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Out of the ashes

 

The old town of Ålesund, in Norway, was substantially destroyed in a fire in 1904. The earlier wooden-framed houses were replaced within a few years by many new buildings in the Jugendstil style, the regional variation of Art Nouveau. This lends its modern town centre a particularly consistent and attractive look.

 

 

The above photograph shows the Jugendstil Senteret, the Art Nouveau Museum, a former pharmacy. The others following show a range of residential and commercial buildings.

 

 

 

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Some causes and consequences of gambling

 

D.H. Lawrence’s The Rocking-Horse Winner, first published in 1925, is an intriguing short story, not least because it has elements of form and content which might not be expected from the celebrated analyst of social class and sexual and emotional intimacy.

For instance, Lawrence used several of the tropes of fairy-tale, or perhaps parable, in his narrative. He opens with, “There was a woman who was beautiful” and continues “there was a boy and two little girls”. The boy appears to have magical, or supernatural powers, which allow him to gain great financial riches, albeit not through classic devices of physical combat or exploration, but through the more prosaic 20th century practice of betting on the results of horse races. The family lives in a house which itself seems to be alive, frequently whispering to all its residents for more money. More personal details about his characters are revealed only slowly.

A story by D.H. Lawrence seems an unlikely source for a horror film, but Anthony Pelissier’s 1949 film version does bear similarities with a couple of classics from the genre of that period. First, with the Ealing Studios compendium Dead of Night, where one story features rooms in a family home which are haunted by a dead child, another where a malevolent mirror transfers the evils of its previous home to its new modern sophisticated owner, and, more peripherally, two others have sports backgrounds! Second, with Victor Fleming’s version of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, where some of its rather Freudian scenes representing Hyde’s animal appetites seem to have influenced Pelissier in his depictions of Paul’s adolescent physical efforts to bring to mind the name of a money-winning horse.

Lawrence is critical of the materialism of Paul’s middle-class parents and, in general, of people living beyond their means. This couple “lived in style” but “there was never enough money”. The desire for wealth and possessions and status saturates the home – so that “the children could hear it all the time though nobody said it aloud”. The mother’s greed psychologically damages her young son who is determined to gain money (through luck, not work) in order to help his parents.

Paul makes an astonishing amount of money by predicting successfully the winners of horse races. Half-way through the story Lawrence mentions winnings of £10,000, the equivalent of half a million pounds in today’s money. Where does Paul’s success come from? Perhaps he has inherited it: his Uncle Oscar is clearly very interested in horse racing and bets frequently, his mother says hers was “a gambling family” which suggests the habit goes back at least to her own father. Paul says only that God has told him he is lucky.

So Lawrence seems to hint that Paul’s success in gambling is some kind of spiritual gift. Possibly to underline how the selfish materialism of parents like his leads them to fail to notice or understand their children’s qualities and interests and talents. Religious imagery is frequently used. When Paul’s ally, the young gardener Bassett, talks about the boy’s betting practice, he “was serious as a church…as if he were speaking of religious matters” and explains that Paul gets his betting tips “as if he had it from heaven”. When Paul dies prematurely, Uncle Oscar seems to acknowledge he has gifts from God which have been abused: “a poor devil… (who’s) best gone out of a life where he rides his rocking-horse to find a winner.”

Paul introduces the idea of money and luck to his mother “vaguely” and “timidly”, but his behaviour in putting his vision into practice is, in contrast, intense and driven and disturbing. He is described as “in agony” when trying to identify the winner of the Lincoln Handicap, presumably akin to Christ’s agony in Gethsemane. He rides his wooden rocking-horse “madly” and “wildly” and in “a frenzy”; his eyes show a “strange glare” as he slashes at it with a whip, a gesture which hints at capacity for violence and an incipient sexual energy. His mother observes the incongruity anxiously: “You’re not a very little boy any longer, you know”.

Other sexual undertones could be interpreted in a description like “his sturdy long legs straddling apart” or in Paul’s statement “I got there…where I wanted to go”. Pelissier’s film certainly follows this line, through close ups, sweeping camera, low angle shots, dark shadows, staring eyes and clashing music. In Paul’s final night-time encounter with the rocking-horse which helps him identify the winner of the Derby, his hair is damp against his forehead, his pyjama jacket is open and his chest is bare.

Pelissier characterises Uncle Oscar, as played by Ronald Squire, as pleasant and supportive but roguish, and inherently as selfish as his sister and brother-in-law. Lawrence’s minor character of Bassett is aged and expanded in the film to exploit the casting of John Mills. Mills usually played characters of integrity and he does so here, as a disabled working-class war veteran who looks after Paul’s winnings and is never tempted to steal any. However, at the end, he shares guilt and regret for Paul’s death. Paul’s mother wants Bassett to burn the banknotes which she sees as “blood money” but Bassett determines to take it to the family solicitor so that the money which “cost (a life) …might (now) be able to save a few lives”.

Although Lawrence’s narrative method is spare, he does include some period domestic details. The father’s workplace is described dismissively as “some office” (probably the character’s view of his work rather than Lawrence’s). The mother does show enterprise and initiative on occasions, such as her venture as a commercial artist. Each parent earns or has inherited some money “but not nearly enough for the social position which they had to keep up”, which is perhaps why the employment of servants has to be “discreet”, since they might have to be dismissed prematurely. The film adds some additional scenes: a debt collector visits unexpectedly so Paul’s mother has to rush off to a pawn broker in a shabby part of the nearest town to raise some money by selling her things.

The film’s closing image of the “funeral pyre” of the burning rocking horse seems to want to leave the audience with the idea that the toy has been the primary cause of the disruption in the family, rather like the haunted mirror in Dead of Night. Lawrence’s story makes clear that “the shining modern rocking-horse” is just one of “the expensive and splendid toys” which has absorbed the parents’ money and distracted them from their obligation to care properly for their children. It has been a device to ignite energy and ideas which were already building just below the surface in Paul’s personality. He is aware of the flaws in his parents’ marriage and therefore in the instability of his family life; he is reaching out to make things better and find his mother’s love through her aloof selfish materialism.

Most online analyses of Lawrence’s story seem to concentrate on the mother’s greed and its consequences for her son. Both the story and Pelissier’s film could also be seen as highly relevant to our present-day concern about the reasons for gambling and the psychological damage it can cause.

 

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Dazzling

 

That heyday of punk and indie music from 1976 into the mid-1980s was a growth period both of small record labels like Postcard, Stiff and Rough Trade and of fanzines, small independent magazines. Whenever you read and admired a publication about literature or music, you were frequently inspired to set up one of your own which would be equally good if not better. Nowadays people might set up websites and on-line magazines, but then they typed and photocopied them and distributed them at concerts and shops.

Chris Davidson was one such person, producing the Slow Dazzle music fanzine in Greenock, Renfrewshire, in the 1980s. Named after the album by music maverick John Cale, it reviewed and interviewed new and established names from the music scene of the time. The four issues which I still have feature, for instance, conversations with Billy Bragg, the Bluebells, the Pastels, Pete Shelley, Marc Riley and the Creepers, John Peel, footballer/music aficionado Pat Nevin, Tommy Smith, Alan McGee and the Jesus and Mary Chain. In addition, articles on Miles Davis, Frank Zappa, Neil Young, Frank Sinatra, African music, apartheid, the Glastonbury Festival, Kurt Vonnegut and scooters.

 

 

In common with many freelance music writers, Davidson was also a keen music promoter, and organised many concerts in the Greenock area in the same period.

I was acquainted with Chris Davidson around this time, and I nursed some literary ambitions. Although I was a music fan, I recognised that I didn’t have the depth of music knowledge and concert-going experience of Davidson and other Slow Dazzle contributors. However, the magazine welcomed wider cultural topics and I did get three theatre reviews included.

Slow Dazzle lasted for six issues during 1983 and 1984. It ended not because it was unsuccessful but because it was too successful. It was taking up too much of Davidson’s time and energy but of course not earning any money. He already had a full-time job plus a wife and family so there came a point where Slow Dazzle became too big to have all these parts of his life running concurrently.

However, Davidson’s fondness for and dedication to music did not wane. 20 years later he was co- running another live music night in Greenock called the Pineapple Club. Its website is now discontinued but its playlist and programme demonstrated that his voracious musical appetite had not dulled with time.

I had always intended to include a homage to Slow Dazzle in Leaf Collecting, but the timing was decided when I saw (belatedly) a proper press feature about Chris Davidson credited in a proper book – A Scene in Between by Sam Knee – about the indie music scene of the 1980s. Well done, Chris! Happy memories for all of us.

 

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Ensemble reading

 

It’s hard to be sure whether the fashion of book/reading groups has passed. Some evidence that it has: it was 15 years ago that the Glasgow-set comedy series The Book Group screened on Channel 4 and then for only a year, the much-publicised book strands of the TV programmes of each of Oprah Winfrey and Richard Madeley and Judy Finnegan have long gone and BBC Radio 2 has just ended the book club element of Simon Mayo’s programme. On the other hand, the Richard and Judy Book Club continues as a commercial website, the BBC Radio 4 monthly programme Bookclub presented by James Naughtie is still broadcasting after 20 years, and the Reading Agency charity feels that it is a strategy which is still worth supporting.

I too was once part of the book group phenomenon, for eight years between 2003 and 2010, based at my local library. My initial motivation was that it would give me the opportunity to become acquainted with some less known contemporary writers. In the event, I found myself reading only a small minority of the group’s choices, although I was never disappointed by the monthly discussions.

Book groups were sometimes ridiculed because the novels which were read were perceived to fit a stereotype. Their choices were often set in the past, not too literary in style, perhaps linked to a distinct social/political theme, certainly not too long – all of these features thus providing a sense of the books being educational as well as entertaining. My own experience was that there was some truth to this stereotype.

In addition, certain titles seemed to be recurringly popular, such as Sebastian Faulks’ Birdsong, Barbara Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible, Toni Morrison’s Beloved, Marina Lewycka’s A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian; books by Ian McEwan, Tracy Chevalier, Nick Hornby, Margaret Atwood. Publishers sometimes included book group questions in their editions, appearing to see ensemble discussion as more important than individual discovery.

In addition to the enjoyable social interactions, did I gain any literary satisfaction? Well, our group’s very first read was one of my most memorable: Under the Skin by Michel Faber about the extra-terrestrial visitor to Scotland was much more chilling and engrossing than the subsequent film. The other best one was Winter’s Bone by Daniel Woodrell, set in a hillbilly poor community in the USA – the meatiness of the dialogue recalled that the same person had written the source novel for Ang Lee’s film Ride with the Devil.

A few other memories? The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón successfully wove its romantic spell partly because I had recently visited Barcelona; The Road Home by Rose Tremain gave a convincing picture of a refugee experience in modern London and Louise Welsh’s The Cutting Room an equally believable one of a Glasgow demi-monde; Dreams from my Father by Barack Obama provided more insight about the newly-arrived global cultural superstar. A more established book was Guiseppe Tomasi Di Lampedusa’s The Leopard whose complexities about 19th century Italian society I would definitely like to explore again one day.

One professional author visited us: Jonathan Falla, after we had read his Blue Poppies, set in Tibet. He talked engagingly about his work in progress, which drew on his experiences with the charity sector working in Africa, and which became Poor Mercy.

Popular books have been adapted into films since the early days of Hollywood. But it is noticeable how many book group favourites go on to be filmed, such as, from our group’s list, The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold, The Time Traveller’s Wife by Audrey Niffeneger, Notes on a Scandal by Zoe Heller, Brick Lane by Monica Ali, I’m Not Scared by Niccolò Ammaniti, Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishigiro, Half of a Yellow Sun by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan, Suite Française by Irene Nemirovsky, The Ghost by Robert Harris, and The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Anne Barrows. (And there have even been films about fictional reading groups such as The Jane Austen Book Club and the current Book Club!) Are those aforementioned book club characteristics (set in the past, not too literary etc) especially alluring to movie producers? Or are these films just the latest examples of a long tradition?

Of course, with willing participants, interest groups of any sort will thrive. The book group in the aforementioned TV comedy included several members who were not native Scots. By coincidence, the Gramnet research network into migration, asylum and refugees, based at Glasgow University, has a book group which regularly reads and discusses relevant novels on their areas of interest.

 

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Reaching the harbour

 

Portpatrick is a picturesque harbour town in the south-west of Scotland. In the past, as well as being a fishing port, it enjoyed a period as the ferry port to Ireland.

It features as a key location in the last section of the 1950s film Hunted, as a murderer, Chris Lloyd, played by Dirk Bogarde, escapes as far as possible from his crime in London.

The town is not actually named in the film, and we are not even told we are in Scotland: Lloyd says only that he is travelling “north” to where his brother lives. We see only a harbour crammed with fishing boats and hear Lloyd’s information that “the herring fleet’s in” so a boat might be commandeered for further escape. The film is sometimes compared to The 39 Steps , although, since Lloyd is accompanied by a young boy, I was also reminded of Kidnapped.

Seeing the film recently, I was struck how little Portpatrick has changed between its working heyday and its current life as a tourist destination.

 

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Colour enhancement

 

The Sunday Times was the first UK newspaper to produce a colour supplement in 1962, and The Observer followed soon afterwards.

When, some years after that, I started looking at the grown-up newspapers which came into our house each Sunday, those colour magazines were the first part I ventured into. They were welcomingly different from the other larger pages of dense black newsprint.

At that time colour photographs in newspapers came only in these separate glossy supplements. When I think back to them now, it is not so much as a significant technical innovation or because I have strong individual memories, but because in recent years all publishing has become like them.

Colour moved into mainstream sections of newspapers 20 or more years ago. This made the colour magazine undistinctive. Yet today all surviving newspapers seem to still have one.

The regular features of colour supplements in the 1970s and 1980s were the topics which worked particularly well in colour: fashion, food, celebrities, foreign countries – and advertisements. Sometimes the photo-journalism about war and poverty sat incongruously side by side with the advertising pictures of consumption and luxury – as pointed out effectively by John Berger in his famous 1972 TV series on art, Ways of Seeing.

Another popular feature of the colour supplements was visual art, the current gallery and museum exhibitions. An article about the Andrew Wyeth show at the Royal Academy in 1980 provided inspiration for my first ever visit to the cultural life of London that summer. Some articles which I recognised were, amazingly, among the pages which John Berger flipped through randomly in another part of Ways of Seeing. Content and advertisements were often blurred when the latter pastiched the characters or poses of famous individual paintings in their scenes of domestic wealth and comfort.

One of the last examples of magazine coverage of art which I do remember was a Claude Lorraine exhibition in the 1990s which earned a cover entitled “Trouble in Paradise” in The Independent Saturday magazine. That the genre scarcely features nowadays suggests editors have a low opinion of readers’ interests – plus a lack of confidence in their own knowledge and judgement. The current Picasso 1932 exhibition at the Tate Modern has gained a good deal of media attention – it is easy to imagine how it would have been treated by the colour supplements of previous decades!

The recent tabloid rebranding of The Observer has retained the magazine but it is now almost identical to the review section. Similar type of paper, similar colours. A few regular features stay in one place rather than the other but they share an overall likeness. Profiles of arts practitioners and personal memoirs can feature prominently in either section, and therefore on either cover.

Peter Jackson’s article for In Publishing about The Sunday Times magazine in 2012 suggests that its gradual deterioration was the inevitable result of lowered budgets. He also identifies Andrew Neil’s flamboyant editorship of the paper in the 1980s when it became divided into many short sections of specialised interest, which diluted the impact of the original design, including the colour supplement.

Jackson’s article includes a solution proposed by former editor of The Sunday Times magazine, Robin Morgan: “I’d put all of the sections back in the newspaper and have a 150-page magazine that had a clean sheet to tackle anything it liked.” An idea which is likely to stay only an enticing fantasy in these dying days of newspapers – and as likely as there being less personal memoir and more visual art!

 

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Ritchie Yorke, Van Morrison and the unmade Christmas album

 

In the 1970s, books about pop/rock music were rare, and newspapers and magazines were still the authoritative sources. After all, the landscape changed fast. New bands and artists appeared regularly and some became successful quickly; others changed personnel or broke up equally quickly; some major figures died like Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison or became inactive like Bob Dylan or Eric Clapton; most artists still produced an album every year; concerts and tours took place regularly in venues large and small.

Van Morrison was a major artist. His Astral Weeks, although only a few years old, had already been universally and confidently acclaimed to be a classic. The first Morrison albums I myself heard were Veedon Fleece (actually similar in tone to Astral Weeks) and the live It’s Too Late to Stop Now (both loaned by someone or taped for me by someone – it happened endlessly in those days) and then I bought, and loved,  Astral Weeks itself.

By unfortunate coincidence I had become acquainted with Morrison during a period of his inactivity and lack of confidence. It would be another three years before he released a new record.

Also during this time (1976-77), I bought Into the Music, a biography of Morrison by one Ritchie Yorke. The book was informative in many areas but Yorke’s personal critical assessments often seemed too dogmatic and shallow. His opinion was that Astral Weeks was Morrison’s masterpiece, a view already widely shared.  However he would scornfully and dismissively find fault with any other journalist who had found anything of value in Morrison’s subsequent albums, Moondance, His Band and the Street Choir and Tupelo Honey.

As I said, the music journalism landscape often changed fast. You might still though have shared my surprise when, a couple of years further on, I saw Ritchie Yorke’s name again, this time as a contributor to Paul Gambaccini’s Critics’ Choice book. Not that Astral Weeks was his choice as the number 2 album of all time, but that his number 1 and number 3 choices were of albums by Supertramp – whom nobody at that time or later ever judged as one of the notable acts in the pop/rock genre! It did make me wonder at the time about the quality of Yorke’s research and writing and the soundness of his judgement. Anyway, my musical tastes soon moved on, Yorke continued to have a substantial media career, and, now, many decades later, I have no taste in traducing a recently deceased person whom I know so little else about.

I do still find it intriguing how pop and rock music, once so defiantly the province of the young, came to become so religiously practised and followed by the middle-aged and the old. It is actually rather nice to see how many of those artistes of our youth, once super-cool and therefore exalted and distant, have mellowed into regular tourers of accessible songs. Morrison, despite not entirely losing his grumpy taciturnity, has released about a dozen albums in the last 20 years and appears to perform frequently.

In Yorke’s book Morrison expressed an interest in some day releasing an album of Christmas songs, of the type that in the 1970s would have been associated with older “easy listening” singers like Perry Como or Frank Sinatra. One possible track he named specifically was “The Christmas Song” aka “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire”. Such a plan seemed then bizarrely individualistic even for one of rock’s mavericks.

However, as Morrison’s career has stretched and broadened, with his recordings of other people’s jazz and blues songs, collaborations with such as Georgie Fame and Cliff Richard and the Chieftains and Tom Jones, the tendency of other contemporaries to move into such earlier “classic” repertoire, his own knighthood and status as one of the grand old men of pop/rock music, it’s actually rather astonishing that somewhere in the last couple of decades this hasn’t happened!

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Wain’s reading and writing world

 

Any bookshop and any newspaper book review section includes many titles by people you have never heard of, and a recent editorial by Alan Taylor in the Scottish Review of Books brought home the startling issue about the huge number of books which are getting written and published but not read.

Like many bookish children, I once harboured an ambition to be a writer (Leaf Collecting is about as far as I have got) and I once read a stimulating book of advice on the topic, written in the 1960s or early 1970s, specifically on how to write a novel which would definitely be published. I am sure the author was the now deceased novelist and critic John Wain – although infuriatingly I can find no conclusive corroboration on this from the supposedly encyclopedic internet.

Let’s assume the author was Wain. He did not share the axiom that everyone has a book in them. On the contrary, he suggested, an aspiring novelist is an eccentric, a misfit, who shouldn’t expect to find many kindred spirits who will share or understand their dedication or obsession. Writing groups already existed then, but I recall that his opinion was these were merely social distractions which would not help the determined writer to actually write and complete a novel. That dogmatic view certainly helped the literary teenager to see himself as part of an old noble tradition, stuck in his garret, suffering for his art.

Wain was very keen that the serious writer should just sit down and write, regularly, every day. This is advice which might still be offered and followed today. Another tip which seemed however to contradict that one was that you should not attempt to write your complete novel much earlier than the age of 30. This is in a way also perfectly sensible – just out of school or university you’ve got a lot of other things to do – but still exasperating to read when you are ambitious, have a high opinion of your talent and are many years yet away from 30. Later, Martin Amis and Zadie Smith each published their first novels at 24 and Bidisha did at the age of 18.

The classic wisdom that you should always write from your own experience was something Wain shared. I remember his pithy form of expression: “Even if you haven’t had such basic experiences as making love or watching someone close to you die, you still have enough experiences for a thousand novels…” He also insisted that in characterisations you should treat all human beings fairly. To which he added wryly that at one time it would have been necessary to say that even poor tramps are human beings – but now it was probably equally necessary to say that even rich aristocrats are human beings.

At the end of the book was the chapter which is the most relevant to me now. He listed some writers whom all aspiring writers should read. He drew a distinction between writers who were serious and others who were trivial, emphasising that serious writers need not be pompous or turgid or dull. Shakespeare, he said, was one writer who was always serious. Unfortunately I did not copy Wain’s full list of recommended reading and I remember only one title, Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov. When you have read this novel, he said, you actually won’t be any better equipped to write your own novel. But if you don’t read it, he went on (a bit didactic and sententious this, but when you are young you can take very clear directions) you’ll have devalued yourself as a writer and a human being.

Alan Taylor’s article also helpfully calculates how many books people might read in a year, and therefore how many (or few) you might expect to read before you die. My reading speed these days is pitifully slow so my target should be low, and principally works which I’ve been planning to read for three or four decades and never yet got around to. Such as Cervantes’ Don Quixote and Milton’s “Paradise Lost”, copies of which sit nearby waiting.

Ulysses was a lot of fun 27 years ago in preparation for my first visit to Dublin, and I feel confident that it would repay a second reading. Actually, I have already managed The Brothers Karamazov, long ago, but I think I still have that copy, so maybe I should give it another chance to provide the value which John Wain promised…

 

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Where the journey is more important than the destination

 

One Holy Saturday morning some years ago, I was struck by a photograph on the Herald newspaper’s front page, showing a group of people from Northern Cross, carrying a wooden cross along the sands of the tidal island of Lindisfarne. (From memory, the picture was similar to this in the Newcastle Chronicle from another year.)

Northern Cross is an ecumenical Christian group which walks several pilgrim routes in Scotland and England every Holy Week, to arrive together at the ancient Christian site of Lindisfarne on Good Friday. To my mind, an inspiring and thrilling adventure.

 

One of the Christian pilgrimage sites featured in “Pilgrimage with Simon Reeve”. Lindisfarne Castle, seen from the church of St Mary the Virgin.

 

Advent and Lent are the Christian seasons of preparation. Appropriate therefore that BBC TV should have screened the travel documentary series Pilgrimage with Simon Reeve during Advent (in 2013) and repeated it during Lent (this year).

I am actually not a great fan of the modern style of television documentary, invariably built around a photogenic presenter endlessly on-screen, with a predictable template of short snippets of commentary mixed with ostentatious pictures, frequent introductions and summaries, aerial camera shots, and rousing music. I was attracted to Pilgrimage more than to Simon Reeve’s other series because of its more substantial and more stimulating narrative thread – as well as because it would feature some places I had visited.

Pilgrimage, making a journey to a place of religious history in order to gain personal spiritual benefit, has been part of all major religious faiths since their earliest days. For his three programmes, Reeve visited famous places of Christian pilgrimage in the UK, in continental Europe and in the Middle East: Lindisfarne, Walsingham, Canterbury, Santiago de Compostela, Rome, Bethlehem, Jerusalem.

One of Reeve’s repeated points was the different reasons for going on pilgrimage in past centuries. Many people were indeed motivated by Christian devotion, eager to visit places which held sacred relics, and many believed they could thus make amends for past sins. However, some were just looking for adventure (even sinful adventure!), an opportunity to break a monotonous routine, to explore beyond their own town or parish. This meant that a pilgrimage group might bring together people of widely different backgrounds, as shown in Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales.

 

The shrine to St Thomas Becket at Canterbury Cathedral.

 

The growth in pilgrimage in medieval times provided economic benefits to the destinations and to inns and shops and merchants en route, even while pilgrims were sometimes exploited by the sale of false relics. Other secular cultural changes developed over the longer term, suggested Reeve: it was travels to the Holy Land which led Europeans to return to the habit of washing and bathing more regularly at home, and later to British support for Zionism and the Balfour Declaration.

The “golden age” of true pilgrimage ended with the Reformation and Reeve suggested that modern pilgrims are more often “well-off adventure hikers”, interested in the physical challenge as much as the opportunity for contemplation and solitude. However, he also made the thought-provoking point about how many of those medieval pilgrims would have been sick and dying – and therefore how fortunate we are that modern medicine has removed the sound of those desperate prayers for healing and recovery from cathedrals and shrines.

 

In St Peter’s Church in Rome, a plaque listing all of the popes of the Catholic church who are buried there.

 

Another modern pilgrim I am familiar with is Gerard Hughes, who walked from the south of England to Rome in 1975 and described the experience in his book In Search of a Way. Whereas Simon Reeve showed respect for fellow travellers but agnosticism about the Christianity which empowered them, Gerard Hughes, now deceased, was a Catholic Jesuit priest who was definitely making an inner spiritual journey as well as a physical one. Hughes repeated Robert Louis Stevenson’s quote, “To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive”, and added that, for the true pilgrim, “direction is much more important than destination” and that “searching for God is already to have found him.” Reeves extolled the “rhythm” of long-distance walking and one comparable comment by Hughes was appreciation of the Catholic prayer of the rosary, which is similarly rhythmic and repetitive and therefore particularly suited to pilgrims’ walking.

 

The Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem.

 

The Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. Pilgrims at the Stone of Anointing, where, according to tradition, Jesus was brought down from the cross before being buried.

 

Although many of Reeve’s scenes and observations were unsurprising, his concluding observation made a strong impression. At the place of Jesus’ tomb in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, he said that it was “the holiest site in the holiest shrine in the whole of Christianity… this is (the place where) Christianity was born …the birth of a culture, of a civilisation, so many paintings, so much music, so much joy, so much suffering, so many wars, so much of human history comes from here…”

Reeve’s series had started in Lindisfarne. The Northern Cross 2018 walks to Lindisfarne begin during the Palm Sunday weekend of 23-24 March. As their web-site says, their purpose is to “re-trace old pilgrim pathways…meet and be greeted by people on the way…(and) on Good Friday experience walking across the ancient causeway…”

 

Reference:  Hughes, Gerard W. (1986)  In Search of a Way (2nd ed)   London : Darton, Longman and Todd

 

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Three great film openings

 

Favourite film openings? One obvious one, short but celebrated: Danny Boyle’s Trainspotting. The cameras zooming through the familiar tourist sights of central Edinburgh to the drum-driven tune of “Lust for Life”, then onto the five-a-side football field and into the heroin users’ gathering place, accompanying the cynical but revealing narration of Ewan McGregor’s Renton (“Choose life, choose a job, choose a career…”). Until that time I had been familiar with the Iggy Pop/David Bowie track only through its reputation; afterwards, like many people, I could never again separate the music from those pictures. It was especially ironic that, a year or two after the film’s original release,  I heard the song re-employed as the “empowering”(!) soundtrack to my workplace’s corporate start of year presentation!

The second, John Sturges’ The Magnificent Seven. Not the very first scene in the Mexican village, but the next in the American border town. No flashy camera work here, but just an engrossing narrative. A few minutes in the life of two men who have advanced skills in a very specialised area – shooting accurately to wound or kill – which they rarely need to use, and who are therefore continually searching for any challenge to relieve the boredom while covering their living costs. Yul Brynner’s cigar-smoking Chris explicitly drives the funeral cart to the cemetery simply because he has overheard a conversation and has nothing else to do; Steve McQueen’s Vin accompanies him perhaps also because he wants to display his skill and character to the one other man in the town who might understand and respect him. Like the onlookers, Horst Buchholz’s willing acolyte and the Mexican farmers who are searching for help, we are impressed by the casual way in which Vin waits for the shot from the upstairs window, reasonably confident that the gunman will miss and definitely confident that he, Vin, will not miss. A few minutes later, Chris shows equally astonishing gun skill by firing two shots instantaneously with no apparent time to aim, yet succeeding in wounding the two gunmen in front of him and allowing him immediately to gain control of the situation. Elmer Bernstein’s music cheers his cart back down the hill. The first challenge has been dealt with – but the two mystery men have not yet been pulled out of their comfort zone, and the tasks ahead may be more arduous.

Third, perhaps least obvious, the minutes before and during the opening credits of Kenneth Branagh’s Much Ado About Nothing. From the start of his career, Branagh has been keen to show that, although a product of the classical theatre, he can direct a full-length feature film with the same flair and flamboyance as any 1960s cinéaste or any 1990s music video maker. Branagh cast some big Hollywood names not previously associated with Shakespeare: Denzel Washington, already with one Oscar and two more nominations, Michael Keaton just out of Batman, Keanu Reeves just before Speed. Shakespeare’s romantic comedy is one which you could categorise as being about older lovers in the way that Romeo and Juliet is about and for young couples, and Branagh’s version employs a number of eye-catching devices in the opening. First, the poetic lament “Sigh No More” about men’s inconstancy to women is moved from the middle of the play where it is spoken by a minor male character, to the very start, written onto a blank screen as it is spoken by a woman, Emma Thompson, over a light strings backing. When the visuals arrive, it turns out that Thomson’s character, Beatrice, has been reading the poem (in a comic faux-serious manner) to a large picnic gathering of Leonato’s family and household.

News comes of the arrival of the victorious soldiers of Don Pedro, Prince of Aragon. This is in line with Shakespeare’s text but depicted with far more spectacle and flourish. The prince’s small Spanish/Italian company is presented more like a US Seventh Cavalry patrol. Flags wave, horses pound, riders swagger. Patrick Doyle’s theme music is brilliantly rich and melodic and powered by full brass orchestration.

The household of Leonato is clearly thrilled to welcome these glamorous visitors. The camera zooms and cuts, picking out characters young and old, male and female; the music has become less bombastic but still urgent, with a background of girlish squeals. The real surprise is the frequent flashes of sensual nudity as both men and women prepare to meet their guests; the soldiers strip off outside and wash alfresco in a long stone water trough, the women do the same indoors. The activities are carried out communally, with gusto and without embarrassment. Editing is fast and flirtatious, contrasting white clothes and grey stone with running, bending, curving smiling flesh.

Now the music changes again as the preparation is almost over. Don Pedro, played by Denzel Washington, leads his soldiers in formation up the steps and into the courtyard of Leonato, played by Richard Briers, while the household arrives from the other direction, pointing from balconies and windows. An aerial shot makes a pleasing X shape of the principal characters together as the music comes to a stop. “Good Signior Leonato, you are come to meet your trouble,” says Don Pedro. “Never came trouble to my house in the likeness of your grace,” replies Leonato.

No ordinary film could live up to this incongruously alluring opening, and Much Ado About Nothing doesn’t. So perhaps that means it is actually a poor opening and betrays a self-indulgence connected more to Branagh’s professional and personal confidence at that time, rather than a genuinely fresh and imaginative perspective on Shakespeare’s text?  Certainly I have watched the opening rather more often than the complete film. But actually that also applies to the other two, more famous, examples. That’s probably why they came to mind as Great Film Openings.

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