Archive for August, 2012

A bit of self-revelation

Letizia, of the blog Reading Interrupted (please do take a look: it’s quite delightful!) has very kindly nominated this blog for the Reader Appreciation award. And has said some very kind and flattering things about me to boot.

To accept this award, I must, I believe, nominate five other blogs; and reveal seven things about myself.

I must ask to be excused from the first of these: I greatly enjoy reading various other blogs, and enjoy the companionship (albeit the cyber-companionship) of the bloggers, and to pick out merely five from so many is not really something I’d like to take upon myself. However, being the self-publicist that I am, I have no problem revealing a few things about myself. After all, who does not like to talk about themselves?

– I am Indian by birth (Bengali, to be more precise); Scottish by upbringing (I left India when I was 5 years old – that’s some forty-seven years ago now); and English by residence. Identity problem? No … I can’t say I’ve ever had one … I’m happy with all three parts of me.

– My wife and I celebrated our silver wedding anniversary last August. On the night after our wedding all those years ago, we had been at the royal Shakespeare Theatre in Stratford-on-Avon – to see Romeo and Juliet. So, twenty-five years later, we went back there – this time to see A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which was written at much the same time as Romeo and Juliet, and is, in many ways, a companion piece to it.

– All those years ago, when we were married, and I phoned up the Royal Shakespeare Theatre to ask what was showing that week (no internet then, of course), I was told that I had a choice between Romeo and Juliet and The Taming of the Shrew. I did realise that I could make a very tactless choice. But I chickened out of it. However, there was no chickening out on an anniversary some thirteen years later, when we really did spend our anniversary night in the National Theatre in London watching Othello. Now, I ask you: what sort of people celebrate their anniversary by going to see Othello?

– I went to university at sixteen. At that tender age, I found myself a student living in Halls of Residence in Central Glasgow, of all places. I was a heavy underage drinker, I regret to say.

– These days, I very rarely drink beer: it is full of sugars and carbohydrates, and is really not very good for me. But I’m damned if I give up the whisky!

– I like the rain. I do – really! – it’s very beautiful, and when it really buckets down, is wonderfully spectacular. And if the sun comes out after the rain, the light diffused by the moisture in the air is so wondrous that I wish I had the ability with paints or with the camera lens to capture it.

– I only grew my beard because I realised that if I didn’t, I’d end up in a few years with a somewhat unsightly double chin. So, given a choice between looking like the Wolf Man or looking like Oliver Hardy, I went for the Wolf Man.

That’s seven, I think.

Thank you very much, Letizia, for nominating me, and allowing me to indulge in this bit of self-revelation. Now, I know I haven’t nominated anyone else, but of anyone with a blog reading this would like to tell us a few things about their own selves, then please do feel free!

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On personal taste

De gustibus non est disputandum
In matters of taste there can be no dispute.

Can this statement itself not be disputed? If I were to eat fish that has gone off, and, not even realising that it has gone off – or, perhaps, realising, but not caring – find this rotten fish to my taste, can it not reasonably be claimed that my taste is poor? But even here, I think, if I enjoy rotten fish, then it is my privilege to do so, and there can be no room for dispute on this point.

So, in short, everyone is entitled to like or to dislike whatever they damn well want. There is never, and nor can there ever be, any argument on this point.

However, being a self-proclaimed argumentative old git, I can’t quite let it go there. The expression of an opinion – an expression, inevitably, of one’s personal taste – is frequently presented as a final word: “it’s just my opinion” is a phrase almost invariably intended as the last word in any argument – the adjective “just” denoting the very opposite of the humility and self-deprecation implied by its literal meaning: it’s a way of saying “This is my opinion, an expression of my personal taste, and don’t you dare dispute that!” Fair enough. As we all agreed, there can be no disputing that. And yet, something in me in me demands that I dispute it: there is in me a perverse streak that sees “It’s just my opinion” as but the beginning of a debate, not the end of one.

At the very least, if personal taste is to be the ultimate criterion – even if that personal taste is unable to distinguish fresh fish from rotten – let us at least consider the nature of this “personal taste”. Is it innate in us ? – is it something we are born with? Up to a point, certainly. It is also, I think, what we take in as we grow up – what we are accustomed to: as in the shaping of our personalities, both nature and nurture play major parts in shaping our tastes.

But then, what are we to make of “acquired taste”? What can we make of those things we like – often love, sometimes love passionately – but which we only came to love after much exposure, and not at first sight? I cannot, for instance, believe that there can be too many people – if, indeed, any at all – who love beer at first taste. Especially English ales. Now, I love a good pint of English ale, and I know that this love is not an affectation on my part; and yet, it took me a long, long time to get round to liking these ales; and those who have not yet developed a taste for them tend, I have noticed, to turn away even at first gulp in barely-concealed disgust. It is, in short, an “acquired taste” – although, I’d argue, a taste that is well worth acquiring.

Moving away from food and drink, it seems to me that much – if, indeed, not most, or even all – that I love and value most dearly are “acquired tastes”. Often, this is inevitably so: when we describe something as “deep”, we are using a metaphor to denote that much of its substance lies below the surface; and when this is so, how can we hope to gauge its true worth from a first glance that takes in no more than merely the surface? Does not the taste for anything that is “deep” need to be acquired?

But how exactly do we “acquire” tastes for certain things? By exposing ourselves to them over time, seems the obvious answer. But one cannot expose oneself over time to everything; and if, at first acquaintance, something had made but an indifferent or even a bad impression, then we are not very likely to welcome further exposure to it: life isn’t long enough to persevere with everything. Inevitably, one has to choose what one perseveres with, and the factors governing these choices seem to me worth considering. There’s social pressure, for a start (without social pressure, the market for English ales may, I fear, be very small indeed); there is, sometimes, an inkling even from an inadequate first viewing that there had been more than had initially met the eye; and it may be that those whose judgement we trust convince us that the effort put into liking something – even if that something seems unpromising to begin with – may be rewarded. But whatever the reason for pursuing further that which had not at first made too great an impression, the fact remains that the decision to pursue it or otherwise is our decision, it is our choice. In short, up to a considerable extent, far more so, I think, than is generally recognised, we may choose what we like or dislike; we may direct our own tastes.

Let me propose an example. I may choose, if I were so inclined, to like Renaissance polyphony. This is something I know very little about; but I may listen to recordings of masses and motets by Byrd and Palestrina and Lassus; I may read books about them, to understand them better; I may attend concerts; I may, in short, immerse myself in all this, until my ear and my mind learn to pick out the esoteric beauties of this music, to distinguish its subtleties. Now, it may be, of course, that my ear isn’t up to it; or it may be that my mind can’t take it in; or it may be that even after I had trained myself to take it all in, there remains some inexplicable aspect in my character that refuses to enjoy it. All this is true. But it is also true that if I choose not to make the effort, then I’d never get to like this complex and intricate music. So do I make the effort, or don’t I? The choice is mine. If, inspired by the belief that it is highly unlikely for something not worthwhile to be thought of so highly by generations of intelligent and discerning people across the centuries, I do make the effort, then I may get to like it; but if, on the other hand, I cling to the belief that all “classical music” is stuffy and elitist and but a symbol of middle-class privilege, and I do not make the effort, then I certainly won’t get to like it. To a very great extent, what I end up liking or not liking is a consequence of a conscious choice on my part.

So yes, in matters of taste there can be no dispute. But the directions in which we choose to develop our personal tastes seem to me very much open to debate. And as an argumentative old git, I can only welcome that.

The literary imagination

Writers of fantasy are often singled out for their feats of imagination. I never really got that. Alternative worlds and imaginary beasts and magical creatures – flying horses and enchanted boats and magic dragons and the like – seem to me relatively easy to conjure up. What really requires imagination is not the depiction of fantasy worlds, but, rather, the depiction of our own, from perspectives other than our own. To enter into the mind of  someone like Karenin, say, to depict in the minutest detail how a mind such as his works, to examine how it reacts as he observes his marriage breaking down, to understand why he thinks and acts as he does – all of this seems to me a far greater feat of the imagination than the creation of any number of Middle Earths.

The canons of cinema

Canons to right of them,
Canons to left of them,
Canons in front of them
Volley’d and thunder’d …

If a canon may be defined as a consensus of the cognoscenti – and I really don’t know how else it may be defined – then the BFI (British Film Institute) poll of film critics and of directors, carried out every decade, and the latest of which was published only last week, has a greater claim than most of being definitive.

There are those, of course, who question why we should need a canon anyway: aren’t our own tastes sufficient? Well, yes, up to a point: no canon, after all, is going to alter our individual tastes. I am not going to start liking Vertigo – a film that I have long disliked – just because it now tops this latest list; and neither am I going to stop loving those favourite films of mine that didn’t make it. But nonetheless, a concept of a canon is, I think, important in any field of activity in which we value excellence, for the simple reason that only those titles that belong to the canon have any chance of surviving into the future. Far too many films have been made over the years for them all to be available; and even if they were all to be available, it is not reasonable to expect even the most devoted of cineastes to view every one of them. What we choose to view from the past is determined by their canonical status: I am, after all, unlikely to see some forgotten film from the 1930s, for the very reason that is forgotten. Our personal canons are, inevitably, subsets of a wider canon.

For that matter, this BFI list too is a subset of a wider canon: most of us, I imagine, can think of films of the highest quality that didn’t make this Top 50 list. Fifty really is too small a number: cinema is a relatively new art form – it has been around now for only slightly over a century – yet, already, the number of films made over these hundred or so years that are of the highest artistic quality really is quite staggering. Yes, it is true that there is also much – possibly the vast majority – that is utter rubbish; but even after applying the most stringent of filters, I find myself quite astonished by the sheer number of films that, for a bewildering diversity of reasons, seem to me to bear the mark of greatness.

Inevitably, when speaking of excellence – whether with films or with anything else –  we hear the glib comment that “it’s all a matter of personal opinion”. Well, our personal opinion is a matter of personal opinion, certainly, but that’s mere tautology: excellence, if we are to believe in that concept at all, seems to me not a matter of personal opinion at all, but of considered judgement. While it is true that judgement, even considered judgement, may vary, it varies considerably less erratically or unpredictably than does personal opinion. That a consensus exists at all, and that such a consensus proves to be quite stable over time, indicate a certain stability in critical judgement; and whether or not my personal judgement corresponds with the consensus is frankly irrelevant: whether we agree or not with the choices – and there are certainly many that I personally would take issue with – the BFI lists over the decades embody what we collectively understand as “excellence”.

But with that out of the way, I do find the current list to be rather curious. That’s personally speaking, of course. After some five decades, Citizen Kane – a film I picked as one of my personal top ten – is no longer at the top of the list: it has been replaced by Hitchcock’s Vertigo, a film whose reputation frankly puzzles me. It’s not that I dislike Hitchcock: indeed, he has made some of my favourite films – The 39 Steps, The Lady Vanishes, Rebecca, Shadow of a Doubt, and that dazzlingly inventive and influential addition to the horror genrePsycho. But, while he was unquestionably masterly with individual sequences, he all too often, I feel, misjudged the pacing, or long-term effects. I cannot, for instance, see any reason to introduce that scene in North by North-West after the United Nations murder in which a gathering of senior FBI agents assures us that they are aware of the innocence of the Cary Grant character: up to that point, the film has been superb, deftly balancing suspense with comedy, but this scene, quite apart from introducing into the proceedings a disruptive shift in narrative perspective, helps dissipate tension at the very point where there should ideally have been a few more turns of the screw. The reasoning behind this directorial decision to include this scene seems to me quite incomprehensible. And neither do I understand why Hitchcock then proceeds to slow the pace down in the sequence on the train, largely substituting glamour and romance for menace or suspense. Of course, there are fine sequences afterwards – the famous scene with the crop duster, for instance – but the tension built up so beautifully in the earlier part of the film seems to me, to a great extent, to have disappeared. And this can only be put down to poor long-term planning.

Similarly with Vertigo. Admirers of the film tell me it is an incisive study of obsession, but, despite several viewings, I really cannot see it as such: merely to show the protagonist (played by James Stewart) as obsessed does not amount to an exploration of the nature of obsession. But maybe I am missing something on that front, so I’ll let that pass: what is more serious, though, is Hitchcock’s poor long-term planning. As is well-known, the twist in the plot is given away considerably before the end of the film: this has been justified to me on the grounds that by doing so, Hitchcock shifts the focus of interest from “what happens next” to “why it happens next”; but if this had indeed been Hitchcock’s intention, why set it up as a mystery in the first place? Shifting the audience’s focus of attention so radically at so late a stage in the proceedings merely disrupts the narrative momentum; and, further, it requires a sudden change in narrative perspective (from Jimmy Stewart’s perspective to Kim Novak’s) that, no matter how often I see the film, merely jars. And as for the ending – well, I won’t spoil it for those who haven’t seen it, but really, there is nothing to spoil: far from resolving anything, it is merely arbitrary, and, frankly, rather silly.

Well, my opinion on this matter is clearly out of step with the “consensus of the cognoscenti” I had mentioned earlier, but there it is: Hitchcock, at his best, certainly made very entertaining films, but I do not see in any of them the substance or the depth that his admirers seem to see. Substance and depth are not always required for cinematic excellence, of course: there is little of either in Singin’ in the Rain, say, or in Casablanca, to name but two films that are rarely far from my own personal Top Ten: but when admirers cite such qualities in his films, and, further, put forward the presence of these qualities as reasons for rating these films so highly, then my own failure to find these qualities inevitably affects my own critical judgement.

The film that Vertigo has replaced, Citizen Kane, is rarely included nowadays in personal Top Ten choices for the rather curious reason that it is too predictable a choice, and, hence, rather boring. Well, I include it in mine, because, predictable though the choice may be, I personally love it. All too often, it is regarded merely as a bag of cinematic tricks: it is conceded that it has contributed much to cinematic technique, but it is, I often hear, dramatically uninteresting, and even shallow. I do not understand such criticism at all. It is a film that depicts and explores personal failure: a rich man dies at the start of the film, surrounded by vast wealth, but the only people who are near him at the point of death are those who are paid to be there: this is a failure by any human standard. The rest of the film then explores the nature of this failure. First of all, a brilliant pastiche of a newsreel footage tells us “what happens next”, thus removing from the very start any curiosity on the audience’s part on this issue; and it proceeds then to focus, from a multiplicity of overlapping viewpoints and with a narrative and dramatic panache that still leaves me breathless with excitement, the reasons behind the human failure. That so potent a theme, explored with such intelligence and insight, can be seen as dramatically uninteresting or even “shallow”, leaves me as puzzled as does the often uninhibited praise awarded to Vertigo.  But at least I’m in step with critical consensus on this film: second place in the list is hardly a fall from grace.

Looking through the other films in the Top Fifty, there are several individual observations I could offer: I’ll refrain from commenting on 2001 – A Space Odyssey, since, as I have said often enough, I find it difficult to connect with the science fiction genre; I find myself disappointed that John Ford, one of my favourite directors, should be best known for what seems to me one of his least successful films (The Searchers); and so on. And as ever, there are many films I love deeply that aren’t in here. But one shouldn’t complain too much: while this list may, as I think, embody what we collectively understand to be cinematic excellence, it would be foolish to imagine that a list so short can in any way be exhaustive. After all, if you don’t like any particular list, you could always make up your own!

No – don’t worry! – I am not going to compile a boring list of my favourite films. But if I did, I suspect that a sizable chunk of it would consist of classic Hollywood films – films from the 30s, 40s, and 50s. The Maltese Falcon, Singin’ in the Rain, Frankenstein, The Lost Weekend, My Darling Clementine, To Be Or Not To Be, Casablanca, The Big Heat, Shane, Sullivan’s Travels, screwball comedies, Jimmy Cagney gangster movies, the Marx Brothers, Laurel  & Hardy … These were the films I grew up with, and it seems to me that, for a while at least, cinema was a form that was both extremely popular, and also of considerable artistic merit – a rare and possibly unique combination. Hollywood in these decades really did produce a popular art. There was, I think, a resurgence in Hollywood films in the late 60s and early-to-mid 70s, with films such as The Wild Bunch, the two Godfather films, The Last Detail, The Outlaw Josey Wales, Chinatown, etc. In a sense, this was my era: if the classic Hollywood films were the ones I grew up watched on television, these were the films I used to go to see in the cinema. But this resurgence didn’t last long: some time in the mid-to-late 70s, Steven Spielberg realised that there was a vast potential audience out there which wasn’t interested in serious drama, but wanted spectacle: and so, he gave them spectacle – essentially children’s movies given the big budget treatment. The phenomenal success of the Star Wars films sealed the trend, and cinema became juvenilised; some may even say “infantilised”. And I don’t think there’s any recovery in sight yet. Of course, once in a while an intelligent and absorbing drama does get made (I particularly enjoyed About Schmidt, for instance), but one has to do an awful lot of hunting around to come across these; and, more importantly, such films are not widely distributed: About Schmidt, for instance, certainly did not make it to my local cinemas.

How many of those treasured films from the past, if made today (assuming that they could be made today) would receive widespread release? Not too many, I suspect.

Recently, my wife and I watched on DVD Sunday, Bloody Sunday, a British film from 1971 directed by John Schlesinger, starring Glenda Jackson and Peter Finch, and boasting a script by Penelope Gilliatt of tremendous intelligence and subtlety: it is a challenging and intricate adult drama (by “adult drama”, I mean a drama for grown-ups, and not pornography: isn’t it strange what “adult” has come to mean these days?), and I couldn’t help thinking that this film, at the time, was released into the mainstream: it wasn’t just an art-house feature. For such a film to be released so widely now would be unthinkable: we have yet to recover from the juvenilisation of cinema that came with Spielberg & co. And yet, the very fact that a film as demanding as this was, once upon a time, made for a mainstream audience is indicative of how ambitious, at least in artistic terms, cinema was not so very long ago.

Perhaps list such as the BFI’s – whatever one’s personal view of the choices – could help rekindle interest in cinema as an art form. For that it what it is. For what else could one call a form that could deliver works such as The Third Man, Wild Strawberries, La Grande Illusion, Sunset Boulevard? Are works of this stature really inferior in terms of artistic quality to, say, the major plays and novels of the 20th century? The decline that I perceive in cinema is indeed sad, but, as someone-or-other once said, though much is taken, much remains. And if cinema is once again to attain the artistic levels that it had once attained, then consideration of its past glories – the canon, in other words – may not be a bad place to start.

Even though picking Vertigo as the best film ever is damn odd!

Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence.

– from “Sailing to Byzantium” by William Butler Yeats