From the moon to the loon

 

From pixabay.com

© BBC

 

Today marks the fiftieth anniversary of the historic day when humanity, in the form of Neil Armstrong, set foot on another world.  For yes, although in astronomical terms the moon is a small, insignificant and boring piece of rock skulking in the earth’s immediate neighbourhood, it’s still not of this world and so qualifies as another world.

 

To be honest, considering everything that’s happened since, I don’t particularly want to write about it.  This resulting blogpost will be at best be a nostalgic wallow and at worst an exercise in despair.  But anyway.  Here goes.

 

Even I am slightly too young to remember seeing Armstrong plant his spacesuit-encased foot on the lunar turf on July 20th, 1969.  But I do recall live TV pictures of a subsequent Apollo mission to the moon in the early 1970s.  Admittedly, I wasn’t altogether sure what I was watching.  At the time my family and I were huddled around a small black-and-white television set in Northern Ireland, which picked up a single channel, BBC1.  (Well, it showed a second channel, Raidio Teilifis Eireann from the Republic of Ireland, if my Dad poked a screwdriver into a hole at the side of the set and did some hazardous, electrocution-risking fiddling with it.)  All I could discern on the screen were some fuzzy pale blobs floating against a blurry dark-grey background.  However, my parents assured me that these were men walking about on the moon, high above us, at that very moment, so I took their word for it.

 

One thing I remember from the Apollo coverage was that the BBC used Richard Strauss’s fanfare Also Sprach Zarathustra as the theme music for their broadcasts.  This had already featured memorably on the soundtrack of Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), the greatest science fiction film ever made, and I assume the BBC used the same recording, performed by the Vienna Philharmonic and conducted by Herbert von Karajan, that appeared on the film.  It was disconcerting when I saw 2001 later, as a teenager, and heard Also Sprach Zarathustra again.  Instead of making me look ahead to the future, to 2001, it stirred associations with the past, with the early 1970s and that grainy old moon-landing footage.

 

It must have been in 1973 that my imagination took a leap almost as giant as the ‘leap for mankind’ that Armstrong spoke of when he descended from the lunar landing module.  This was caused by the arrival of two sets of newly-published encyclopaedias that my parents had seen advertised somewhere and ordered.  They consisted of a 15-volume set with lemony-coloured covers called the Childcraft books that, accordingly, were for children; and a 24-volume set called the World Book series that were for adults and came in sombre, mossy-green covers.  Together, all 39 encyclopaedias just about fitted along the biggest horizontal surface on the sideboard in our living room.  They made an imposing sight because until then I hadn’t suspected that there were enough books in the world to fill the top of our sideboard.

 

I immediately set about reading these encyclopaedias, both the juvenile and adult ones, and my horizons were swiftly widened.  Not all the consequences of this were positive, however.  My parents had neglected to read the small print in the advertisement.  If they had, they would have discovered that the encyclopaedias had been printed in America, by Americans, for Americans, and their contents were duly biased towards America.  As a result, I wasted a lot of time searching in the fields of our farm for evidence that woodchucks, porcupines, prairie dogs and Gila monsters had been foraging there.  Also, some unusual words started to appear in my vocabulary – diaper, candy store, soda fountain, rest room – which at school created much hilarity for my classmates and much misery for me.

 

From ebth.com

 

One feature of these encyclopaedias that rubbed off on me was that, because they were American and because they’d been published just after the moon landings, they were dripping with optimism.  This was a scientific as well as an American optimism.  Yes, there was a time not so long ago when America took science seriously and saw it as one of the key tools for converting the rest of the world to the glories of the American way.  At the age of eight or nine, I lapped all this up.  Unfortunately, with hindsight, I realise that some of the assertions in the encyclopaedias were over-optimistic to say the least.

 

For example, the encyclopaedias predicted that, having reached the moon, it would only be a short time – the 1980s, at the latest – before human beings were tramping around the surface of Mars too.  The ‘S’ volume of the World Book encyclopaedias had a lengthy entry about ‘space travel’ and on one page I found a multi-pictured diagram showing how astronauts were going to get to Mars.  Admittedly, the Mars spaceship in that diagram, as well as having a long, sleek fuselage and a beak-like nose, had wings, which seemed suspicious because by then I knew that in outer space there wasn’t any air and wings were thus superfluous.  (I suspect the artist behind those pictures had been unconsciously influenced by a non-space vehicle that was making a stir at the time, Concorde.)  Elsewhere, there were pictures of what a moonbase – only a few decades away in the future, I was told – would look like, although it was an unprepossessing cylindrical structure that resembled a giant tin-can left as litter in a lunar crater.

 

(Incidentally, it was surely no coincidence that the equally lengthy entry on ‘motion pictures’ in the ‘M’ volume was headed by a handsome colour photograph from Kubrick’s 2001.)

 

Anyway, I assumed this was what my life would be like by the time I’d reached my thirties.  I’d be living on a moonbase, watching Concorde-like spaceships streak past on their way to Mars.

 

Needless to say, as the 1970s wore on, I began to get uneasy about the fact that very little futuristic stuff was happening anymore.  As far as manned spaceflight was concerned, there was just the Skylab project and the space shuttle.  Skylab came to an ignominious end when the by-then empty space station crashed back to earth on July 11th, 1979.  By this time my family had moved to near the town of Peebles in southern Scotland, and on that date I was attending a scout camp outside the neighbouring town of Hawick.  I remember feeling slightly worried that Skylab might fall on top of the field we were camping in and take out the entire 1st Tweeddale Scout Troop.  As for the space shuttle, it received a lot of publicity and hype when it first took off, but it didn’t venture beyond earth’s orbit and, frankly, seemed a bit shit to me.

 

And what had happened to that you-can-do-anything-if-you-put-your-mind-to-it American optimism?  It seemed to fizzle out as the 1970s became one long litany of American trauma: the Vietnam War, the 1973 oil crisis, Watergate, the Iran hostage saga.  I suppose as far as those encyclopaedias were concerned, the writing had already been on the wall because their coverage of modern American history ended with the presidency of Richard Nixon, shortly before Nixon fell spectacularly from grace.  (Though anyone familiar with Nixon’s character would point out that, in the grace stakes, he never had far to fall.)

 

© Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer

 

Still, even Nixon seems a model of intellect and restraint (if not integrity) compared with the specimen we have inhabiting the White House on July 20th, 2019.  Trump’s entire being seems to loudly and violently rebuke that clear-minded scientific positivism that embodied America in 1969, at least as those encyclopaedias portrayed it.  Science?  What’s that?  Trump has tried to slash funding for science and remove it from policy areas in crucial need of it, like the environment and public health.  He’s tried to stop NASA doing research into climate change and tried to censor US Geological Survey press releases so that they don’t mention it.  More generally, he’s made a point of proudly proclaiming his ignorance at every twist and turn of his presidency.  The oaf doesn’t even read books.  Give him a set of encyclopaedias and ten years later he wouldn’t have got past ‘A for aardvark’.

 

Of course this doesn’t matter one whit – indeed, it boosts his popularity – among his core support, who themselves are a ragtag army of anti-science ignoramuses: climate change deniers, anti-vaxxers, crackpot conspiracy theorists and religious fruitcakes who maintain that the universe was created in six days 6000 years ago.

 

It’s particularly depressing at the moment to see Trump slandering non-white female politicians – knowing fine well this will energise his racist support base in the run-up to the 2020 presidential elections – when it’s documented how black female mathematicians helped keep NASA’s show on the road in the 1960s.  Today, some of Trump’s supporters would probably want to ‘send them back’ to Africa.

 

Yet it’s too easy to scapegoat Trump for all the world’s ills.  Humanity generally hasn’t distinguished itself during the fifty years since NASA and the Apollo astronauts gave our species its finest hour.  Our collective greed, laziness, materialism and indifference are taking a devastating toll on the earth’s environment and resources and unless we pay heed to the warnings of the majority of climate and environmental scientists – if, indeed, it’s not already too late – I don’t see much of a future, or any sort of future, for us.  Maybe, just as Ernest Hemingway spent the late 1920s knocking out classics of 20th century American literature like The Sun Also Rises (1926) and A Farewell to Arms (1929), but three decades later had become a sad, unpleasant, paranoid pisshead who ended up blowing off his head with a shotgun, humanity has already peaked, is now in decline and is heading for a graceless and suicidal end.

 

Fifty years ago, the tune that defined humanity seemed to be Also Sprach Zarathustra.  Today, I’m more inclined to think our theme tune is Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds’ People Ain’t No Good.

 

From pixabay.com

 

Sir Patrick Moore: 1923 – 2012

 

(c) BBC

 

It was appropriate that the astronomer Sir Patrick Moore, who died six days ago, dedicated his life to surveying the universe.  For anyone who grew up accustomed to the monthly appearances of his astronomy-themed TV show The Sky at Night on late-evening BBC television – indeed, its opening music, At the Castle Gate composed by Jean Sibelius, rang out of one’s TV set with a lunar-cycle regularity – Moore seemed as old as the universe.

 

He wasn’t quite so aged, of course, but in television terms he was astonishingly venerable.  The Sky at Night, with Moore at the helm, was first broadcast on April 27th, 1957, five months before the Soviet Union launched Sputnik 1 into an elliptical low-earth orbit.  That meant Moore was presenting the show while Jack Webb was still playing Joe Friday in Dragnet and Phil Silvers was still performing as Sergeant Bilko.  Quatermass II, the second of Nigel Kneale’s seminal 1950s sci-fi horror dramas featuring the rocket scientist Professor Bernard Quatermass, had aired but not the third one, Quatermass and the Pit.  He was on TV two years before The Twilight Zone, a show indelibly linked in most people’s minds with black-and-white 1950s telly.  He was also broadcasting two years before Rawhide, three years before Coronation Street and five years before Doctor Who.

 

Moore continued to front The Sky at Night right up until its December 2012 episode, which was broadcast just before his death.  Only once did he miss presenting an episode of it, in July 2004, when he almost died from salmonellosis after eating an infected goose egg.  During that time, Moore’s guests on the show included Wernher von Braun, Arthur C. Clarke, Fred Hoyle, Carl Sagan and Sir Bernard Lovell, the radio astronomer and director of Jodrell Bank Observatory who died very recently himself.  (Lovell claimed that during the Cold War the Soviets had tried to kill him with radiation poisoning.  It’s said too that Nigel Kneale was sufficiently inspired by him to give his fictional scientist-hero Quatermass the same first name, Bernard.)  Astronauts Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin also turned up on The Sky at Night and it was a point of pride with Moore that he was the only person in history to have met Neil Armstrong, Yuri Gagarin and Orville Wright.

 

But he was far more than a TV-presenting head.  As an astronomer, he remained stubbornly amateur and unqualified, having turned down the offer of an academic grant and the opportunity to study at Cambridge University following World War II.  Nonetheless, he was only amateur astronomer ever to be granted membership of the International Astronomical Union.  The moon was his special subject and he was credited with discovering the Marie Orientale, the Eastern Sea, though Moore later said the German astronomer Julius Heinrich Franz had found it first.  He came up with the term ‘transient lunar phenomenon’ (TLP) to describe the mysterious light and colour changes that briefly occur on patches of the moon’s surface.  In the middle of the Cold War, the Soviets took a shine to Moore and invited him over to meet Gagarin – they obviously preferred him to Sir Bernard Lovell – and he was also the first Western astronomer to see photographs taken by the Soviet Luna 3 probe in 1959, which allowed the moon’s far side to be mapped for the first time.

 

It hardly got mentioned in the obituaries this week, but Moore was also a writer of fiction – more precisely, of juvenile science fiction.  He wrote several series of rip-roaring sci-fi children’s books that featured heroic (and obviously, scientific) teenage characters with names like Gregory Quest (1955-1956), Maurice Gray (1955-1959), Robin North (1960-1964) and Scott Saunders (1977-1979).  Their titles conjure up images of a simpler and more optimistic sci-fi era: Quest of the Spaceways, Captives of the Moon, Spy in Space, The Terror Star and so on.  His writing earned him an entry in the online Encyclopaedia of Science Fiction: http://www.sf-encyclopedia.com/entry/moore_patrick

 

Eccentric to say the least – as well as astronomy and writing children’s science fiction, his enthusiasms included cricket, playing the xylophone, monocle-wearing and chess (he carried a pocket-sized chess set with him at all times) – his demeanour on The Sky at Night was that of a very old-style and somewhat intimidating school teacher.  His urgent manner and the way his body barely seemed to fit into its tightly-buttoned suit gave him an aura of impatience and cantankerousness, even when he wasn’t feeling tetchy.  However, given the technical problems he had to deal with on The Sky at Night, especially the dreadful British weather that spoiled many a view of a meteor shower, a passing comet or a lunar eclipse, any tetchiness was justified.  There was also a moment during a live TV commentary about the Luna 4 probe when he opened his mouth to speak and a huge fly buzzed into it.  Old pro that he was, Moore kept talking to the camera.  As he remarked later, the experience wasn’t pleasant for him, but it was worse for the fly.

 

The British public, even the many who didn’t know or care anything about astronomy, took him to their hearts as a lovable eccentric, though if you were within hearing range of him when he started expounding his political views, he might have seemed less lovable.  In his autobiography, published in 2003, he readily described his politics as being to the right of Attila the Hun’s and he professed to taking a dim view of immigrants, homosexuals and any women with ideas above their station.  He was never short of a uncomplimentary word to say about the Germans – the ‘Krauts’ – though as his fiancé Lorna, who’d served during World War II as an ambulance driver, was killed by a German bomb that struck her vehicle in 1943, he might be excused that particular belligerence.  Inevitably, the New Statesman has already been debating whether we should be mourning the death of someone with Moore’s political outlook: http://www.newstatesman.com/martin-robbins/2012/12/sir-patrick-moore-great-and-bad-man.

 

But he wasn’t wholly blimpish.  He had a loathing for fox-hunting and the aristocratic types who indulged in it – ‘filthy people’, he called them once.  (An animal lover, he gave support to various animal charities and when he died at his home the other day, it was in the company of his beloved cat Ptolemy.)  He also opposed capital punishment and disliked George W. Bush because of the Iraq War.  He spent three years serving as director of the Armagh Planetarium in Northern Ireland in the 1960s, but was glad to leave the province because he was dismayed by the anti-Catholic prejudice he saw there.

 

Reactionary curmudgeon he may have been, but Moore always seemed popular with the younger and more right-on members of Britain’s comedy set.  During the 1970s he made so many guest appearances in The Goodies, a show best described as the anarchic kid-brother to Monty Python’s Flying Circus, that he seemed almost a semi-regular on it.  In one episode of The Goodies, Animals, there was a spoof nature documentary that studied the BBC’s science-programme presenters as if they were exotic species of wildlife.  Moore was seen perched up a tree with a telescope and was described “a creature perfectly adapted to living at night… so specialised that it’s almost lost the use of its neglected eye”: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c4nq5i64xSE.

 

He appeared in a radio instalment of Douglas Adams’ celebrated The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and was good mates with impersonator Jon Culshaw, who like all British impersonators in the last half-century had honed his own impersonation of Moore to perfection.  When Culshaw gave Moore a prank phone call on his show Dead Ringers, pretending to be Doctor Who and asking for advice on where to land on Mars, Moore wasn’t in the least bit ruffled and gave him some suggestions:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vMOl_Jh8O_E.  He was a guest too on Paul Merton’s name-your-pet-hates show Room 101 where, politically incorrect as ever, one of the things he placed in Room 101 were ‘women newsreaders’.  Merton ended the programme with a clip showing Culshaw and a bemused-looking Moore attempting to play the Prodigy song Firestarter on a pair of xylophones: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JH9L6VonhQc.

 

Though Moore described all modern pop and rock music as ‘indescribably awful’, he struck up a friendship with Queen guitarist Brian May, who long before had abandoned his studies for a PhD at the Imperial College Department of Physics and Mathematics to join Freddie Mercury and co (though he did co-author two research papers, Mgl Emission in the Night Sky Spectrum and An Investigation of the Motion of Zodiacal Dust Particles [Part 1], in 1972 and 1973).  I was never much of a Queen fan, at least, not after News of the World in 1977, but I liked how after Mercury’s death in 1991 May went back to his studies and completed his PhD in astrophysics, at Moore’s urging.  Given Moore’s uncharitable opinion of rock music, he probably assumed May was on his way to getting a proper job at last: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=61z0uatXU1k.

 

Meanwhile, Alex James – bassist with legendary 1990s Britpop band Blur, columnist, cheesemaker and ‘artist in residence’ at the Astrophysics Department of the University of Oxford – was such a Moore fan that he went and interviewed him for the Idler magazine in 2001.  The end result was, predictably, a bit surreal: http://alexjamesonline.tripod.com/stargeezers.html.

 

As for myself, I recall being seven or eight years old and managing to stay up late a couple of times to see Moore on The Sky at Night.  Back then I was still a little scared of the dark.  If I was no longer scared of the dark in my bedroom, I certainly felt uneasy at night when I stepped out of the house.  I lived in a rural part of Northern Ireland, where there were few streetlights and there were a lot of ghost stories doing the rounds.  But then I saw Moore on television extolling the wonders of the night-sky and his gruff enthusiasm was infectious.  After that, when I was outside, I only had to look upwards – at least, when the weather conditions allowed me to see anything – and there’d be enough stuff up there to take my mind off what might be lurking in the dark at ground level.  I can still remember, for instance, my excitement the first time I saw a meteor.  And generally, the rural Irish sky on a cloudless night was a spectacular sight.

 

So thanks for the coping strategy, Sir Patrick.

 

I blame Neil Armstrong (…and Gerry Anderson… and Arthur C. Clarke)

 

August saw the death of Neil Armstrong, the first-ever human being to set foot on an alien world.  All right, it was only the moon, which is hardly in the same league as Krypton, Tatooine or the fancy three-dimensional planet in Avatar, but for a wee species that only evolved out of the Homo genus about 200,000 years ago, that first step of his in 1969 was still pretty impressive.

 

Armstrong’s passing got me thinking about an uncomfortable question.  How come the future has turned out to be so rubbish?

 

Even I am a little too young to remember seeing Armstrong plant his spacesuit-encased foot on the lunar turf 43 years ago, but I can just about recall live TV pictures of a subsequent Apollo mission to the moon in the early 1970s.  Admittedly, I wasn’t altogether sure of what I was watching.  At the time my family and I were huddled around a tiny black-and-white television set in Northern Ireland, which only picked up one channel, the BBC.  (Well, it showed a second channel, Raidio Teilifis Eireann from the Irish Free State, if my Dad poked a screwdriver into a hole at the side of the set and did some dangerous-looking twiddling.)  All I could make out on the screen were some fuzzy pale blobs floating against a fuzzy dark-grey background.  However, my Dad assured me that these were men walking about on the moon, high above us, at that very moment, so I took his word for it.

 

It must have been in 1973 that my imagination took a leap that was almost as giant as the ‘leap for mankind’ that Armstrong spoke of when he descended from the lunar landing module.  The cause of this were two sets of newly-published encyclopaedias that my parents had seen advertised somewhere and ordered – a 15-volume set with lemony-coloured covers called the Childcraft books that, accordingly, were for children; and a 24-volume set called the World Book series that were for adults and came in sombre, mossy-green covers.  Together, all 39 encyclopaedias just about fitted along the top of the sideboard in our living room.  They made an imposing sight.  Until then, I hadn’t suspected that there were enough books in the world to fill our sideboard.

 

I immediately set about reading these encyclopaedias, both the juvenile and adult ones, and my horizons were swiftly widened.  Not all the consequences of this were positive, however.  My parents had neglected to read the small print in the advertisement – if they had, they would have discovered that the encyclopaedias had been printed in America, by Americans, for Americans, and their contents were duly biased towards America.  As a result, I wasted a lot of time searching in the fields of our farm for evidence that woodchucks, porcupines, prairie dogs and Gila monsters had been foraging there.  Also, some quaint words started to appear in my vocabulary – diaper, candy store, soda fountain, rest room – which inevitably had my classmates at primary school tearing the piss out of me.

 

One feature of these encyclopaedias that really rubbed off on me was that, because they were American and because they’d been published just after the moon landings, they were dripping with optimism.  This was a scientific as well as an American optimism.  It’s hard to believe today, now that one of the two main American political parties is infested with right-wing religious fruitcakes who maintain that the universe was built in six days flat a few thousand years ago (http://www.newstatesman.com/blogs/politics/2012/10/republican-congressman-evolution-lies-straight-pit-hell), but there was a time not so long ago when America took science seriously and saw it as one of the key tools in converting the rest of the world to the glories of the American way.  At the age of eight or nine, I lapped all this up – even those assertions in the encyclopaedias that, with the benefit of hindsight, were a bit over-optimistic.

 

For example, the encyclopaedias predicted that, having reached the moon, it would only be a short time – the 1980s, at the latest – before human beings were tramping around the surface of Mars too.  The ‘S’ volume of the World Book encyclopaedias had a lengthy entry about ‘space travel’ and on one page I found a multi-pictured diagram showing how astronauts were going to get to Mars.  Admittedly, the Mars spaceship in that diagram, as well as having a long, sleek fuselage and a beak-like nose, had wings, which seemed a bit suspicious because by then I knew that in outer space there wasn’t any air and wings were thus superfluous.  (I suspect the artist behind those pictures had been unconsciously influenced by a non-space vehicle that was making a stir at the time, Concorde.)  Elsewhere, there were pictures of what a moonbase – only a few decades away in the future, I was told – would look like, although it was an unprepossessing cylindrical structure that resembled a giant tin can left littering a lunar crater.

 

Anyway, I assumed this was what I could expect by the time I’d reached my thirties.  I’d be living on a moonbase, watching Concorde-like spaceships streak past on their way to Mars.

 

My expectations were buoyed further when in the mid-1970s my parents finally got round to buying a new TV set that got three channels, the BBC, RTE and ITV – Independent Television.  Although ITV had (and still has) a reputation for cheap and lowbrow programming in comparison with that made by the BBC, it did broadcast at the time various action / adventure series made by a subsidiary called ITC entertainment, run by the cigar-smoking Jewish-Ukrainian impresario Lord Lew Grade.  Aimed at international markets and at the American market in particular, ITC’s shows commanded higher-than-average budgets and looked quite glossy by the standards of 1960s and 1970s British TV.  They included The Prisoner, The Persuaders, Department S and a host of science-fiction shows made by the remarkable Gerry Anderson.  These I was suddenly able to watch for the first time.

 

Gerry Anderson, of course, is best-known today for his ‘Supermarionation’ sci-fi series, which were populated by puppets and featured special effects that, for the time, looked impressively cinematic: Thunderbirds, Stingray, Fireball XL5, Joe 90…  Not to mention the surprisingly grim Captain Scarlet and the Mysterons, each episode of which began with the rumbling, terrifying Voice of the Mysterons transmitting from Mars and threatening to wreak havoc somewhere on earth (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bV8YbLvGrb0&feature=related).  But it was seeing repeats of Anderson’s first live-action sci-fi show, UFO, made in 1970 and starring Ed Bishop, George Sewell, Michael Billington, Peter Gordeno, Wanda Ventham (Benedict Cumberbatch’s mum) and Gabrielle Drake (Nick Drake’s sister), that convinced me that the future was going to be absolutely brilliant.

 

For UFO, Anderson’s production team envisioned the shape of things to come through a prism of gaudy late-1960s design and fashion, with a smidgeon too of then-fashionable psychedelia.  It didn’t just feature spaceships and moonbases, but also sleek super-cars, talking computers with hallucinogenic panels of flashing lights, giant submarines with detachable nose-modules that turned into aircraft when they reached the ocean surface, guys in groovy-looking suits that didn’t have lapels, and a lot of sexy ladies wearing silver miniskirts and sporting purple hairdos.  (Here’s UFO’s famous title sequence, by the way: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mb4nMFHXxro).  So, I thought, I’d be living on a moonbase, watching spaceships streak past towards Mars, and Gabrielle Drake would be shimmying around me looking fetching in silver and purple.  The future seemed better than ever.

 

Needless to say, as the 1970s wore on, I began to get uneasy about the fact that little futuristic stuff was happening any more.  As far as manned spaceflight was concerned, not much occurred after the Skylab project – yes, there was the space shuttle, but that didn’t venture beyond earth’s orbit and, frankly, seemed a bit shit.  Meanwhile, the Viking 1 probe landed on Mars but, alas, found nothing interesting.  There were no aliens, Martian canals or three-legged war machines shooting out death-rays – just some boring geological formations that had once been river valleys.  And what had happened to that you-can-do-anything-if-you-put-your-mind-to-it American optimism?  It seemed to fizzle out as the 1970s became one long litany of American trauma: the Vietnam War, the 1973 oil crisis, Watergate, the Iran hostage saga.

 

I still held out hope, though.  In the mobile library that came to our village every week, I picked up a copy of Arthur C. Clarke’s novelisation of 2001: A Space Odyssey, the classic late-1960s sci-fi movie he’d co-written with director Stanley Kubrick.  It was reassuring to read Clarke’s sober, matter-of-fact account of a journey from the earth to the moon and then on to Saturn.  (In Kubrick’s film, the final destination was changed to Jupiter because the job of convincingly depicting Saturn’s rings was too much for his special effects team.)  By then I was well-versed in astronomy and space travel and the book seemed to reinforce everything I knew already about the subjects.  It also made the idea that humanity would be out exploring more of space in the early 21st century seem feasible and, indeed, logical.

 

When I finally saw 2001 the movie, however, it was the early 1980s and even I had to concede that it’d become a bit of a museum piece.  In some ways it possessed an admirable, almost documentary-like realism – for instance, I was impressed by the fact that, unlike the spaceships in every other sci-fi movie I’d seen, Kubrick’s spaceships didn’t make any noise (because sound doesn’t travel in the vacuum of space) – but it struck me as a historical artefact nonetheless because it was clearly rooted in a past time and in past conceptions of what lay ahead.  It offered a late-1960s view of the future, one that just wasn’t plausible any longer in 1981 or 1982.

 

(By then, the Mad Max movies had started to do the rounds and, after the oil shortages of the 1970s, they presented an unfortunately more credible vision of what the 21st century might be like.  It was also telling that a couple of years earlier, in 1978, Lord Grade’s ITC Entertainment, which had once stimulated my space-age fantasies with the Gerry Anderson shows, had produced the movie Capricorn One – a cynical sci-fi thriller about a NASA expedition to Mars that is actually a hoax, with the supposed landing on the Martian surface being filmed in a TV studio in the American desert.)

 

And now in 2012 I find myself inhabiting a world far removed from the visions that Neil Armstrong, Gerry Anderson and Arthur C. Clarke inspired in me during my childhood.  An international space station has been in low earth orbit for the past dozen years (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/International_Space_Station) but, still, little else is happening on the manned space-travel front – I doubt very much if people will get to Mars in my lifetime and I’m beginning to wonder if they will get there at all, ever.  Okay, I spend my working days squinting into the screen and poking at the keyboard of a computer, but it doesn’t seem like a proper computer.  After all, when a proper computer developed a fault, it would surely – like HAL in 2001 – start singing ‘Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do…’  Mine just mutely informs me that it has encountered a problem and is going to shut down.

 

In fact, the only thing that anyone back then got right about the future was the scenario in Gerry Anderson’s Captain Scarlet.  For many years, up until recently, we did cower as the Voice of the Mysterons, at regular intervals, threatened to wreak havoc in our lives – though to be fair, it wasn’t the Voice of the Mysterons broadcasting from Mars, but the Voice of Osama Bin Laden broadcasting via smuggled-out video cassettes from a compound in Pakistan.  (I often wonder if the ten-year-old Osama watched that show on television in late-1960s Riyadh and borrowed a few ideas from it.)

 

Armstrong departed from this world – again, and this time for good – on August 25th.  Clarke died back in 2008 (whereas poor old Kubrick didn’t even live to see 2001).  And Gerry Anderson, I was saddened to read recently, is now suffering from Alzheimer’s disease (http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-oxfordshire-18614483).

 

And that’s ironic in a way, for I sometimes feel I am suffering from a reverse form of Alzheimer’s – not one that erases my memories of the past through neuro-degeneration, but one that erases my fanciful memories of the future through on-going exposure to dull, disillusioning reality.