Work

Paul Johnson in The Spectator quotes John Ruskin and Bertrand Russell on "Work".
Ruskin asked: "Which of us is to do the hard and dirty work for the rest - and for what pay? Who is to do the pleasant and clean work, and for what pay?"
And Russell had a sort of answer: "Work is of two kinds. First, altering the position of matter at or near the earth's surface relatively to other such matter. Second, telling other people to do so. The first kind is unpleasant and ill paid. The second is pleasant and highly paid."
This made me wonder which section, first or second, I had come in when I was a teacher.
And this made me recall what Bernard Shaw had said: "Those who can, do; those who can't teach."

End-of Pier actors.

Michael Henderson, writing in yesterday's Telegraph, mentioned the TV show "Croosroads" which he called "that execrable 70's soap stuffed with end-of-pier actors".
When, years ago, I challenged my father on a criticsm he had made of the working class area he was living in, asking him why the criticism now since he had always lived in working class areas, he replied: "Well, there's working class and there's working class".
Well, I say, "there's end-of-pier actors and there's end-of-pier actors".
I know what Mr Henderson is talking about: I've had my fill of the second raters who put on second rate plays and sing popular songs with voices you would find more appropriate to town criers (if there are any now) and so on. But I recall a play I saw on the pier at Bournemouth many moons ago. The star of the show was Norman Vaughan, popular at the time on TV but not much to my liking. But the star to me was Bernard Bresslaw who came on about half way through the play and stole the show.
I was never a Bernard Bresslaw fan; in fact I don't think I ever laughed at anything he said or did in the Carry On films. But on stage he was transformed into a being so funny it was impossible not to shreak with laughter. He brought the house down, as they used to say.
That was end-of-pier acting like I had never seen before and surely won't again.

Michael Clayton

Am I the only person in the world who thought the film "Michael Clayton" was boring?
All the big reviewers have written encomiums about it, praising Clooney particularly for his performance, but I found it tedious to the point of having to stop watching it (I turned the DVD off). I can't believe it was a popular film since it was so difficult to follow - I feel that if Clooney had not been in it to give the main character, well, character, the film would have failed on all accounts: plot construction, character development, excitement of dramatic action.....
But I am no film critic. And as I get older I am finding modern American films quite hard to take, especially those which have an agenda - they are going to deal with important issues and tell us what we should think about them. Most of George Clooney's films recently (apart from Oceans 10, 11, or whatever) have had agendas and I am fed up with being preached to by them.
I have not seen a good new film since "The Lives of Others".

Writing Sit-Coms.

Before I tried to write a sit-com I should have read Brian Cooke's book. In it he wrote:
"After Johnny Mortimer and I finished a script we went through a process we called 'ticking the laughs'.... ticking off the lines which would get a laugh. We liked to see three or four ticks on each page i.e. every 3rd or 4th line. If there weren't enough ticks on the page we'd do something about it.... not stick in an obvious gag but strengthen the lines in situation or maybe trim or tighten up some of the plot lines."
Well I wrote an episode of a sit-com about a man who had retired and decided to go to college because he felt he had missed out. OK, there'd already been a film with Bing Crosby on the same subject but Shakespeare had pinched his plots so why couldn't I?
I sent it off somewhere and, of course, it came back. Yes, the idea was useful (which meant they might use it themselves some time) and the characters were neatly drawn (which meant they didn't like them) and so on. And, O yes, there was a joke on page three.
Sod them!

Alun Lewis

I was reading plays for BBC Wales Drama Department some years ago and a sort of play arrived written by a Mrs Lewis from North Wales. It was not good enough to recommend for broadcasting but what was interesting was that the woman was the mother of Alun Lewis. I can't recall if that information was in the play itself or in an accompanying letter but I wrote to her and enjoyed a short correspondence for a few weeks.
Alun Lewis died in the 2nd World War at the age of 29 (it has been claimed "by his own hand"); at the time he was on duty in Burma having been in the army for four years.
I believe his mother wished to write something that would serve as a sort of memorial to her son.
He is not a well-known poet though he did achieve some fame with a volume of his poems published after his death (Robert Graves wrote an introduction to the book).
His most famous poem begins:

"All day it has rained, and we on the edge of the moors
Have sprawled in our bell-tents, moody and dull as boors,
Groundsheets and blankets spread on the muddy ground
And from the first grey wakening we have found
No refuge from the skirmishing fine rain
And the wind that made the canvas heave and flap
And the taut wet guy-ropes ravel out and snap....."

Some quotes.

John Ford, when asked about his films, said seemingly disparagingly "I just make Westerns". But that is what he did best.
Auden wrote:
"A poet's hope: to be
like some valley cheese,
local, but prized everywhere."
And Peter Ackroyd:
"When Susan Sontag invokes something known as 'world literature, it is difficult to understand exactly what is meant. If it existed at all it would be the literary equivalent of air-line food, palatable to all but interesting to none. I suspect that, for Sontag, it represents some yearning for significance when what is significant can be found much closer to home."

Marlene Deitrich

There's a show in London at the present time which celebrates the friendship of Noel Coward and Marlene Deitrich; good show I hear, especially the second half when the the artists playing them perform some of their famous numbers.
Sometimes I meet someone who thinks Marlene Deitrich is the best thing since sliced bread. They moon over her memory and some start singing like her (men I mean): "see what the boys in the back room will have, and tell 'em that I'll have the same."
So I am always pleased to inform these fans that I have been this close (thumb and forefinger a few centimetres apart) to her.
London. Strolling along just outside the Cafe De Paris. A crowd gathering and the police moving us along. I didn't have clue why. The crowd knew why though. They knew that M.D. was about to appear.
And she did. In a big limo.
Suddenly I was caught up in the rush and found myself pushed right up against a chain of policemen, arms linked, while along the corridor they had made she walked to the door of The Cafe.
I was there, arms thrust down my sides with the pressure of the crowd on me. And she passed within centimetres of me and smiled.
"Marlene!" called yearning males over my shoulder. "Marlene, I love you." called others.
But - she smiled at me.