In the article on Low Life in The Spectator this week Jeremy Clarke describes how a friend of his, villains on his tail bent of breaking his legs for grassing on them, says he's having to sleep with a bat in his room, which Clarke interprets as a living creature but which is in fact a baseball bat, for protection.
Bats can fly into rooms as I once found at a weekend course of writers when a lady returned to her room for the night to find a bat there. She screamed and people rushed to see what was going on. One brave gentleman somehow got it out the window but not before a rather strange lady on the course (we had a lot of those by the way) said "I must see it. A bat! How lovely!" She was too late and, of course, she was very disappointed.
She was the one who said that a friend of mine had "no aura". I never knew what she meant but, looking at him, I had an inkling: a sort of dry look about him.
I was once in a hut full of young men, mainly students, in France; we were all working there for the summer, not paid much, but we had keep - which is when I learned to drink a lot of red wine and smoke Gauloise cigarettes. It was one of those hair-brained schemes governments developed after the war to "get the nations together" or some such thing. Well, every night someone would, due to the heat, open doors at both ends of the hut and then we'd watch the bats, heaps of them, coming like racing cars through the building, brilliantly avoiding the vertical posts that held the roof up. Quite a sight. No one was afraid. No one had a beehive haircut for the bats to get tangled in (old wives tale). You went to sleep and didn't worry that your blood would be sucked in the night - like the young man in.... what was it?.... "Coral Island?".
Friday 31 July 2009
Thursday 30 July 2009
Walford Davies
I typed Walford Davies into "youtube" to find that there are on the first page only two versions of his most famous work, "Solemn Melody". They always played it at the remembrance service but the trouble was that when you turned on the TV to watch, Richard Dimbleby would speak over it in his solemn tones. The full army band playing it is wonderful, gives it the depth of feeling it needs for the occasion; the two versions on "youtube" are not so good: the first is fine though - Julian Lloyd Webber with the orchestra of St Martins in the Field, very moving and "English" - and the second is good in its way - an organ version, loud and lacking in feeling. Give me the brass band version every time.
When my father was a young man in the 1920's he was a member of the Workers Education Association (WEA) in Blackwood; they used to have guest speakers at some meetings and one of these, he told me, was Walford Davies. Probably he was then a professor of music at Aberystwyth University. He used to get to Blackwood by train from Newport. When he got to the meeting he would speak first of the beauty of the Welsh valley he had just travelled up and of how he could understand how music was so important to Welsh people and how well they performed it in the light of the beauty of their landscape. (Not like Sir Thomas Beecham who, later, after WW2, said that "there is no music in Wales" which caused a bit of a furore in the press).
Another speaker at the WEA meetings was the poet Walter de la Mere. My father spoke proudly of how he had shaken his hand.
Who reads him now?
THE MOTH.
"Isled in the midnight air,
Musked with the dark's faint bloom,
Out into glooming and secret haunts
The flame cries, "Come!"
When my father was a young man in the 1920's he was a member of the Workers Education Association (WEA) in Blackwood; they used to have guest speakers at some meetings and one of these, he told me, was Walford Davies. Probably he was then a professor of music at Aberystwyth University. He used to get to Blackwood by train from Newport. When he got to the meeting he would speak first of the beauty of the Welsh valley he had just travelled up and of how he could understand how music was so important to Welsh people and how well they performed it in the light of the beauty of their landscape. (Not like Sir Thomas Beecham who, later, after WW2, said that "there is no music in Wales" which caused a bit of a furore in the press).
Another speaker at the WEA meetings was the poet Walter de la Mere. My father spoke proudly of how he had shaken his hand.
Who reads him now?
THE MOTH.
"Isled in the midnight air,
Musked with the dark's faint bloom,
Out into glooming and secret haunts
The flame cries, "Come!"
Tuesday 28 July 2009
Fish and Chips
On the weekend, after going to see Chekov's "The Cherry Orchard", we dined in a rather good restaurant near the Old Vic called "Bar + Kitchen"; popular with pre-play diners and, like us, after-play diners. I had pan fried duck in a port sauce with French beans and potatoes Dauphinoise. It was delicious. I had been out of sorts all day and was, before the show, worried about how my stomache would greet food; it greeted it with a smile.
I had almost chosen the cod and chips meal which, I thought, might have been kinder to my unsettled stomache, but I have a sort of rule about eating out (which I rarely do) - I don't eat fish and chips in anywhere but fish and chip shops/restaurants.
I read today a short additional obituary/memory to Edward Downes in The Times in which the writer, friend and colleague of the conductor, told how, when visiting Leeds, Downes always ate fish and chips at a certain favourite chip shop.
I too have in memory a certain fish and chip shop which serves the best plaice and chips I have ever tasted. It is in Stratford-on-Avon in a street whose name, at this moment, I cannot rememeber (see further blogs for more accurate info.).
But a few months ago I discovered an almost equally good restaurant which serves fish and chips as well as, surprisingly, other meals; this one is on the front in Western-Super-Mare.
I am told that there is a great fish and chip restaurant in Muswell Hill which, since my daughter lives there, I shall soon visit. It has something most fish and chip joints do not have - a wine list.
An added attraction!
I had almost chosen the cod and chips meal which, I thought, might have been kinder to my unsettled stomache, but I have a sort of rule about eating out (which I rarely do) - I don't eat fish and chips in anywhere but fish and chip shops/restaurants.
I read today a short additional obituary/memory to Edward Downes in The Times in which the writer, friend and colleague of the conductor, told how, when visiting Leeds, Downes always ate fish and chips at a certain favourite chip shop.
I too have in memory a certain fish and chip shop which serves the best plaice and chips I have ever tasted. It is in Stratford-on-Avon in a street whose name, at this moment, I cannot rememeber (see further blogs for more accurate info.).
But a few months ago I discovered an almost equally good restaurant which serves fish and chips as well as, surprisingly, other meals; this one is on the front in Western-Super-Mare.
I am told that there is a great fish and chip restaurant in Muswell Hill which, since my daughter lives there, I shall soon visit. It has something most fish and chip joints do not have - a wine list.
An added attraction!
Monday 27 July 2009
Chekov
I remember once some time back hearing that Chekov said to someone concerning a character in one of his, Chekov's, plays: "You must remember, he wears yellow shoes." I did not know what he meant then but now I have an inkling, having just come back from London's Old Vic Theatre and seeing "The Cherry Orchard".
At the beginning of the play Lophakin, the serf made good - or at least, made wealthy - is telling to a servant about himself and in so doing he mentions that he now wears yellow shoes. Why tell someone this? Because, I suppose, in his eyes it meant that he was now an important someone, not the serf he once was, but a person of distinction.
But, of course, he isn't. He has made a lot of money but that doesn't mean he has successfully transformed himself into a cultured gentleman or, which is more important to people of an upper class, into a member of the upper class. You can't do that by wearing what you think will be accepted, like yellow shoes - which would not be accepted. But Lophakin doesn't think this way.
Reminds me a little of Malvolio who wore yellow stocckings which were laughed at.
Stanislavsky apparently directed the play as if it were a tragedy whereas Chekov had regarded it as a comedy. There are tragic elements in it of course but they are not of the highest level in whih, say, a great person is brought down to ignominy. The wealthy family in "The Cherry Orchard" is brought down but it's not "the end of the world" for them. Comedy, to Chekov, I think, meant that the characters are living lives which do not reflect the way society is changing; they are stuck in the past. When a man like Lophakin comes along and attempts to shake them out of the coma-like state they are in, he becomes ridiculous but they become absurd. And there is a high comic element in this.
Chekov broke one of his rules in this play: he said that if there is a gun on the wall in Act 1 it must be fired before the end of the play. Well, there was a gun brandished in Act 1 but it was never fired.
At the beginning of the play Lophakin, the serf made good - or at least, made wealthy - is telling to a servant about himself and in so doing he mentions that he now wears yellow shoes. Why tell someone this? Because, I suppose, in his eyes it meant that he was now an important someone, not the serf he once was, but a person of distinction.
But, of course, he isn't. He has made a lot of money but that doesn't mean he has successfully transformed himself into a cultured gentleman or, which is more important to people of an upper class, into a member of the upper class. You can't do that by wearing what you think will be accepted, like yellow shoes - which would not be accepted. But Lophakin doesn't think this way.
Reminds me a little of Malvolio who wore yellow stocckings which were laughed at.
Stanislavsky apparently directed the play as if it were a tragedy whereas Chekov had regarded it as a comedy. There are tragic elements in it of course but they are not of the highest level in whih, say, a great person is brought down to ignominy. The wealthy family in "The Cherry Orchard" is brought down but it's not "the end of the world" for them. Comedy, to Chekov, I think, meant that the characters are living lives which do not reflect the way society is changing; they are stuck in the past. When a man like Lophakin comes along and attempts to shake them out of the coma-like state they are in, he becomes ridiculous but they become absurd. And there is a high comic element in this.
Chekov broke one of his rules in this play: he said that if there is a gun on the wall in Act 1 it must be fired before the end of the play. Well, there was a gun brandished in Act 1 but it was never fired.
Thursday 23 July 2009
Hans Rott
I was waiting in my car for my wife to finish some shopping, turned on the radio and heard a piece of music that sounded at first like something from "Hansel and Gretel". No, I thought it's not by Englebert Humperdink (no, not that one who sings pop songs, the other one who was a friend of Wagner) but it does have a touch of Wagner there somewhere.... a bit of Strauss too (no, not that one who wrote waltzes, the one who wrote "Salome").... and maybe, yes, not just a bit of Mahler, it is Mahler. It must be Mahler. But though I am not a Mahlerian I have heard a lot of his music so it couldn't be Mahler, could it? or I'd have known it.
Well it was, according to the Radio times when I looked it up, a symphony by Hans Rott.
Who? Never heard of him.
Well, he was a contemporary of Mahler - actually a fellow student - and he was coached by Bruckner and he was expected to go far up the music establishment's ladder. But Brahms didn't like his symphony, composed when he was about 20, told him to give up composing and do something else, and the famous conductor Richter didn't want to conduct the symphony in case it failed maybe. To cut a long sad story short, Hans Rott went mad, was incarcerated in a lunatic asylum (not much fun now but then.... it doesn't bear thinking about) and died of tubercolosis at the age of 22.
I played the first movement from a recording on 'youtube' and it's a marvellous work. Maybe it's too Mahlerian for Rott to be taken seriously as "his own man", but in some ways it's better than Mahler. To me anyway.
It has only recently been performed at all, lost for years. Well done Radio 3. Most of his work is either lost or destroyed by his own hands because he didn't think it good enough.
There's a marvellous new book, "The Rest is Noise", by the New Yorker critic, Alex Ross, which covers the modern music scene from the early 20th century until now and I am surprised to find Rott is not mentioned in it.
Well it was, according to the Radio times when I looked it up, a symphony by Hans Rott.
Who? Never heard of him.
Well, he was a contemporary of Mahler - actually a fellow student - and he was coached by Bruckner and he was expected to go far up the music establishment's ladder. But Brahms didn't like his symphony, composed when he was about 20, told him to give up composing and do something else, and the famous conductor Richter didn't want to conduct the symphony in case it failed maybe. To cut a long sad story short, Hans Rott went mad, was incarcerated in a lunatic asylum (not much fun now but then.... it doesn't bear thinking about) and died of tubercolosis at the age of 22.
I played the first movement from a recording on 'youtube' and it's a marvellous work. Maybe it's too Mahlerian for Rott to be taken seriously as "his own man", but in some ways it's better than Mahler. To me anyway.
It has only recently been performed at all, lost for years. Well done Radio 3. Most of his work is either lost or destroyed by his own hands because he didn't think it good enough.
There's a marvellous new book, "The Rest is Noise", by the New Yorker critic, Alex Ross, which covers the modern music scene from the early 20th century until now and I am surprised to find Rott is not mentioned in it.
Monday 20 July 2009
Autobiographies
Maybe that should be Oughtobiographies since some are lies. Frank McCourt, who has recently died, was accused of this sort of thing - making it up instead of telling the truth - with his most famous novel (or is it a biography? Haven't read it myself) "Angela's Ashes". He strongly defended himself against the accusation.
I wrote a novel called "Looking Back" - never published though my agent at the time said it "was close" - which told the story of 3 brothers living in the early 20th Century. Publishers to whom I sent it all wanted to know if it was true, that is, if it was my autobiography. I'd have had to have been about 80 for it to be autobiographical and I hadn't reached that age then. But I am sure that if I had untruthfully said that it was my story, someone would have published it. I'd have been famous then and possibly rich too.... and would have been found out as a fraud and unable to show my face in public.
The author of "Roots" was "found out" I believe. He said it was about his descendants but someone proved it wasn't. Then there's the New York journalist working for one of the big newspapers who was "found out": he was writing "I was there" stories but he wasn't there; he was sitting in his New York apartment writing fiction not fact.
Actually, my novel is probably closer to the truth than most of those who have been "found out" since the various stories in it were told me by my father who did live through that period. So perhaps I could have said to the publisher who was interested "well yes it is true..... but it didn't happen to me."
I wrote a novel called "Looking Back" - never published though my agent at the time said it "was close" - which told the story of 3 brothers living in the early 20th Century. Publishers to whom I sent it all wanted to know if it was true, that is, if it was my autobiography. I'd have had to have been about 80 for it to be autobiographical and I hadn't reached that age then. But I am sure that if I had untruthfully said that it was my story, someone would have published it. I'd have been famous then and possibly rich too.... and would have been found out as a fraud and unable to show my face in public.
The author of "Roots" was "found out" I believe. He said it was about his descendants but someone proved it wasn't. Then there's the New York journalist working for one of the big newspapers who was "found out": he was writing "I was there" stories but he wasn't there; he was sitting in his New York apartment writing fiction not fact.
Actually, my novel is probably closer to the truth than most of those who have been "found out" since the various stories in it were told me by my father who did live through that period. So perhaps I could have said to the publisher who was interested "well yes it is true..... but it didn't happen to me."
Sunday 19 July 2009
Foreign Films
I have started to watch the new Tom Cruise film "Valkyrie" (will see the rest later tonight) and realise the story has been done before: a German film by Pabst. That was a very good film which I saw in the Cardiff Film Society many years ago. I don't think there is a Cardiff Film Society now, though there is a Cardiff University Film Society (showing "Brief Encounter" this week). Pity, because I saw many fine films there (and some stinkers too) that aren't being shown now. There is the odd one at Chapter Arts Centre (a few years ago they showed "Showboat" with Paul Robson and before that a film by Mizoguchi, a very slow moving affair that was, according to a lecturer there, his finest film - I don't think so but I can't remember the title of the one I like most).
Cardiff Film Society would have lecturers, amateur film enthusiasts mostly, who gave talks on such things as "The Criteria of Modern Cinema" - we'd sit, chin on hand listening. brows furrowed, as if we hearing some great philosophical idea that would transform our lives. But the films were very good. Films by Kurosawa and Mizoguchi, Pabst and Fritz Lang, Bunuel and Renoir, short comedies by Chaplin and Robert Benchley (some of his on youtube now).
I ordered "Valkyrie" through a firm called lovefilm.com. Must see if they have any of those old foreign films....... Mmmm! But would I enjoy them so much now? Are they that good? Sometimes it's better not to look back since one may be sadly disappointed.
Cardiff Film Society would have lecturers, amateur film enthusiasts mostly, who gave talks on such things as "The Criteria of Modern Cinema" - we'd sit, chin on hand listening. brows furrowed, as if we hearing some great philosophical idea that would transform our lives. But the films were very good. Films by Kurosawa and Mizoguchi, Pabst and Fritz Lang, Bunuel and Renoir, short comedies by Chaplin and Robert Benchley (some of his on youtube now).
I ordered "Valkyrie" through a firm called lovefilm.com. Must see if they have any of those old foreign films....... Mmmm! But would I enjoy them so much now? Are they that good? Sometimes it's better not to look back since one may be sadly disappointed.
Friday 17 July 2009
William Styron
There is a story by William Styron in the recent edition of The New Yorker; a bit surprising this since Styron died in 2006 - does it take three years or more for the magazine to print what they have accepted?
The story is called "Rat Beach" and is more of a reminiscence than a piece of fiction; it's told in the first person and you feel that person is Styron. The action takes place on an island which the troops call Rat Beach, close to the Japanese mainland just before they are going to invade the country in a last attempt to defeat them. It gives a detailed picture of the life of a young lieutenant in the American marines and of the man's deep fear of the imminent assault.
The assault, of course, never took place; Truman dropped the atomic bombs on Hiroshima and then Nagasaki and the war was over. But the story doesn't get as far as that, it stays with the possible assault about to take place.
I wonder if Styron was giving an argument for the dropping of the bombs: at one stage a popular colonel tells his officers that the fighting will be fierce, that the Japs are not yet finished, that they will fight to the last man.... that "they'll have guns zeroed in to blow us apart. But we will have to go in and take that beachead even if it means that many of us won't be coming back." In short, that for victory the cost to American lives would be enormous.
This is, of course, a good reason for dropping the first bomb - unless one is of the opinion that the dropping of any atomic weapon on civilian communities is an act of barbarianism which is humanitarianly inexcusable - but it's no reason for dropping the second, surely.
But the story is not about the bomb, it's about fear, a deeply felt fear that consumes the young man to such an extent that he wonders if he will be able to act at all never mind couageously.
Tryon wrote later: "When I was a young platoon leader, there was this incredible sense of fate. The myth at that age is you're going to live for ever. Well, I never believed that and my friends didn't. I thought I was going to die."
The only book I read by William Styron was "The Long March", another army story of gruelling endeavour. That was published before his best seller "Sophie's Choice" which I think I will now read (and/or see the film with Meryl Streep, who won an Oscar I believe).
The story is called "Rat Beach" and is more of a reminiscence than a piece of fiction; it's told in the first person and you feel that person is Styron. The action takes place on an island which the troops call Rat Beach, close to the Japanese mainland just before they are going to invade the country in a last attempt to defeat them. It gives a detailed picture of the life of a young lieutenant in the American marines and of the man's deep fear of the imminent assault.
The assault, of course, never took place; Truman dropped the atomic bombs on Hiroshima and then Nagasaki and the war was over. But the story doesn't get as far as that, it stays with the possible assault about to take place.
I wonder if Styron was giving an argument for the dropping of the bombs: at one stage a popular colonel tells his officers that the fighting will be fierce, that the Japs are not yet finished, that they will fight to the last man.... that "they'll have guns zeroed in to blow us apart. But we will have to go in and take that beachead even if it means that many of us won't be coming back." In short, that for victory the cost to American lives would be enormous.
This is, of course, a good reason for dropping the first bomb - unless one is of the opinion that the dropping of any atomic weapon on civilian communities is an act of barbarianism which is humanitarianly inexcusable - but it's no reason for dropping the second, surely.
But the story is not about the bomb, it's about fear, a deeply felt fear that consumes the young man to such an extent that he wonders if he will be able to act at all never mind couageously.
Tryon wrote later: "When I was a young platoon leader, there was this incredible sense of fate. The myth at that age is you're going to live for ever. Well, I never believed that and my friends didn't. I thought I was going to die."
The only book I read by William Styron was "The Long March", another army story of gruelling endeavour. That was published before his best seller "Sophie's Choice" which I think I will now read (and/or see the film with Meryl Streep, who won an Oscar I believe).
Wednesday 15 July 2009
Ivor Novello
There's a new statue in Cardiff of Ivor Novello. About time many people would say. Especially many people of a certain age, that age being over fifty or more likely, over sixty.
I wrote a short booklet about Ivor Novello some ten years ago - "A Portrait of Ivor Novello"; published it myself (which is easy) but could not distribute it easily (distribution is the big problem with publishing yourself and with paying someone to publish it - called Vanity Publishing; they do the job, don't do much distributing and you are left with remaindered copies). I sold about fifty copies over the years mostly to a bookseller in Eastbourne - no ides why he was more interested than anyone else.
Novello was born in Cardiff in a street opposite St David's Hospital; there is a small plaque on the wall next to the front door and that is all the official recognition he had until now.
When writing the booklet, I asked various young people if they knew who he was. Few did; most who had heard the name had heard it in connection with The Ivor Novello Awards. No one knew he was a popular film and stage actor or that he wrote successful plays and very successful musicals or that he wrote one of the most famous of all WW1 songs, "Keep the Home Fires Burning". But why should they know those things? The musicals are never done now - excerpts only and those rarely (e.g. "Friday Night is Music Night") - the plays are dead and never to be resurrected.
But it is good to see a quite magnificent bronze statue of the man, sitting in a chair in a casual way, on a column which has on its four sides some of the titles to his musicals and to some of his most famous songs. Good to see that at last Cardiff has recognised an immensely talented man who was once the toast of London society.
I wrote a short booklet about Ivor Novello some ten years ago - "A Portrait of Ivor Novello"; published it myself (which is easy) but could not distribute it easily (distribution is the big problem with publishing yourself and with paying someone to publish it - called Vanity Publishing; they do the job, don't do much distributing and you are left with remaindered copies). I sold about fifty copies over the years mostly to a bookseller in Eastbourne - no ides why he was more interested than anyone else.
Novello was born in Cardiff in a street opposite St David's Hospital; there is a small plaque on the wall next to the front door and that is all the official recognition he had until now.
When writing the booklet, I asked various young people if they knew who he was. Few did; most who had heard the name had heard it in connection with The Ivor Novello Awards. No one knew he was a popular film and stage actor or that he wrote successful plays and very successful musicals or that he wrote one of the most famous of all WW1 songs, "Keep the Home Fires Burning". But why should they know those things? The musicals are never done now - excerpts only and those rarely (e.g. "Friday Night is Music Night") - the plays are dead and never to be resurrected.
But it is good to see a quite magnificent bronze statue of the man, sitting in a chair in a casual way, on a column which has on its four sides some of the titles to his musicals and to some of his most famous songs. Good to see that at last Cardiff has recognised an immensely talented man who was once the toast of London society.
Monday 13 July 2009
The War
At a certain Christmas in WW1 the troops on the German side and those on our side met in no-man's-land and played a fun game of football. Afterwards they continued doing what they had come there to do - fight a war. The silliness of it gave me the idea to write this poem:
The First German I Shot After The Game
I pointed it at him as he came on running,
Right at his forehead I pointed the gun,
I then pulled the trigger, the bullet - it hit him
And I watched as he fell down, a heap in the sun.
Then my mate, right beside me, said: "See who you've done for -
The one you just killed with a shot in the head?
'Twas the bloke that we played with, the one who was skillful,
He scored a great goal, now he's lying there dead."
I said: "He's a German, an enemy soldier,
If I hadn't shot him he might have shot me."
"But we played them at soccer and hour ago, mun,
And he scored a great goal, a great goal, din't you see?"
"O' course I did see, mun, o'course I did see him,
I got eyes, mun, as you have, and I saw him die."
"But he doesn't use his now, the poor bloody bleeder,
Face down in the mud here," my mate gave a sigh.
"He's a German, a German, and they en't not human,
They kill little babies and rape as they scream;
Don't you hear what they tell us, they're beasts in disguise, mun?"
But my mate said: "He looked one of us and he played like a dream."
He played like a dream, aye, he played like a dream
Better than us, aye, he moved like a dancer,
Moved like a dancer and scored a great goal.....
And my mate's got a question but I know there's no answer.
The First German I Shot After The Game
I pointed it at him as he came on running,
Right at his forehead I pointed the gun,
I then pulled the trigger, the bullet - it hit him
And I watched as he fell down, a heap in the sun.
Then my mate, right beside me, said: "See who you've done for -
The one you just killed with a shot in the head?
'Twas the bloke that we played with, the one who was skillful,
He scored a great goal, now he's lying there dead."
I said: "He's a German, an enemy soldier,
If I hadn't shot him he might have shot me."
"But we played them at soccer and hour ago, mun,
And he scored a great goal, a great goal, din't you see?"
"O' course I did see, mun, o'course I did see him,
I got eyes, mun, as you have, and I saw him die."
"But he doesn't use his now, the poor bloody bleeder,
Face down in the mud here," my mate gave a sigh.
"He's a German, a German, and they en't not human,
They kill little babies and rape as they scream;
Don't you hear what they tell us, they're beasts in disguise, mun?"
But my mate said: "He looked one of us and he played like a dream."
He played like a dream, aye, he played like a dream
Better than us, aye, he moved like a dancer,
Moved like a dancer and scored a great goal.....
And my mate's got a question but I know there's no answer.
Saturday 11 July 2009
Miriam Pleasence
A good friend of mine has died: Miriam Pleasence. She was Donald Pleasence's first wife (he had three or four afterwards - "got younger every time" she told me). She had been an excellent actress and, she told me, had written a couple of plays with her husband; whether they were ever produced or not I don't know. But since I knew she could write I asked her if she would collaborate on a play with me. She said yes so we went about collaborating - not very successfully I'm afraid: I'd write a scene, send it to her in London, she'd make changes and send it back. It never worked out.
She had been, early in her life, in the Birmingham Reportary Company under the famous Barry Jackson who had set up the company in the early part of the 20th C.
She was an exceptionally good writer of amusing theatrical anecodal stories and I tried to persuade her to make them into a collection and get them published. This, I think, never came about which is a great pity.
We both used to attend, fairly regularly, writing weekends in Abergavenny. I recall one evening in the bar when I was telling a group of writers about an article I had read (in Punch magazine) about a husband and wife who had the perfect partnership: he went to work in the nights and she went to work in the days; they passed each other on the doorstep on their ways out and in. A woman on the course objected strongly to this, she found the idea in rather bad taste. She said "I had a perfect marriage, my husband and I did everything together.... etc etc" Later I told Miriam about this incident and she said "Was it her first, second or third husband?"
She had been, early in her life, in the Birmingham Reportary Company under the famous Barry Jackson who had set up the company in the early part of the 20th C.
She was an exceptionally good writer of amusing theatrical anecodal stories and I tried to persuade her to make them into a collection and get them published. This, I think, never came about which is a great pity.
We both used to attend, fairly regularly, writing weekends in Abergavenny. I recall one evening in the bar when I was telling a group of writers about an article I had read (in Punch magazine) about a husband and wife who had the perfect partnership: he went to work in the nights and she went to work in the days; they passed each other on the doorstep on their ways out and in. A woman on the course objected strongly to this, she found the idea in rather bad taste. She said "I had a perfect marriage, my husband and I did everything together.... etc etc" Later I told Miriam about this incident and she said "Was it her first, second or third husband?"
Friday 10 July 2009
Bleddwyn Williams
I saw Bleddwyn Williams play rugby quite a few times: when he played regularly for Cardiff and on those occasions when he played for Wales. In the Welsh team with Haydn Tanner and Jack Matthews there was a combination of real talent.
He had a spectacular side step. It was spectacular for two reasons: it was a large sideways stride from off his right foot while he was running at full speed, and the opposition never saw it coming. This was odd because the whole of the Arms Park spectators saw it coming "a mile off". You'd hear someone close by say "he's going to side step" and he would yet the player he passed never predicted it.
Now he has died at 85. A few weeks ago his team-mate in the Welsh team, Haydn Tanner, died. Williams said of him that he had the best pass in the game. Williams too had a great pass. But more than just the side-step and the pass was his whole game, intelligent and strong. Matthews was always noted for his bullet-like tackling but Williams too could tackle well: he seemed to embrace the opposite number in a huge bear-like hug, thus taking care of both man and ball.
There used to be a joke going round about two mythical Welsh men, Twm and Dai. They had travelled together from the valleys to see England v. Wales at The Arms Park in Cardiff; a couple of hours before the start of the game Twm found he had left the tickets at home. Dai, having a car, said he'd go back for them. Which he did, only to find Twm's wife in bed with the milkman. Dai returned to Cardiff, met Twm and said "Twm, I've got some bad news for you. When I went back for the tickets I found your wife in bed with the milkman." "I've got some bad news for you too Dai," said Twm. "Bleddwyn Williams has got the 'flu and can't play."
He had a spectacular side step. It was spectacular for two reasons: it was a large sideways stride from off his right foot while he was running at full speed, and the opposition never saw it coming. This was odd because the whole of the Arms Park spectators saw it coming "a mile off". You'd hear someone close by say "he's going to side step" and he would yet the player he passed never predicted it.
Now he has died at 85. A few weeks ago his team-mate in the Welsh team, Haydn Tanner, died. Williams said of him that he had the best pass in the game. Williams too had a great pass. But more than just the side-step and the pass was his whole game, intelligent and strong. Matthews was always noted for his bullet-like tackling but Williams too could tackle well: he seemed to embrace the opposite number in a huge bear-like hug, thus taking care of both man and ball.
There used to be a joke going round about two mythical Welsh men, Twm and Dai. They had travelled together from the valleys to see England v. Wales at The Arms Park in Cardiff; a couple of hours before the start of the game Twm found he had left the tickets at home. Dai, having a car, said he'd go back for them. Which he did, only to find Twm's wife in bed with the milkman. Dai returned to Cardiff, met Twm and said "Twm, I've got some bad news for you. When I went back for the tickets I found your wife in bed with the milkman." "I've got some bad news for you too Dai," said Twm. "Bleddwyn Williams has got the 'flu and can't play."
Thursday 9 July 2009
Railway Carriages
On the TV news today they showed a train from 60 or 70 years ago that had been restored to its former glory. They said that the train and carriages had been left to rot but some enthusiast had come along and restored it. It also said that some of the carriages had been once turned into homes, and there was a woman who was interviewed who said that she had actually lived in one. This was during the housing shortage in the Second World War.
I can well believe this because I remember people living in railway carriages. I used one family in my novel "Looking Back" (never published but got close some time ago). They were "The Bishops" and what a family they were. The mother was a screaming harridan with a husband I hardly ever saw and two boys who were about my age but who never attended school. Rough? They were the roughest lot I ever came across. Not that I knew them personally. Saw them only from a distance. The boys were always dressed in rags.
Another family who lived near them possibly in another railway carriage had a dog, a medium sized sheep dog. One day the owner of the dog couldn't get the dog to come to him; the dog was under another carriage and wouldn't come out. We helped him get the dog out but regretted it soon after for the man beat the dog with a stick ruthlessly.
They were the very dregs of the town we lived in.
I can well believe this because I remember people living in railway carriages. I used one family in my novel "Looking Back" (never published but got close some time ago). They were "The Bishops" and what a family they were. The mother was a screaming harridan with a husband I hardly ever saw and two boys who were about my age but who never attended school. Rough? They were the roughest lot I ever came across. Not that I knew them personally. Saw them only from a distance. The boys were always dressed in rags.
Another family who lived near them possibly in another railway carriage had a dog, a medium sized sheep dog. One day the owner of the dog couldn't get the dog to come to him; the dog was under another carriage and wouldn't come out. We helped him get the dog out but regretted it soon after for the man beat the dog with a stick ruthlessly.
They were the very dregs of the town we lived in.
Tuesday 7 July 2009
Radio 4
There are two points of view about Radio 4 in today's Times: one person dislikes it intensely, the other is an avid listener. I have known people (usually women) who "listen to it all the time". One of these has radios in all rooms of her house and portables to carry from room to room so that she doesn't miss a word.
I used to like it a lot but now rarely listen to anything except "Desert Island Discs" (if there is someone interesting on), "Start the Week" (sometimes), "The Moral Maze" (if I remember) and the occasional play in the afternoon. But most of the plays are not to my taste. Nor to one of The Times writers: "what is the matter with whoever commissions these things? And why are the actors speaking..... So..... Slowly....?"
Incidentally, why is there a "Woman's Hour" but no "Man's Hour"? Because most of the other programmes appeal to men? Not so. Most men I know don't listen to radio at all - they're killing themselves doing DIY.
The Times writer also refers to the "dead air" by which she means silences. "The Dead Air on Radio 4 can stretch on for what feels like minutes". I haven't noticed that but, there, I don't listen to "Woman's Hour" or the plays. But I know it breaks the golden rule of radio writing told me a man who wrote and had broadcast about 50 plays, most of them Saturday Night Theatre. He said "the only thing you can't do on radio is silence."
From the horse's mouth.
I used to like it a lot but now rarely listen to anything except "Desert Island Discs" (if there is someone interesting on), "Start the Week" (sometimes), "The Moral Maze" (if I remember) and the occasional play in the afternoon. But most of the plays are not to my taste. Nor to one of The Times writers: "what is the matter with whoever commissions these things? And why are the actors speaking..... So..... Slowly....?"
Incidentally, why is there a "Woman's Hour" but no "Man's Hour"? Because most of the other programmes appeal to men? Not so. Most men I know don't listen to radio at all - they're killing themselves doing DIY.
The Times writer also refers to the "dead air" by which she means silences. "The Dead Air on Radio 4 can stretch on for what feels like minutes". I haven't noticed that but, there, I don't listen to "Woman's Hour" or the plays. But I know it breaks the golden rule of radio writing told me a man who wrote and had broadcast about 50 plays, most of them Saturday Night Theatre. He said "the only thing you can't do on radio is silence."
From the horse's mouth.
Friday 3 July 2009
Comparisions
Go to youtube and write "Tuxedo Junction" and click on the first on the list; you get the wonderful Glenn Millar Orchestra playing what I think is his finest piece, "Tuxedo Junction" with its deep purple colour of an opening by trombones and a magical tune that follows played by saxophones - wonderful.
But it's not the version by the Glenn Millar orchestra when he was alive. You can get that version on youtube too; it's a beautiful version but quite different in rhythm and without a lot of the solo improvisers. Which is the best? The original of course. Well, I'm not so sure. I like the new version better.
There's an article in this week's Spectator by James Walton in which he draws comparisions between the programmes on TV in the sixties and seventies with those on now and concludes with "mightn't the terrible truth be that these days we get the television we deserve - and probably even want".
One fact is pre-emminent in his article and that is that the Americans make better drama now than we do - "Mad Men", "The Wire", "The Sopranos" for example compared with, say, "Lark Rise at Candelford".
The name that crops up most in the article is Clive James, probably the most influential of TV critics in the 70's. I remember saying to one of a group of Cardiff based singers and players who wrote their own very clever material and were exceptionally good musicians: "How are you doing these days? Successful d'you think?" He said: "We are waiting for the verdict from Clive James."
Yes, he was tremendously influencial but I don't think his judgements were always sound. I recall him giving a good review of "How Green was my Valley". I thought the serial pretty awful and wrote to him comparing it to John Ford's film. He wrote back to say he was obviously not as enamoured of Ford as I was.
I was once in conversation with a BBC producer about some work I had submitted and he said he had worked for Rudolf Cartier who never went into close-up in his TV plays for at least 20 minutes. I said, without thinking, "John Ford's film 'How Green was my Valley' starts with a shot in close-up of two hands and a man saying 'Time to leave the land of my fathers' ".
End of my career as a playwright with that producer.
But it's not the version by the Glenn Millar orchestra when he was alive. You can get that version on youtube too; it's a beautiful version but quite different in rhythm and without a lot of the solo improvisers. Which is the best? The original of course. Well, I'm not so sure. I like the new version better.
There's an article in this week's Spectator by James Walton in which he draws comparisions between the programmes on TV in the sixties and seventies with those on now and concludes with "mightn't the terrible truth be that these days we get the television we deserve - and probably even want".
One fact is pre-emminent in his article and that is that the Americans make better drama now than we do - "Mad Men", "The Wire", "The Sopranos" for example compared with, say, "Lark Rise at Candelford".
The name that crops up most in the article is Clive James, probably the most influential of TV critics in the 70's. I remember saying to one of a group of Cardiff based singers and players who wrote their own very clever material and were exceptionally good musicians: "How are you doing these days? Successful d'you think?" He said: "We are waiting for the verdict from Clive James."
Yes, he was tremendously influencial but I don't think his judgements were always sound. I recall him giving a good review of "How Green was my Valley". I thought the serial pretty awful and wrote to him comparing it to John Ford's film. He wrote back to say he was obviously not as enamoured of Ford as I was.
I was once in conversation with a BBC producer about some work I had submitted and he said he had worked for Rudolf Cartier who never went into close-up in his TV plays for at least 20 minutes. I said, without thinking, "John Ford's film 'How Green was my Valley' starts with a shot in close-up of two hands and a man saying 'Time to leave the land of my fathers' ".
End of my career as a playwright with that producer.
Thursday 2 July 2009
Type-casting
There was an English actor who played in many films in the sixties and seventies whose name escapes me - frankly though, I never knew it. He had one of those faces that made you think: possibly a bit crooked or, if not a crook, a bit of a wheeler-dealer; a cheeky little face, the face of a barrow boy maybe. He was in "I'm allright Jack" where he played the part of a worker on the shop floor who helped the posh newcomer to learn how to use a fork-lift truck (so that you didn't stress yourself too much). He was also in "Privates on Parade" as a private soldier who did as little as possible. I saw him interviewed when he was getting on a bit and he said that when he was quite a young actor, a producer or director called him over and said to him "you'll never be out of work with your face", and he said he never was.
Of course he could never play Romeo or Hamlet, though he could have probably played Bottom or one of Falstaff's crew.
Another actor I met (who wanted to be a writer) told me that he was never out of work because he had the sort of face they liked for certain parts. He had a round head, a bit of a bullet head. "If they want a barrow boy type," he said, "they don't look further than me."
But of course the trouble being the sort who are typecast as barrow boys or shopfloor workers or private soldiers never are asked to do Hamlet or Romeo. Though they may grow old enough to play Falstaff.
Of course he could never play Romeo or Hamlet, though he could have probably played Bottom or one of Falstaff's crew.
Another actor I met (who wanted to be a writer) told me that he was never out of work because he had the sort of face they liked for certain parts. He had a round head, a bit of a bullet head. "If they want a barrow boy type," he said, "they don't look further than me."
But of course the trouble being the sort who are typecast as barrow boys or shopfloor workers or private soldiers never are asked to do Hamlet or Romeo. Though they may grow old enough to play Falstaff.
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