Shakespeare originally wrote.
The key problem is Anthony Hopkins. No disrespect to the guy, but he can't stop playing Anthony Hopkins. He's got that speech [pause and turn head slightly] LOUD SPEECH [pause and turn head back] speech tic that can work sometimes, but isn't a substitute for acting. Reminds me rather of the quiet bit-LOUD BIT mode that Nirvana ripped off from the Pixies. There's no sense of a Lear-like collapse of a once-great leader... it feels as if one day he just decides all the abuse is two much, and dresses up as a chef for a giggle.
Alan Cumming is admirably reptilian as Saturninus, and Jessica Lange is good as Tamora, queen of the Goths, actually creating sympathy for this bitch from hell. Best performance however is Harry Lennix as Aaron. It's a problematic role, because, as written, he has no real motivation for his villainy. PC directors have attempted to link his wrongdoing to the racist abuse he suffers (cf Shylock) but Shakespeare simple saw him as black, in all senses of the word. And, very bravely, that's followed here, with Lennix offers a sort of understated existentialism. He neither rages against his own vile nature, nor relishes it. He just is, right?
Also on the agenda is...
Mikey and Nicky (1976, Dir Elaine May)
Checking out the DVD cover, I thought this was a Cassavetes-directed film, but JC only stars in it, with his buddy Peter Falk. May, best known for wry observational comedy, in a neo-Woody Allen vein, seems an odd choice to direct this pretty bleak story of gangland losers, betrayal and failure. But as the two characters, Nicky (Cassavetes, who's stolen money from the Mob and is now in paranoid meltdown mode) and Mikey (Falk, the best buddy who claims to be there to help) stumble through the grimy night, stumbling in and out of apartments, bars, cinemas, cemeteries, buses (check out M. Emmet Walsh as the driver!) the essential humour of the situation comes through. It's a nasty, bleak humour, that takes no prisoners: exemplified by the dialogue when Mikey and Nicky go into a black bar (soundtrack - 'Love Train' by the O'Jays).
PATRON: We ain't stupid, you know.
NICKY: Why are you black, then?
Ned Beatty is also at his sweaty, polyester best as the hitman brought in to rub Nicky out.
One thought... you really couldn't make a movie like this any more. For the purely practical reason that much of its plot is propelled by the need to make contact by phone - Beatty and Falk are constantly in phonebooths, leaving messages, losing touch. Mobiles have wiped out a great many plot devices.
It was only when I sat down to write this that I realised both these films were directed by women. I don't know how significant that is, as they are both about very specifically male worlds, and women for the most part are sexual chattels (there's a vicious rape in Titus, and something pretty close in M&N). But was does link them is that they are both about Things Going Horribly wrong. Tragedy, in the truest sense of the word.
Saturday, January 14, 2006
Gish
Recently saw two films that I really ought to have caught up on before: Broken Blossoms and The Night Of The Hunter.
Broken Blossoms is one of DW Griffith's quieter, more intimate works, a rest after the racist ballyhoo of Birth Of A Nation and the sheer, bonkers over-indulgence that was Intolerance. It's uncomfortable in many ways (white actors yellowed up, "Chinky" cast around on the intertitles) and the acting is very eyebrows, if you know what I mean. (Watch any male silent actor apart from Keaton and he'll do odd things with his eyebrows.)
That said, Richard Barthemless as the gentle Chinese immigrant is wonderful, a sort of wistful Belle & Sebastian fan before his time. And the recreation of a sort of foggy Limehouse dystopia is very clever (presume it was all done on the backlot).
The Night Of The Hunter, as you probably know, is the only film directed by Charles Laughton, and is best remembered for Robert Mitchum having LOVE and HATE tattooed on his knuckles. It's actually a Gothic southern thriller, with religious maniacs, misogynist psychopaths, good girls threatening to go bad and a kid who looks a bit like Christina Ricci in a hall of mirrors.
What unites the two, of course, is the presence of Lillian Gish. They were made 40 years apart, and her two characters (the doomed, naive, abused daughter and the plucky, shotgun-wielding mother hen) are very different. But it's clearly the same person - the high cheekbones, the weirdly pursed lips and those eyes boring into your soul...
They don't make 'em like that no more.
Broken Blossoms is one of DW Griffith's quieter, more intimate works, a rest after the racist ballyhoo of Birth Of A Nation and the sheer, bonkers over-indulgence that was Intolerance. It's uncomfortable in many ways (white actors yellowed up, "Chinky" cast around on the intertitles) and the acting is very eyebrows, if you know what I mean. (Watch any male silent actor apart from Keaton and he'll do odd things with his eyebrows.)
That said, Richard Barthemless as the gentle Chinese immigrant is wonderful, a sort of wistful Belle & Sebastian fan before his time. And the recreation of a sort of foggy Limehouse dystopia is very clever (presume it was all done on the backlot).
The Night Of The Hunter, as you probably know, is the only film directed by Charles Laughton, and is best remembered for Robert Mitchum having LOVE and HATE tattooed on his knuckles. It's actually a Gothic southern thriller, with religious maniacs, misogynist psychopaths, good girls threatening to go bad and a kid who looks a bit like Christina Ricci in a hall of mirrors.
What unites the two, of course, is the presence of Lillian Gish. They were made 40 years apart, and her two characters (the doomed, naive, abused daughter and the plucky, shotgun-wielding mother hen) are very different. But it's clearly the same person - the high cheekbones, the weirdly pursed lips and those eyes boring into your soul...
They don't make 'em like that no more.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Two thoughts from recent reading
Andrew O'Hagan discussing his time as a film critic in Granta 86. In a nutshell, O'Hagan had been attacking the middle-brow, coffeetable mentality of Miramax; Miramax and its cronies pointed out that the company was essentially propping up the ailing UK film industry and, in Stephen Woolley's words, "our film critics are generally confused, myopically naive and simply ignorant when it comes to matters of film production and finance."
O'Hagan's response:
"I had written as a film critic, not as an economic analyst. It was irrelevant to my case what the Weinsteins had done for British industry... It seemed obvious to me: if somebody doesn't like your book, there's no point in going on the radio to tell everyone what you're doing to keep people in jobs in the publishing industry. You defend your art, if that's what you're entitled to do, otherwise you take it on the chin."
I think a similar point can be applied to the cultural impact of globalisation. A standard defence of the creeping spread of global/US brands into the developing world is that they have a positive economic impact on the host country. But it's quite consistent to accept that point, while still arguing that, for sake of argument, a McSamurai burger is empirically a foul abortion of Eastern cuisine, or that Fantastic Four is an embarrassingly inept movie.
Which leads (...ish) to Anthony Bourdain, in A Cook's Tour :
"If you're a previously unemployable ex-convenience store clerk from Leeds or Tulsa, however, a guy with no consience and no chance of ever knowing the love of an unintoxicated woman, then Cambodia can be a paradise. You can get a job as an English teacher for about seven dollars an hour (which makes you one of the richest people in the country). Weed, smack, whores, guns, and prescription drugs are cheap and easy to find. Shy boys on motorbikes will ferry you from bar to bar, waiting outside while you drink yourself into a stupor. You can eat dinner, then penetrate indentured underage prostitutes, buy a kilo of not very good weed, drink yourself stuttering drunk, and be driven safely home to your spacious apartment - all for under thirty dollars. Cambodia is a dream come true for international losers - a beautiful but badly beaten woman, staked out on an anthill for every predator in the world to do with what he wishes."
O'Hagan's response:
"I had written as a film critic, not as an economic analyst. It was irrelevant to my case what the Weinsteins had done for British industry... It seemed obvious to me: if somebody doesn't like your book, there's no point in going on the radio to tell everyone what you're doing to keep people in jobs in the publishing industry. You defend your art, if that's what you're entitled to do, otherwise you take it on the chin."
I think a similar point can be applied to the cultural impact of globalisation. A standard defence of the creeping spread of global/US brands into the developing world is that they have a positive economic impact on the host country. But it's quite consistent to accept that point, while still arguing that, for sake of argument, a McSamurai burger is empirically a foul abortion of Eastern cuisine, or that Fantastic Four is an embarrassingly inept movie.
Which leads (...ish) to Anthony Bourdain, in A Cook's Tour :
"If you're a previously unemployable ex-convenience store clerk from Leeds or Tulsa, however, a guy with no consience and no chance of ever knowing the love of an unintoxicated woman, then Cambodia can be a paradise. You can get a job as an English teacher for about seven dollars an hour (which makes you one of the richest people in the country). Weed, smack, whores, guns, and prescription drugs are cheap and easy to find. Shy boys on motorbikes will ferry you from bar to bar, waiting outside while you drink yourself into a stupor. You can eat dinner, then penetrate indentured underage prostitutes, buy a kilo of not very good weed, drink yourself stuttering drunk, and be driven safely home to your spacious apartment - all for under thirty dollars. Cambodia is a dream come true for international losers - a beautiful but badly beaten woman, staked out on an anthill for every predator in the world to do with what he wishes."
Arctic monkeybusiness
Must admit, holed up here thousands of miles away from civilization (what is this Celebrity Big Brother of which you speak?) I've kinda missed the Arctic Monkeys. But Alexis Petridis claims to have them nailed:
"Meanwhile, Arctic Monkeys' sound is based entirely on music from the past five years," he says in today's Graun. "The laconic, distorted vocals bear the influence of the Strokes. The choppy punk-funk guitars have been filtered through Franz Ferdinand, the frantic rhythms and dashes of ska come via the Libertines."
The question, is - how does he know? How can he tell that the Strokes, FF and the Libertines are the direct influences, rather than any of the acts that have been tipped as influences on these three (say, Blondie, Joy Division, XTC, Costello, Gang of Four, The Clash, Small Faces...)
Of course, sometimes the act of "tribute" is so brazen that the direct link is clear. Remember when Will Young blethered on about covering "Light My Fire by the Doors" when his version was a strum-by-strum Xerox of Jose Feliciano's version? It was so accurate it could have appeared on one of those Top Of The Pops compilations (never mind the studio hackery, check out the cleavage on the cover). But unless one of the Monkeys actually goes on record and hails Julian Casablancas as one of the founding fathers of rock n roll, we'll have to presume that the band's sound is simply a distillation of 50 years or more of pop history, certainly encompassing the Strokes and the Libertines, but also Oasis, Slade, Dr Dre, Screaming Jay Hawkins, Engelbert Humperdinck, Neu!, Lee 'Scratch' Perry, Jive Bunny, Nurse With Wound, Waylon Jennings and Il Divo.
It's called postmodernism, stupid!
"Meanwhile, Arctic Monkeys' sound is based entirely on music from the past five years," he says in today's Graun. "The laconic, distorted vocals bear the influence of the Strokes. The choppy punk-funk guitars have been filtered through Franz Ferdinand, the frantic rhythms and dashes of ska come via the Libertines."
The question, is - how does he know? How can he tell that the Strokes, FF and the Libertines are the direct influences, rather than any of the acts that have been tipped as influences on these three (say, Blondie, Joy Division, XTC, Costello, Gang of Four, The Clash, Small Faces...)
Of course, sometimes the act of "tribute" is so brazen that the direct link is clear. Remember when Will Young blethered on about covering "Light My Fire by the Doors" when his version was a strum-by-strum Xerox of Jose Feliciano's version? It was so accurate it could have appeared on one of those Top Of The Pops compilations (never mind the studio hackery, check out the cleavage on the cover). But unless one of the Monkeys actually goes on record and hails Julian Casablancas as one of the founding fathers of rock n roll, we'll have to presume that the band's sound is simply a distillation of 50 years or more of pop history, certainly encompassing the Strokes and the Libertines, but also Oasis, Slade, Dr Dre, Screaming Jay Hawkins, Engelbert Humperdinck, Neu!, Lee 'Scratch' Perry, Jive Bunny, Nurse With Wound, Waylon Jennings and Il Divo.
It's called postmodernism, stupid!
The Omega Factor: Paranormal boogie
Finished watching the DVDs of The Omega Factor last night.
For those who don't recall, this was a BBC Scotland drama production from 1979, which concerned a mysterious government department investigating paranormal phenomena. The key characters were Tom Crane, a journalist with psychic tendencies and Anne Reynolds, a physicist. Got it? Open-minded male, hard-nosed scientific female, conspiracy theories, weird goings on... That's right, "borrowed" lock, stock and cliche by The X Files about 15 years later.
Anyroad up, I remember being gripped by the show when it first went out (indeed, the only time it went out, but more of that later). I was 11 at the time, and coming back to it there's the inevitable frisson - am I reviewing the show, or am I reviewing the development of my own critical abilities?
Well, let's say first that The Omega Factor has not aged well. Almost entirely shot on VT, and a lot of it in very obvious studio mockups, it seems endearingly cheap from the perspective of a quarter-century. And that's not even considering the special effects, which often look like some kind of failed demo from Tomorrow's World. Look! Look! That man has gone mad! Let's superimpose glowy pink blobs on his eyes to make him scary. Woooooo!
Moreover, individual shows seem baggy and formless. I don't know whether this is a problem of scripting, direction, editing or what, but there seem to be rather too many long shots of cars pulling up, or closeups of James Hazeldine looking pained and earnest, all for no particular reason. And the final episode stutters to a halt in a manner that's probably meant to be enigmatic and open-ended, but in the end feels as if nobody could quite decide how to bring matters to a close. No second series was commissioned, and the show was never repeated; the notes accompanying the DVD suggest this was because of the stink kicked up by Mary Whitehouse and her dysfunctional freaks, but I reckon it was because the show was just a bit lame.
Indeed, many of the best bits, sadly, fall into the so-bad-it's good camp. Louise Jameson's costumes, for example, hideous confections of polyester, often topped off by big tinted specs and/or mumsy felt hats, brought back a frisson of horror. And in one episode, we get the tantalising glimpse of that most BBC of entities, the made-up pop group (cf Dross in The Archers, The Banned in EastEnders, Fresh 'n' Fly in Grange Hill, John Smith & The Common Men in Dr Who). This time it's the appropriately kitted-out Terry and the Pirates, who are about to serenade the residents of a disturbingly twee Highland hotel when all hell breaks loose and destroys their chance of nationwide fame. I did note that one of Terry's Pirates (maybe Terry himself) was wielding a double-neck guitar, suggesting that punk hadn't permeated this far, even by 1979. Maybe that eyepatch was a Dr Hook reference...
But best of all was that other staple of desperate drama, the fake nightclub. Earnest young persons boogying in a defiantly sexless manner, and Louise Jameson nodding her head in approximate time. Suddenly, Tom sees his apparently dead wife, dancing in a manner that suggestive of advanced Parkinsons. "That's her," he announces. "I recognise her dancing style!"
This is then topped by the appearance of Philip Locke (who I remember as a respected member of the National Theatre company) in the role of a comedy Russian academic. "You're surprised to see me in a place like this?" he barks. "But I like dancing. I like pop music." He then attempts to prove it by shaking his funky whatnot in a manner that screams UNCLE/WEDDING. Sublime.
For those who don't recall, this was a BBC Scotland drama production from 1979, which concerned a mysterious government department investigating paranormal phenomena. The key characters were Tom Crane, a journalist with psychic tendencies and Anne Reynolds, a physicist. Got it? Open-minded male, hard-nosed scientific female, conspiracy theories, weird goings on... That's right, "borrowed" lock, stock and cliche by The X Files about 15 years later.
Anyroad up, I remember being gripped by the show when it first went out (indeed, the only time it went out, but more of that later). I was 11 at the time, and coming back to it there's the inevitable frisson - am I reviewing the show, or am I reviewing the development of my own critical abilities?
Well, let's say first that The Omega Factor has not aged well. Almost entirely shot on VT, and a lot of it in very obvious studio mockups, it seems endearingly cheap from the perspective of a quarter-century. And that's not even considering the special effects, which often look like some kind of failed demo from Tomorrow's World. Look! Look! That man has gone mad! Let's superimpose glowy pink blobs on his eyes to make him scary. Woooooo!
Moreover, individual shows seem baggy and formless. I don't know whether this is a problem of scripting, direction, editing or what, but there seem to be rather too many long shots of cars pulling up, or closeups of James Hazeldine looking pained and earnest, all for no particular reason. And the final episode stutters to a halt in a manner that's probably meant to be enigmatic and open-ended, but in the end feels as if nobody could quite decide how to bring matters to a close. No second series was commissioned, and the show was never repeated; the notes accompanying the DVD suggest this was because of the stink kicked up by Mary Whitehouse and her dysfunctional freaks, but I reckon it was because the show was just a bit lame.
Indeed, many of the best bits, sadly, fall into the so-bad-it's good camp. Louise Jameson's costumes, for example, hideous confections of polyester, often topped off by big tinted specs and/or mumsy felt hats, brought back a frisson of horror. And in one episode, we get the tantalising glimpse of that most BBC of entities, the made-up pop group (cf Dross in The Archers, The Banned in EastEnders, Fresh 'n' Fly in Grange Hill, John Smith & The Common Men in Dr Who). This time it's the appropriately kitted-out Terry and the Pirates, who are about to serenade the residents of a disturbingly twee Highland hotel when all hell breaks loose and destroys their chance of nationwide fame. I did note that one of Terry's Pirates (maybe Terry himself) was wielding a double-neck guitar, suggesting that punk hadn't permeated this far, even by 1979. Maybe that eyepatch was a Dr Hook reference...
But best of all was that other staple of desperate drama, the fake nightclub. Earnest young persons boogying in a defiantly sexless manner, and Louise Jameson nodding her head in approximate time. Suddenly, Tom sees his apparently dead wife, dancing in a manner that suggestive of advanced Parkinsons. "That's her," he announces. "I recognise her dancing style!"
This is then topped by the appearance of Philip Locke (who I remember as a respected member of the National Theatre company) in the role of a comedy Russian academic. "You're surprised to see me in a place like this?" he barks. "But I like dancing. I like pop music." He then attempts to prove it by shaking his funky whatnot in a manner that screams UNCLE/WEDDING. Sublime.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Ruthie and the kiddyfiddlers
Ruth Kelly, bonkersly Popish education secretary, is under fire for allowing someone with "child abuse" convictions (accessed child porn on a computer) to work in a school.
Now I know I'm going to be accused of being soft on paedophiles (see Chris Langham post) but aren't we going a bit insane here? I remember several teachers with questionable sexual intentions when I was growing up. Can't recall any great harm coming to anyone, though.
You might remember the case of Nick Fulwood, at one time the British number two tennis player, who was banned from coaching under-18s last year because he'd slept in the same room as a 14-year-old girl. This was, incidentally, at the request of the girl's parents and, presumably, accepted by the girl herself. They never shared a bed. No evidence was ever produced of any assault or other offence. But it was "inappropriate" behaviour, so that's that then.
British education (and British tennis for that matter) is dying in a ditch partly because there aren't enough decent teachers to go round. If you apply the safety-first attitude that we've got at the moment, you won't have any child abuse, because no teacher will be allowed to come within 20 yards of any child. Lessons will be conducted by loudhailer.
God, I nearly said something along the lines of "political correctness gone mad". Shoot me.
Now I know I'm going to be accused of being soft on paedophiles (see Chris Langham post) but aren't we going a bit insane here? I remember several teachers with questionable sexual intentions when I was growing up. Can't recall any great harm coming to anyone, though.
You might remember the case of Nick Fulwood, at one time the British number two tennis player, who was banned from coaching under-18s last year because he'd slept in the same room as a 14-year-old girl. This was, incidentally, at the request of the girl's parents and, presumably, accepted by the girl herself. They never shared a bed. No evidence was ever produced of any assault or other offence. But it was "inappropriate" behaviour, so that's that then.
British education (and British tennis for that matter) is dying in a ditch partly because there aren't enough decent teachers to go round. If you apply the safety-first attitude that we've got at the moment, you won't have any child abuse, because no teacher will be allowed to come within 20 yards of any child. Lessons will be conducted by loudhailer.
God, I nearly said something along the lines of "political correctness gone mad". Shoot me.
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