The Finkler Question

by Howard Jacobson

I've always been suspicious of the Booker Prize: a solid, stick-in-the-mud reward to literary doggedness and middlebrow worthiness that guarantees reading matter for the leafy home counties if nothing else. As a Nobel Prize lite it tends to award writers for what they mean rather than what they write. 

Howard Jacobson's The Finkler Question has a central question that falls perfectly in the Booker court: what is Jewishness? And what does it mean to be Jewish in England today? It's a question that it signally fails to answer.

Jacobson's method in posing this question is to tell the story of three men and the women who orbit them (my language here merely reflects the novel's sexism rather than my own - I'm a new man , to quote Roots Manuva). 
The men in question are: Julian Treslove, professional double; Sam Finkler, media philosopher; and Libor Sevcik, a Czech emigre and schoolteacher turned gossip columnist. 

And that's where the problems start. These people are completely implausible, and live in a world that seems to exist at best in parallel to the real one, at worst not at all. Libor lives in a grand "apartment" looking out over Regent's Park (but who in England says apartment when "flat" will do?). Likewise Julian Treslove's "apartment" is not in Hampstead, but rather in a place that people merely claim to be Hampstead. Very funny to people who live in Hampstead maybe, but for people who couldn't even afford a terraced house in any of London's grottiest boroughs (i.e. most of us) the humour is pretty much academic. 
Yes, in this book we are in the charmed circle of the do-nothing, loll-about arty-farty rich - people who for no good reason have large "apartments" in St. John's Wood, take on and drop BBC jobs at a whim and for whom money is no object and no concern. 

Added to that, Howard Jacobson's powers of description at no point ruffle the slick surface of the verbiage. It's all talk. I longed for a brief passage of description, and curt, indicative sentence that telegraphically summarized a feeling, a state of mind, the overall tilt of the narrative. But there's nothing of the sort. It's all anecdote after anecdote. In fact I have to wonder whether it's a novel at all. 

The result is a storyline that meanders like a slow-moving river without the slightest danger of penury, dearth or excitement. We are in a world of talkers, or tale tellers, of babblers, whose telltale babbleologies are meant to make us laugh, make us cry, but leave us feeling rather…bored. Yes, Howard Jacobson has managed to take one of the most interesting and controversial questions of our time (the Jewish one that is) and make it dull. I suppose that that is also an achievement of sorts. 

The Manuscript Found in Saragossa

The Manuscript Found in Saragossa by Jan Potocki

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


I've never been a particularly fast reader and this book was consumed in the smallest of sips until I was stuck in hospital for a week and swallowed the last 300 pages in one gulp.
Jan Potocki sounds like a character that Jan Potocki would invent: nobleman (count to be exact), warrior, diplomat, poet, lover, etc., etc. According to legend he killed himself with a decorative strawberry from the top of his silver sugar canister. Each day he filed away at it for a few strokes and when he it was through he settled his bills with said silver berry.
Of course, this tale isn't part of the novel, but it might as well be. The whole story cycle is wrapped in various layer of narrative: a French officer who discovers the eponymous manuscript; Alfons von Worden, the young Flemish nobleman on whom the story centres; and the various other protagonists whose stories we are party to.
Initially the book delivers well on creepiness and ghoulish goings-on, but as it advances it becomes increasingly earthbound, or rather earth-scouring, because we are dragged from the mountains of Andalusia to Madrid, to the New World, North Africa, Sicily and Spain, the Hapsburg empire, Egypt, Palestine and beyond.
All the while what we hear are stories of the "I was born the first son of a grandee in the largest town in Murcia" kind. They are on some level formulaic, but also charming the lightness (or complete absence) of characterisation. Here action is all.
I don't know if the above qualify as reservations, but I would certainly not recommend this book to everyone. It packs a massive amount of stories into a relatively small space, has a density that might not be everyone's cup of tea, and follows a relentless course through metaphysics, cabala, islam, picaresque and adventure novel. It's also a fascinating meditation on romanticism and anti-modernity that only reveals its true colours very late in the game.
If that doesn't put you off, by all means give it a go. You could be pleasantly surprised.

View all my reviews >>

The Economist chastises the American right

Not ususally a fount of invective against right-wing thinking, The Economist is nonetheless a newspaper of considered opinions, and the following piece enlivened my ride to work with its mild-mannered obliteration of everything that the Amercia right is doing at present.

Take a listen. I think you'll find it illuminating and amusing in equal measures.

I just love the way that the two rather posh English chaps egg each other on until they come to a set of quite devastating conclusions.

John Adams, Youtube and stickiness: does the Google paradigm belong in classical music?

On a recent visit to the London, John Adams was interviewed on BBC Radio 4’s Start the Week programme. He was in town to conduct the British première of his City Noir symphony, but also mentioned the fact that Youtube had approached him to write a piece for the Youtube symphony orchestra. Unfortunately, they wanted something with a recognizable tune in the first two seconds. Oops, wrong composer!

Read more on High-C.com

Joseph O'Neill's Netherland: A Novel

After a strong start I found that this novel, which was lauded to the skies on its appearance a few years ago, begins to flag. My main problem here is the central character, Hans von den Broek, whose obscene wealth means that he has the kind of existential problems that only afflict the very rich: does my beautiful successful wife love me enough? What is the final meaning of this diamond-encrusted vacuum?

If there were any kind of ironic distance inside the narrative, this would not be a problem, but O'Neill appears to tell it pretty straight. Maybe this is what we should expect of a pragmatic Hollander, but with the weight of his self-searching ennui upon us, it would sometimes be a relief to get outside his head.

Hans is if course a sort of cipher for modern man and the dissolution of the American dream in the wake of 9/11, but it's hard to feel too much sympathy for someone who rents an apartment in the Chelsea Hotel for $6,000 a month and flies to London fortnightly for family visits. Correction: it should be possible for a good writer to either ironise or emotionalise the protagonist's situation effectively regardless of income or situation, but O'Neill's method produces a central character who is curiously flat, curiously incapable of anything but the shallowest feelings. Maybe that's intentional, but a writer like Evelyn Waugh or even Don DeLillo would have made more of it.

Overall a good read but not a great book.

Europeans are crazy and unhappy, but at least they're not dead

Rebecca Hall (Vicky) and Scarlett Johansson (Christina).
Also in this picture: Barcelona

Vicky Christina Barcelona fits well into the "Woody abroad" genre that
comprises pretty much any Woody Allen film not made in New York
(correction: not made in Manhattan). Spain is a series of attractive
tourist views, Spanish people are either having sex, looking steamy or
gustating in a sexy way, so watch out any bland, parboiled American
ingenues that happen to fall into this fragrant and meaty broth.

The film starts with the arrival of the eponymous heroines in the same
city, all of which is told to us by a flat, sardonic narration that
continues through the film, giving an air of Lars von Trier's Dogville
to the piece: whatever happens on-screen is provided with a stark,
dismissive description, the effect of which is to distance the action
(which is schematic at best) even further from the viewer.


The title song, too adds a sarcastic note to Woody Allen's Spanish genre study

What does happen is an absurd intertwining of lusts, doubts and
desires, which tease tall moody Vicky and blonde sexpot Christina into
a frenzy around the irredeemably macho presence of Javier Bardem. As
such it's not a bad effort: the girls loosen up under the Spanish sun,
and Bardem hams it up as the unshaven, bacchanalian stereotype of
masculinity. But the whole operation is so diagrammatic and so undercut
by the cruel narration that you have to start wondering what Woody
really thinks that he is doing.

That only really becomes apparent when Penelope Cruz hits the screen
and saves the film. My god, I am really turning into a big PC fan.
She seems to be capable of doing anything, saving anything, and here,
as Bardem's ex-wife Maria Elena she breaks through the film's study of
types with a performance that is as absurd as it is riveting. Somehow,
despite her unbelievably exaggerated manner, she seems to be the only
real person on the screen, while the others are just playing their parts.

So the film keeps going, people do stuff and the narrator's deadpan,
snarky manner reminds us that it's all ridiculous, all pretty pointless, like.
When the film does finish, the statement it makes appears to be
pretty bleak too. Vicky returns to America, to live with the husband
that she does not love, Christina goes back too, still searching,
having been unable to find satisfaction, even in a pre-lapsarian menage
a trois.

I might be completely wrong, but it seems that the wider point that
Woody is making is pretty unfavourable about his fellow Americans:
Barcelona offers both girls a glimpse of how life could be, and both of
them are too scared to seize it. The Spanish people in the film (who
are of course cartoon Spaniards) by contrast carry on with their
crazed, passion-filled existences. They might not be very happy, but
they are very much alive.

I have to declare that I'm a very big Woody Allen fan and would be
prepared to watch anything that he makes. Sometimes that leads to great
pleasure (as in the classics of the late seventies and early eighties),
and sometimes to confusion and boredom (as in the execrable Match
Point, which I really hated). Vicky Christina Barcelona is neither a
high water mark nor a low tide on that scale, but it is a work apart.
It seems to be that it's much darker than most of Woody's
output, a deeply alienated analysis of what is wrong with America (we're
talking tail-end Bush era here),albeit through the means of desultory
comedy. Without Penelope Cruz it would have been a lot darker still.
She's the star, or should be. Next time you take a trip abroad Woody,
why not kick back and let Penelope run the show?

Spoon's nano-rock

I'm not a music theorist and can't really explain this 100% to my satisfaction, but I think there's something very interesting happening in Spoon's music that isn't very present in most modern music, especially in the rock/indie rock pigeonhole, which is where they are usually categorised. So please bear with me and feel free to comment if you have another opinion.

What is it that makes Spoon different from the other 10,000 indie rock bands in America? My feeling is that it's something that happens at an almost molecular level, or, if we see the beat, the pulse as the smallest unit of rock music, it's the nano level. How does that happen?

A few weeks ago I got the change to find out in the flesh, when I went to see Spoon live. And what a show it was. I arrived with very high expectations and they were more than fulfilled. Well into their second decade, the band continue to hone their unique take on leftfield rock, crafting a sound that mixes dub inflexions with angular new wave sounds. But describing what they do as a mere mixing and matching is wholly insufficient. Because it seems to me that Spoon have managed to rebuild rock from the ground up, taking the lessons of dub and dancefloor music and applying them at the most basic level of their sound: the bass and the beat.

In jazz innovation has always begun with the rhythm section - the great breakthroughs of Charlie Parker, Miles Davis and John Coltrane were all predicated on the interplay of the double bass and drums. Spoon's Rob Pope (bass) and Jim Eno (drums) do a similar thing with rock, whittling down the cage of 4/4 time to the singular pulse that is their signature sound. The result is a style which is minimalist, funky and inflected. Rather than plastering "dance" affectations over a standard rock track, it is this syncopated base motif that generates their subtle, swinging, but nevertheless rock-steady groove. A good example of this is I turn my camera on from the album Gimme Fiction

On top of this rhythm comes a pared-down take on indie rock, mirroring the pulsing substratum to the extent that it sometimes is reminiscent of both dance music and John Adams or Steve Reich. Put another way, they like staying on the same note for a long time; alternatively, individual figures are stretched and distorted through dub effects resulting in a similar trancelike repetition. The final touch is provided by Britt Daniel's vocals which can range from falsetto-pure to raw and emotional, and deliver often laconic and fragmentary lyrics.

And while the lyrics are sometimes of themselves oblique, their treatment as part of the overall sound further underlines their oneness with the sound, because they are distorted, arbitrarily cut off and otherwise manipulated just like the rest of the music. So you can leave your cigarette lighters in your pockets.

And that's maybe where Spoon also differ from their rock contemporaries. Most indie bands (take Sigur Ros, Fleet Foxes or Tocotronic) or their stadium equivalents (Coldplay, Radiohead) write songs that function on a rhetorical level, building up instrumentation, vocals and emotions in an architectural manner, creating an affective and narrative arc from the song's start to its end. Spoon songs don't usually work this way: the effect is immediate, the sound swallows you, the mood doesn't build in any architectonic sense; instead, as in dance music it circulates, brews and diffuses.

Fatih Akin's Soul Kitchen

"Heimatfilms were noted for their rural settings, sentimental tone and simplistic morality, and centered around love, friendship, family and non-urban life. Also, the polarity between old and young, tradition and progress, rural and urban life was articulated." -Wikipedia

With films like Against the Wall, Crossing the Bridge and The Edge of Heaven, Fatih Akin has set a high aesthetic bar at which his newest work inevitably stumbles. Which is not to say that the film is a failure by any means, simply that it must be judged as a minor work in this impressive directors oeuvre.

Set in Hamburg's seedy demi-monde, the film relates the fortunes of the Soul Kitchen restaurant and its unhappy-go-lucky proprietor, with a meat-and-two-veg narrative arc from wretched normality through multiple adversities to a slightly more hopeful normality. And while the restaurant moves up-scale gastronomically the story remains comfort food throughout, providing plenty of opportunities for comic set pieces and tragi-comic misunderstandings.

What we end up with is a patchwork of scenes, connected by a narrative strand that connects property speculation, prostitution, drugs and music. None of it quite makes sense, but this is a film ruled by the heart and not the head. What it lacks in precision it makes up for in warmth.

In general the performances are impressive, and the unavoidable Moritz Bleibtreu (who seems to be compulsory casting in any German film worth its salt) is particularly engaging as the protagonist's jailbird brother, constantly swinging his prayer beads as hustles.

The film's lightness of touch is perhaps its saving grace: the music complements the story without dominating; food and cookery play a subordinate, if enjoyable role, but never do we get too bogged down in the niceties of nouvelle cuisine. And this must be the first major film in which Skype plays such a major role. Product placement perhaps but very realistically done.

As an ironic take on the Heimatfilm, the interplay of cultures - Greek, Turkish, German, whatever - is handled in a no-nonsense workmanlike way. Perhaps it takes a German of Turkish extraction to do this. My feeling is that other German directors would be more sheepish in their handling of these issues.

In conclusion I'd say that the film is good, not great, and shows that Fatih Akin can also make a gentle, feel-good comedy without compromising his higher aesthetic achievements.

Shah of Shahs by Ryszard Kapuściński

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Shah of Shahs (Penguin Modern Classics)
by Ryszard Kapuściński

From the cover you would believe that Shah of Shahs tells the story of Mohammed Reza, the last Shah of Iran. But in fact the destiny of this cruel, hapless and slightly silly habitué of Swiss ski resorts is only part of the picture.
Rather, Kapuściński's theme here, as in The Emperor before it, is not the person but the ecosystem of repression that keeps a dictator in power. In the Shah's case it was the villainous secret police, known as Savak, that shored up his throne with a rule of terror that in Kapuściński's description makes Stalin's Russia sound like a walk in the park.
Eventually the Iranian people turned on their oppressors in a bloody revolution that was powered by self-sacrifice and martyrs' blood. Here too, Kapuściński is riveting in tracing the moment at which inner resistance turns to outward defiance, leading with ever greater urgency to the ultimate overthrow and ejection of an unloved monarch. But in this the Shah is no more present than any other member of the crowd. He is, rather, a cipher in military gear, a puppet cut loose and greying at the temples.
In his work as a reporter for the Polish news agency, Kapuściński witnessed dozens of coups and revolutions. The Iranian revolution is described in a series of meditations, interviews, reportage and diary sketches that communicate both the tension and the feeling of emptiness that followed the elation of overthrow.
Once the Shah left, the "good" revolutionaries, who wanted democracy and toleration, were quickly removed by a group of "ignorant bearded thugs", Kapuściński tells us, calling to mind Yeats's dictum that "the best lack all conviction while the worst are filled with passionate intensity". And thus Iran"s current leadership was born.
To my mind Kapuściński is one of the twentieth century's great writers in any genre; indeed, genre is something it's difficult to pin on him. Too profound for travel writing, too poetic for politics, too political for belles lettres, and too playful for sociology, he stands above the common fray. If you're interested in dicovering his world, this book would be a fitting beginning.

In Memoriam J.G. Ballard

This is a post that has been waiting unfinished for weeks. Although Ballard died two months ago now, I still want to pay my respects and maybe turn someone onto his amazing writing which was so much more than the Empire of the Sun...


J.G. Ballard was a writer who dealt in dystopias, dreams (mainly nightmares), disorders (mainly mental and sexual) and drugs. At the same time he was a family man who raised two daughters alone, spoke with a plummy accent and never let anything more adventurous than whisky and soda past his lips.

By the time he died on 19 April 2009, Ballard had published 19 novels, a dozen or so short story collections and countless other pieces. Even in the last months of his life he continued to write, producing a book on the cancer which was killing him called Conversations with My Physician: The Meaning, if Any, of Life.

I first came to Ballard in my early teens, attracted by the shocking titles (example: "The Asassination of President Kennedy considered as a downhill car-race", "Why I want to fuck Ronald Reagan") and the eerie, moody atmosphere of the work: perfect for a teenager.

I remember particularly the wonderful, crepuscular atmospheres of the collection Vermilion Sands, short stories set in a world that has stopped turning, and in which what remains of humanity inhabits a narrow, twilit strip of desert, plundering abandoned supermarkets for strange, luxurious provender and lost in lonely reverie. What this stuff said to a confused fifteen-year-old I can no longer accurately say: but it affected me deeply and helped to mould an aesthetic that still haunts me.

The early novels are also electrifying in their strangeness, their unconditional embrace of the other. Take The Drowned World, with its poetic descriptions of a London utterly submerged, or The Crystal World, with its too-literal fantasy of everything turning to rubies, diamonds and emeralds.

But despite these novels, Ballard was largely ignored by a literary community obsessed by novels of society and manners, neither of which figured greatly in Ballard's work. Where they did, they were indicators of an inner sickness or mental aberration: the calm smooth surface of a society was for Ballard like a glass motorway barrier dulling and attenuating the whoosh and the roar of unleashed humanity, as shown in novels like High Rise, Crash or the later Cocaine Nights and Super Cannes.

Finally though I just wanted to register my appreciation and wonder for the body of work that Ballard produced. To explain and describe each book would take longer than this occasional blogger can handle, but I'd like to give a personal list of favourites, my recommended reading:

Novels:

The Drowned World
The drought
Hello America
Super Cannes: A Novel
Unlimited Dream Company
High Rise
Crash
The Atrocity Exhibition
Empire of the Sun

Short stories

Vermilion Sands
The Voices Of Time
Low flying Aircraft and Other Stories
Myths of the near future

The other Athens

I think that most people have already seen enough pictures of the Acropolis, Temple of Zeus and so on, but when do you get to see the other side of Athens, from the really scuzzy to the frankly strange? Is Greece the only country where they sell shoes (not medical footware, mind you) in pharmacies?

From Athens April 2009

From Athens April 2009

From Athens April 2009

From Athens April 2009

Are you sitting comfortably?

High above Athens stands the Church of Agios Isidorou. From here, sitting on benches that form a horseshoe of seating around the diminutive church, you can look down on the breathtaking spread of the city, born of the unfortunate union of reinforced concrete with laissez-faire urban planning.

As you sit, you can also enjoy amusingly phrased signs like this one, attached to the back of the pole that holds up the strings of fairy lights that illuminate the church at night. It says: "Peak hours may necessitate that you let other people sit on your lap."
Get set for peace, love and understanding.

Two suns fail to dazzle

Is it just me? All over the web people are blogging the praises of the second Bat for Lashes record, Two Suns. I rather like it too, but I feel that reviewers are going a bit overboard with their praise (e.g. Pitchfork).
It's a very pleasant record with some strong songs, and Natasha Khan has a great voice. Everything here is going in the right direction. But overall I find it rather too slight, rather too conventional for all the praise it's getting. It's good, yes. But not great.

A comparison with one of my favourite recent albums, Under Byen's 2007 LP Samme Stof Som Stof, is perhaps instructive. Here we see a band that have truly mastered their medium (through 15 years of hard work), and for whom conventions are not restrictions but toys to be played with or ignored as required. Natasha Khan is on the right track and definitely a talent to watch for the future. And that's the good news: this album might be good, but the next one can only be better.

Bat for Lashes will play at the Kulturkirche in Cologne on 18 May
View event info on last.fm

The real Ras Tafari

The Emperor by Ryszard Kapuściński

Rating: 3 of 5 stars
I suppose that I have been spoilt by Ryszard Kapuściński in the past, but while The Emperor is certainly a fine piece of writing it doesn't reach his usually high standards.

Perhaps it's in the very nature of the exercise, for The Emperor is a book of reminiscences, retelling the last days of Haile Selaisse's rule in Ethiopia, from the perspective of mainly minor officials and servants.

The result is a book of peculiarly matt surfaces and vague description. For me the palace, with its lackeys, its fawning "notables" and horrid, grabbing dignitaries never really comes alive, mediated as it is by the memories of feeble, defeated men.

So while I can't recommend the book unconditionally in terms of style or as a good example of Kapuściński's art (he simply isn't present enough here), I can certainly recommend it as a study in the morally degenerative effects of power. So if you're looking for a good primer on how to become morally degenerate once you have attained absolute power, this might be a good place to start.

View all my reviews on goodreads.

No guns, no dogs - them's the rules

Bulgaria may be part of the EU, but there are still things about the country that distinguish it from most others in Europe. One of them is the "No Guns" stickers that are found on the doors of bars, clubs and even shopping centres.
And indeed Sofia, the country's capital, does have a higher level of gun crime than many other comparable cities. But do you think that the Sofia gangstas will see the signs and leave their shooters (and hopefully their pit bulls) in their SUVs? Somehow I doubt it...

What we did on our holidays: Part 1 - Serbia

It might seem a little eccentric to take the train from Cologne to Sofia in Bulgaria, but then again, maybe I am a little eccentric. En route plenty of interesting things happened, including random bag searches by obstreperous border guards and thievery in the small hours (I'll tell you about it later). There was also plenty to see. I was particularly impressed with the mysterious and beautiful Serbian countryside and the affecting state of disrepair of the railway stations. The pictures below come from my Sony-Ericsson mobile phone, by the way.

A day at the races

Having grown up in England, racing is a pastime that I associate with the Derby, the Grand National and ladies in funny hats. Basically an experience for the elite and the addicted.

Going to the races in Germany is, in comparison, a pleasantly democratic experience, involving everything that you would expect from a Volksfest, including sausages, beer, fried fish and red-faced gentlemen mopping brows warmed by indulgence in the aforementioned foodstuffs.



As well as offering relaxing atmosphere, our local racecourse in Cologne also provides a gently-paced racing schedule which allows racegoers to flow from track to paddock and back to the track like a gentle human tide.

But I think I'm beginning to overreach myself on the metaphors. Whatever - I'll be there again a few more times before the season is out.

A dog's Dina

I am Dina (Norway, 2002)

Faced with the prospect of a Norwegian film in English with a plethora of international actors, I should have seen the warning signs. For one, people speaking accented English to convey the sense of a foreign language has always annoyed me ("Zose are ze fekts, mein fuhrer!").

This film isn't perhaps quite that awful, but the plot appears to have been written by the committee for Silly Twists together with the Fjord Tourist Board.

Equally, the style of the film is all over the place: a smörgåsbord of genre-dipping ranging from horror and ghost-tale to melodrama, costume drama, sub-Ibsenesque family saga, Bergman-lite and god knows what else.

Together these result in an utterly confusing accretion of episodes that usually end in death, or haunting, or both, but no clear directorial stance on how see either.

What I'm missing is any kind of moral, aesthetic or conceptual centre. We must remember that the woman upon whom the film centres is responsible for several deaths, at least one of the premeditated. But is she mad? Is she hallucinating? Is she simply dreaming?

Which brings us to the central character. Dina is played by the lovely Maria Bonnevie, who gives everything to make the role (strong, headstrong, creative and unconventional woman in a small, backward community) work. Personally I'm all in favour of strong female roles but the one that this film serves up is a completely anachronistic, projecting modern modes of behaviour onto a time where a woman would not have been able to do what Dina does without getting shut up in a nunnery or a madhouse at the very least.

Shouldn't a film that shows a woman overcome adversity and male prejudice at least show some pretty effective adversity and male prejudice? For most of this film Dina rides roughshod over men and women alike (or unshod, depending upon the stable boy in question). It's as if her initial trauma is so overwhelming that the world simply makes way for her for the rest of her life. Fat chance.

Therefore I'd have to recommend any discerning viewer to give this portentous, confused example of the international co-production a miss.

DID THE CAPS LOCK KEY GET STUCK WHILE WRITINg SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE?

I went into Slumdog Millionaire with high expectations based on friends' ratings, but came out feeling slightly knocked about and empty, as if I too had suffered at the hands of the Mumbai constabulary.

I'd like to emphasise though that my problem with the film was not its fable-like narrative - the sketchy, inconsistent and unexplained nature of events and the refusal to explain was rather a strength for me. Rather, it was the overall style and the compulsion to take the symmetries of plot and circumstance (which are a standard part of almost any narrative) and supercharge these to the extent that they become big signs screaming LOOK AT ME! I'M AN ECHO OF A PREVIOUS/PARALLEL SCENE!!!

Due to this overworked mechanism, the film lost me at its "climax", the point at which one brother wins 20 million rupees and the other brother is simultaneously gunned to death in a bathtub full of banknotes. Up to that point I had been quite happy to coast along on the Lonely Planet aesthetic of penury and picaresque, but after that it was a lost cause. It didn't even matter that the music was by a Singalese girl from West London (M.I.A.), or that Danny Boyle's aggressive jump-cut style turned every conflagration into a wheeze and a romp. But the bathful of money was the point where I pulled out the plug and started to wonder: does this film say anything useful about India? Or even about "Who wants to be a Millionaire"? Has it got anything to say at all other than slums are bad, crooks are bad, and "true love conquers all?"

A good film should reflect its age and say something about its main subject at least. But this one simply throws its boundless energy at a topic that begs for some sinuousness, intelligence and subtlety. For god's sake, it doesn't have to be La Dolce Vita, but a palette that includes something other than VERY BRIGHT and VERY DARK would have been welcome.

Overall not a bad film, but not a particularly good one either.

See my film comments on IMDB

Hook Norton Brewery

For me, one of the great pleasures of being in England is the beer. Lower in alcohol than the continental stuff (3-4 percent), with bags of flavour and all the more drinkable for not being too cold or too fizzy.

One of the best proponents of classic ales in Oxfordshire is the Hook Norton Brewery in North Oxfordshire, a historical firm that dominates the charming Cotswold village of the same name.

We went to the Brewery recently, taking a look at the museum before repairing to the Tasting Room, where we tried several beers from the Hook Norton range: Hooky Best, a clear, plangent bitter; the weightier, hoppier Old Hooky; and the superb Gold, a pale ale of supernal delicacy with a floral nose and a beautifully balanced finish.

After making several necessary purchases we moved on to the nearby pub for a bite of lunch - and a decent pint of beer. I chose mother-in-law pie for lunch - a steak pie that is so named because the meat is marinaded in Old and Bitter before being cooked.

Thanks to my dad for staying sober and driving us home...


The brewery


A pub sign, perhaps?