Deathlog 2019: Part 1

 

© BBC

 

As 2019 draws to a close, here’s a name-check of some literary, cinematic, musical, artistic and other inspirations of mine who passed away during the year.

 

Musicians who died in January 2019 included American blues singer and pianist Willie Murphy (of Willie and the Bees), who passed away on the 12th; and American punk rock bassist Lorna Doom who departed four days later.  Doom had played with the raucous band The Germs, whose very first gig in 1976 set the scene for their subsequent performances: “We made noise for five minutes,” recalled guitarist Pat Smear, “until they threw us off.”  Meanwhile, in the world of letters, January 24th saw the death of Scottish journalist Hugh McIlvanney, the only sports-writer ever named Journalist of the Year in the British Press Awards.

 

January’s death toll was particularly high in the acting world.  English actor Del Henney, who’d appeared in gritty British thrillers like Villain and Straw Dogs (both 1971), died on the 14th.  Sonorous Welsh actor Windsor Davies, who’ll be best remembered as the tyrannical and occasionally sarcastic (“Oh dear, how sad, never mind”) Sergeant Major Williams in the BBC’s wartime sitcom It Ain’t Half Hot Mum (1974-81), died on the 17th.  English actress Sylvia Kay, who played the enigmatic Janette Hynes in the greatest Australian movie ever, Wake in Fright (1971), died on the 18th.  And the much-loved American character actor Dick Miller, first a regular in the movies of Roger Corman and then in those of Corman’s numerous proteges like Joe Dante, Jonathan Kaplan and Alan Arkrush, died on the 30th.

 

© NLT Productions / Group W Films / United Artists   

 

Another slew of performers passed away in February.  English actor Clive Swift, best-known for his BBC TV sitcom work but whose movie credits include Frenzy, Death Line (both 1972) and Excalibur (1981) died on the 1st, while American actress Julie Adams, object of the scaly affections of The Creature from the Black Lagoon (1954) died two days later.  February 7th saw the departure of English acting icon Albert Finney.  Back in America, action-movie and TV star Jan-Michael Vincent, who appeared in 1972’s The Mechanic, 1977’s Damnation Alley, 1978’s Hooper and many more, died on the 10th.  And Katherine Helmond, the wonderfully out-of-it Jessica Tate in the US TV soap-opera spoof Soap (1977-81), and also a supporting player in the Terry Gilliam movies The Time Bandits (1981) and Brazil (1983), passed away on the 23rd.

 

Much-admired German actor Bruno Ganz, who appeared in Werner Herzog’s Nosferatu the Vampyre (1979) and Wim Wenders’ Wings of Desire and who’d just completed Lars Von Triers’ amusingly icky and provocative The House That Jack Built (2018), died on February 15th.  A month later, on March 13th, another Nosferatu-related death occurred when artist David Palladini, the artist who’d designed the movie’s gorgeously Art Nouveau poster, passed away too.

 

Musical deaths in February included those of Monkee Peter Tork on the 21st; Mark Hollis, singer-songwriter and co-founder of the respected synth / art-pop bank Talk Talk, on the 25th; and Andy Anderson, drummer from 1983 to 1986 on five albums by the Cure, on the 26th.

 

March saw another slew of deaths in the musical world, with the Prodigy’s memorably hissing, sneering singer and dancer Keith Flint dying on the 4th; surf-guitar maestro Dick Dale on the 16th;  and on the 17th, Yuya Uchida, singer with the psychedelic 1970s Japanese outfit Flower Travellin’ Band and also an actor in in Nagisa Oshima’s Merry Christmas Mr Lawrence (1983).  Finally, American-born, British-based singer-songwriter and composer Scott Walker, who achieved success both as a solo artist and as a member of the Walker Brothers, died on the 22nd.

 

© Laurel Entertainment Inc

 

Among the actors who died in March was American Joseph Pilato, on the 24th.  Pilato played the fascistic and repellent Captain Rhodes in George A. Romero’s 1986 horror film Day of the Dead and the scene where he finally gets his come-uppance is for me the most satisfying death in horror-movie history.  (“Choke on ’em!” he yells as some hungry zombies munch on his vitals.)  Canadian actor Shane Rimmer, long-term resident of the UK, voice-actor for Gerry Anderson’s puppet TV shows and for many years the British film industry’s go-to guy if a level-headed North American was needed in a supporting role, died on March 29th.  Rimmer’s credits included a few James Bond movies and, by a sad coincidence, English actress Tania Mallet, who played the ill-fated Tilly Masterton in Goldfinger (1964) died the following day, while Serbian actress Nadja Regin, who’d appeared in both Goldfinger and From Russia with Love (1963) died a week later on April 6th.

 

Away from the acting fraternity, the fascinating W.H. Pugmire died on March 26th.  The Seattle-based Pugmire was a self-styled ‘punk rock queen and street transvestite’ who bore a fleeting resemblance to Boy George, and a distinguished author of H.P. Lovecraft-style horror fiction, and someone who’d spent the early 1970s doing the thankless job of being a Mormon missionary in Northern Ireland.

 

And now a few words about filmmaker Larry Cohen, who died on March 23rd and who was responsible for directing such ramshackle but thematically fascinating exploitation movies as It’s Alive! (1974), God Told Me To (1976) and Q: The Winged Serpent (1982) and scripting equally diverting items like Uncle Sam (1996) and Phone Booth (2002).  Even if the execution of those films never matched the originality of the ideas behind them, there was much to admire in Cohen’s oeuvre, especially in his love of improvisation.  When, for example, he and his crew nipped up to the top of New York’s Chrysler building without permission during the making of Q, filmed a gun battle there and unwittingly started pandemonium on the streets around the building because people thought a terrorist attack was in progress, Cohen promptly ordered his cameraman to film the fleeing pedestrians below as he thought they might provide valuable bonus footage.

 

© Hat Trick Productions

 

Finally, Irish actor Pat Laffan died on March 14th.  Laffan was best remembered for playing lecherous milkman (“There are some very hairy babies on Craggy Island and I think you are the hairy baby-maker!”) and vengeful psychopath Pat Mustard on TV’s Father Ted (1995-98).  His death, alas, wasn’t the only Ted-related one in 2019 for Brendan Grace, who played the drums-and-bass-loving priest Father Fintan Stack in another episode of the show, died on July 11th.

 

April saw the deaths of American fantasy / sci-fi writers Vonda N. McIntyre on the 1st and Gene Wolfe on the 14th; and, on the 18th, of British author and playwright John Bowen, probably best-known for his script for the BBC’s spooky folk-horror TV play Robin Redbreast (1970).  French actor Jean-Pierre Marielle – whom I’ll always remember for his portrayal of Arrosio, the gloriously eccentric but hapless and doomed private eye in Dario Argento’s Four Flies on Grey Velvet (1971) – died on the 24th.  British director John Llewellyn Moxley, responsible for the atmospheric chiller City of the Dead (1960), died on the 29th, while Boyz n the Hood director John Singleton died a day earlier.

 

For me, however, the saddest departure in April was that of seven-foot, three-inch English actor Peter Mayhew, who played Chewbacca – Han Solo’s best pal and a ‘walking carpet’ according to Princess Leia – in five Star Wars movies.  I love the fact that Mayhew was working as a porter at Mayday Hospital in Croydon when he was cast as Chewie in the original Star Wars (1977) and, despite that film becoming the highest-grossing one of all time, he continued to work there as a porter during the periods between The Empire Strikes Back (1980) and Return of the Jedi (1983).

 

From collectors.com

 

May 9th saw the death of English comedian Freddie Starr, whose finest moment for my money was when he appeared in Michael Apted’s 1977 crime thriller The Squeeze.  Musician Jake Black, aka the Very Reverend Wayne D. Love of the London blues / country / techno / electronica / indie band Alabama 3, died on May 21st, while the following day saw the death of English children’s author (most notably, 1968’s The Tiger Who Came to Tea) Judith Kerr.  American horror writer Dennis Etchison died on the 28th, and the final day of May saw the passing of psychedelic singer-songwriter and musician Roky Erickson, of the 13th Floor Elevators and Roky Erickson and the Aliens.

 

Meanwhile, May 11th witnessed the loss of yet another cast-member of Twin Peaks (1990-91, 2017), possibly the finest TV show ever.  At least the late Peggy Lipton, who played Norma Jennings, owner of the Double R Diner, got to see her character have a happy ending in Twin Peaks: The Return (2017) when Norma finally got together with love of her life Ed Hurley (Everett McGill).  Which is more than could be said for poor old Agent Cooper (Kyle MacLachlan), apparently left trapped forever in a nightmarish parallel-universe limbo.

 

Yet more actors shuffled off the mortal coil in June: American actress Sylvia Miles, wonderfully pathetic in 1969’s Midnight Cowboy, on the 12th; frequently villainous American character actor Billy Drago on the 24th; and British actor Bryan Marshall, who was most memorably cast in 1980’s gangster epic The Long Good Friday, on the 25th.   The French actress Edith Scob, who in her youth made a stir playing the recipient of countless failed face transplants in Georges Franju’s still disturbing horror masterpiece Les Yeux sans Visage (1960), and who also made a late-career appearance in Leos Carax’s Holy Motors (2012), died on the 26th.  And I was particularly sad to hear of the death of British TV actor Paul Darrow on June 3rd.  For people of a certain age, Darrow was the biggest hard-ass in the universe, i.e. Avon, anti-hero of the BBC’s surprisingly downbeat sci-fi series Blake’s 7 (1978-81).

 

Italian movie director Franco Zeffirelli, best known for adapting Shakespeare to the screen in elegant films like Romeo and Juliet (1968) and Hamlet (1990), which generations of British kids then had to watch at school as part of their English syllabus, died on June 15th.  Spanish director Narciso Ibanez Serrador, responsible for 1976’s sinister Who Can Kill a Child? died on the 7th.  And finally, New Orleans’ Dr John, the legendary bluesy, funky, boogie-woogie-ing singer and pianist, passed away on the 6th.  I was lucky enough to see Dr John perform at the Fleadh festival in London’s Finsbury Park in 1998.  Truly, he was the only man in the world who could look cool wearing a pair of hush puppies.

 

From wikipedia.org / © Derek Bridges

 

To be continued.

 

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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Kingsley goes green: book review / The Green Man, by Kingsley Amis

 

(c) Penguin

 

I can claim to be neither an expert on nor a fan of Kingsley Amis.  While I’ve enthusiastically worked my way through the fiction of several of his contemporaries – Anthony Burgess, William Golding, Graham Greene – until recently I’d read only a couple of Amis’s short stories and one of his books, Lucky Jim.  The latter was an early (1954) example of the literary sub-genre now known as the ‘campus novel’ and I have to say I found it pretty dated and unfunny.

 

I suspect the main reason for my aversion to Kingsley Amis, though, is the persona he projected when he was alive.  He didn’t seem like a nice piece of work and so I rarely felt an urge to dip into his writing.  In the 1950s he trumpeted his support for the Labour Party but by the 1980s he’d become an enthusiastic fan of Mrs Thatcher.  He seemed to me pretty typical of major figures in Britain’s arts and media establishments whose politics undergo a severe rightward turn during their lifetimes.  Socialist egalitarianism and liberal permissiveness are great things when you have youth (and a lack of material possessions) on your side.  But when you reach a point in your life when you’re too old, and too moneyed, to benefit from them  any longer, and when a younger, upstart generation arrives on the scene with their own ideas about how to do things, it’s time to change into reactionary old fart and deny those freedoms you once enjoyed to anyone else.

 

But far worse than Amis’s Conservatism was the fact that in later years he seemed unashamedly anti-Semitic, racist and misogynistic.  I’ve read an interview with his long-suffering second wife Elizabeth Jane Howard (who died at the beginning of this year) in which she, rather gallantly, blamed much of that nastiness not on Amis but on his fondness for alcohol.  In other words, his odiousness was really just the drink speaking.  However, I can’t help thinking of an old saying they have in Northern Ireland: “If it’s not in you when you’re sober, it won’t come out of you when you’re drunk.”

 

Still, I have one reason for liking Amis, and that’s because unlike nearly everyone else in Britain’s snobbish literary establishment at the time, he didn’t look down his nose at genre writing – he was openly supportive of it and dabbled in it himself.  For example, Amis was one of Ian Fleming’s most heavyweight admirers and it’s fitting that, after Fleming’s passing, he was the first person to write a non-Fleming James Bond novel, Colonel Sun (which he published in 1968 under the pseudonym Robert Markham).

 

Amis was also a big fan of science fiction and in 1960 he wrote a critique of the genre, New Maps of Hell.  As J.G. Ballard noted, New Maps of Hell was important for science fiction’s development because Amis “threw open the gates of the ghetto, and ushered in a new audience which he almost singlehandedly recruited from those intelligent readers of general fiction who until then had considered science fiction on par with horror comics and pulp westerns.”  Predictably, though, the curmudgeonly Amis went off science fiction in the 1960s when younger sci-fi writers like Ballard, Brian Aldiss, Michael Moorcock, Roger Zelazny, Harlan Ellison and Thomas M. Disch started going all experimental and New Wave-y on him.  Before long he was raging at how those whippersnappers had contaminated his beloved science fiction with horrible things like “pop music, hippie clothes and hairdos, pornography, reefers” and “tricks with typography, one-line chapters, strained metaphors, obscurities, obscenities, drugs, Oriental religions and left-wing politics.”

 

Amis seemed too to be interested in supernatural stories and in 1969 he tried his hand at writing one, a novel called The Green Man.  This has long been a neglected entry in Amis’s oeuvre, overshadowed by more prestigious books like Jake’s Thing (1978) and The Old Devils (1986), out of print and near impossible to find in bookshops.  It was, however, adapted into a three-part drama serial by the BBC in 1990, with the script written by none other than Malcolm Bradbury, an author whose own books like Eating People is Wrong (1959) and The History Man (1975) were examples of the campus novel that Amis had helped pioneer with Lucky Jim.  The TV version of The Green Man starred the splendid Albert Finney and it began with a memorable and grisly sequence that didn’t evoke Kingsley Amis, or Malcolm Bradbury, so much as it evoked Sam Raimi’s 1981 classic schlock-horror movie The Evil Dead.

 

(c) BBC 

 

Unfortunately, when The Green Man was televised, I was in the middle of moving from London to Essex and I didn’t get a chance to see its second or third episodes.  However, I was impressed enough by the first episode to make a mental note to set aside my prejudices against Amis and hunt down the original novel of The Green Man sometime.

 

Recently, nearly a quarter-century later, I noticed a new edition of The Green Man sitting on a shelf in a bookshop, bought it and finally got around to reading it.  So here are my thoughts about this particular foray by Kingsley Amis into the realms of the paranormal and macabre.

 

The Green Man is narrated by the fifty-something Maurice Allington – the character played by Albert Finney in its TV adaptation – who owns and runs an inn of some antiquity, the titular Green Man, on the way from London to Cambridge.  Living on the premises with his second wife Joyce (his junior by a number of years), his teenage daughter Amy and his ailing father, Allington is unnerved when the hoary old ghost stories associated with the inn over the centuries start to intrude on reality.  In particular, he has several encounters with the ghost of Thomas Underhill, a supposed sorcerer who lived in the building in the 17th century; and he senses the presence of a more monstrous apparition, a demonic creature that Underhill once summoned up from the local woods to destroy his antagonists.  The inn’s name is a clue to this demon’s constitution.

 

Allington eventually realises he’s become enmeshed in a scheme that Underhill has devised to transcend his own death.  However, his attempts to outwit the ghostly sorcerer are hampered by his own failings: his ill-health, his liking for the bottle – to which, of course, his family and friends attribute his strange visions – and the distractions posed by his carnal appetites.  Not only is the lusty Allington engaged in an affair with another younger woman, Diana, who’s the wife of the local doctor, but he’s devised a less-than-noble scheme of his own.  He wants to persuade both Joyce and Diana to participate with him in a ménage à trois.

 

I hadn’t got far into The Green Man before I’d realised that both the book’s greatest strength and its greatest weakness are its characterisations.  Amis does an excellent job of sketching Allington, with his many vices and virtues.  He’s annoyingly conceited, intellectually as well as socially.  Talking about his book collection, he says sniffily: “I have no novelists, finding theirs a puny and piffling art, one that, even at its best, can render truthfully no more than a few minor parts of the total world it pretends to take as its field of reference.  A man has only to feel some emotion, any emotion, anything differentiated at all, and spend a minute speculating how this would be rendered in a novel… to grasp the pitiful inadequacy of all prose fiction to the task it sets itself.”  Allington, in fact, is a poetry snob.  “By comparison… verse – lyric verse, at least – is equidistant from fiction and life, and is autonomous.”

 

(Actually, his love for the poetic and his disdain for the more mechanical medium of prose remind me slightly of the late 19th century / early 20th century occult writer Arthur Machen, who speculated in his fiction that supernatural phenomena are best perceived by people with receptive intellects and imaginations – the very young, the insane and the poetically-inclined.  Perhaps that’s why, of all the people living, dining and drinking in the Green Man, the verse-loving Allington is the one with whom the supernatural intelligence of Thomas Underhill makes contact.)

 

Meanwhile, feminist readers will no doubt feel like strangling Allington on account of his baser musings.  “Ejaculation,” he comments at one point, “as all good mistresses know, is a great agent of change of mind and mood.”

 

And yet as a bundle of contradictory traits – stuck-up, sexist, cynical, drunken, cranky, comical, cunning, occasionally courageous and very occasionally principled – Allington is a believable figure in this story.  He might be a hapless mess of vanity, lust and booze, but at the book’s finale, when he rushes out of the inn and into the night to try to save the sleepwalking Amy from the predatory green man, we aren’t surprised that he shows a streak of heroism as well.  Incidentally, with hindsight, it’s easy to see why Albert Finney was ideal for the role in the TV version.

 

But on the other hand, Amis is hopeless at drawing believable female characters here.  Joyce and Diana give little impression of having minds of their own.  They seem like manifestations of Amis’s notion of what women should be like – statuesque, well-bred and utterly pliable to the needs of the local Alpha Male.  “Together,” says Allington, “they made an impressive, rather erectile sight, both of them tall, blonde and full-breasted…  Dull would he be of soul that would pass up the chance of taking the pair of them to bed.”  In their speech, meanwhile, they spout irritating upper-class adverb-adjective couplings: “jolly closed up”, “perfectly awful”, “frightfully exciting”, “damn good”.  Late on in the book, Allington’s devious ménage à trois plan backfires and Joyce and Diana get their revenge on him, but this isn’t enough to convince me that they’re anything more than Kingsley Amis’s idea of desirable posh totty.

 

Elsewhere in the book, predictably, we’re treated to a list of things in the modern world (or at least, the 1960s) that the grumpy, ageing Amis finds appalling.  He sounds off against radical students: “First one whiskered youth in an open frugiferous shirt, then another with long hair like oakum, scanned me closely as they passed, each slowing almost to a stop the better to check me for bodily signs of fascism, oppression by free speech, passive racial violence and the like.”  He rails against popular music: “Amy’s gramophone was playing some farrago of crashes, bumps and yells from her room down the passage…  I listened, or endured hearing it…”  He has a go at trendy vicars: “I found it odd, and oddly unwelcoming too, to meet a clergyman who was turning out to be, doctrinally speaking, rather to the left of a hardened unbeliever like myself.”  Readers will either find this aggravating or endearing.  Now that Amis has been dead for nearly twenty years, and I’m in the process of turning into a grumpy old man myself, I have to confess I found it rather endearing – more so than I would have if I’d read the novel in my youth.

 

Failures in female characterisation aside, I generally enjoyed The Green Man and I had more fun reading it than I had with Lucky Jim.  However, is the novel successful as a ghost story?  In my opinion, for a ghost story to succeed, it needs to convey a degree of believability.  If I can be lulled into thinking, however fleetingly, that this could be happening, I’m more likely to be affected, unsettled, even frightened by it.  On this account, Amis’s book almost succeeds.  For the most part, he convincingly moves the plot from being about a man whose home has some strange old tales attached to it to being about a man who has to deal with the unwelcome, ghostly protagonists of those tales.  To facilitate this jump from the credible to the incredible, Amis adds some persuasive background details.  A section where Allington visits a library at Cambridge University in search of a long-lost journal by Underhill has a scholarly believability that’s worthy of M.R. James.

 

Alas, all is betrayed by a scene near the novel’s climax where Amis goes too far and introduces another supernatural character, the most famous and powerful supernatural character of the lot – guess who it is.  Now any story involving ghosts has implications about the wider scheme of things.  It makes life after death a fact, which raises questions about the design and purpose of the universe and about the intelligence that might be behind it.  However, for the sake of believability, it’s advisable for ghost-story writers to keep things localised and small-scale.  In M.R. James’s celebrated short story Oh, Whistle, and I’ll Come to You, my Lad, for example, what’s important is that the hero is being pursued along a beach by a terrifying supernatural entity.  Not that this entity’s existence calls into question our scientific assumptions about the universe – because if it does exist, then scientists are likely wrong and all the priests, magicians and shamans of history were likely right.

 

Amis, unfortunately, can’t resist exploring the universe he’s created in The Green Man further than is necessary and so Allington ends up having an unexpected visit from the Big Man Himself.  Their confrontation resembles something from the classic 1946 Michael Powell / Emeric Pressburger fantasy movie, A Matter of Life and Death.  And that’s what The Green Man promptly becomes, a fantasy rather than a ghost story – a story that’s no longer believable and hence no longer scary.

 

J.G. Ballard once said of Kingsley Amis: “as with so many English novelists he was vaguely suspicious of the power of the imagination: it could be too much of a good thing.  Yet the radical imagination is what we seek in a writer; when we read we want to encounter a very different world that will make sense of our own.”  Ironically, the problem with The Green Man is that in the end, and atypically, Amis lets his own imagination run away with him.  The book would have been more effective if – like those English novelists whom Ballard complains about – he had decided that too much imagination here is a bad thing.

 

By David Smith, from The Guardian

 

You can, by the way, watch Albert Finney strut his glorious stuff in the BBC’s adaptation of The Green Man on youtube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bdK93bYG6gE.