About admin

Ian Smith was born in Enniskillen in Northern Ireland, but at the age of 11 he moved with his family to the town of Peebles in the Borders region of Scotland. His family still lives there now. Since then, he has spent time in England, Switzerland, Japan, Ethiopia, India, Libya and a part of the Korean peninsula that isn’t visited very much. At the moment, he is in Tunisia in northern Africa, working as an academic manager. He writes, pseudonymously, short horror, fantasy and Scottish fiction. He has also published non-fiction on topics ranging from linguistic relativity to amateur-league Scottish football teams, to vampires. This blog will no doubt be as unstructured as everything else about him.

A Fluffi-shambles

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From the National

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Last week was not an auspicious one for politicians who’ve served as Member of Parliament for Peebles, my hometown in Scotland. 

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Firstly, Lord David Steel, who was the town’s MP from 1965 until 1997 (while it was part of the constituencies of Roxburgh, Selkirk and Peebles and then Tweeddale, Ettrick and Lauderdale) and who is also a former leader of the Liberal Party (now the Liberal Democrats) found himself in some severe shit.  He admitted in a hearing for the Independent Inquiry into Child Sexual Abuse (IICSA) that in 1979 he’d ‘assumed’ his fellow Liberal MP Cyril Smith was guilty of child abuse at a hostel in Smith’s constituency of Rochdale.  Not only did Steel appear to turn a blind eye to this matter at the time, but nine years later he recommended Smith for a knighthood.  Since Smith’s death in 2010, police have uncovered ‘overwhelming evidence’ that he was an abuser of young boys.  By Thursday last week, it’d been announced that “the office bearers of the Scottish Liberal Democrats have met and agreed that an investigation is needed.  The party membership of Lord Steel has been suspended pending the outcome of that investigation.”

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Then there were the desperate and undignified squirmings of David Mundell, the Conservative MP for Dumfriesshire, Clydesdale and Tweeddale, a constituency that Peebles got lumped in with in 2005.  Since 2015, Mundell, or ‘Fluffy’ as he’s commonly known, has also served as Secretary of State for Scotland in the Conservative governments of David Cameron and Theresa May.  He didn’t win this position because of the possession of a stunning intellect, abilities or personality but because in 2015 he was the only Conservative MP left in Scotland.  (Back then, at the yearly Agricultural Show held in Peebles, the Conservative Party would invariably set up a tent and Mundell, aka The Only Tory MP In Scotland, would sit inside, ready to press the flesh with his constituents, should any present themselves.  Passers-by would invariably point and crack the well-worn joke: “Look, there’s the Rare Breeds Tent.”)

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Last week, it became clear that the UK government and parliament were in omni-shambles mode.  The parliament managed to vote against Theresa May’s Brexit deal, against the holding of a second Brexit referendum, against the UK leaving the European Union without a deal, against the so-called Malthouse Compromise and against parliament being allowed to take control of the whole sorry Brexit process.  But even in the midst of this omni-shambles, Mundell’s behaviour stood out as particularly shambolic – his was the Fluffi-shambles. 

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He found himself caught between the rock of his party’s enthusiasm for Brexit and the hard place of knowing, quietly, how damaging Brexit is likely to be for Scotland (which voted overwhelming against leaving Europe), for his heavily agriculture-dependent Scottish constituency and for his own re-election prospects.  Finally, he defied the government whip when the vote was called on ruling out an economically disastrous no-deal Brexit.  The Conservative government demanded he voted against it being ruled out, whereas Mundell wanted it ruled out.  Being spineless, though, he chose to abstain rather than vote the other way from his political peers and masters. 

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In ordinary times, even Mundell’s abstention would be treated as a defiance of government policy and a resigning matter for a minister.  However, in these extraordinary times, with Theresa May exerting about as much authority as a wet paper bag, Mundell got away with it without resigning.  Happily for him – the basic salary for an ordinary MP was £77,379 in 2018, but as Secretary of State for Scotland he can claim £67,505 on top of that (well, going by 2017 figures). 

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A subsequent interview saw Mundell give a less-than-polished account of himself: “I’m not, er, resigning because I support the Prime Minister in her course, er, of action.  Her course of action is, er, to leave, er, with a deal, er, in an orderly Brexit but I just… I’m very clear that I don’t support, er, a no-deal, er, Brexit and I’ve made, er, I’ve made that clear on numerous occasions, the House has made its view clear, and the government is responding and taking forward, er, the decision of the House today…  There are a number of cabinet ministers, ministerial colleagues, er, who didn’t wish to oppose what was clearly, er, the will of the House on not leaving, er, without, er, on not leaving with, er, in a no-deal, er, Brexit…”

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I’d say that during the interview Mundell looked like a rabbit frozen in some car headlights, but that would disparage the courage, grit and determination displayed by rabbits frozen in car headlights everywhere.  Indeed, Mundell’s snivelling performance would make the average rabbit frozen in car headlights look like Mel Gibson leading the Scottish forces into action at the Battle of Stirling in Braveheart (1995).

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Oddly, the ‘numerous occasions’ when Mundell made it clear he was against a no-deal Brexit didn’t extend to an amendment tabled in parliament in late February to rule out that very thing.  Mundell refused to support it, or even abstain on it, because those tabling the amendment were the Scottish National Party.  He dismissed this as a ‘stunt’ and claimed that the SNP actually want the chaos that a no-deal Brexit would cause.  Which is evidently why they proposed an amendment calling on the UK government to prevent a no-deal Brexit from happening…  What?

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From twitter.com / @scottishlabour

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When it comes to tying himself in knots like this, Mundell has form.  In October last year, he and Scottish Conservative leader Ruth Davidson threatened that they “would resign if Northern Ireland faces new controls that separate it from the rest of the UK” in some new Brexit deal.  Officially, this was because they feared it would “fuel the case for Scottish independence.”  Unofficially, I suspect they were playing to the hard-line Protestant, Glasgow Rangers-supporting gallery in the west of Scotland that has strong ties with the pro-British Protestant community in Northern Ireland, a gallery whose votes they’ve benefited from in recent years.  A few days later Mundell turned round and declared that he hadn’t intended to resign at all – and by mid-November May had indeed proposed a Brexit deal that might involve separate arrangements for Northern Ireland.  At least his £67,505 ministerial top-up salary was safe.

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In fact, whenever I see yet another cringing turn by David Mundell, I wonder why there’s any point in having a Secretary of State for Scotland at all.  After all, responsibility for the running of Scotland’s domestic affairs doesn’t lie with him but with the Scottish government, at the Scottish parliament in Edinburgh, which was set up in 1999.  But the real reason why there’s a Secretary of State is obvious – the Scottish government is run by the pesky SNP and London feels the need to have the likes of David Mundell hovering in the background, looking on and harrumphing disapprovingly, like history’s crappest colonial governor ever. 

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And I sometimes wonder too if Theresa May, whose empathy, emotional intelligence and people skills are not thought to be large, even knows who poor old Mundell is.  It wouldn’t surprise me if she believes he’s some fluffy-faced Caledonian footman who’s on hand to tend to her whenever her advisors decree that she visits the God-forsaken northern regions of her domain. 

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Still, awesomely hapless though he is, at least last week Mundell didn’t vote to leave the door open for a no-deal Brexit, even though by abstaining he didn’t vote against it either.  That’s more than could be said for most of his dozen fellow Scottish Conservative MPs, who cravenly ignored the pro-EU wishes of their electorates and voted with the government.  These include such specimens as Kirstene Hair, the intellectually-challenged MP for Angus, who once admitted to not voting in the Brexit referendum because she found the choice on offer ‘very difficult’.  Or the splendidly unhinged Ross Thomson, MP for Aberdeen South, who last month got involved in a stushie in the UK parliament’s Strangers’ Bar, where he was accused of groping a number of people’s bottoms.  Thomson’s defence was that he’d been drinking for five hours and was merely grabbing those bottoms in order to stop himself falling over, like they were handles or ledges.  From this, I can only surmise that there are some very peculiarly shaped bottoms in the pubs of Westminster.

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Actually, should Mundell decide that he can’t take it any longer, don’t be surprised if Mad Ross ends up as the next Secretary of State for Scotland. It’s not as if he’ll have to live up to the reputation of a distinguished predecessor.

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From the Evening Times

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Rab Foster goes to the pub

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(c) Aphelion

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A short story of mine entitled Closing Time at the Speckled Wolf has been published in the March 2019 edition of the webzine Aphelion.  It’s credited to the pseudonym Rab Foster, which I use for stories written in the fantasy genre, and as you might expect from the title it’s largely set in a pub – or to use terminology more appropriate to fantasy fiction, an ‘inn’ or a ‘tavern’.

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Fantasy stories are riddled with taverns – usually populated by thirsty barbarians, dwarves, hobbits, etc., knocking back tankard after tankard of foaming ale.  Off the top of my head, I can think of the Prancing Pony in the town of Bree in the first of the Lord of the Rings books; the Leaky Cauldron, the Three Broomsticks and the Hog’s Head Inn in the Harry Potter novels; and the Silver Eel Tavern in Fritz Leiber’s witty Fafhrd and the Grey Mouser stories.  Oh, and let’s not forget the Slaughtered Prince in Neil Gaiman’s novel Stardust (1999).  When Stardust was filmed eight years later, a real-life hostelry called the Briton’s Arms in the picturesque, cobbled district of Elm Hill in Norwich was used as the Slaughtered Prince’s stand-in.  I lived in Norwich in 2008-2009 and the Briton’s Arms was one of my regular hang-outs, but since it’s really a tea and coffee-shop the beverages I consumed there were non-alcoholic ones.

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Anyway, despite the prevalence of taverns in this type of literature, it occurred to me that the hard-working staff in these places – the jolly ruddy-faced innkeepers, the saucy serving wenches (who would invariably get pulled onto some bawdy barbarian’s lap in the course of their duties) and so on – rarely get much attention.  So I thought it would be nice if, for once, there was a fantasy story that put them centre-stage and featured one of them as its hero.  Hence, Closing Time at the Speckled Wolf.

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Incidentally, the layout of the titular Speckled Wolf, with its island bar and high gantry, is inspired by the prestigious Café Royal in Edinburgh.  The idea of the stained-glass windows came from the public bar of the Green Tree Hotel in my hometown of Peebles – though what’s depicted in the Green Tree’s windows is less dramatic than that in the Speckled Wolf’s windows.  And I suspect the general ambience of the place was modelled on that of the Machar Bar in Aberdeen, where I spent many an evening (and afternoon) during the 1980s.  Mind you, an acquaintance recently told me that by the early 2000s the once spare and no-nonsense Machar had acquired a carpet – a gruesome thought.  So its ambience has evidently changed since my day…

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For the next few weeks at least, you can access the March edition of Aphelion here and Closing Time at the Speckled Wolf itself here.

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Favourite rock biopics

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(c) Momentum Pictures

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Following my previous post about the film Bohemian Rhapsody (2018), which tells the story of the 1970s / 1980s rock band Queen and which I had very mixed feelings about, I thought I’d write about the rock biopics I like best.

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The first one that springs to mind is Control (2007), directed by Dutch photographer Anton Corbijn.  This focuses on Ian Curtis, frontman with the legendary and pioneering post-punk band Joy Division, who committed suicide in 1980.  It has an appealing cast: Sam Riley as Curtis and Samantha Morton as his wife Deborah, plus Joe Anderson as Peter Hook, James Anthony Pearson as Bernard Summer and Harry Treadaway as Stephen Morris, Curtis’s fellow-bandmembers who after his death would regroup as New Order.  But what makes Control special for me is how Corbijn blends the tragedy of Curtis’s life-story, the drabness of 1970s Macclesfield (Curtis’s hometown), the spare, pulsating and somehow beautiful bleakness of Joy Division’s music, and the romanticism that inspired and drove Curtis, and manages to create something that despite the final outcome is actually uplifting.  Corbijn’s decision to film Control in colour but then convert the film-stock into moody black and white helps.

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There’s also humour, a factor that, given the absurdities and excesses of the music industry, needs to be present in every good rock biopic.  This comes largely courtesy of band manager Rob Gretton, played by Toby Kebbell.  “It could be worse,” he tells Curtis in the aftermath of one of his devastating epileptic seizures.  “At least you’re not the lead singer of the Fall.”  Look out too for Salford performance-poet John Cooper Clarke, playing himself as a support act at a Joy Division gig.  Only the enviably pencil-thin Clarke could get away with playing himself when he was thirty years younger.

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(c) PolyGram Filmed Entertainment / Gramercy Pictures

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I’m not a Beatles fan but I really enjoyed Backbeat (1994), the Iain Softley-directed film about the band’s pre-stardom period at the beginning of the 1960s when they spent time in Hamburg performing early rock ‘n’ roll standards.  The Beatles of this era consisted of five members: John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison, bassist Stuart Sutcliffe and drummer Pete Best, played in Backbeat by Ian Hart, Gary Bakewell, Chris O’Neill, Stephen Dorff and Scot Williams respectively.  The main acting duties fall on Hart – who, incidentally, has also played Lennon in the 1991 movie The Hours and Times and the 2013 Playhouse Presents TV production Snodgrass – and Dorff because the movie focuses on the friendship between Lennon and Sutcliffe.  The latter would die of a cerebral haemorrhage in 1962.

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What sets the film alight is its music.  To recreate the sound of the nascent Beatles kicking ass on stage, the filmmakers smartly gathered together musicians from 1994’s hottest rock bands – Dave Pirner from Soul Asylum, Greg Dulli from the Afghan Whigs, Thurston Moore from Sonic Youth, Don Fleming from Gumball, Mike Mills from REM and Dave Grohl from Nirvana – and got them to knock out renditions of the likes of Long Tall Sally and Good Golly Miss Molly.  Even the muscular Henry Rollins (originally from punk outfit Black Flag but in 1994 doing rather well with his own Rollins Band) got in on in the act, providing the vocals for a sequence when Sutcliffe tries and fails to croon Love Me Tender.  In fact, the film’s only duff note is a brief scene where it gratuitously and unconvincingly grafts Ringo Starr onto the narrative.

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(c) Palace Pictures / The Samuel Goldwyn Company

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The bleakest film on my list is surely Sid and Nancy, Alex Cox’s 1986 re-enactment of the doomed romance between the Sex Pistols bassist Sid Vicious and American groupie Nancy Spungen.  Telling a love story that begins with boy meeting girl against a background of severe heroin abuse, continues with boy and girl in the grip of severe heroin abuse, and ends with boy stabbing girl to death thanks to severe heroin abuse, Sid and Nancy is a grim and at times difficult watch.  But it has the saving grace of humour, even if it’s humour of the cringeworthy variety, such as when Sid is introduced to Nancy’s respectable, middle-class, all-American family and attempts to entertain them with a display of his ‘musicianship’.  The lead actors are good too: Gary Oldman as Vicious and Chloe Webb as Spungen, although these days it’s weird to see David Hayman, regarded in Scotland now as a national treasure, in the role of Malcolm McLaren.  Famously, Courtney Love lobbied hard, but unsuccessfully, to win the role of Nancy Spungen.  A little too hard, some would say, considering what happened subsequently.

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One person who’s not a fan of Sid and Nancy is John Lydon, aka Johnny Rotten, Vicious’ friend and fellow Sex Pistol.  Lydon hated the way he was portrayed in the film by actor Andrew Schofield, who isn’t a Londoner like Lydon but is from Kirby, north of Liverpool.  And he detested the film generally and Alex Cox in particular, dismissing it as a fantasy put together by ‘some Oxford graduate who missed the punk rock era’.

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Next up is Oliver Stone’s 1991 dramatisation of the story of late 1960s / early 1970s psychedelic-blues-rock band the Doors, simply called The Doors, which in many ways is a warped mirror image of Bohemian Rhapsody.  Like the Queen biopic, it often veers away from the truth.  Unlike that later film, however, it isn’t afraid to present a warts-and-all picture of its subjects, especially of the band’s frontman Jim Morrison, who’s played by Val Kilmer.  So well does Kilmer do in the role, incidentally, that at times you forget it’s him you’re watching onscreen and not Morrison himself. 

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(c) Bill Graham Films / Tri-Star Pictures

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Stone’s unflattering portrayal of Morrison, during his decline from gorgeous, long-haired, rock-music Dionysus to beastly, babbling, booze-befuddled sociopath and finally to bearded, beer-bellied, bathtub cadaver, greatly upset fellow band-members Ray Manzarek, John Densmore and Robbie Krieger (played in the film by Kyle MacLachlan, Kevin Dillon and Frank Whalley) and his lover Patricia Kennealy (played by Kathleen Quinlan).  Indeed, I suspect Kennealy, who married Morrison in a Celtic pagan ceremony and is a pagan high priestess herself, may have eschewed Celtic paganism’s usual benevolence and fired a few spells in Stone’s direction after she saw the film.

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Well, The Doors probably tells a few porkies but I have to say I really enjoyed it.  It’s over-the-top and out-of-control and Stone goes too far by mixing in some guff about Native American shamanism, but its bacchanalian and hallucinogenic excesses feel exhilaratingly true of the era, if not wholly true of the band.  And taken in the right spirit, the film is very funny.  Comic highlights include Kennealy giving Morrison carnal encouragement with, “Come on, rock god.  F**k me, f**k me good!”  Or John Densmore expressing his reluctance  to take acid and Morrison reassuring him, “Relax – it’s peyote.”  Or Andy Warhol (Crispin Glover) offering Morrison a golden telephone with which to ‘talk to God.’ Andy can’t use it himself because, it transpires, he doesn’t ‘have anything to say.’ 

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Finally, my last pick on this list of rock biopics returns to the era of Joy Division, but isn’t about a band or musician.  It’s about a record executive, Tony Wilson of Factory Records, the independent Manchester-based record label, who signed Joy Division in the late 1970s and struck gold again a decade later when he signed the Happy Mondays.  This is 24 Hour Party People (2002), directed by Michael Winterbottom and starring Steve Coogan as Tony Wilson.  This time Joy Division are played by Sean Harris (Curtis), John Simm (Summer), Ralf Little (Hook) and Tim Horrocks (Morris), while the Happy Mondays are represented by Danny Cunningham and Paul Popplewell as Shaun and Paul Ryder and Chris Coghill as the band’s freaky-dancin’, maracas-shaking figurehead, Bez

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(c) Film 4 / Pathé / United Artists

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Before his musical successes, Wilson was best-known as a TV reporter for Granada Television and with Coogan in the role, it’s impossible not to be reminded of Coogan’s famous alter-ego, Alan Partridge.  This is especially so at the film’s beginning when we see Wilson filming a report where he attempts to go hang-gliding:  “Is it a bird?  Is it a plane?  No, it’s the latest craze sweeping the Pennines.  I’ve got to be honest with you.  Right now, I’d rather be sweeping the Pennines.” 

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24 Hour Party People cleverly subverts the issue of factual accuracy in music biopics with much post-modernism and breaking of the 4th wall – for example, when we see the fictional Howard Devoto of the Buzzcocks, played by Martin Hancock, do something and then the real Howard Devoto appears in the frame and tells us that he doesn’t remember this happening back then.  There’s a great supporting cast of character actors, comic performers and comedians, including Shirley Henderson, Andy Serkis, Rob Brydon, Dave Gorman, Peter Kay, Simon Pegg and Christopher Eccleston, while several real-life musicians make cameos including, in addition to Devoto, Mark E. Smith, Clint Boon and the Stone Roses’ Gary ‘Mani’ Mounfield.  And the film has many good lines, my favourite being when Wilson introduces the Ryders to Bez with the comment, “Every band needs its own chemistry.  And Bez is a very good chemist.”

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Finally, which band would I like to see a biopic of in the future?  The answer to that question has got to be Hawkwind, the venerable ‘space rock’ band who’ve been slogging away since 1969 and whose ranks have included over the years such personalities, eccentrics and oddballs as Lemmy, ‘manic depressive hypo-maniac’ poet Robert Calvert, statuesque topless dancer Stacia, Ginger Baker, Arthur Brown, sci-fi / fantasy author Michael Moorcock and Dik Mik, operator of the ‘audio generator’ that provided the band with its distinctive whooshing noises.  Properly done, you could end up with a hilarious comedy-drama that does for the characters of alternative English psychedelic rock music what Tim Burton’s Ed Wood (1994) did for the characters of low budget 1950s Californian movie-making.  So what do you think?  Anton Corbijn?  Michael Winterbottom?  Oliver Stone, even?  Anyone interested?

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From rateyourmusic.com

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Is this the real life? No, it’s just fantasy…

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(c) 20th Century Fox

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Beelzebub had a devil set aside for me recently while I spent most of 24 hours travelling with a particular airline from Sri Lanka to Scotland.  The set-aside devil was the airline’s in-flight movie service, which was mostly composed of tired old rubbish like Johnny English Strikes Again (2018), while the only decent offerings were stuff like Black Panther (2018) that I’d already seen. 

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Finally, to take my mind off the tedium of the flight, the cramped-ness of my seat and the occasional unnerving shaking that outside air-turbulence would subject the plane to (“Thunderbolts and lightning / Very, very frightening!”), I gave in and watched Bohemian Rhapsody.  This was last year’s biopic of Queen, the 1970s / 1980s rock band who remain fabulously popular today even though they’ve been creatively inert since 1991 when their singer Freddie Mercury passed away.  I watched the film reluctantly, knowing that the critics had been at best lukewarm and at worst scathing about it. 

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I suppose, I thought, I can’t be too picky…  “Because I’m easy come, easy go / A little high, little low / Any way the wind blows, doesn’t really matter to me / To mee-eee….

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Actually, Bohemian Rhapsody has earned (as of a week ago) 861 million dollars around the world, despite the critics turning up their noses at it.  This is in keeping with the great Queen divide.  Back in the days when they were a properly functioning band, people I knew who considered themselves serious and knowledgeable connoisseurs of music would tell me that though they tried to be broad-minded, they just couldn’t stomach bloody Queen, whom they saw as purveyors of bloated, corny, stomp-along, guitar-twiddling shite.  Meanwhile, other folk, who bought at most three CDs a year and barely knew the difference between Elvis Costello, Elvis Presley and Reg Presley – the majority of the British population in other words – believed Queen were the absolute bees knees and anyone voicing a negative opinion of the band was just “a big disgrace / kicking their can all over the place.”  So this chasm between what the cultural intelligentsia thought of Queen and what the ordinary masses thought of them is nothing new.

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Incidentally, I have to say I found it ironic how popular Queen were in the 1970s and 1980s among guys who styled themselves as straightforward, unpretentious, down-to-earth, laddish, maybe a bit unreconstructed and probably a bit homophobic.  They’d punch you in the face if you suggested they might be into anything involving ‘puffs’.  But after a few seconds of hearing the shamelessly camp Freddie Mercury crooning, “Oooh, you make me live… / Oooh, you’re my best friend!”, they’d be hugging each other, be singing along in cracked-with-emotion voices and have tears rolling down their cheeks. 

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It’s telling that in his memoir The Long Hard Road out of Hell (1998), Marilyn Manson recalls how at his Christian school in Ohio, pupils received regular lectures about the evils of heavy metal and hard rock music – and the band those Christian teachers seemed to fear and hate most all was Queen, due to the effect that Freddie’s sexually-ambiguous prancing and preening might be having on the sons of God-fearing America.

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Anyway, watching Bohemian Rhapsody, I certainly felt there was plenty wrong with it.  The problem with building a dramatic narrative out of Queen’s story is that there’s hardly any drama in it.  They got together in 1970, had a monster hit with Bohemian Rhapsody-the-single in 1975 and then stayed at the top for the next 16 years, their popularity seemingly impervious to the coming and going of musical fads like disco, punk, New Romanticism, goth, ska, the Mod revival, the Madchester scene, rap, techno, hair metal and grunge.  No doubt the late 1980s and early 1990s were traumatic for them when Freddie was diagnosed as HIV positive, became sick and died from AIDS in 1991, but the film doesn’t hang around long enough to chart those final years.  Rather, it ends on the high note of Queen’s famously barnstorming performance at the Live Aid concert at Wembley in July 1985.

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Lacking real historical drama, the film tries to generate some by playing fast and loose with the facts.  It depicts the band as having effectively broken up by 1985 thanks to Freddie’s out-of-control ego and the other band-members’ intransigence and lack of adventurousness, with the Live Aid concert being their last chance to pull themselves together and prove to the public that they’re still relevant.  As a plot device this is lame – and, factually, it’s nonsense because no such schism had appeared in the real band.  I remember them being ubiquitous during the year before Live Aid because of the success of their The Works album and singles like Radio Ga Ga and I Want to Break Free.   Another liberty with the truth (and the film has many of these) is a big emotional moment before they take the Wembley stage when Freddie tells the others he’s HIV positive.  In reality, he didn’t know this until 1987.

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From mentalfloss.com

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Conversely, the stuff that might have generated some drama, i.e. the band’s moral warts and carbuncles, are discretely airbrushed away, which probably has something to do with Queen’s lead guitarist and drummer Brian May and Roger Taylor being the film’s ‘creative consultants’.  So we get nothing about, for instance, their decision to play some lucrative gigs at the Sun City complex in Bophuthatswana, South Africa, during the apartheid era, which landed them on a United Nations blacklist; or the fact that in late 1985 they released a supposedly Live Aid-inspired song called One Vision and then kept all the profits for themselves.  No wonder they used to sing, “I want it all / I want it all… / And I want it now.

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Also doused in a tankerload of whitewash is the issue of Freddie’s promiscuity.  In reality, in 1984, Freddie bragged to the DJ Paul Gambaccini with hedonistic and – considering the times – reckless abandon: “Darling, my attitude is ‘f**k it’.  I’m doing everything with everybody.”  (Later, Gambaccini reflected, “I’d seen enough in New York to know that Freddie was going to die.”)  But in Bohemian Rhapsody he’s presented as a victim.  Insecure about his sexuality, he’s led astray by his personal manager Paul Prenter (Allen Leech), who lures him into a world of partying, orgy-ing and general dissolution.  In another clumsy move to tie everything in with Live Aid, the film has Mercury firing Prenter shortly before the concert.  But the real Prenter didn’t get his marching orders until 1986, one year afterwards.

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Despite everything, though…  I did enjoy the film.  Sort of. 

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It has an endearing cast: not just Rami Malek as Freddie – who, in a crowd-pleasing move by the Academy, picked up the Oscar for Best Actor the other day – but also Gwilym Lee as May, Ben Hardy as Taylor and Joe Mazello as the band’s quiet but affable bassist John Deacon.  It helps that these young actors actually resemble the band members they’re playing and the physical quirks that made Queen seem a little more human, like Freddie’s oversized incisors and May’s bombed-out buzzard’s nest of a hairdo, are lovingly recreated. 

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Also, Mike Myers has a neat supporting role as a record executive called Ray Foster, who apparently wasn’t a real person but a composite of various real-life executives who tried to put a stick in the band’s creative spokes.  Equipped with frizzy hair, sunglasses, a hideous woollen tank top and yet another provincial accent from the Mike Myers version of Britain, Foster gruffly objects to the idea that Bohemian Rhapsody-the-song be released as a single: “It goes on forever.  Six bloody minutes!”  To which Freddie retorts: “I pity your wife if you think six minutes is forever.”

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(c) 20th Century Fox

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The most enjoyable parts for me, however, were the script’s clunking attempts to foreshadow some of the band’s biggest hits.  It was fun to see how many micro-seconds it took me to work out which song they were talking about.  For example, when Freddie starts rabbiting on about how he wants to do a rock song with opera in it…  It’s Bohemian Rhapsody!  Or when May says he wants to write a song where the crowd can join in by clapping their hands and stamping their feet…  It’s We Will Rock You!  Or when John Deacon horrifies the others by proposing they do a disco tune…  It’s Another One Bites the Dust

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This foreshadowing got to the point where I expected to hear an exchange like: “What, David Bowie wants to record with us?  That makes me nervous.  I feel under pressure already!”  “Wait, I have an idea for a title…”  Or: “Writing film scores can’t be too difficult. In fact, I bet I could write one in a flash.” “Well, funny you should say that, because Dino De Laurentiis happens to be producing a new movie…”     

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To sum up: I found Bohemian Rhapsody dumb, superficial, bombastic and somewhat problematic, but also fun and entertaining and even uplifting in a slightly tacky way.  Which is appropriate, because that’s very much how I find Queen.

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The tsunami monument at Peraliya

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It’s difficult to spend more than a few days in Sri Lanka before you start to spot memorials to, notice lingering traces of or hear local people talk about the Boxing Day tsunami that slammed into the island’s eastern and southern coasts in 2004, claimed over 30,000 lives and forced over 1,500,000 Sri Lankans from their homes.

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The statistics of the carnage wreaked by the tsunami in Sri Lanka are so tragically overwhelming that they hide a more particular fact – that because of the tsunami, the country also experienced the world’s worst rail disaster.

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I will let Wikipedia relate the details: “The 2004 Sri Lanka tsunami rail disaster is the largest single rail disaster in world history by death toll…  Train #50 was a regular train operating between the cities of Colombo and Matara…  On Sunday, 26 December 2004, during the Buddhist full moon holiday and the Christmas holiday weekend, it left Colombo’s Fort Station shortly after 6.50 AM with over 1,500 paid passengers and an unknown number of unpaid passengers with travel passes (called Seasons) and government travel passes…

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At 9.30 AM, in the village of Peraliya, near Telwatta, the beach saw the first of the gigantic waves thrown up by the earthquake.  The train came to a halt as water surged around it.  Hundreds of locals, believing the train to be secure on the rails, climbed on top of the cars to avoid being swept away.  Others stood behind the train, hoping it would shield them from the force of the water…

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Ten minutes later, a huge wave picked the train up and smashed it against the trees and houses which lined the track, crushing those seeking shelter behind it.  The eight carriages were so packed with people that the doors could not be opened while they filled with water, drowning almost everyone inside as the water washed over the wreckage several more times.  The passengers on top of the train were thrown clear of the uprooted carriages, and most drowned or were crushed by debris…

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“…the Sri Lankan authorities had no idea where the train was for several hours, until it was spotted by an army helicopter around 4.00 PM.  The local emergency services were destroyed, and it was a long time before help arrived…  Some families descended on the area determined to find their relatives themselves.  According to the Sri Lankan authorities, only about 150 people on the train survived.  The estimated death toll was at least 1,700 people, and probably over 2,000, although only approximately 900 bodies were recovered, as many were swept out to sea or taken away by relatives.  The town of Peraliya was also destroyed, losing hundreds of citizens and all but ten buildings to the waves.  More than 200 of the bodies retrieved were not identified or claimed, and were buried three days later in a Buddhist ceremony near the torn railway line.”

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Today, when you enter Peraliya, travelling north on the coastal road from the popular seaside town of Hikkaduwa, you’ll see a monument to the victims of the disaster called Tsunami Honganji Viharaya on the road’s right-hand, inland side.  It consists of an 18.5-metre-high Buddha statue rising from a little islet in a rectangular pond, constructed on the spot where the devastation occurred a decade-and-a-half ago.  Although the statue was built with donations from Japan, it’s actually a reproduction of the one of Bhamian statues in Afghanistan that were dynamited and destroyed by the Taliban in a bigoted and pig-ignorant display of cultural vandalism in 2001.

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An arched footbridge – you remove your shoes before you cross – takes you over the pond to the islet and statue.  Two stone lions guard the islet-end of the bridge, an altar-table in front of the statue is supported by three small black statues of elephants with upraised trunks, and plaques below the pedestal on which the Buddha stands carry messages from various religious and political dignitaries. People tell me the figure itself, clad in a gown whose folds descend from its shoulder to ankles in a distinctive pattern of tight, parallel grooves, is the same height that the tsunami was at its highest.

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At the entrance to the lane that takes you from the road to the footbridge is a yellow-walled building with the words TEMPLE OFFICE painted on its side.  Inside, you’ll find a gallery of photographs taken in the immediate aftermath of the disaster.  Some of them record such carnage that they’re extremely hard to look at.  Among the less graphic photographs, one shows the local rail-tracks after they’d been twisted into steel squiggles by the force of the water, while another shows a makeshift sign relaying the latest information from the National Disaster Management Centre.

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A little further along, on the road’s left-hand side next to the sea, there’s a non-religious memorial to the victims: a plaque, a column, and a scene carved onto a wall of grey and rust-orange stone that represents the destruction immediately after the tsunami had struck the train and village.  Its details include piles of bodies, masonry and smashed palm trees, sections of wrenched-up and misshapen rail track, and upended train carriages, some with corpses hanging out of their windows.  It’s startlingly candid in what it shows.  Indeed, it will surprise some Westerners accustomed to such memorials in their own cultures being discretely abstract – not displaying any features of the disasters they commemorate, which might upset traumatised survivors and grieving relatives of the dead.

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Behind the memorial is a strip of coastline consisting of nothing but grass, sand, rocks and palm trees, with an idyllic-looking and deserted beach stretching off to the north.  I asked the tuk-tuk driver who’d brought us if there’d been village-houses here and he said there had: up until 2004, obviously.

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Unsurprisingly, our visit to Peraliya put us in was a sombre mood.  Our sombreness turned to annoyance, however, when we were tuk-tuking back from the second memorial and we passed the Bhamian Buddha statue again.  Traipsing along the road in front of it were two Western female tourists clad in tiny, skimpy spaghetti-hoop tops and cut-off jeans that stopped immediately below their crotches.  In other words, they were baring about 70% of their flesh whilst wandering by a monument erected in honour of some 1700-2000 people who’d died in awful circumstances.  Oh, for God’s sake, I thought.  Show some bloody respect.

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There are two poignant footnotes to the 2004 tragedy at Peraliya.  The locomotive that’d been pulling the carriages, and two of the carriages themselves, were eventually retrieved from the disaster scene, rebuilt and repaired and now, every year on December 26th, they return to Peraliya to take part in a religious ceremony held in remembrance of those who lost their lives.  Secondly, one of the small number of survivors was a train guard called W. Karunatilaka.  His sense of duty was such that following the disaster he continued working on the Colombo-to-Galle train service.  And indeed, according to my research, he was still serving on that coastal route as late as 2015 and 2016.

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An Albert memorial

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(c) 20th Century Fox

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The death of Albert Finney 12 days ago felt like it marked the end of an era – one whose heyday ran from the late 1950s to the 1970s, when British cinema was heavily populated with brash, brooding leading men largely from working-class backgrounds and often showing disdain for the pretentions and affectations traditionally associated with the acting profession: the likes of Stanley Baker, Alan Bates, Richard Burton, Richard Harris, David Hemmings, Peter O’Toole and Oliver Reed, all now deceased.  Compare them with the current crop of young British movie stars, who seem to have got where they are today by dint of being posh and / or having longstanding family connections with the stage and screen.  (Reed, the member of that old guard from the wealthiest background, had a family connection – but he made a point of waiting until he’d succeeded on his own before he worked with his famous uncle, the director Sir Carol Reed, in 1968’s Oliver!)

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It feels like the end of an era, but it isn’t quite – for a few actors of Finney’s generation, background and disposition remain on the go, like Sean Connery (now retired), Michael Caine and Anthony Hopkins (both still active, happily).

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By way of paying tribute to Albert Finney, I thought I’d list my favourite cinematic memories of him.  So here, in no particular order, are the Finney performances I’ve enjoyed most.

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Leo O’Bannon in Miller’s Crossing (1990)

Blood Simple (1984) and Raising Arizona (1987) put writing-directing duo Ethan and Joel Coen on the map, but Miller’s Crossing was surely the film that proved they were a moviemaking force to be reckoned with.  As Irish mobster Leo O’Bannon, a character who’s rock-hard yet cursed with a naivete that threatens to provoke a gang-war, Finney is the film’s lynchpin.  It says a lot that he effortlessly holds his own in Miller’s Crossing even though he’s surrounded by actors threatening to steal the show (but never quite doing so): Gabriel Byrne, John Turturro, Jon Polito and J.E. Freeman, all playing the various unscrupulous characters who plot and machinate around O’Bannon. Meanwhile, the Danny Boy sequence, where Finney demonstrates his cigar-chomping, bullet-spraying lethality, is simply a great piece of cinema.

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(c) Woodfall Film Productions / Bryanston Films

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Arthur Seaton in Saturday Night and Sunday Morning (1960)

The Karl Reisz-directed, Alan Sillitoe-scripted Saturday Night and Sunday Morning helped usher in the ‘kitchen-sink’ and later the ‘social realism’ school of British filmmaking that – with a few honourable exceptions like Ken Loach’s Kes (1969), Chris Bernard’s Letter to Brezhnev (1985) and Mike Leigh’s Naked (1993) – is far from my favourite genre.  But I like this movie because of Finney’s ferocious performance.  As Arthur Seaton, the defiant young Nottingham factory worker whose motto is “Don’t let the bastards grind you down,” and who damns his family and co-workers as “dead from the neck up” because they’ve succumbed to domestic dreariness and nine-to-five wage-slavery, he’s too blinkered to realise he’s heading that way himself.  Largely responsible for his downfall is his rampant libido, which works several hours ahead of his brain and has him lusting after Rachel Roberts and Shirley Anne Field, the second of whom he ends up marrying.  The final scene, with Field and a sullen Finney approaching a new suburban housing scheme that threatens to be the place of his incarceration, comes as no great surprise. 

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Maurice Allington in The Green Man (1990)

Maurice Allington, the middle-aged bon viveur, raconteur and proprietor of a country restaurant called the Green Man, is a far more refined character than Arthur Seaton.  But he’s no more able to rein in his lechery, here directed at Linda Marlowe (playing his wife) and at Sarah Berger (playing his doctor’s wife) whom he fancies involving in a ménage à trois.  Meanwhile, Allington faces complications on another front besides the domestic one – for the Green Man, it quickly becomes clear, is also a hotbed of paranormal activity.  An offbeat ghostly-comic TV series with an impressive pedigree – it’s scripted by Malcolm Bradbury, based on a novel by Kingsley Amis and directed by Elijah Moshinsky, better known as a director of operas and Shakespearean drama – The Green Man’s strongest point is probably Finney’s splendid performance as Allington, who comes across as an oddly sympathetic cross between Alan Clark and Keith Floyd.

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(c) BBC

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Dewey Wilson in Wolfen (1981)

Unfairly maligned by New York Times critic Vincent Canby as ‘platitudinous mumbo-jumbo’, Wolfen is actually a rare beast (and ‘beast’ is the word), a 1980s horror movie that tries to say intelligent things about ecology, social inequality and urban deprivation and renewal.  Finney’s New York accent, big hair and 1980s-style jogging gear take a little getting used to, but he gives an enjoyable turn as a policeman investigating the brutal and mysterious murder of a property developer.  The culprits, it transpires, are a pack of deadly, super-powerful and super-intelligent wolves lurking in the Big Apple’s more rundown areas, their existence known only to a tribe of Native Americans who now work on the city’s high-rise construction projects but who once existed alongside the creatures in the wilderness.  Finney’s supporting cast here – Gregory Hines, Edward James Olmos and Tom Noonan – is excellent too.

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(c) Orion Pictures / Warner Bros.

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Kincade in Skyfall (2012)

In the 23rd James Bond movie Skyfall, Finney plays Kincade, the elderly gamekeeper at Bond’s ancestral estate in the Scottish Highlands who helps him (Daniel Craig) and M (Judi Dench) when villainous Javier Bardem and his goons lay siege to the place.  Finney’s gruff Lancashire tones, admittedly, aren’t what you’d expect to hear emanating from a bearded ghillie who’s spent a lifetime tramping around the heathery Caledonian mountains.  But it’s gratifying to see him in a Bond movie at last.  His rapport with Dench is particularly good. 

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Skyfall also proved, alas, to be his final cinematic appearance.  But there are definitely worse ways to bow out than standing alongside 007 with all guns blazing – and I love how when Bond tells him, “This isn’t your fight,” Kincade replies with typical Finney-esque defiance, “Try and stop me, you jumped-up little shit.”      

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(c) Eon Productions

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The milkman delivers

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(c) Faber & Faber

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Milkman, the novel written by Belfast author Anna Burns that won the Man Booker Prize for Fiction late last year, might more accurately be called Milkmen because it has two characters bearing that name.

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One is a 41-year-old married man and a member of a paramilitary organisation.  We don’t learn why he’s nicknamed ‘milkman’, but it’s a moniker that inspires fear.  He starts making unwelcome intrusions into the life of the book’s 18-year-old female narrator.  One day he stops alongside her in his van and offers her a ride while she’s walking on the street – or more accurately, walking and reading, for when she’s out and about she invariably has a book open in her hand.  (It’s normally a book from the 19th century or earlier because, as she makes clear, she’s not a fan of modern times.)  “You’re one of the who’s-it girls, aren’t you?” he says.  “So-and-so was your father, wasn’t he?  Your brothers, thingy, thingy, thingy and thingy, used to play in the hurley team, didn’t they?  Hop in.  I’ll give you a lift.”  Disconcerted by his knowledge of her and her family, the narrator declines the offer. 

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Then he appears and jogs alongside her while she’s taking a typically strenuous run through her city’s ‘parks & reservoirs’ area.  “He slowed the run right down…” she observes, “until we were walking…  He had no interest in running.  All that running along the reservoirs where I had not ever seen him running had never been about running.  All that running, I knew, was about me.”  Spooked, she resolves afterwards to run in the company of a male relative, ‘third brother-in-law’, who’s temperamental (“a mad exerciser, a mad street fighter, a basic all-round mad person”) but dependable, in the hope that his presence will keep the milkman away.

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And then he surprises her after an eventful evening downtown.  She’s just attended an adult French class whose teacher is less interested in teaching the students French than in teaching them that the sky contains more than one colour, blue, by making them properly watch the sunset for the first time: “My poor deprived class… the sky that seems to be out there can be any colour that there is.”  Then, on her way home, she discovers the head of a cat that’s been blown off by a bomb explosion, decides to take it somewhere where she can bury it and wraps it in handkerchiefs.  Standing up with this grisly burden, she discovers the milkman beside her: “Now he was inches from me, and I from him, with only those hankies, and their dark, dead contents, acting as a buffer in between.”

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Though he doesn’t attempt to molest or even touch her, and he doesn’t proposition her, the milkman has clearly taken an uncommon interest in her.  And the narrator, we have realised by now, is somewhat uncommon herself.       

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The milkman’s unwelcome and sinister attention has severe consequences.  The narrator inhabits a community that sees itself as under siege by the state, that doesn’t recognise the state’s army, police, courts or hospitals,  and that allows itself to be administered by the ‘renouncers of the state’, i.e. the paramilitaries of whom the milkman is a member.  The result is an isolated society of neurosis and paranoia, whose members are continually at pains to say and be seen to do the right thing at the right time, and not to say or be seen to do the wrong thing at the wrong time; to know who they’re talking to and who’s listening to them; to sense what other people are thinking and keep their own thoughts to themselves; to keep up appearances, go with the flow, not draw attention to themselves, and so on.  In this pressure cooker of a place, gossip spreads as quickly as bush-fire through tinder-dry Outback, and when the narrator and the milkman are spotted together tongues start wagging madly. 

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The fragile equilibrium that exists between the narrator – already seen as something of an oddball – and her relatives and neighbours is shattered as her supposed affair with the middle-aged, married and murderous milkman provokes disgust, scorn, fear and envy.  Her outraged mother – ‘ma’ – lectures her: “You’ll regret it, daughter, finding yourself ensnared in the underbelly of all that alluring, mind-altering, unruly paramilitary nightlife.  It’s not what it seems.  It’s on the run.  It’s war.  It’s killing people.  It’s being killed…  I’m telling you, it’ll end badly.  You’ll hit the ground with a bump if he doesn’t take you to death first with him.”   

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Ironically, it’s the book’s second milkman, a real one whose job is to deliver milk, who helps turn things around.  Not only is he unafraid to stand up to the renouncers when he thinks they’re in the wrong, but he tries to extend help and comfort to members of the community who need it – often those who’ve lost loved ones in the conflict between the forces and renouncers of the state.  (With the narrator, his good deed is to take the cat’s head off her hands and give it a decent burial himself.)  Ironically, the real milkman’s compassion goes unrecognised and unappreciated by the community as a whole who, in contradiction of his kindly nature, have nicknamed him ‘the man who doesn’t love anybody’.  He does, however, prove to be the catalyst that finally helps repair things between the narrator and her family.  Though not before he’s involved in a case of mistaken identity by the state forces who’re out to assassinate the other milkman.

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(c) The Irish Times

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As you’ll gather from the above synopsis, Milkman is an eccentric book.  However, from the moment that it secured the 2018 Man Booker Prize, ‘difficult’ is the word that people have been levelling at it.  London’s Evening Standard acclaimed it as ‘a fine and remarkably original literary achievement’, but then quietly damned it in the next breath by asking, “…how many who buy it will read all the way through?”  Even Kwame Anthony Appiah, head of 2018’s Man Booker judges, sounded slightly apologetic about giving it the prize: “I spend my time reading articles in the Journal of Philosophy so by my standards this is not too hard.”  Well, I can only reply with an un-literary ‘bollocks to that’.  I didn’t find Milkman pretentious or unduly challenging.  Far from it. 

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Eyebrows have been raised by Anna Burns’ Kafka-esque policy of not giving anyone or anything in the book a proper name or label.  But it’s obviously set in Belfast during the 1970s period of the Troubles – Burns grew up in the North Belfast district of Ardoyne – and the various factions prowling around are obviously the IRA, the British Army, the RUC, etc.  Meanwhile, the fact that none of the characters have proper names, and are referred to instead by simple family-appellations, like ma, second brother-in-law and wee sisters, or by capitalised and un-capitalised nicknames, like chef, Somebody McSomebody and Mr and Mrs International, doesn’t impede the reader’s comprehension or enjoyment at all.  (I assume that by not attaching proper names, Burns is satirising the extreme care with which folk in Northern Ireland during the Troubles took in choosing and announcing names – names that sounded too Protestant or too Catholic could get you into trouble in the wrong place and / or among the wrong people.)

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What might also be off-putting to potential readers is the book being, essentially, 350 pages of internal monologue.  External events are filtered heavily through the thought processes of the central character.  But the narrational voice describing the bizarre goings-on, protocols, customs and rituals that the political circumstances have engendered in the neighbourhood is consistently droll and frequently hilarious.  It’s particularly (if blackly) funny when talking about the misfits that the situation has inevitably produced.  Certain folk have lost their marbles or become recklessly anarchic, so that ‘normal’ members of the community call them the ‘beyond-the-pale’ people – like tablets girl, a sad and deranged soul who wanders around slipping poisons into people’s drinks; and nuclear boy, a youth convinced that Armageddon is coming courtesy of a war between the USA and USSR; and the issues women, a septet of ladies who hold regular meetings in a garden shed and who, to the local paramilitaries’ discomfort, have resolved to impose a feminist solution on the conflict. 

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I’ll admit there were occasional patches where the narrational voice got a little too introspective and I had to apply some willpower to get through a few pages.  Not that the main character is dull, but in terms of being interesting, she can’t compete with the details of the weird landscape around her.

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The humour is what I liked most about Milkman.  It’s a novel about the Northern Irish Troubles that manages to be funny, something that can’t be said of other novels about the subject that I’ve read over the years, such as Bernard MacLaverty’s Cal (1983) or Eoin McNamee’s Resurrection Man (1994).  From the period I spent living there, I’ve always remembered Northern Ireland as a very humorous place, even if the humour was often a defence mechanism against the horrors that were occurring at the same time.  And I also liked Milkman because, despite the ordeal it puts its heroine through, it’s ultimately an optimistic and transcendental work.  As the wildly-philosophical French teacher implores: “Implement a choice…  Come out from those places.  You never know… the moment of the fulcrum, the pivot, the turnaround, the instant when the meaning of it all will appear.”  Perhaps it does appear, fleetingly, at the end.

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The full Sammy

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From beta.parliament.uk

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Generations from now – if, of course, there are generations from now – historians will look back at early-21st-century Britain and wonder how a reasonably powerful and respected country, with a reputation for stability and civility, could become embroiled in a crisis as ridiculous, demeaning and potentially ruinous as Brexit.  Moreover, they will wonder how the British people allowed Brexit, and the attendant prospect of becoming an international laughing stock, xenophobic backwater and  economic disaster zone, to be foisted upon them by a crew of crooks, clowns, chancers and cretins.

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And wow – what a crew!  There’s businessman and political donor Aaron Banks, whose insurance company and the political organisation he helps fund, Leave.EU, have just been fined £120,000 for data protection breaches by the Information Commissioner’s Office.  Leave.EU is also being investigated by the National Crimes Agency over alleged illegal donations.  There’s Nigel Farage, Donald Trump’s court jester and brown-noser in chief across the pond and an enthusiast for Nazi-style anti-immigration posters during the referendum campaign.  There’s Michael Gove, a man whose intellectual reasoning is based on the premise that you mustn’t listen to experts.  There’s Boris Johnson, a human and political catastrophe.  And there’s Jacob Rees Mogg, apparently the result of an experiment in splicing together DNA from a Victorian undertaker, a praying mantis and Mr Bumble in Oliver Twist (1839). 

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And let’s not forget the Democratic Unionist Party – the Northern Irish party consisting largely of dimwits whose political education stopped at the year 1690 and / or bible-thumpers who believe that the reason why there are no dinosaurs around today is because they were too big to get on board Noah’s Ark.   Thanks to a fluke result in the last general election the DUP holds the balance of power in Westminster and is, if anything, even more dementedly in favour of Brexit than the gallery of rogues described above.  As I wrote in a previous blog post, the DUP would “saw off their own legs and strangle their own grandmothers if they thought it’d make them more British”; and the thought of post-Brexit Northern Ireland going down the proverbial swanny is fine with them so long as it’s part of Britain going down the swanny.  (Though the DUP’s obsession with being British doesn’t extend to it wanting Northern Ireland to have British-style laws permitting abortion and same-sex marriage.) 

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Anyway, it was no surprise when last week when Donald Tusk, President of the European Council, finally lost patience with this shower of Brexiting nincompoops and tweeted: “I’ve been wondering what that special place in hell looks like, for those who promoted Brexit, without even a sketch of a plan about how to carry it out safely.”

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Tusk’s comment provoked angry reactions from the usual Brexiting suspects, who claimed that Tusk had wished Britain itself in hell.  He hadn’t, of course.  He’d made no insinuation that the British people belonged in hell or that even the 17.4 million Britons who’d voted for Brexit belonged there.  He’d merely insinuated that the likes of Banks, Farage, Gove and co who’d orchestrated the Brexit campaign and got the result they’d wanted without a thought to the consequences deserved to be in a lake of fire, getting red-hot pokers shoved up their arses.  Which is harsh, but understandable.

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From redbubble.com

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Leading the outrage against Donald Tusk’s tweet was the DUP MP and former Mayor of Belfast Sammy Wilson, who called Tusk a ‘devilish, trident-wielding euro maniac’ and said on social media: “Donald Tusk once again shows his contempt for the 17.4 million people who voted to escape the corruption of the EU and seek the paradise of a free and prosperous Kingdom.  This devilish euro maniac is doing his best to keep the United Kingdom bound by the chains of EU bureaucracy and control…  All he will do is stiffen the resolve of those who have exercised their choice to be free of Tusk and his trident wielding cabal.” 

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The vivid religious imagery in Wilson’s comments – devils, tridents – was in keeping with a tradition among DUP politicians whereby the EU is associated with the forces of darkness of Christian theology.  The DUP’s founder, the late Reverend Ian Paisley, liked to identify the multi-state EU, or the European Economic Community as it was back in his day, as the multi-headed beast forecast to rise out of the sea in the Book of Revelation.  Mind you, Paisley’s antipathy to the EEC / EU didn’t stop him from becoming a Member of the European Parliament and drawing a hefty salary from Brussels.

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My first reaction to Wilson’s diatribe was to think it a bit rich of a DUP member to accuse anyone else of corruption.  The party is led by Arlene Foster, responsible for the infamous Renewable Heat Incentive, or ‘cash-for-ash’ scheme, which was introduced in 2012 while she ran Northern Ireland’s Department of Enterprise, Trade and Investment.  Officially supposed to encourage people to change from fossil fuel to biomass heating systems, it was in fact a way for DUP-voting farmers to install such heating systems in empty sheds and outhouses and then claim back £1.60 for every £1 they spent, a scam that ended up costing taxpayers in the region of £400 million.  Then there were the accusations of impropriety aimed at former DUP leader and former First Minister of Northern Ireland Peter Robinson and his missus Iris, whose multiple incomes have resulted in them being nicknamed ‘the Swish Family Robinson’; and at Ian Paisley Jr, the MP for North Antrim, Sri Lanka and the Maldives.  And there was a £435,000 donation to the DUP from the dodgy anti-Scottish-independence organisation the Constitutional Research Council which, rumours say, may have originated in Saudi Arabia or India.  In 2016, the DUP spent £282,000 of this on a ‘Vote Leave’ advertisement in a newspaper not actually published in Northern Ireland.

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(c) The Belfast Telegraph

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Incidentally, even by the DUP’s standards, Wilson is what you’d euphemistically describe as a ‘colourful’ character.  1994 saw him condoning a recommendation by a Protestant paramilitary organisation that Northern Ireland be subjected to ethnic cleansing to create a wholly Protestant (and wholly Roman Catholic-free) province.  And 1996 saw him embroiled in a different sort of stushie when the Sunday World newspaper published photos of him and his ex-girlfriend romping nakedly during a holiday in France – which was a tad hypocritical of Wilson seeing as he’d opposed allowing nude bathing at municipal swimming pools in Belfast.  The Reverend Ian Paisley, usually known for an uncompromising stance on public morals, was strangely forgiving in this case and said: “What a man does in his private life, whether I agree with it or not, is a matter entirely for himself and, in final accountability, for his maker.”  Meanwhile, the Belfast Telegraph opined that it wouldn’t have published the photos, partly because “they would have been inappropriate for this newspaper (which has traditionally been read by all members of the family, including the young).”  Quite right, Belfast Telegraph – you wouldn’t want youngsters to be traumatised for the rest of their lives by seeing graphic pictures of Sammy Wilson in the buff.

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Thanks to some astounding, mind-melting anti-logic of which the DUP is always capable, Wilson, a denier of man-made climate change, became Environment Minister at the Northern Irish Assembly from 2008 to 2009.  During his tenure, he blocked a government advertising campaign designed to encourage people to cut their energy consumption and reduce C02 emissions.  He also described climate activists as a ‘hysterical pseudo-religion’ and claimed, “The tactic used by the ‘green gang is to label anyone who dares disagree with their view of climate change as some kind of nutcase who denies scientific fact.”  Well, as 97% of actively-publishing climate scientists agree that climate-warming in the past century is highly likely because of human activities, I guess we can indeed label Wilson as a nutcase who denies scientific fact. 

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And before Brexit fervour put a new wind in his sails, Wilson found time to denounce the allowing of breast-feeding in the House of Commons, a practice he described as ‘voyeuristic’.  (In Wilson’s world-view, it’s obvious that bare boobs during naked holiday romps = good,but bare boobs for feeding hungry babies = bad.)

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As an atheist, a non-believer in God, heaven and hell, I find Tusk’s comments amusing – even if the context of Brexit in which they were made is depressing and tragic.  I suppose, though, they touched a nerve in Sammy Wilson because as a DUP member he sees himself as a staunch Christian; and he sees hell, a place to which godless sinners (like atheists, EU officials, Roman Catholics, environmentalists, homosexuals, etc.) are destined to go, as a place where he definitely won’t be going.  I have to say, though, that if there was a God powerful enough to create the entire universe, and to create a system of after-lives to which the souls of all the universe’s inhabitants migrate following their physical demises, I would expect Him, or Her, or It, to be a wee bit more intellectual and broader-minded and more empathetic than His / Her / Its worshippers in the DUP. 

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And if you were that awesomely powerful, universe-building supreme being up in heaven, and after Sammy Wilson had expired in the mortal world, would you really want to spend the rest of eternity there listening to him jabbering away about devilish trident-wielding euro maniacs and green pseudo-religions and voyeuristic boobs?  No.  You’d probably politely ask him to pack his bags and take himself to the other place.

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From magnoliabox.com

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Where’s Walter?

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(c) American International Pictures

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January 2019 ended on a sad note with the announcement that prolific and much-loved American character actor Dick Miller had passed away at the age of 90.  Though nearly all of Miller’s film work consisted of supporting roles and cameo appearances and only rarely was he a leading man, his compact and craggy presence was a welcome addition to countless movies – highbrow ones, cult ones and good, old-fashioned, unrepentant exploitation ones.

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A native of the Bronx who’d served in the Navy and attended New York University, Miller arrived in 1950s California intending to make it as a writer.  However, during an encounter with a young aspiring filmmaker (and future human B-movie factory) called Roger Corman, he suddenly became an actor: “…He (Corman) said, ‘Ah, I don’t need writers, I need actors.’  I said, ‘I’m an actor!’  Just blurted it out like that…” 

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Corman began by casting him in Westerns like Apache Woman (1955), The Oklahoma Woman (1956) and Gunslinger (1956), which were made with Corman’s soon-to-be-legendary thrift – in Apache Woman, Miller not only plays an Apache but also the settler who shoots him. He continued employing him when he came to specialise in sci-fi and horror movies, like It Conquered the World (1956), Not of this Earth (1957), The Undead (1957), War of the Satellites (1958) and the unexpectedly influential Little Shop of Horrors (1960), which was done on a tight schedule even by Corman’s standards – he filmed it in two days, supposedly in response to a bet that he couldn’t make a movie in two days.  In Shop, Miller plays a character called Mr Fouch, who has an eccentric predilection for eating flowers.  During filming, Miller did this for real: “I gave them a try and I ate them, and I said, ‘That’s not too bad,’ and then I dug into ’em…  I didn’t stop to think they may have been sprayed or something.”   

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Miller’s biggest role for Corman was in a movie that’s also Corman’s best 1950s work, A Bucket of Blood (1959).  In this, he plays a hapless schmuck called Walter Paisley whose dream of becoming an avant-garde sculptor is thwarted by his total lack of talent – “Be a nose!  Be a nose!” he cries while he tries and fails to fashion a recognisable human visage out of a lump of clay.  Worse, to make ends meet, he has to work as a busboy at the local Beatnik café, which is full of pretentious tossers bragging about what creative geniuses they are.  After accidentally killing his landlady’s cat and then killing an undercover cop who tried to implicate him in some drug-dealing taking place at the café (Paisley memorably cleaves his head with a skillet), he hits on a way of producing perfectly proportioned statues: by committing murder and coating the bodies in clay.  It has to be said that Paisley’s resulting corpse-centred statues look hideous, but that doesn’t stop the Beatniks at the café proclaiming them as works of art.  Evidently, their lack of taste in sculpture matches their lack of taste in poetry, for at the beginning of the movie we hear Beatnik bard Maxwell Brock (Julian Burton) reading out one of his poetic gems, called Life is a Bum:

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Life is an obscure hobo bumming a ride on the omnibus of art…  The artist is, all others are not…  Where are John, Joe, Jake, Jim, Jerk?  Dead, dead, dead!  They were not born before they were born, they were not born…  Where are Leonardo, Rembrandt, Ludwig?  Alive, alive, alive!  They were born…!

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(c) American International Pictures

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In the 1960s, Miller kept appearing in films directed by Corman, like The Premature Burial (1962), X: The Man with the X-Ray Eyes (1963), The Wild Angels (1966), The St Valentine’s Day Massacre (1967) and The Trip (1967).  Corman, however, was increasingly moving into producing and encouraging young, up-and-coming talents to do the directing for him – on low salaries, low budgets and tight schedules, obviously.  (These constraints didn’t stop some of Corman’s protégées becoming big names indeed.)

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A movie symbolic of this transition is 1963’s The Terror, which came about because Corman wanted to make further use of sets and a star (Boris Karloff) he’d just used on a previous movie.  Without much idea of a story, he filmed some scenes with Karloff before the star went away, and then left it to various associates to come up with a script and a film incorporating the Karloff scenes.  The result is a weird hodgepodge that likely contains input from half-a-dozen directors: not only Corman but also Jack Hill, Dennis Jakob, Monte Hellman, Jack Nicholson (who starred in it alongside Karloff) and a young Francis Ford Coppola – ‘what’s-his-name, who makes the wine,’ as Miller referred to him once in an interview.  Late on in the production, when a script had finally evolved, it fell on Miller’s character to spout a load of exposition and enlighten the audience about what the hell was going on: “(Corman) said, “All right, this is what we’re going to do.  In this scene, you’re going to explain everything that happened in the picture…  ‘No, it wasn’t me, it was him, and he did that and they did it, and we did it to each other!’  And I was like, ‘Okay, that explains it.’”

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Thereafter, Miller became the cinematic equivalent of a family heirloom, passed down from Corman to younger generations, i.e. his many protégées.  Miller was particulary busy with Jonathan Kaplan, who directed him in 1972’s Night Call Nurses, 1973’s Student Teachers and The Slams, 1974’s Truck Turner, 1975’s White Line Fever, 1977’s Mr Billion, 1979’s 11th Victim, 1987’s Project X and 1992’s Unlawful Entry, but he also worked with Jonathan Demme (in 1975’s Crazy Mama), Paul Bartel (in 1975’s Death Race 2000 and 1976’s Carquake) and Allan Arkush (in 1979’s Rock ‘n’ Roll High School, 1981’s Heartbeeps and 1994’s Shake, Rattle and Rock).  In Rock ‘n’ Roll High School, Miller appeared alongside fellow New Yorkers and celebrated punk band the Ramones.  Playing a disgusted police chief, he says of them: “They’re ugly…  Ugly, ugly people!”

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Martin Scorsese, whose second full-length feature Boxcar Bertha had been produced by Corman in 1972, cast Miller in New York, New York (1977) and After Hours (1985); while James Cameron, who’d started his career working as a special effects man and art director for Corman, had him appear briefly but memorably in 1984’s The Terminator – he plays the unfortunate gun-shop owner who supplies Arnie with his firepower.  (“The Uzi nine millimetre.”  “You know your weapons, buddy!”)  Meanwhile, Quentin Tarantino, whom I suppose could be described as a second-generation Corman protégée – Monte Hellman helped him get his first film Reservoir Dogs to the screen in 1992 – gave Miller a small role in 1994’s Pulp Fiction.  He’s Monster Joe, owner of a dodgy junkyard called Monster Joe’s Truck and Tow where Harvey Keitel’s Mr Wolf character gets rid of the dead bodies he accrues during his work.  “If you ever need it,” he generously tells Wolf, “I’ll dispose of a body part for free.”  Alas, Tarantino decided to remove the scene from Pulp Fiction’s final cut to prevent the film getting too long and cluttered.   But you can see it on Youtube here.

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(c) Amblin Entertainment / Warner Bros

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Miller’s longest and most famous partnership with a graduate from the Roger Corman School of Film-making, though, was with Joe Dante.  When Dante and co-director Allan Arkush cast him in 1976’s Hollywood Boulevard, the pair hit it off so well that Miller appeared in (by my calculations) 13 more of Dante’s movies: Piranha (1978), The Howling (1981), the It’s a Good Life segment of The Twilight Zone: The Movie (1983), Gremlins (1984), Explorers (1985), Innerspace (1987), The Burbs (1989), Gremlins II (1990), Matinee (1994), Small Soldiers (1998), Loony Tunes: Back in Action (2003), The Hole (2009) and Burying the Ex (2014). 

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Dante usually put Miller in blue-collar roles: security guard, pizza delivery guy, garbage collector, truck driver, taxi driver and in the case of Murray Futterman, his harassed character in Gremlins and Gremlins II, snowplough driver.  In the first Gremlins movie, Futterman and his wife Sheila (played by Jackie Joseph) are supposedly killed when a couple of the diabolical title creatures drive Futterman’s snowplough into their living room.  Happily, in Gremlins II, it transpires that they weren’t killed, just traumatised.  And there’s a marvellously cathartic scene where a gremlin with wings (which it acquired during some genetic tampering in a laboratory run by Christopher Lee) swoops down and attacks Futterman on a New York street.  This time, rather than cringing, Futterman mans up and sorts the little bastard out.   

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Furthermore, in honour of his starring role in A Bucket of Blood, three of Dante’s movies – Hollywood Boulevard, The Howling and The Twilight Zone: The Movie – had Miller playing a character called Walter Paisley.  Indeed, other filmmakers were quick to continue the in-joke.  Subsequently, Miller played someone called Walter Paisley in Jim Wynorski’s 1986 horror-comedy Chopping Mall (which was produced by Julie Corman, Roger’s missus); someone called Walter in Fred Decker’s 1986 sci-fi horror Night of the Creeps; and someone called Officer Paisley in Allan Arkush’s 1994 rock ‘n’ roll TV movie Shake, Rattle and Rock

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And according to IMDb there is a just completed, not-yet-released horror movie called Hanukkah wherein Dick Miller plays a Jewish character called ‘Rabbi Walter Paisley’.  So though the great man has left us, we’ll at least get one more opportunity to play ‘Where’s Walter?’    

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The quotes by Dick Miller contained in this post come from an entertaining interview he did in 2012 with the AV Club, which can be accessed here.

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(c) The Geffen Company / Warner Bros

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We need to talk about Winston

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From nationalgeographic.com.au

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Apologies for the juvenile title of this (lengthy) blog entry, but I’m writing it in response to some juvenile goings-on.  A few days ago Ross Greer, Member of the Scottish Parliament for the Scottish Greens, tweeted his opinion that Winston Churchill was ‘a white supremacist mass murderer’.  This upset many people, including Piers Morgan, who described Greer as ‘a thick ginger turd’ whilst in the same breath (well, same tweet) inviting Greer to debate the issue with him on Good Morning Britain.  Greer replied by calling Morgan as a ‘honey-glazed gammon’ but agreed to the invitation.  There followed an unedifying confrontation on Good Morning Britain that climaxed with Morgan and Greer trying to talk and shout over each other.  Talking and shouting over people is pretty much Morgan’s modus operandum so I have slightly more sympathy for Greer in this.

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There should be considerably less heated and more nuanced debate about Churchill, about the opinions he held and decisions he made, and about the influence he’s had since his death.  This is especially so as Churchill seems to have become a totemic figure for the half of the British electorate who in June 2016 voted to leave the European Union.  Indeed, in this era of all-pervasive social media, when everybody seems to have a twitter and Facebook account, if not a website and a blog, I sometimes feel there’s been more written about the man since the Brexit vote that was ever written about him before it.

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So what to make of Churchill?  A hero?  A villain?  Or a fence-sitting ‘something in between’?  Well, here are the facts for both the prosecution and the defence.  Those for the prosecution, I have to warn you, are numerous and varied.  Those for the defence are brief – but weighty.

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In his correspondence as a young man attached to the Malakand Field Force, which fought Mohmand rebels in the Swat Valley in Northwest India in 1897, Churchill comes across as racist and bellicose.   He said of the Pashtun tribespeople: “in proportion that these valleys are purged from the pernicious vermin that infest them, so will the happiness of humanity be increased, and the progress of mankind accelerated.”  Admittedly, the tribespeople were brutal towards anyone who antagonised them, but the British more than matched them for cruelty.  In a letter in September 1897, Churchill wrote approvingly that: “After today we begin to burn villages.  Every one.  And all who resist will be killed without quarter.”  Later, in his autobiography, he noted how “every tribesman who was caught was speared or cut down at once.”

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A decade later, when he was British Home Secretary, one of Churchill’s more alarming enthusiasms was for eugenics.  He wrote about his fear that the “unnatural and increasingly rapid growth of the Feeble-Minded and Insane classes… constitutes a national and race danger which it is impossible to exaggerate” and advocated sterilization as a solution.  Writing in a departmental paper in 1910, he suggested the solution of labour camps alongside that of sterilization: “I propose that 100,000 degenerate Britons should be forcibly sterilised and others put in labour camps to halt the decline of the British race.”

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Incidentally, Churchill’s views on sexual equality were no more enlightened.  Of the women’s suffrage movement, he once commented: “Nothing would induce me to vote for giving women the franchise.  I am not going to be henpecked into a question of such importance.”

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Churchill saw World War I, when he was in charge of the British Admiralty, as an opportunity for glory: “I have it in me to be a successful soldier,” he boasted.  “I can visualise great movements and combinations.”  Unfortunately, the great movement he visualised – sending the fleet up the Dardanelles and grabbing Constantinople and the waterways that linked the Black Sea and the eastern Mediterranean, thus enfeebling the Ottoman Empire, improving access between the Allies and Russia and drawing Greece, Romania and Bulgaria into the war on the Allies’ side – resulted in the bloody, nine-month stalemate of Gallipoli in 1915.  This ended with a death toll of 65,000 Turks, 26,000 Britons, 8,000 French, 7,800 Australians, 2,445 New Zealanders and 1,682 Indians.  Churchill stayed unrepentant about what he’d tried and failed to achieve at Gallipoli: “The Dardanelles might have saved millions of lives.  Don’t imagine I am running away from the Dardanelles.  I glory in it.”  However, the site www.historyextra.com gives the scheme a damning assessment: “…far from being a brilliant, potentially war-winning strategy, it was a piece of folly that was always likely to fail.”

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To give Churchill his due – after the Gallipoli fiasco, he joined the British Army, became a battalion commander and served with the Grenadier Guards and Royal Scots Fusiliers.  According to his Wikipedia entry, this service included 36 ventures into No Man’s Land.  If only every politician who makes a military blunder was forced to pay for it by becoming a soldier in a warzone.  There’d surely be fewer military blunders by politicians.  There’d be a hell of a lot less military adventurism by them too.

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1917, of course, saw the Russian Revolution.  No sooner had the 1918 Armistice been signed than the British establishment had something new to worry about: Bolshevism.  Churchill was dismayingly inclined to blame it on a Jewish conspiracy: “With the notable exception of Lenin, the majority of the leading figures are Jews.  Moreover, the principal inspiration and driving power comes from the Jewish leaders…  Although in all these countries there are many non-Jews every whit as bad as the worst of the Jewish revolutionaries, the part played by the latter in proportion to their numbers in the population is astonishing.” 

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From socialistpartyscotland.org.uk

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In February 1919, the fear that Britain was on the cusp of a workers’ revolution helped Churchill, as Secretary of State for Air and War, and his cabinet colleagues decide to send 10,000 troops into Glasgow to deal with striking workers.  Churchill already had form in this area, because as Home Secretary in 1910 he’d sent in troops to deal with striking miners in Tonypandy in South Wales.  Unsurprisingly, today, Churchill is not quite as widely revered among the Scots and Welsh as he is among his fellow English.  His disdain for the labour movement hadn’t abated by the time of the General Strike in 1926.  While Prime Minister Stanley Baldwin was trying to reach agreement with the Trade Unions, he was strongly opposed by Churchill, who was desperate for a no-holds-barred fight with them.

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Elsewhere on these islands, Churchill is not remembered with much affection in Ireland.  In 1920, he oversaw the deployment in Ireland of the Black and Tans, the police force who soon became notorious for their unrestrained brutality and whose memory poisoned Anglo-Irish relations for decades afterwards.  Churchill ignored warnings about the great damage that the Black and Tans were doing.  Field Marshal Sir Henry Wilson commented: “I warned him again that those Black and Tans who are committing very indiscriminate reprisals will play the devil in Ireland, but he won’t listen or agree.”  As for the Tans’ habit of killing suspected troublemakers without bothering to arrest them and put them on trial, Wilson said, “Winston saw very little harm in this but it horrifies me.” 

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(Churchill is better thought of among the pro-British Protestant community of Northern Ireland, but this was not always so.  It’s said that in 1912, when he visited Belfast, thousands of Protestant workers from the Harland and Wolff shipyard lined the streets wanting to pelt his car with rivets, on account of his support for Irish Home Rule.  And though Ulster Protestants often express pride about Northern Ireland’s part in the UK’s war effort from 1939 to 1945, while southern Ireland opted to remain neutral, it must rankle that Churchill offered Eamon De Valera a united Ireland if he agreed to bring his country into the war on Britain’s side.)

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Churchill also found time to leave his mark on Iraq: not in a good way.  As convener of a conference in Cairo in 1912 to draw up the boundaries of Britain’s Middle Eastern mandate, he unwisely lumped together three warring factions – Shiites, Sunnis and Kurds – within the borders of the new country.  And when Shiites and Sunnis rebelled against British colonial rule there in 1920, Churchill ordered military oppression and retribution on par with what he’d seen in the Swat Valley 23 years earlier – villages burned, civilians as well as combatants killed – as well as employing some deadly new technology.  He approved the use of chemical weapons against Iraqis, having opined earlier: “I do not understand this squeamishness about the use of gas.  I am strongly in favour of using poisoned gas against uncivilised tribes…  It will cause great inconvenience and spread a lively terror.”  Also causing great inconvenience and lively terror was his use of ‘aerial policing’, i.e. getting the RAF to bomb Iraqi villages.  Unsurprisingly, these bombings – still within living memory – didn’t put the Iraqi population at ease when, in the early 2000s, they saw British troops arrive again in their country thanks to the actions of George Bush Jr and Tony Blair.

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Churchill also sent planes and chemical weapons to attack Bolsheviks in northern Russia in 1919.  Again, he was flippantly unrepentant about his use of the latter: “Why is it not fair for a British artilleryman to fire a shell that makes the said native sneeze?  It is really too silly.”

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The biggest stain on Churchill’s record is surely his role in the Bengal Famine of 1943 that claimed three million or more lives.  Let me quote the Indian writer and politician Dr Shashi Tharoor: “Not only did the British pursue its own policy of not helping the victims of this famine which was created by their policies.  Churchill persisted in exporting grain to Europe, not to feed actual ‘Sturdy Tommies’, to use his phrase, but to add to the buffer stocks that were being piled up in the event of a future invasion of Greece and Yugoslavia…  Ships laden with wheat were coming in from Australia, docking in Calcutta and were instructed by Churchill not to disembark their cargo but sail on to Europe.  And when conscience-stricken British officials wrote to the Prime Minister in London pointing out that his policies were causing needless loss of life all he could do was write peevishly in the margin of the report, ‘Why hasn’t Gandhi died yet?’”

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Another charge against Churchill during World War Two is the way he threw the Greek resistance movement – the Greek People’s Liberation Army (ELAS) and the National Liberation Front (EAM) – under the bus in 1944.  Previously, they’d fought alongside the British, against the Nazis.  However, afraid of the Communist Party’s influence within the resistance, and wanting to restore the monarchy and general pre-war status quo in Greece, he chose to abandon the partisans and place British support behind elements who’d collaborated with the Nazis – officers, for instance, in the Security Battalions and SS-affiliated Special Security Branch.  These were soon incorporated into the post-occupation army, security forces and judiciary.   The result was the gunning down of unarmed protestors in Athens on December 3rd, 1944, which marked the beginning of the five-week conflict in the city known as the Dekemvriana; which in turn helped lead to the three-year Greek Civil War, estimated to have cost some 158,000 lives.

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From greekcitytimes.com

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Churchill was voted out of office in 1945 but returned for a second term as Prime Minister from 1951 to 1955.  It was on this watch that he responded to the Mau Mau uprising in Kenya in a characteristically sledgehammer fashion.  By the uprising’s end, it was calculated that colonial forces had killed 10,000 Africans, roughly four times the number killed by the Mau Mau – indeed, if you were a white settler in Kenya, you stood a better chance of dying in a road accident than at the hands of the rebels.  The techniques employed by British troops for dealing with the Mau Mau included mass arrests, mass trials, mass hangings, torture, whippings, mutilations, the burning of villages, ‘free fire zones’ where any African person could be a target, forced labour and huge detention camps where disease and maltreatment were rife and conditions were scarcely any better than they’d been in German and Japanese camps a decade earlier.  It’s hardly surprising that when Barack Obama, whose Kenyan grandfather Hussein Onyango Obama had been among those arrested and tortured, became US president in 2008, Churchill’s bust did not last long in the Oval Office.

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That’s a damning charge-sheet.  What’s to be said in Churchill’s defence?  Well, it’s a trite observation, but though the man’s opinions and decisions were frequently rotten, they were nowhere near as rotten as those offered by the other side between 1939 and 1945.  No doubt Churchill’s idea of utopia was a British Empire where the sun never set.  There’d be a catastrophic famine here, and a bloodily put-down insurgency there, but he’d regard that as the regrettable but unavoidable price of the White Man having to shoulder his civilising burden (while, quietly on the side, Britain’s coffers continued to be filled with the trade and plunder of its colonies).  Among the Empire’s ‘subjects’, life for many would be humiliating and wretched, and for some pretty hellish.  But compare that with Hitler’s idea of utopia, which…  Which doesn’t bear thinking about, really.

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And he was in possession of good qualities – courage, determination, intellect, a rhetorical flair – that enabled him to galvanise the British population to make a stand against Nazism and prevent all of Western Europe from falling under Hitler’s influence.  (Of course, saying he won the war for Britain is different from saying he won the war full stop, which is what many of his modern-day fans in Britain seem to believe he did.)  As the saying goes, cometh the hour, cometh the man.  That the man happened to be an asshole in most other ways doesn’t denigrate his achievements during the hour itself.  I’d like to think that if I’d been an adult in Britain during World War II, and knew about Churchill what I know about him now, I wouldn’t have let the old git into my house.  But I’d still have been (secretly) relieved that he was running the country at the time.

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Following the Greer-Morgan rumpus, the Times columnist Alex Massie – who, though right-wing and fogeyish, is much more perceptive and decent that the ridiculous, self-important (and Trump brown-nosing) Piers Morgan – penned an article on the subject.  I can sort of agree with its title: CHURCHILL WAS A GREAT BRITON, NOT A GREAT MAN.  I don’t, however, agree with some of Massie’s sentiments.  He claims that Greer wrongly applied the value judgements of the 21st century to a historical figure whose views happened to be typical and acceptable among the British ruling class of his time.  But in fact, there were plenty of people alive when Churchill was alive who detested him too.  However, they tended to be Indians, Kenyans, Greeks, Irish, Iraqis, etc. – people whose opinions rarely get much coverage in British history books. 

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Come to think of it, Britons would have their eyes opened if they got their history from a wider and more international range of sources than they do now.   In these Brexiting times, unfortunately, with World War II the only bit of history that many British people seem to know about, and with British politicians fantasizing about creating a trading ‘Empire 2.0’ after withdrawal from the EU, I don’t think British awareness of history is going to get any wider.  It’s going to get even narrower. 

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And that won’t be good for Britain’s place in the world in the future.

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From historyextra.com

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