The moving window

I go to the Laurel and Hardy page on Facebook (I am a fan of Stan and Ollie), and, amidst all the clips and pictures and snippets of information that only diehard fans such as myself would be interested in, there’s that perennial complaint: “Why don’t they show Laurel and Hardy films on television any more?” I may point out that we fans have these films on DVD anyway; but I stay quiet, because I know what the answers would be. First of all, they’ll say, it’s much more fun watching these films when they are being broadcast, as the knowledge that there are others around the country watching the film at the same time engenders a sense of community; and second, DVDs are for those who are already aficionados, so how are new generations to know these films if they aren’t shown?

Both these points can be answered. On the first point, given that we can now record programmes, and have facilities built into our smart-television sets to watch various programmes that we had missed, it is unlikely, even if these films were to be broadcast, that we’d all be watching them at the same time. And on the second point, if the new generations see an old black and white film being shown on television, they’d switch over immediately to some other channel that is showing the latest action-adventure-superhero-sciencefiction-fantasy-specialeffects spectacular. We fans may not like it, but, except for those whose parents made a point of showing them Laurel and Hardy films as they were growing up (and not even there), we have lost the new generations. If Laurel and Hardy films do survive, they will do so only as a minority interest. A very small minority interest.

Then I go to the Marx Brothers page, and I see exactly the same thing. Clips and pictures and snippets of information, and “Why oh why don’t they show Marx Brothers films on television? How are new generations ….” And so on.

And then I go to the Hammer horror page. (Yes, I am a fan of these films also.) And yet again, it’s the same story. People reminisce fondly about how they discovered these films in their childhood when they were shown on television, and lament that new generations are not given that opportunity.

I am not member of the Jimmy Cagney fan group, or of Hollywood film noir, or of Fred and Ginger films, or screwball comedies, or classic Hollywood musicals, etc. I love all of these, but one can’t join everything. But I am sure that if I were to look at the fan pages of these, I’d find  the same complaint. It all essentially boils down to “Why aren’t things as they were when I was growing up?”

I don’t mean to say that the people making these complaints are wrong. Indeed, I am very much on their side. I do believe, most fervently, that the mainstream Hollywood films of the 30s and 40s, and even in the 50s (although the rot was even then beginning to set in), are of a quality that mainstream Hollywood has very rarely matched since, and that it is indeed a grievous loss that these films have now dropped out of public consciousness. I too look back in misty-eyed nostalgia on those days when films such as The Maltese Falcon, Now Voyager, Top Hat, The Roaring Twenties, Wagonmaster, The Heiress, etc. – as well as a whole lot of lesser films that still seem to me better by far than the various masterpieces we are asked nowadays to admire – could be seen regularly on television. Now, of course, I don’t expect everyone to agree with me on this: indeed, I’d expect most people to disagree with me, and to give me a whole list of modern films I should be seeing to change my blinkered opinion. But let’s not get hung up on that. Whatever our views on the respective merits of modern mainstream movies as opposed to classic Hollywood movies, we may agree, I hope, that there was much of great value in those classic movies, that they deserve to be remembered, and that their steady disappearance from public consciousness is indeed something to be regretted.

I find myself regretting this particularly around Christmas time. Back in those days before satellite television, before even the advent of VHS video, television broadcasts of films were events: if you missed them, you didn’t get a chance to see them again. And every Christmas, there would be special seasons – seasons of Marx Brothers films, or of Humphrey Bogart films, or of Fred and Ginger, or screwball comedies, or whatever. Publication of Christmas television schedules was something fervently looked forward to, as was the careful marking with a felt-tip pen of all the films I just had to watch. That this is no longer the case, that these films – with a very small handful of exceptions – are no longer shown, seems to me (and to other old farts like myself) a loss of something precious. Even when our reason tells us otherwise, it is difficult to avoid feeling this sense of loss. It is difficult to come to terms with the fact that entire generations have now grown up without knowing Laurel and Hardy; and further, that even if television channels were to start showing these films again, it would make not the slightest difference.

There is also the question of our perception of time. In 1975, say, when I was fifteen, A Night at the Opera and Bride of Frankenstein were forty years old; Spellbound and The Lost Weekend were thirty years old.  Now, in 2017, Star Wars and Saturday Night Fever are forty years old; Fatal Attraction and Lethal Weapon are thirty years old. People actually feel nostalgic now about films I still regard in my no doubt jaundiced mind as “modern rubbish”. So it’s not that old films aren’t shown any more: it’s more that what constitutes “old” has changed. The window of public interest, instead of expanding to take in more recent films without losing sight of what had gone before, has simply moved along with the years. And those films that precede the earlier end of this moving window effectively drop out of consideration.

But is that, one may ask, such a terrible thing? Well, yes, to me it is. And I emphasise – to me. I do not pretend to make any objective statement on this, as I am far too emotionally involved to be in any way objective. I can’t help but feel that tinge of sadness when I go through the Christmas television listings, and, apart from a predictable few titles (Casablanca, It’s a Wonderful Life, Singin’ in the Rain, The Wizard of Oz), there is no classic Hollywood film at all. It is as if an entire culture – and, to my mind a very substantial culture – has dropped out of our consciousness.

And so, on the various fan pages, we will go on lamenting the absence from television schedules of Laurel and Hardy, of the Marx Brothers, of the Warner Brothers gangster movies, of the MGM musicals, and so on. Until such a time when we, too, will drop out of the moving window, taking our memories with us.

In praise of independent bookshops

There we were, in Totnes, a town in the west of England that we had not been to before. My wife and I commented to each other how pleasant it was to see a high street with mainly independent shops, rather than with branches of large multi-national chains. Pleasant though it was, most of the shops were not, I admit, of much interest to me: clothes shops generally leave me indifferent (I am not the world’s best-dressed person); watches and jewellery I tend to find a bit dull; and the specialist food and wine shops are really not for the likes of me, as anything I am drawn to is more than likely to be disapproved of by my doctor. But no matter. It was pleasant just walking up that high street, and soaking up its multi-national-free ambience.

Then it appeared: a bookshop, and an independent bookshop at that. Not that I disapprove of chains. I remember when Waterstones and Dillons (the latter now taken over by the former) first appeared on our high streets some thirty or so years ago: they gave us book-browsers far more to browse through than we had ever enjoyed before. And even now, my local branch of Waterstones is staffed by friendly and enthusiastic people, who are very fast and efficient in getting for me any title they happen not to have in stock. So no, I am not complaining. But an independent bookshop is different. And I think what makes it different is the reason any independent shop is different from a branch of a chain: there is an individuality about what they stock, what they display.

Now, I do not know how these things work, but most branches of Waterstones, in terms of the titles and the kinds of book on display, are fairly identikit: see one branch, and you’ve seen them all. Once again, I am not complaining: they have obviously decided that is the best way to run their business, and best of luck to them. But one can’t help noticing that the stocks in independent bookshops are different. Obviously, given limited space, no bookshop, not even the largest, could hope to stock every book; and independent bookshops, given that they tend generally to be on the smaller side, have no choice but to be discriminating about which titles, and which kind of books, they want to display. And the choices each one makes is refreshingly different: they are, inevitably, indicative of the owners’ tastes and values, and of how they feel the local book-buying community is best served.

Of course, there could, and, no doubt, do exist bookshops where the focus is on books that one may find, for whatever reason, objectionable or unsavoury. In such cases, the obvious thing to do is to walk out.  But in general, it is precisely the individual nature of each independent bookshop that makes them so delightful. It is that chance of coming across a book one had not seen before, or had not known about, or had been looking for in vain, that makes the browsing so pleasurable. When I am finally invited to Desert Island Discs (and why the BBC hasn’t yet invited me, I cannot imagine), and am asked what luxury I would like, I would, as John Arlott had done, ask for a good bookshop. Or, better still, a few good bookshops.

That shop in Totnes did not disappoint. True, it was very small, but the stock we found was refreshingly different from that we would normally encounter in a branch of Waterstones. My wife headed immediately – as she generally does – to the history section, and didn’t take too long to find a few titles she wanted. As for me, I found Winter Notes on Summer Impressions – Dostoyevsky’s account of his travels in Europe. Despite the fame of the writer, this is a fairly specialised title, and not one I’d expect to find even in the larger branches of chain bookshops. That I found it in a small independent bookshop in Totnes is remarkable, and really does fill me with delight.

Sadly, apart from a specialist children’s bookshop in Richmond, there aren’t too many independent bookshops near where I live. A friend of mine runs an independent bookshop in Kenilworth (the Tree House Bookshop, that I have no hesitation in plugging here on this blog), and my only complaint is that it is not within easy travelling distance of where I am. But every time I visit Lancashire (which I do fairly frequently for family reasons), I find myself in Halewoods in Preston (who appear not to have a website), or in that lovely little bookshop in Clitheroe. Like that shop we found in Totnes, these shops are run by people who obviously care about books, and, despite the limited shelf space, take care over the titles they stock. And every time I step into one of these shops, I feel at home: I feel almost guilty walking out without having made a purchase! And when I have a weekend to myself, I can think of nothing better than to head out to Hay-on-Wye, and spend a day or two browsing at my leisure through its many bookshops.

But it is invidious to single out a few shops when there are still so many. And I cannot help wondering how much longer I’ll be able to enjoy visiting these independent bookshops, given both the current economic and cultural climates. There was an independent bookshop in the nearby town of Chertsey that was forced to close down a few years ago. And even in Hay-on-Wye, a town internationally renowned for its many bookshops, the number of shops has declined dramatically over the years, and many owners I have chatted to have left me in no doubt that running these shops is, frankly, an uphill struggle. It is tremendously sad. If these shops do some day disappear, we will be left more impoverished than I think we realise. The people who run these shops, despite all the difficulties, do so because they love books, and they deserve our most sincere respect and gratitude. I’d be more than happy to raise a glass or two to them. And would, indeed, do so, if only my doctor approved…

But while they are still here, let us celebrate them. Browsing through these shops, and then walking up to the cash desk with a few purchases, are amongst the greatest delights of life. Long may we continue to do so, and long may these shops thrive, whatever the odds!