I saw Fred Astaire being interviewed tonight on a History of RKO films. At the end of the interview he was asked if he thought he was, at the time, making films that would be considered in later years to be works of art. He grinned in that modest manner he perfected and said "O no, nothing like that; we were just trying to make a buck."
Often works of art come from some crafstman's effort to do a job of work successfully. I am thinking of Mozart who was described by a learned musicologist a few years ago as a "jobbing composer". In other words he was just trying to make a buck.
I feel there are too many "artists" trying their damndest to produce a work of art regardless of whether or not it will be liked and enjoyed; they tend to think in terms of "how will it be received by the critics?" rather than "how will the general public receive it?". Sometimes works of art are produced when artists follow either of these precepts, sometimes not. As William Goldman said of Hollywood: "No knows anything." No one can tell if a work of art is produced by design or luck but if one is it is usually the result of a good deal of hard work.
I think it was Pauline Kael who was offended by the central idea of the film "Amadeus": that unlike his rival he was able to produce his compositions as if he were doing something easy. It is never easy. Which brings to mind the reply Whistler gave in court, when defending himself against the charge by John Ruskin of "throwing a pot of paint in the public's face", to the question: "How long did it take you to paint one of your Nocturn's?" Whistler replied to the effect that while it didn't take long to execute, it was the result of a lifetime's work experience.
He won the case.
Wednesday 31 December 2008
Tuesday 30 December 2008
John Buchan
When I was a boy in secondary school we studied a novel of John Buchan's; I think it was "Prestor John". I very much doubt if that novel would be studied these days, or even read, or even mentioned with its politically incorrect views on "blacks" and Jews and other matters which most people now find distasteful. "The Thirty Nine Steps" also has some of this stuff in it (if memory is correct) but it's such a fast moving story that you can read it now without lingering on Buchan's old fashioned ideas on race, the Empire and so on.
I think I recall that his publisher did not at first want to publish it, thought it slight (which it is) and without much in the way of serious ideas but just a chase story. Well Buchan was on the board of his own publishers so, no doubt, that had something to do with its eventual acceptance.
It is, of course, a fine read though I don't regard it as in any way a classic - except in the sense that it may be a classic in the genre of "chase stories", if there is one.
I still see Hitchcok's film version in my mind's eye with Robert Donat as Richard Hannay; he was more charming a character than either Robert Powell or Kenneth More, the first too much the English gentleman, the second too much the caricature of the English gentleman. Donat was, of course, Scottish (which Buchan was) and that might be a clue to his playing the part so well.
Hitchcock changed the end much to its improvement.
I read once (may have been in the book of interviews of Hitch by Francois Truffaut) that Hitchcock chose novels which were not very good so that he could do what he wished with them, not have to be true to the literary quality of the book. Did he have this in mind when he made "The Thirty Nine Steps"?
I think I recall that his publisher did not at first want to publish it, thought it slight (which it is) and without much in the way of serious ideas but just a chase story. Well Buchan was on the board of his own publishers so, no doubt, that had something to do with its eventual acceptance.
It is, of course, a fine read though I don't regard it as in any way a classic - except in the sense that it may be a classic in the genre of "chase stories", if there is one.
I still see Hitchcok's film version in my mind's eye with Robert Donat as Richard Hannay; he was more charming a character than either Robert Powell or Kenneth More, the first too much the English gentleman, the second too much the caricature of the English gentleman. Donat was, of course, Scottish (which Buchan was) and that might be a clue to his playing the part so well.
Hitchcock changed the end much to its improvement.
I read once (may have been in the book of interviews of Hitch by Francois Truffaut) that Hitchcock chose novels which were not very good so that he could do what he wished with them, not have to be true to the literary quality of the book. Did he have this in mind when he made "The Thirty Nine Steps"?
Friday 26 December 2008
Pinter
Sean O'Casey said of Pinter's plays: "Pinter wears gloves so that not even a fingerprint is deposited in the writing."
Does he mean that there is nothing of the playwright himself in the plays, or that there is nothing human in the plays? Not quite sure.
His plays are a bit Kafkaesque in that characters are introduced, usually ordinary people, who are subjected to torments for which there appears to be no reason why they are committed. You can put your own interpretation as to why they are being tormented - is it real or imagined? Is the State involved? Actors like playing the roles because they can imagine what they wish to appear to be, and so can be mysterious and, therefore (in their eyes) profound.
I am reminded of what Arthur Schnabel said about playing the piano when I hear the word "Pinteresque", referring to the pauses he is famous for : "The notes I handle no better than many pianists. But the pauses between the notes - ah, that is where art lies."
I never much liked Harold Pinter's plays, though "The Caretaker" is rather good. "The Homecoming" is dreadful I think.
I saw "The Homecoming" in its first production on tour, in Cardiff. I recall there being a "box" with children and their parents in it. The kids laughed a lot during the play and I could not understand why; now I think I know the reason: the actors' response to a remark made by another is not to say the most reasonable or expected thing but the opposite - the least logical, the least expected - and this can be amusing. People laugh at Pinter's plays but it's not at the way the play is dramatically effective in the way Shaw, say, or Ibsen is; no, it's at the way it isn't. Which was why those children found "The Homecoming" amusing. The exchanges were, to them amusing, like those between two comics.
But the play is not amusing at all. I think Joan Bakewell, a former girlfriend, called it pornographic. I found it not so much pornographic as nasty with not a trace of humanity in it.
Does he mean that there is nothing of the playwright himself in the plays, or that there is nothing human in the plays? Not quite sure.
His plays are a bit Kafkaesque in that characters are introduced, usually ordinary people, who are subjected to torments for which there appears to be no reason why they are committed. You can put your own interpretation as to why they are being tormented - is it real or imagined? Is the State involved? Actors like playing the roles because they can imagine what they wish to appear to be, and so can be mysterious and, therefore (in their eyes) profound.
I am reminded of what Arthur Schnabel said about playing the piano when I hear the word "Pinteresque", referring to the pauses he is famous for : "The notes I handle no better than many pianists. But the pauses between the notes - ah, that is where art lies."
I never much liked Harold Pinter's plays, though "The Caretaker" is rather good. "The Homecoming" is dreadful I think.
I saw "The Homecoming" in its first production on tour, in Cardiff. I recall there being a "box" with children and their parents in it. The kids laughed a lot during the play and I could not understand why; now I think I know the reason: the actors' response to a remark made by another is not to say the most reasonable or expected thing but the opposite - the least logical, the least expected - and this can be amusing. People laugh at Pinter's plays but it's not at the way the play is dramatically effective in the way Shaw, say, or Ibsen is; no, it's at the way it isn't. Which was why those children found "The Homecoming" amusing. The exchanges were, to them amusing, like those between two comics.
But the play is not amusing at all. I think Joan Bakewell, a former girlfriend, called it pornographic. I found it not so much pornographic as nasty with not a trace of humanity in it.
Tuesday 23 December 2008
Recycling
My wife held in her hand a broken light bulb. "What do I do with this?" she asked.
"Throw it out," I said.
"Where? In what container? Black bin, green bin or green bag?"
I pondered a while then said, as if a light bulb had come on in my head, "Electrics!"
"So?"
"It's electrical," I said. "So it goes with electrical material."
"And where is 'electrical material'? Black bin, green bin or green bag."
"None of them," I said.
"So what do I do with it?"
"Mmmm," I said unhelpfully. Then the light bulb in my head shone brightly again. "Down the dump."
She went to put her hands to her hips to emphasise what she was going to say but the bulb she had in her hand made her think twice about it.
"I know what you're going to say," I said. I can read her like a book after n years of marriage (I've put 'n' because I'm not sure of the right number). "You're going to say: 'Do we (i.e. me) have to go all the way to the dump for us to get rid of this light bulb?' Am I right?"
She nodded.
I took the light bulb from her and placed it on a shelf in the porch.
This conversation occurred some months ago; the light bulb is still there on the shelf. I'm getting fond of it; between a small cactus and a cardboard box that has something in it (can't remember what) it looks rather nice - artistic, Damien Hurst-ish.
"Throw it out," I said.
"Where? In what container? Black bin, green bin or green bag?"
I pondered a while then said, as if a light bulb had come on in my head, "Electrics!"
"So?"
"It's electrical," I said. "So it goes with electrical material."
"And where is 'electrical material'? Black bin, green bin or green bag."
"None of them," I said.
"So what do I do with it?"
"Mmmm," I said unhelpfully. Then the light bulb in my head shone brightly again. "Down the dump."
She went to put her hands to her hips to emphasise what she was going to say but the bulb she had in her hand made her think twice about it.
"I know what you're going to say," I said. I can read her like a book after n years of marriage (I've put 'n' because I'm not sure of the right number). "You're going to say: 'Do we (i.e. me) have to go all the way to the dump for us to get rid of this light bulb?' Am I right?"
She nodded.
I took the light bulb from her and placed it on a shelf in the porch.
This conversation occurred some months ago; the light bulb is still there on the shelf. I'm getting fond of it; between a small cactus and a cardboard box that has something in it (can't remember what) it looks rather nice - artistic, Damien Hurst-ish.
Monday 22 December 2008
Adrian Mitchell
I was a theatre reviewer for a few years covering the Cardiff area. One production I recall was a pot pourri of scenes got together by Adrian Mitchell who was, for a year, resident writer at Cardiff University. It was watchable but not outstanding. The only thing I recall from it now was a group of people singing, to the tune of Zipper de doo dah, the words "Zipper de doo dah, zipper de ay, tell the world we are glad to be gay" - something like that.
Another more ambitious show he staged was loosely based on three artists, two of which I knew of, Bix Biderbeck and Hoagy Carmichael, the third person I can't bring to mind.
When Adrian Mitchell finished his year at Cardiff he said to a friend of mine who was, like him, a poet, "While I've been here no one in the English Department has seemed to want to know me." My friend said "Perhaps that's because you're not dead yet."
Now he is. I wonder if his work will now be taken more seriously by the department of English at the University.
An American writer died, can't recall who, and it inspired a journalist wag to write: "So and So is dead; great career move."
Another more ambitious show he staged was loosely based on three artists, two of which I knew of, Bix Biderbeck and Hoagy Carmichael, the third person I can't bring to mind.
When Adrian Mitchell finished his year at Cardiff he said to a friend of mine who was, like him, a poet, "While I've been here no one in the English Department has seemed to want to know me." My friend said "Perhaps that's because you're not dead yet."
Now he is. I wonder if his work will now be taken more seriously by the department of English at the University.
An American writer died, can't recall who, and it inspired a journalist wag to write: "So and So is dead; great career move."
Saturday 20 December 2008
Welshness
I wrote a play, Horseplay, which won a competition but was never produced. I was close once when a member of the writing group I used to be associated with, a rather formidable lady of a certain age, took the play to The Bristol Old Vic and told (probably ordered) the Artistic Director to read it. He phoned me and I went to see him about the play. He was interested but it was, for Bristol audiences he felt, "too Welshy".
So it was - is.
There is an actress in Gavin and Stacey who, according to an interview in a colour magazine, could not get a job for a long time because she was told she was "too Welshy".
You can have a Midlands accent and be acceptable, or a Scottish accent, but not a Welsh one.
This girl is in a comedy and I wonder if, because it's funny, she can succeed because her accent is, to some people who aren't Welsh, also funny.
Yet Richard Burton succeeded, and Anthony Hopkins too. So....... ?
I don't have an answer to this riddle.
So it was - is.
There is an actress in Gavin and Stacey who, according to an interview in a colour magazine, could not get a job for a long time because she was told she was "too Welshy".
You can have a Midlands accent and be acceptable, or a Scottish accent, but not a Welsh one.
This girl is in a comedy and I wonder if, because it's funny, she can succeed because her accent is, to some people who aren't Welsh, also funny.
Yet Richard Burton succeeded, and Anthony Hopkins too. So....... ?
I don't have an answer to this riddle.
Friday 19 December 2008
Pop Songs
In an army barrack room you sometimes get friendly with men you otherwise wouldn't want to socialise with. There was a young man, a few years younger than me, who had been a member of a London gang. He was not the sort I normally had much time for, but I got to know him quite well, we seemed to like each other, we hit it off. Rarely he'd talk about his experiences in London and rarely did I mention having attended university and intended to be a teacher when I'd left the forces. I can't remember what we talked about but he was always helpful to me and I to him. When we went our separate ways we lost contact.
One thing I remember about him was that if he wanted to say something serious he usually quoted the words of a pop song to substantiate his argument. "Look what The Beatles say in their song," he'd say, and quote something relevant - maybe "all you need is love".
It struck me then how potent the words of popular melodies were to young people, especially those with not much education, with none of the great poets or philosophers to quote from.
I recalled that bloke today when I read an interview in The Spectator that the editor did with Lilly Allen. She writes meaningful songs, she said; they meant a lot to her and probably were meaningful to others.
I have never thought that there much sustenance in pop songs; surely they were suitable for dancing to, not much in the way of depth.
Maybe I'm wrong. After all, there is no poetry written now that appeals to ordinary people; the poetry written now is written for a small elite group, usually other poets. I remember a pop singer saying many years ago that "we are now the real poets", and I'm wondering if he's right.
One thing I remember about him was that if he wanted to say something serious he usually quoted the words of a pop song to substantiate his argument. "Look what The Beatles say in their song," he'd say, and quote something relevant - maybe "all you need is love".
It struck me then how potent the words of popular melodies were to young people, especially those with not much education, with none of the great poets or philosophers to quote from.
I recalled that bloke today when I read an interview in The Spectator that the editor did with Lilly Allen. She writes meaningful songs, she said; they meant a lot to her and probably were meaningful to others.
I have never thought that there much sustenance in pop songs; surely they were suitable for dancing to, not much in the way of depth.
Maybe I'm wrong. After all, there is no poetry written now that appeals to ordinary people; the poetry written now is written for a small elite group, usually other poets. I remember a pop singer saying many years ago that "we are now the real poets", and I'm wondering if he's right.
Wednesday 17 December 2008
Van Johnson
A very likeable guy; you could never imagine him playing a villain. The sort of "boy next door", not like Rees Witherspoon, "the girl next door who can't wait to get out of town"; no, the boy next door who likes living next to you.
He walked heavily with a sort of roll like a sailor, so I could not think of him as a dancer. So I was quite surprised to see his name at the head of an advert for "The Music Man" many years ago in London. This would be after his great successes in Hollywood - on the downward path after great success like many actors who then trod the boards in America and London.
I don't consider him a great actor - I cannot visualise him playing any of the great theatrical roles - but I see him as a second star, a backup actor supporting a greater actor as with Humphrey Bogart in "The Caine Mutiny" and Gene Kelly in "Brigadoon".
His blind detective in "10 Paces to Baker Street" was not mentioned in The Times obituary: I thought that was one of his best roles.
It always struck me that when he spoke it was as if he was about to make a speech, somehow it wasn't a natural way to speak. This too I always felt about Walter Pigeon. The result was that neither could never debase the character they were playing, they were always a trifle grand in their roles. Neither would play tragedy. Nor comedy. They were both themselves. Always. Not dull but it was as if they were afraid of making fools of themselves.
He walked heavily with a sort of roll like a sailor, so I could not think of him as a dancer. So I was quite surprised to see his name at the head of an advert for "The Music Man" many years ago in London. This would be after his great successes in Hollywood - on the downward path after great success like many actors who then trod the boards in America and London.
I don't consider him a great actor - I cannot visualise him playing any of the great theatrical roles - but I see him as a second star, a backup actor supporting a greater actor as with Humphrey Bogart in "The Caine Mutiny" and Gene Kelly in "Brigadoon".
His blind detective in "10 Paces to Baker Street" was not mentioned in The Times obituary: I thought that was one of his best roles.
It always struck me that when he spoke it was as if he was about to make a speech, somehow it wasn't a natural way to speak. This too I always felt about Walter Pigeon. The result was that neither could never debase the character they were playing, they were always a trifle grand in their roles. Neither would play tragedy. Nor comedy. They were both themselves. Always. Not dull but it was as if they were afraid of making fools of themselves.
Monday 15 December 2008
Holidays
Dr. Johnson said of The Devil's Causway: "Worth seeing but not worth going to see."
I know what he means. Too many times have I travelled a long distance at great discomfort to see something touristically famous only either to think something like that or, worse, to think "Not really worth seeing."
Now that I'm ageing I find visiting famous places, seeing famous pictures in art galleries and so on, rather a chore (sometimes a bore). And, these days with the hordes of tourists abroad, I often find that I am in a queue or crowd that is so slow moving that I want to sit down and rest a while, and often, in such a crowd, not able to see that which I had come to see. In Amsterdam I found the Van Goch art gallery so full with people who lingered a long time on each painting, listening to the info over a commentary on cassette borrowed at the front desk, that I could not move along at the pace I wished to go and, therefore, missed a lot of the exhibition by going round groups.
My grandfather used to say "O I don't want to travel anymore, I can read about the places I would like to visit and look at pictures of them." That was fifty or so years ago. I can only imagine what his reaction would be now with all the technical facilities we have at our dispoal: TV travelogues; David Attenborough's nature documentaries; the internet; films......
I used to dream of a holiday I would have liked to take: a Rolls Royce to the South of France, staying at top class hotels of course throughout; a stop at Menton for their small scale music festival (a swim in the clear sea - it was clear once when I was there, don't know if it is now); drive up to Lucerne for the music festival there (I once went up to the box office there and asked for a ticket for that evening's concert - the girl at the box office dropped her jaw and shook her head slowly as if I were a lunatic or a leper); from Lucerne to London, via Paris (to dine of course) for The Proms; from there to Edinburgh for the Festival and then back home.
Dreams, dreams, dreams.
I know what he means. Too many times have I travelled a long distance at great discomfort to see something touristically famous only either to think something like that or, worse, to think "Not really worth seeing."
Now that I'm ageing I find visiting famous places, seeing famous pictures in art galleries and so on, rather a chore (sometimes a bore). And, these days with the hordes of tourists abroad, I often find that I am in a queue or crowd that is so slow moving that I want to sit down and rest a while, and often, in such a crowd, not able to see that which I had come to see. In Amsterdam I found the Van Goch art gallery so full with people who lingered a long time on each painting, listening to the info over a commentary on cassette borrowed at the front desk, that I could not move along at the pace I wished to go and, therefore, missed a lot of the exhibition by going round groups.
My grandfather used to say "O I don't want to travel anymore, I can read about the places I would like to visit and look at pictures of them." That was fifty or so years ago. I can only imagine what his reaction would be now with all the technical facilities we have at our dispoal: TV travelogues; David Attenborough's nature documentaries; the internet; films......
I used to dream of a holiday I would have liked to take: a Rolls Royce to the South of France, staying at top class hotels of course throughout; a stop at Menton for their small scale music festival (a swim in the clear sea - it was clear once when I was there, don't know if it is now); drive up to Lucerne for the music festival there (I once went up to the box office there and asked for a ticket for that evening's concert - the girl at the box office dropped her jaw and shook her head slowly as if I were a lunatic or a leper); from Lucerne to London, via Paris (to dine of course) for The Proms; from there to Edinburgh for the Festival and then back home.
Dreams, dreams, dreams.
Sunday 14 December 2008
Film Music
Sometimes the Cardiff Philharmonic Orchestra, made up of professionals and amateurs I believe, perform a concert of music from films. I have been to a few of these concerts but I find them, usually, unsatisfying. Some of the pieces have been made by composers or arrangers into quite good works in themselves: they have the structures of tone poems in that they unify around a theme. But often the music is slight.
Music for films early on was used to act as a dramatic accompaniment to action so that in a mystery you would expect sounds which enhanced the mystery; for comic scenes you would probably have "comic like music", light of touch, breezy. And so on.
A good deal of this music was simply sounds that of course were musical but which underlined the main action going on; the action and dialogue were there to be seen and heard, not the background music.
One of the worst examples I have seen and heard was in Hitchcock's "Strangers on a Train" in which the composer (Dimitri Tiomkin maybe?) underlines practically every piece of action with what he thought was suitable musical sound. I don't think the score of that film would make an enjoyable work to be played on its own.
But some can: John Williams's can; so can Elmer Bernstein's; so can, of course, Arthur Bliss's as for "Things to Come".
Two examples of music used most successfully in films are two in which already well-known compositions by famous composers were appropriated: "Death in Venice" with Mahler's 5th. and "Brief Encounter" with Rachmaninoff's 2nd Piano Concerto.
I think film music is most successful when you are not aware of it or, when you are, when it adds excitement to the drama: "The Magnificent Seven"; "Shane"; "The Horse Soldiers"; "City Lights".
Music for films early on was used to act as a dramatic accompaniment to action so that in a mystery you would expect sounds which enhanced the mystery; for comic scenes you would probably have "comic like music", light of touch, breezy. And so on.
A good deal of this music was simply sounds that of course were musical but which underlined the main action going on; the action and dialogue were there to be seen and heard, not the background music.
One of the worst examples I have seen and heard was in Hitchcock's "Strangers on a Train" in which the composer (Dimitri Tiomkin maybe?) underlines practically every piece of action with what he thought was suitable musical sound. I don't think the score of that film would make an enjoyable work to be played on its own.
But some can: John Williams's can; so can Elmer Bernstein's; so can, of course, Arthur Bliss's as for "Things to Come".
Two examples of music used most successfully in films are two in which already well-known compositions by famous composers were appropriated: "Death in Venice" with Mahler's 5th. and "Brief Encounter" with Rachmaninoff's 2nd Piano Concerto.
I think film music is most successful when you are not aware of it or, when you are, when it adds excitement to the drama: "The Magnificent Seven"; "Shane"; "The Horse Soldiers"; "City Lights".
Thursday 11 December 2008
Jackdaws
I am reading a short story by William Trevor called "Traditions"; in it he describes how a group of schoolboys have been keeping jackdaws but somone has killed them all. It called to mind a farmer who lived a mile or so from us when I was a child who had a pet jackdaw.
In the story by Trevor the boys had tried to make the birds talk; so, according to his son, did the farmer. I'm not sure if he was successful because you always took everything his son said with a pinch of salt: the jackdaw was real alright, but whether it could talk no one knew - it never talked to other people perhaps, only to "close family", so to speak!
Dickens creates a wonderful bird, not a jackdaw but a close relative of his, a raven in his novel "Barnaby Rudge".
"Look at him!" said Varden, divided between admiration of the bird and a kind of fear of him. "Was there ever such a knowing imp as that! O he's a dreadful fellow."
The raven with his head very much on one side and his bright eye shining like a diamond, preserved a thoughtful silence for a while....
"Halloa, halloa, halloa!" the bird said. "What's the matter here? Keep up your spirits. Never say die. Bow, wow, wow. I'm a devil, I'm a devil, I'm a devil. Hurrah" - and then, as if exulting in his infernal character, he began to whistle.
"I more than half believe he speaks the truth. Upon my word I do," said Varden.
One day someone asked about the farmer's jackdaw - he hadn't been seen for some time.
"He died," the farmer's son told us boys sadly. "We'd clipped his wings to stop him flying away but he fell in a barrel of water, couldn't fly out and drowned."
We all looked sad.
"Dad's very upset," he added. "Drowning his sorrows."
I'll bet he was. He had a good excuse for once!
In the story by Trevor the boys had tried to make the birds talk; so, according to his son, did the farmer. I'm not sure if he was successful because you always took everything his son said with a pinch of salt: the jackdaw was real alright, but whether it could talk no one knew - it never talked to other people perhaps, only to "close family", so to speak!
Dickens creates a wonderful bird, not a jackdaw but a close relative of his, a raven in his novel "Barnaby Rudge".
"Look at him!" said Varden, divided between admiration of the bird and a kind of fear of him. "Was there ever such a knowing imp as that! O he's a dreadful fellow."
The raven with his head very much on one side and his bright eye shining like a diamond, preserved a thoughtful silence for a while....
"Halloa, halloa, halloa!" the bird said. "What's the matter here? Keep up your spirits. Never say die. Bow, wow, wow. I'm a devil, I'm a devil, I'm a devil. Hurrah" - and then, as if exulting in his infernal character, he began to whistle.
"I more than half believe he speaks the truth. Upon my word I do," said Varden.
One day someone asked about the farmer's jackdaw - he hadn't been seen for some time.
"He died," the farmer's son told us boys sadly. "We'd clipped his wings to stop him flying away but he fell in a barrel of water, couldn't fly out and drowned."
We all looked sad.
"Dad's very upset," he added. "Drowning his sorrows."
I'll bet he was. He had a good excuse for once!
Wednesday 10 December 2008
Gwyn Jones
The name Gwyn Jones came up today when having a coffee with a friend who had recently been present at the dedication of a plaque at Aberystwyth University to the man who was a professor there.
Gwyn Jones came from my home town of Blackwood; he was near contemporary of my father and they knew each other. Occasionally they would meet in the main street in Blackwood and chat - they were acquaintances rather than friends.
Their lives had followed different paths though they began similarly.
Gwyn Jones had gone to secondary school followed by university followed by a teaching post, followed by a professorship at Aberystwyth. He wrote novels and short stories though he is best known for his translation of the Mabinogion and his writings on Icelandic sagas. He was born in 1907.
My father was born in 1895, went to primary school but did not attend secondary school because his father had died suddenly and so he had to become the bread winner. He was working in the coal mine from about twelve onwards, rose to an office job on the surface, from there to a Labour Exchange and from there to work in the Coal Board where he eventually succeeded to a post as Labour Relations Officer in Cardiff.
He too wrote novels none of which were published; he wrote short stories too as did Gwyn Jones and some of them were published and broadcast.
Gwyn Jones wrote in a beautiful style which, I always felt, had a trace of the academic about it. My father wrote in a more flamboyant style which had nothing of academia about it at all.
I wonder what would have happened if my father had gone into Secondary education instead of working down the mine; he should have and could have if his mother had taken up an offer from an uncle of his to pay the fees necessary for such an education. But how could she? There was little if any provision then for widows with children as far as I know. So down the pit he went. And here I am. It wouldn't be me writing this if he had gone the other way.
"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both....." (Frost)
Gwyn Jones came from my home town of Blackwood; he was near contemporary of my father and they knew each other. Occasionally they would meet in the main street in Blackwood and chat - they were acquaintances rather than friends.
Their lives had followed different paths though they began similarly.
Gwyn Jones had gone to secondary school followed by university followed by a teaching post, followed by a professorship at Aberystwyth. He wrote novels and short stories though he is best known for his translation of the Mabinogion and his writings on Icelandic sagas. He was born in 1907.
My father was born in 1895, went to primary school but did not attend secondary school because his father had died suddenly and so he had to become the bread winner. He was working in the coal mine from about twelve onwards, rose to an office job on the surface, from there to a Labour Exchange and from there to work in the Coal Board where he eventually succeeded to a post as Labour Relations Officer in Cardiff.
He too wrote novels none of which were published; he wrote short stories too as did Gwyn Jones and some of them were published and broadcast.
Gwyn Jones wrote in a beautiful style which, I always felt, had a trace of the academic about it. My father wrote in a more flamboyant style which had nothing of academia about it at all.
I wonder what would have happened if my father had gone into Secondary education instead of working down the mine; he should have and could have if his mother had taken up an offer from an uncle of his to pay the fees necessary for such an education. But how could she? There was little if any provision then for widows with children as far as I know. So down the pit he went. And here I am. It wouldn't be me writing this if he had gone the other way.
"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both....." (Frost)
Monday 8 December 2008
10 Best Films
Anthony Lane of The New Yorker has given a list of what he thinks are the best 10 films of 2008. I wish I had seen some of them; most are foreign films and they are not distributed except to art houses (like Chapter Arts Centre in Cardiff). Only three on his list were American: "The Quantum of Solace" which most reviewers treated with scant regard as to its quality, "Iron Man" which again did not receive very favourable reviews, and "Changeling", the only one on his list that I have seen, directed by Clint Eastwood and which has been favourably reviewed by practically every newspapers' critics. "Wall E" I know nothing about.
My favourite film of the year was "Gone, Baby, Gone" which I think has one of the finest ends ever (almost vying with Chaplin's "City Lights" for an intensity of sentiment and irony) and contains one of the best performances I've seen for years: the mother of the missing child. For that she should get a supporting actress Oscar.
Anthony Lane's book "Nobody's Perfect" (the last comment in "Some Like it Hot") is a wonderful collection of his reviews and essays. One remark has stuck in my head, one he made about Rees Witherspoon: "she's the girl next door who can't wait to get out of town".
My favourite film of the year was "Gone, Baby, Gone" which I think has one of the finest ends ever (almost vying with Chaplin's "City Lights" for an intensity of sentiment and irony) and contains one of the best performances I've seen for years: the mother of the missing child. For that she should get a supporting actress Oscar.
Anthony Lane's book "Nobody's Perfect" (the last comment in "Some Like it Hot") is a wonderful collection of his reviews and essays. One remark has stuck in my head, one he made about Rees Witherspoon: "she's the girl next door who can't wait to get out of town".
Sunday 7 December 2008
Moaning Minnies
I once tried to collaborate with a woman in the writing of a play; she had been a quite well known actress and had, with her more famous husband, written plays which had been performed. The idea was that I would write a scene and then she would read it, comment on it and perhaps, do some re-writing.
It didn't work. I wrote the first scene and when she read it she said: "I like the idea and I like the male characters, especially the parliamentarian's agent, but I do not like the wife of the MP. She is a real misery."
"But she is supposed to be," I said. "She's miserable because he's such a bastard."
"You won't get an actress to play her."
"Why not?"
"Because she's a misery, a moaner, a pain in the neck."
I tried re-writing to make her a different sort of woman but couldn't get her right, so the collaboration didn't work and we gave up trying.
Then this morning my wife was listening to The Archers and I could hear from the other room one of those women in the programme moaning and grissling and making such a caterwauling noise that I had to go elsewhere. I thought: "They get away with it in The Archers, why couldn't I have got away with it in my play?"
And if by chance I turn on East Enders every woman on that soap is a Moaning Minnie. (And most of the blokes too!). And what about some of Shakespeare's tragic females: Lady Macbeth for example - that's all she dies is complain and criticise and moan. And what about Hedda Gabler?
Maybe I'll dig that play out again and, instead of trying to make the wife more pleasing, leave her as she was..... You never know, it may just work.
It didn't work. I wrote the first scene and when she read it she said: "I like the idea and I like the male characters, especially the parliamentarian's agent, but I do not like the wife of the MP. She is a real misery."
"But she is supposed to be," I said. "She's miserable because he's such a bastard."
"You won't get an actress to play her."
"Why not?"
"Because she's a misery, a moaner, a pain in the neck."
I tried re-writing to make her a different sort of woman but couldn't get her right, so the collaboration didn't work and we gave up trying.
Then this morning my wife was listening to The Archers and I could hear from the other room one of those women in the programme moaning and grissling and making such a caterwauling noise that I had to go elsewhere. I thought: "They get away with it in The Archers, why couldn't I have got away with it in my play?"
And if by chance I turn on East Enders every woman on that soap is a Moaning Minnie. (And most of the blokes too!). And what about some of Shakespeare's tragic females: Lady Macbeth for example - that's all she dies is complain and criticise and moan. And what about Hedda Gabler?
Maybe I'll dig that play out again and, instead of trying to make the wife more pleasing, leave her as she was..... You never know, it may just work.
Friday 5 December 2008
Shock Treatment
In the new Clint Eastwood film, "Changeling", there is a scene of real horror when a friend of the main character, played by Angelina Jolie, is forced to undergo electric shock treatment in an asylum in twenties America. Clint, of course, knows how to raise the temperature when directing violent sequences (I find it hard to watch some of his late westerns) and succeeds here in making you feel almost that you are experiencing it yourself.
I once wrote a letter to The Guardian expressing my horror at something the paper had reported: the enforced electric shock treatment given to a Catholic priest. The letter was published and elicited a series of letters to me: most thought that I myself must have suffered the same thing - not so; or that a member of my family had suffered thus - not so; or that I or a close relation had suffered or was suffering mental probelms and that we feared such treatment may be practiced on us - not so. One person thought I must be a Catholic and that my sympathy for the priest was a consequence of my own belief. I'm not a Catholic so not so.
Thank Heavens such barbaric treatment for mental illness is no longer used.
I once knew someone who had received such treatment when he had had a breakdown; he never talked about it ( a friend of his told me). Later when he got back to normal, so to speak, he became a successful writer of detective stories with about 50 novels published.
You must not draw any conclusions from those two happenings: that the second was due to the first.
Again, not so.
I once wrote a letter to The Guardian expressing my horror at something the paper had reported: the enforced electric shock treatment given to a Catholic priest. The letter was published and elicited a series of letters to me: most thought that I myself must have suffered the same thing - not so; or that a member of my family had suffered thus - not so; or that I or a close relation had suffered or was suffering mental probelms and that we feared such treatment may be practiced on us - not so. One person thought I must be a Catholic and that my sympathy for the priest was a consequence of my own belief. I'm not a Catholic so not so.
Thank Heavens such barbaric treatment for mental illness is no longer used.
I once knew someone who had received such treatment when he had had a breakdown; he never talked about it ( a friend of his told me). Later when he got back to normal, so to speak, he became a successful writer of detective stories with about 50 novels published.
You must not draw any conclusions from those two happenings: that the second was due to the first.
Again, not so.
Wednesday 3 December 2008
Jazz
Alan Ross in his book "The Rest is Noise" writes about black composers in the USA in the late 19th and early 20th Centuries. Some were well taught and trained and became wonderful players of various intruments, but they never could get recognition and often, like Will Marion Cook (whom Dvorak thought would become a great composer), never made the grade in classical music and resorted to forming bands.
Cook formed a band called The New York Syncopated Orchestra and asked Sydney Bechet to join it - which he did.
I may have come close to Sydney Bechet a long time ago. On a holiday in Paris some time back we, three students, joined a club called The St Germain de Pres night club. We spent a lot of money there and heard a lot of good jazz and saw some rather risque shows....
Anyway, a few weeks after coming home I went to a barber's shop in Cardiff and the usual bloke cutting my hair asked me if I'd been anywhere nice on holiday. I told him I'd been to Paris and while there had joined the St Germain club.
He stopped cutting hair; he came round to look at me.
"Sydney Bechet plays there," he said.
"Really?"
He continued cutting my hair but I could see he was moved or impressed or envious.
I knew (I had seen him a few times) that in his spare time he played in a local swing and jazz band that performed at various dance halls in the city.
Like Bechet he played the clarinet.
Cook formed a band called The New York Syncopated Orchestra and asked Sydney Bechet to join it - which he did.
I may have come close to Sydney Bechet a long time ago. On a holiday in Paris some time back we, three students, joined a club called The St Germain de Pres night club. We spent a lot of money there and heard a lot of good jazz and saw some rather risque shows....
Anyway, a few weeks after coming home I went to a barber's shop in Cardiff and the usual bloke cutting my hair asked me if I'd been anywhere nice on holiday. I told him I'd been to Paris and while there had joined the St Germain club.
He stopped cutting hair; he came round to look at me.
"Sydney Bechet plays there," he said.
"Really?"
He continued cutting my hair but I could see he was moved or impressed or envious.
I knew (I had seen him a few times) that in his spare time he played in a local swing and jazz band that performed at various dance halls in the city.
Like Bechet he played the clarinet.
Tuesday 2 December 2008
Singing and Whistling
Jimmy Durante liked to "start the day with a song". The trouble is that if I do (in my head rather than vocally, under the shower) it stays with me for the rest of the day.
I remember going to a symphony concert in Cardiff when I was a student and hearing Sibelius's 2nd Symphony; the next day I heard various versions of the famous tune of the last movement in the corridors of the college: those who attended the same concert were heard to be either humming or whistling it pretty well all day.
Once that tune gets into my head it stays there for hours if not a day if not days.
Again, the final movement of Sibelius's 5th Symphony - though it's difficult to hum, sing or whistle the final bashing notes; all you can do is think them.
Thinking tunes is an odd practice though it must have been what Beethoven did when he went deaf. At the first performance of his 9th. Symphony, which he conducted when he was completely deaf, he could not hear the applause at the end and a member of the orchestra turned him about to face the audience. He could "hear" his own music but he couldn't hear the applause.
I tend to whistle rather than sing chiefly, I suppose, because I feel that my singing would be too unpleasant to others.
Georg Bernard Shaw did not sing in the morning (to my knowledge) but it is a recorded fact that before he retired for the night he sang long and loud, not just one song that had stuck in his mind but heaps of them: arias from Mozart particularly. I wonder if his wife welcomed it or put in her ear plugs.
If his singing compared with his acting abilities it wasn't up to much. Sybil Thorndike used to tell of Shaw's occasional visits to rehearsals of his plays and how he used to show them how it should be done - "he was hopeless" she maintaned.
What I've got in my head at the moment is "Many a teardrop will fall/ But it's all/ In the game...." (Nat King Cole is singing it).
I remember going to a symphony concert in Cardiff when I was a student and hearing Sibelius's 2nd Symphony; the next day I heard various versions of the famous tune of the last movement in the corridors of the college: those who attended the same concert were heard to be either humming or whistling it pretty well all day.
Once that tune gets into my head it stays there for hours if not a day if not days.
Again, the final movement of Sibelius's 5th Symphony - though it's difficult to hum, sing or whistle the final bashing notes; all you can do is think them.
Thinking tunes is an odd practice though it must have been what Beethoven did when he went deaf. At the first performance of his 9th. Symphony, which he conducted when he was completely deaf, he could not hear the applause at the end and a member of the orchestra turned him about to face the audience. He could "hear" his own music but he couldn't hear the applause.
I tend to whistle rather than sing chiefly, I suppose, because I feel that my singing would be too unpleasant to others.
Georg Bernard Shaw did not sing in the morning (to my knowledge) but it is a recorded fact that before he retired for the night he sang long and loud, not just one song that had stuck in his mind but heaps of them: arias from Mozart particularly. I wonder if his wife welcomed it or put in her ear plugs.
If his singing compared with his acting abilities it wasn't up to much. Sybil Thorndike used to tell of Shaw's occasional visits to rehearsals of his plays and how he used to show them how it should be done - "he was hopeless" she maintaned.
What I've got in my head at the moment is "Many a teardrop will fall/ But it's all/ In the game...." (Nat King Cole is singing it).
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