("Superbly-crafted" says Shari Low at the Daily Record.)
Monday, February 15, 2010
Box o'books
Just received a big box of my Being Human novel, The Road. Woot!
("Superbly-crafted" says Shari Low at the Daily Record.)
("Superbly-crafted" says Shari Low at the Daily Record.)
Friday, February 12, 2010
It's your funeral
Watched the first two episodes of the new, US-version of the Prisoner yesterday, and was sadly disappointed. I loved the original (well, until it all comes apart at the end) and knew it would not be the same. I'd even been thrilled by the extended trailer, which made it look like a fresh, engaging take on the old idea, with a more legible plot and structure and none of that coming apart...
But sadly, it's also dull. The old show sets up its premise very quickly: the unnamed hero has resigned from some important job and isn't saying why. He's kidnapped and shipped out to a strange Village, which all seems quite fun on the surface. But they insist he's now called “6”, and each week try some new scheme to break him. 6 insists that he's not a number but a free man, but each week he remains stuck behind those bars.
This new version seems to be on the same lines, though after two episodes it still hasn't said so explicitly. Instead, 6 meanders about while the Village tries to convince him that there's no other world beyond the desert. Memories of New York, a shimmering ghost of the Twin Towers, even men with dogs pursuing him are all made up in his brain.
Plenty of other villagers will quietly agree that something isn't right or that, yes, the infrequent explosions at the diner are a bit unsettling. But we, the audience, already know that there's a world outside the Village; we recognise the pictures of the Statue of Liberty and the Palace of Westminster's clock tower. There's no tension to be gained from a character insisting that there's only the Village: we know that they're wrong.
Rather than, as in the old show, the Village being a sort of retirement home for agents who've sold out, this Village is full of deluded people. They seem to have had their memories changed or affected, so they're passive captives rather than participants in the regime. That again undercuts the threat.
It's also overly busy with bits of plot. There's the taxi driver, played by Lennie James, who is called for an audience with 2. There's 2's son and what he suspects 2 is doing to Mummy. There's the flashbacks in which 6 chats up Hayley Attwell and there seem to be clues on the radio. It all crowds what should be a deliciously simple idea: this guy won't sell out to the Man.
The aged 93 that 6 meets early on seems is a nod to the old show and is even wearing original 6's clothes. I assume the role was meant for Patrick McGoohan, who inconveniently died (or, if you prefer, escaped). Apart from the nod to the old show, it's an odd cameo: we don't yet know what 93 is trying to escape from, or that our hero will want to escape as well. A bit like starting the Doctor Who TV Movie with Sylvester McCoy, the nod to the past derails the story, making it overly complicated for a new audience.
The flashy, swoopy direction is entirely wrong for the Village – which is meant to be eerily serene. As with Quantum of Solace, the fast-cutting stuff suggests lack of faith in the material and means there are odd jumps in the narrative. Traditional camera set ups and a slower pace would contrast nicely with the fast-cutting frenzy of New York. But also, they would make the Village more comforting. The pervasive and persuasive serenity of the Village is what makes it such a threat. It should be all-too-easy for 6 to settle there.
A good analogy might be Stepford, which at first seems a perfect community. The same growing disquiet would work perfectly in the Prisoner, and Stepford is also laden with clues about what's going on that all come together in the revelation at the end. It might be a sci-fi idea, but Stepford feels like it's got a real-world solution and also something to say about our times. This new Prisoner seems like it's going to all be a dream or time travel or an after life or coma – and if it's not real it doesn't matter. The shimmering ghost of the Twin Towers and an ocean that hides are all “magic”. The more plausible, real and “grounded” the Village, the more effective it is.
The tone is also not quite right. I loved 2 insisting on being brought cherry cake, and hooray for keeping Rover. But Rover, and the scene where Hayley Atwell reveals she's chatted up 6 on purpose, all come far too late. And both times Rover appears there's no consequence: he's just a blobby re-set button to nix that episode's attempted escape. All-smiling, participant Villagers would make the Village more unsettling. A lighter touch would make it more sinister.
As it is, the new version lacks the wit and style of the original, and fails to grab the audience by the balls. Jim Caviezel's 6 seems little different from the gruff, stubbly heroes of Lost or the US Life on Mars – in fact, it all felt too much a riff on familiar territory than a new series in its own right. The good – and English – actors all do their best, and there's clearly been effort and money spent on the retro 50s aesthetic. But it's not as fun or exciting as the original. The 9/11 stuff is crass and dated rather than iconic.
So what would I do differently? I think start with something more exciting. We don't see Flashback 6 chatting up some girl. Instead, he's involved in a Secret Mission, dealing with some Bad Stuff. Perhaps he's in Iraq of Afghanistan, perhaps he's exposing government secrets at home. But he's in charge, in control, a Proper Hero. Until he walks in on -
Sudden cut to 6 waking up in the Village, everyone Very Concerned. He's suffering from post-traumatic stress and can't remember what he's seen or even his own name. The only cure is to put back the pieces and confront what he saw. 6 knows its top secret, and he doesn't know where he is. The more the Village – and his old comrades – insist they're on his side, the more he resists treatment. They can't even tell him where the Village is. They don't stop him trying to explore, but they do worry he's getting over-exciting. These aren't cowed people scared to ask awkward questions: they really love being in the Village and just think 6 should chill out.
Except for 2, who is – and in this version – the one thing everyone is scared of. But we need to see more of a genuine threat from 2. So, instead of finding 93 outside the village, perhaps 93 has never managed to escape (which, if he is McGoohan, would also dismiss Fall Out as just a dream or the old 6 giving in). New 6 asking questions inspires 93 to make one last attempt. They escape together, but 93 is too slow and gets caught. 6 watches as 2 tortures the old man – and 2 is all smiles and kindness as he cuts him up. “This is the only escape, dear boy”, he explains.
6 runs off, but is caught by Rover and brought back to the Village in time for 93's funeral – 2 insists that the old man died quietly in his sleep. 6 now knows the Village is out to get him. But he still can't remember what it was he saw before being brought here. He's trying to piece together the memories for himself, and the village is drawing him out. The more they try to get into his head, the more it comes together – the more of the flashback we see. He tries to resist the Village, but their efforts are also working...
I am curious enough to press on with New Prisoner – and will report back. It could just be a lot more effective.
But sadly, it's also dull. The old show sets up its premise very quickly: the unnamed hero has resigned from some important job and isn't saying why. He's kidnapped and shipped out to a strange Village, which all seems quite fun on the surface. But they insist he's now called “6”, and each week try some new scheme to break him. 6 insists that he's not a number but a free man, but each week he remains stuck behind those bars.
This new version seems to be on the same lines, though after two episodes it still hasn't said so explicitly. Instead, 6 meanders about while the Village tries to convince him that there's no other world beyond the desert. Memories of New York, a shimmering ghost of the Twin Towers, even men with dogs pursuing him are all made up in his brain.
Plenty of other villagers will quietly agree that something isn't right or that, yes, the infrequent explosions at the diner are a bit unsettling. But we, the audience, already know that there's a world outside the Village; we recognise the pictures of the Statue of Liberty and the Palace of Westminster's clock tower. There's no tension to be gained from a character insisting that there's only the Village: we know that they're wrong.
Rather than, as in the old show, the Village being a sort of retirement home for agents who've sold out, this Village is full of deluded people. They seem to have had their memories changed or affected, so they're passive captives rather than participants in the regime. That again undercuts the threat.
It's also overly busy with bits of plot. There's the taxi driver, played by Lennie James, who is called for an audience with 2. There's 2's son and what he suspects 2 is doing to Mummy. There's the flashbacks in which 6 chats up Hayley Attwell and there seem to be clues on the radio. It all crowds what should be a deliciously simple idea: this guy won't sell out to the Man.
The aged 93 that 6 meets early on seems is a nod to the old show and is even wearing original 6's clothes. I assume the role was meant for Patrick McGoohan, who inconveniently died (or, if you prefer, escaped). Apart from the nod to the old show, it's an odd cameo: we don't yet know what 93 is trying to escape from, or that our hero will want to escape as well. A bit like starting the Doctor Who TV Movie with Sylvester McCoy, the nod to the past derails the story, making it overly complicated for a new audience.
The flashy, swoopy direction is entirely wrong for the Village – which is meant to be eerily serene. As with Quantum of Solace, the fast-cutting stuff suggests lack of faith in the material and means there are odd jumps in the narrative. Traditional camera set ups and a slower pace would contrast nicely with the fast-cutting frenzy of New York. But also, they would make the Village more comforting. The pervasive and persuasive serenity of the Village is what makes it such a threat. It should be all-too-easy for 6 to settle there.
A good analogy might be Stepford, which at first seems a perfect community. The same growing disquiet would work perfectly in the Prisoner, and Stepford is also laden with clues about what's going on that all come together in the revelation at the end. It might be a sci-fi idea, but Stepford feels like it's got a real-world solution and also something to say about our times. This new Prisoner seems like it's going to all be a dream or time travel or an after life or coma – and if it's not real it doesn't matter. The shimmering ghost of the Twin Towers and an ocean that hides are all “magic”. The more plausible, real and “grounded” the Village, the more effective it is.
The tone is also not quite right. I loved 2 insisting on being brought cherry cake, and hooray for keeping Rover. But Rover, and the scene where Hayley Atwell reveals she's chatted up 6 on purpose, all come far too late. And both times Rover appears there's no consequence: he's just a blobby re-set button to nix that episode's attempted escape. All-smiling, participant Villagers would make the Village more unsettling. A lighter touch would make it more sinister.
As it is, the new version lacks the wit and style of the original, and fails to grab the audience by the balls. Jim Caviezel's 6 seems little different from the gruff, stubbly heroes of Lost or the US Life on Mars – in fact, it all felt too much a riff on familiar territory than a new series in its own right. The good – and English – actors all do their best, and there's clearly been effort and money spent on the retro 50s aesthetic. But it's not as fun or exciting as the original. The 9/11 stuff is crass and dated rather than iconic.
So what would I do differently? I think start with something more exciting. We don't see Flashback 6 chatting up some girl. Instead, he's involved in a Secret Mission, dealing with some Bad Stuff. Perhaps he's in Iraq of Afghanistan, perhaps he's exposing government secrets at home. But he's in charge, in control, a Proper Hero. Until he walks in on -
Sudden cut to 6 waking up in the Village, everyone Very Concerned. He's suffering from post-traumatic stress and can't remember what he's seen or even his own name. The only cure is to put back the pieces and confront what he saw. 6 knows its top secret, and he doesn't know where he is. The more the Village – and his old comrades – insist they're on his side, the more he resists treatment. They can't even tell him where the Village is. They don't stop him trying to explore, but they do worry he's getting over-exciting. These aren't cowed people scared to ask awkward questions: they really love being in the Village and just think 6 should chill out.
Except for 2, who is – and in this version – the one thing everyone is scared of. But we need to see more of a genuine threat from 2. So, instead of finding 93 outside the village, perhaps 93 has never managed to escape (which, if he is McGoohan, would also dismiss Fall Out as just a dream or the old 6 giving in). New 6 asking questions inspires 93 to make one last attempt. They escape together, but 93 is too slow and gets caught. 6 watches as 2 tortures the old man – and 2 is all smiles and kindness as he cuts him up. “This is the only escape, dear boy”, he explains.
6 runs off, but is caught by Rover and brought back to the Village in time for 93's funeral – 2 insists that the old man died quietly in his sleep. 6 now knows the Village is out to get him. But he still can't remember what it was he saw before being brought here. He's trying to piece together the memories for himself, and the village is drawing him out. The more they try to get into his head, the more it comes together – the more of the flashback we see. He tries to resist the Village, but their efforts are also working...
I am curious enough to press on with New Prisoner – and will report back. It could just be a lot more effective.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Short tips
A few folk have responded to yesterday's post asking for advice on writing a Doctor Who Short trip. Well, first, obey the rules:
I also wrote some general feedback to the competition we ran in 2006-07, which was originally posted on the old Outpost Gallifrey Doctor Who forum on Tuesday, 19 June 2007, and then included at the end of How The Doctor Changed My Life.
That book is now sadly out of print, so here is what I said:
"Remember, this is a short story, not a play. It should be no more than 2,500 words in length ... You can make use of any of the first eight Doctors. You can also use any of the classic television companions (up to and including Ace) and any of the Big Finish companions. You cannot use either the Ninth, Tenth or Eleventh Doctors, nor their companions, nor any other of the Doctor’s past friends and enemies. No Daleks, no Cybermen, no Time Lords, no Drashigs or Slitheen etc. Your story should be wholly original."
I also wrote some general feedback to the competition we ran in 2006-07, which was originally posted on the old Outpost Gallifrey Doctor Who forum on Tuesday, 19 June 2007, and then included at the end of How The Doctor Changed My Life.That book is now sadly out of print, so here is what I said:
"The official BBC Doctor Who website has announced the winners of the Big Finish short story competition.Way back in December 2006, when we announced the competition, luminaries Justin Richards and Paul Cornell also gave their advice.
With more than 1,000 entries, totalling more than 2,500,000 words, there’s simply no way we can offer individual feedback. However, I promised to produce notes on the stories taken as a whole, so here we are. There are already mailing lists set up for entrants to discuss their stories and swap notes. I assume the organisers of these lists will post details in the comments at the bottom of this post.
Anyway, first the disclaimers:
This isn’t any kind of official statement from either Big Finish or the BBC. It’s my own thoughts, based on personal experience as a freelance writer. I’m the one solely to blame.
What follows are some common things I saw in the more than 1,000 stories we received. They’re not necessarily things that people got ‘wrong’, but pointers that (I hope) might improve your next piece of writing.
These notes will not cure baldness or verrucas. Reading them won’t automatically get your Doctor Who stories published, nor will they magically transform you into a professional writer. That takes practice and perseverance (well, not the baldness and verrucas). If you really want to write, you’ve probably got more rejections to come – I’m still collecting them, anyway.
These notes aren’t rules or laws of physics. Others might disagree with any or all of them. I probably ignore at least some of them in my own published Doctor Who stories. Remember: these are the irrational prejudices of one crabby old editor, too dim to see the shiny brilliance of your story.
You may feel having read the notes that your story did everything right. That just means we preferred other stories over yours. I said we were dim.
Please don’t send us a revised version of your story. Big Finish simply doesn’t have the time to read them. We’re a small company and we’ve only limited resources. I was employed as a freelancer to read the competition entries, and now I’m off to do other things.
I don’t know whether we’ll run another competition like this one. It’s been a huge success, but also entailed a great deal of time and effort on our part. The final decision isn’t up to me, though, and if something like this happens again, I think it is somebody else’s turn to run it. If that’s the case, there’ll be announcements – so keep an eye on www.bigfinish.com.
Lastly, some recommended reading. The Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook is a must for anyone serious about this sort of thing. I’d also recommend William Goldman’s Which Lie Did I Tell? and Robert McKee’s Story. They’re both about writing screenplays but a lot of the advice applies generally. (I was recommended Story in a letter rejecting an idea for a Doctor Who novel.)
The Turkey City Lexicon will help you spot and eliminate science-fiction clichés in your writing. The BBC’s writersroom is full of useful advice, too. And at Outpost Gallifrey’s Mythmakers forum [now Gallifrey Base's Land of Fiction] you can compare your stories and swap feedback with other competition entrants. Right then…
1. Classic Doctors…
There were only a few of these, but we had to disqualify stories with the Ninth or Tenth Doctors, Daleks, Cybermen, Rose, Grace Holloway, psychic paper, the Time War, etc. We don’t have a licence for these things. No matter how brilliant your story, if your story depended on any of these there was no way you could win.
(We can’t even include references to these things either – but in most cases such mentionings could have been removed easily.)
2. … Brand new adventures
Some stories depended too much on stuff from previous Doctor Who stories. Some were even direct sequels. Often, without these recycled continuity elements, there wouldn’t have been any story.
3. The plotters
Some stories didn’t have enough of a plot. Although a single conversation or moment can give insight into character, we still need a story to drive it. The Doctor and companion discuss their favourite movies: no. The Doctor and companion discuss their favourite movies while on the run from some robot monsters: yes!
Taking those last two points together, there was one plot we saw a lot of: the Doctor sees some children playing. When he then sees their mother, she’s his granddaughter Susan. The end.
That’s not so much a story as a scene. Much better if when he sees the children, they’re being attacked by a monster and he has to save them.
No, wait – even better! He charges in to save these poor children but they don’t need his help. These kids are brilliant, and the monster’s fallen into their trap. In fact, they have to save the Doctor. He’s a bit shaken by all this, so they take him home for tea. And that’s when he sees who their mum is!
Same idea, but now it’s a story. (What do you mean, “corny”?)
4. A family show
Like not using new series stuff, we’re not able to publish stories which feature swearing, sex and/or gratuitous violence. You don’t have to write specifically for children, but you shouldn’t exclude them, either.
5. Did the Doctor change my life?
We needed to see people affected by their encounters with the Doctor. In some stories, events would have turned out more or less the same if the Doctor hadn’t been involved. In other stories, the Doctor stopped a monster or brought down a dictator, but we didn’t get an insight into how life was then different – usually because these stories weren’t told from one person’s point of view.
6. A strong central idea
A simple, clever premise helped to make the 25 stories on our shortlist stand out. They were each easily memorable as “the one with…”. Some stories just felt a bit generic – the Doctor presses some buttons and so sees off a monster.
7. In the telling
With so many entries, it wasn’t enough for your prose just to be okay. Your story had to engage us immediately, then keep us hooked right up to the end. That magic spell can be broken by clumsy grammar and punctuation, by overly long sentences (especially when it’s the very first one!), by overwrought or clichéd imagery, and by using too many adverbs and adjectives. Some stories felt as if the authors were trying too hard to impress us (and so failed to do so). Much better to keep things simple.
8. Oomph from the get-go
There’s a difference between the suspense of waiting for something to happen, and getting bored waiting for anything to happen. Some stories felt like they were just setting up a single, climactic ending. One way out of this: start with your brilliant climax, and then work upwards from there.
9. Lists
Descriptions shouldn’t hold up the telling. We don’t need to know every detail of what someone’s wearing or what objects are in a room. We just need enough of a glimpse to know where we are.
10. I am the Doctor
In some stories it was difficult to tell which Doctor was involved. Sometimes a Doctor would be physically described as, for example, the Second Doctor, but would behave and sound like the Sixth. This was also sometimes true of the companions.
11. Waving not drowning
Doctor Who doesn’t have to be all sunshine and fluffy bunnies, but it is a fun and lively show and the Doctor’s a funny bloke. A sense of humour can also give depth to a scary or downbeat story. The Doctor ruining people’s lives and driving them to suicide doesn’t really match the feel of the series.
12. In the frame
Some stories used interesting and innovative framing devices which helped to hook the reader, before the “real” story was told. Often, though, these “real” stories weren’t nearly so interesting.
13. Research
Some stories got their continuity wrong, or told stories that had been done before in books or comics or audio plays. And most galling of all: one or two stories were too like forthcoming stories… Annoyingly, there’s nothing you can do about that. I’ve done it many times myself.
Sorry."Me, "Competition Feedback" in Doctor Who: Short Trips - How the Doctor Changed my Life, pp. 189-92.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Take a trip
Those splendid fellows at Big Finish are bringing back their Doctor Who Short Trips range, as talking books this time. And they're offering places to new authors, on similar grounds to the ones we did for How The Doctor Changed My Life.
This is very exciting. I said last year how much I owe to Short Trips, which gave me my first break and then let me write lots more.
This is your chance to write up the Doctor Who idea you've had buzzing round your brain. 2,500 is easy - you can do a first draft over a weekend. And then you've got until 29 March to noodle with it til it's perfect. So get cracking. Best of luck!
This is very exciting. I said last year how much I owe to Short Trips, which gave me my first break and then let me write lots more.
This is your chance to write up the Doctor Who idea you've had buzzing round your brain. 2,500 is easy - you can do a first draft over a weekend. And then you've got until 29 March to noodle with it til it's perfect. So get cracking. Best of luck!
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
Survivors
I'm not very practical. I can wire a plug, wash the dishes and reach things from high shelves, but that's where my skills come to an end. In my teens, reading John Wyndham's cosy catastrophes – where the world was taken over by Triffids, Krakens and Cuckoos, or the grass all died – I knew I'd have been one of the first victims.
The heroes were plucky, self-reliant types who understood the workings of houses, motorcars and guns, and were probably schooled at Bedales. Part of the appeal of Wyndham's heroes – and James Bond, John Hannay, Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Who – is that very expertise. We see through their eyes or tag along at their side, enjoying the adventure all the more for their insight.
I think that's why I've given up on the new version of Survivors, where there seems little interest in the practicalities of surviving, and it's all about big revelations and people feeling betrayed. How do these people eat, clean their clothes or still have pretty hair? It doesn't feel much of a struggle to survive, it's just that other characters are a bit annoying.
That's not true of two books read in the last 10 days, where the vivid and terrifying atmosphere of each is all about the struggle. Tom Rob Smith's Child 44 is an extraordinary debut, well deserving its myriad praises. As the blurb says,
It's an enthralling read, the terror of everyday life under Stalin just as thrilling as the crime plot. It's packed with detail, of the presumption of guilt, the scale of numbers killed, the methods used to get confessions. Everyone, we're told, knows someone who's been arrested – and so, implicitly, killed. We see the effect of this six-degrees of separation, as a whole population waits to be incriminated.
The short chapters, constant tension and twists keep the reader entirely absorbed – we have to know if Leo can solve the case but also if he can survive.
For the first 150 pages we follow Leo as he carries out his duties, oblivious to a plot that will link up the various incidents and characters. It's still some time before we understand the title, but ever page is thrilling. Some 300 pages in we're told the identity of the killer, so the book suddenly becomes about whether that person can be stopped and how many more people will die.
There's some odd stuff where we jump between the points of view of different characters while we're in the same section. I know other books do that, but understand the convention of Doctor Who books that we stay behind one pair of eyes until there's an evident break. And the book is relentless, humourless and grim. For the most part the only time anyone shows any kindness is for selfish reasons, a set-up for something awful.
Then, on page 370, with a hundred pages to go, I thought it would all come apart. There's a revelation about the killer (one I'd already suspected) that seems a terrible coincidence. It's explained later, and sort of buys back its credibility, but it's also like 24 and its worst. Likewise, the ordinary people at the end who risk their lives to help Leo feels a bit like it comes from nowhere and contradicts what we've already seen. If just one of these later characters had betrayed our hero I would have bought it more.
That said, Smith nicely suggests the ordinary people toeing the party line only to survive. The presumption of the State seems to be that life is meagre and hard, and should be in service of the nation. But this is 1953, while the US is all convenience and kitchen appliances, and the UK is just starting to see the end of post-war austerity. Smith shows his ordinary Russians struggling to provide comforts for their families and loved ones. It's not just that they'd see – and voice – flaws in the system because they saw images from the West. They can see the unfairness of State officials, who have better homes, hot water, real chocolate. No one would choose discomfort over comfort (at least, not for their loved ones). And if they can't choose it's only a question of time before they take it. That's not to say that the end of socialism was inevitable, but that when a system's not working, no amount of pressure from the State is going to hide that from the people.
Anyway, despite some minor reservations, it's a brilliant book, and I look forward to getting my mitts on the follow-up, The Secret Speech.
The unnamed father and his unnamed son trudge across terrain we slowly realise is in nuclear winter, a cold world strewn with ash and the horrific burnt remnants of firestorms, the sun ever-hidden by the grey. Whatever happened happened many years ago – around the time that the son was born. They scavenge meagre remains, huddle to keep warm and hope not to be caught by the cannibals...
It's an exhausting, wearying book, simply and vividly told. The simplicity just adds to the atmosphere of gloom – there's little else to be said. The trials of lighting a fire or getting caught in the rain are just as moving as the occasional scary moments on the road when they come across other survivors. Like Child 44, the short sections (and no chapters) mean it's difficult to give up the trudge; we can always plod another step further.
It reminds me a little of In The Country of Last Things and also On The Beach, but it's also probably not a wise book to read if you're plodding through heavy life stuff of your own. The man's ever more desperate effort to keep moving down the road are ultimately less heroic as futile. Harrowing, vivid and ouch.
The heroes were plucky, self-reliant types who understood the workings of houses, motorcars and guns, and were probably schooled at Bedales. Part of the appeal of Wyndham's heroes – and James Bond, John Hannay, Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Who – is that very expertise. We see through their eyes or tag along at their side, enjoying the adventure all the more for their insight.
I think that's why I've given up on the new version of Survivors, where there seems little interest in the practicalities of surviving, and it's all about big revelations and people feeling betrayed. How do these people eat, clean their clothes or still have pretty hair? It doesn't feel much of a struggle to survive, it's just that other characters are a bit annoying.
That's not true of two books read in the last 10 days, where the vivid and terrifying atmosphere of each is all about the struggle. Tom Rob Smith's Child 44 is an extraordinary debut, well deserving its myriad praises. As the blurb says,
“In Stalin's Soviet Union, crime does not exist. But still millions live in fear. The mere suspicion of disloyalty to the State, the wrong word at the wrong time, can send an innocent person to his execution.”Officer Leo Demidov is an idealistic war hero in Stalin's Soviet Union, but starts to spot links between crimes that have already been solved. But it's treason to suggest that the State's got something wrong, and even before he starts pursuing a serial killer his wife and parents are at risk...
It's an enthralling read, the terror of everyday life under Stalin just as thrilling as the crime plot. It's packed with detail, of the presumption of guilt, the scale of numbers killed, the methods used to get confessions. Everyone, we're told, knows someone who's been arrested – and so, implicitly, killed. We see the effect of this six-degrees of separation, as a whole population waits to be incriminated.
The short chapters, constant tension and twists keep the reader entirely absorbed – we have to know if Leo can solve the case but also if he can survive.
“I wanted to write a book that was as exciting as 24, a page-turner in the way that show is compulsive.”The influence of 24 is very evident, and good, first-season 24 at its best, grounded in sordid reality and tricky moral dilemma. Every few pages some character is faced with some awful decision, forced to do terrible things just to get through the day. There are constant threats and revelations, and the short chapters make it hard to put down because you know you can just get a bit more. (It reminded me, oddly, of Dahl's The Magic Finger, which as a small child I could proudly read in one sitting.)Tom Rob Smith, “Q&A”, in Child 44, p. 476.
For the first 150 pages we follow Leo as he carries out his duties, oblivious to a plot that will link up the various incidents and characters. It's still some time before we understand the title, but ever page is thrilling. Some 300 pages in we're told the identity of the killer, so the book suddenly becomes about whether that person can be stopped and how many more people will die.
There's some odd stuff where we jump between the points of view of different characters while we're in the same section. I know other books do that, but understand the convention of Doctor Who books that we stay behind one pair of eyes until there's an evident break. And the book is relentless, humourless and grim. For the most part the only time anyone shows any kindness is for selfish reasons, a set-up for something awful.
Then, on page 370, with a hundred pages to go, I thought it would all come apart. There's a revelation about the killer (one I'd already suspected) that seems a terrible coincidence. It's explained later, and sort of buys back its credibility, but it's also like 24 and its worst. Likewise, the ordinary people at the end who risk their lives to help Leo feels a bit like it comes from nowhere and contradicts what we've already seen. If just one of these later characters had betrayed our hero I would have bought it more.
That said, Smith nicely suggests the ordinary people toeing the party line only to survive. The presumption of the State seems to be that life is meagre and hard, and should be in service of the nation. But this is 1953, while the US is all convenience and kitchen appliances, and the UK is just starting to see the end of post-war austerity. Smith shows his ordinary Russians struggling to provide comforts for their families and loved ones. It's not just that they'd see – and voice – flaws in the system because they saw images from the West. They can see the unfairness of State officials, who have better homes, hot water, real chocolate. No one would choose discomfort over comfort (at least, not for their loved ones). And if they can't choose it's only a question of time before they take it. That's not to say that the end of socialism was inevitable, but that when a system's not working, no amount of pressure from the State is going to hide that from the people.
Anyway, despite some minor reservations, it's a brilliant book, and I look forward to getting my mitts on the follow-up, The Secret Speech.
“Okay. This is what the good guys do. They keep trying. The don't give up.”I nicked the title of my Being Human book from a TV thing by Nigel Kneale, and only heard about this book and film when mine had been announced. So I thought I better read it (and anyway, No Country For Old Men is made of splendid).Cormac McCarthy, The Road, p. 145.
The unnamed father and his unnamed son trudge across terrain we slowly realise is in nuclear winter, a cold world strewn with ash and the horrific burnt remnants of firestorms, the sun ever-hidden by the grey. Whatever happened happened many years ago – around the time that the son was born. They scavenge meagre remains, huddle to keep warm and hope not to be caught by the cannibals...
It's an exhausting, wearying book, simply and vividly told. The simplicity just adds to the atmosphere of gloom – there's little else to be said. The trials of lighting a fire or getting caught in the rain are just as moving as the occasional scary moments on the road when they come across other survivors. Like Child 44, the short sections (and no chapters) mean it's difficult to give up the trudge; we can always plod another step further.
It reminds me a little of In The Country of Last Things and also On The Beach, but it's also probably not a wise book to read if you're plodding through heavy life stuff of your own. The man's ever more desperate effort to keep moving down the road are ultimately less heroic as futile. Harrowing, vivid and ouch.
Saturday, February 06, 2010
Thank you
The Dr and I have been a bit overwhelmed by the response to that last post. The comments on the blog, on Facebook and privately are really appreciated, and make me wish I'd said something months back. Thanks everyone. A few people even asked if they could pass on what I wrote. Yes of course, if you think it's helpful - the direct link is:
http://0tralala.blogspot.com/2010/02/ivf.html
What with that response, it's been a good week all told. On Wednesday night I made my radio and broadcast debut* with a thing on topical sketch show Newsjack (episode 2.5). For those listening on iPlayer for the next few days, my sketch is about 25 minutes in and involves Mrs Thatcher.
(* I was a talking head on a documentary about Flash Gordon, but this is the first thing I've written that someone else has wanted to buy.)
I've been sending Newsjack sketches every week since the series began last month, and I'm delighted the one that got through is a fart joke set in 1979. You might also like to watch the original footage it is based on, which - with the mix of cheers and jeering - is remarkable in itself.
Having been pitching and pitching for weeks, another couple of things look like they're happening, and a third is suddenly moving. Can't speak of them now, but after a very tough January life is feeling a bit better.
My Being Human novel "The Road" is beginning to appear - including in the WH Smiths at Victoria, whence this picture was taken. I am thrilled to be jostling beside the works of Douglas Adams, though I don't quite understand understand why I'm there.
Reviews are also starting to appear. I'm delighted by this one, which spots that I nicked the title from Kneale and not Cormac McCarthy:
You can also win copies of the Being Human books in the latest, Being Human-tastic issue of Gay Times.
http://0tralala.blogspot.com/2010/02/ivf.html
What with that response, it's been a good week all told. On Wednesday night I made my radio and broadcast debut* with a thing on topical sketch show Newsjack (episode 2.5). For those listening on iPlayer for the next few days, my sketch is about 25 minutes in and involves Mrs Thatcher.
(* I was a talking head on a documentary about Flash Gordon, but this is the first thing I've written that someone else has wanted to buy.)
I've been sending Newsjack sketches every week since the series began last month, and I'm delighted the one that got through is a fart joke set in 1979. You might also like to watch the original footage it is based on, which - with the mix of cheers and jeering - is remarkable in itself.
Having been pitching and pitching for weeks, another couple of things look like they're happening, and a third is suddenly moving. Can't speak of them now, but after a very tough January life is feeling a bit better.
My Being Human novel "The Road" is beginning to appear - including in the WH Smiths at Victoria, whence this picture was taken. I am thrilled to be jostling beside the works of Douglas Adams, though I don't quite understand understand why I'm there.Reviews are also starting to appear. I'm delighted by this one, which spots that I nicked the title from Kneale and not Cormac McCarthy:
"Guerrier piles on the atmosphere, reminding me very much of Sapphire And Steel or the great Nigel Kneale in the way he describes our connections to places and landscapes and where times past are having a direct effect on contemporary events such as the building of a new road, and he creates quite a morally complex character with Gemma, carefully building up our sympathies for her only to twist them darkly out of shape towards the end of the book. An engrossing mystery written in a brittle prose that conjures up the swirling emotions of loss and revenge eating away at broken human lives that test the enduring spirits of our three 'heroes."Hooray! Paul Simpson, meanwhile, gives me and James Goss 7/10 each, and Mark Michalowski 8/10:
"All three authors get the voices of the main characters right ... maintaining the show's combination of pathos, drama and black comedy ... They don't shy away from the horror element intrinsic to the show, although it's notable that we don't see George on a vulpine rampage – probably because the second season has been at pains to show George and Nina going through their monthly cycle as part of the ongoing Professor Jaggat plotline. (There is a brief reference to Jaggat, although there's no sign of either the professor or the bible-spouting Kemp, in line with the BBC policy that nothing important can happen in tie-in books.)"That last bit is a little unfair. I'd feel a bit cheated if important parts of a TV show were only to be found in some tie-in books. Mark, James and I created our own characters and situations which I hope are engaging in themselves and add something to the experience of the series as a whole. You might as well get at us for not having written the books in 3D.Paul Simpson, "Being Human: The Road; Chasers; Bad Blood", Total Sci-fi Online, 3 February 2010.
You can also win copies of the Being Human books in the latest, Being Human-tastic issue of Gay Times.
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
IVF
Something different for my 900th post. I don't normally blog personal stuff, but the Dr and I want it out in the open that we're doing IVF. There's a weird taboo around the subject, and even people who know that we're doing it don't always know what it entails or quite how to respond. We're just starting our second attempt, and a lot of people seemed surprised that the first go didn't work. IVF is not some miracle pill that lets “career women” have babies later. It's a last resort, with the odds stacked up against it.
This goes on a bit, is probably a bit mawkish and we know that everyone has their own shit to deal with. But anyway, here goes...
The usual method of making a baby is via the ancient combination of alcohol, fumbling and interlocking body parts. There are all sorts of reasons why this might not work – apparently some one in seven couples have fertility problems. All sorts of tests and treatments can help spot the problem and, with luck, sort it out.
This all takes time. You might hear helpful comments about IVF being for women in their mid-thirties who have “left it too late”. The Dr and I have been “trying” (i.e. with alcohol and interlocking parts) since before we got married in 2004, when we were both in our late twenties. The doctors won't consider you've got a problem until you've been trying for about two years, so we started tests in late 2005.
There are a lot of tests: taking supplements, giving samples, prodding around in the plumbing. We collect matching punctures from the blood tests. None of it is particularly fun, and we made regular trips to the GP and two separate hospitals. I'll write about the joyous practicalities of sperm tests – and the instruction sheets they give you – another time. Medical stuff works on the basis of “Have a go and see what happens.” We tried a lot of different things.
For most of 2008, the Dr was on nasty stuff called clomid which made her paranoid, weepy and claustrophobic. About 11 pm every night she'd want to be home in bed, and away from other people. We didn't know this at first, of course, but worked it out by degrees. By the last month of the treatment I'd realised that when the Dr said “I want to go now”, whatever the time, wherever we were, we had to get up and go – usually without saying goodbye to anyone.
Gradually, I also worked out that I should let people know at the start of a night out or meal or wedding that this was what we might do. “Don't,” I'd say, “worry, or hold us up as we go. We'll just disappear.” And it helped to have enough money on me for taxis so as to avoid crowded trains. Generally, it made even the most simple tasks much more complicated. And after all those months, the clomid didn't have any positive effect.
If none of these tests and experiments work you get put on to in vitro fertilisation (IVF), where instead of using alcohol and interlocking parts the sperm and egg are mixed up in a petri dish. We were recommended for our first go at IVF in late 2008, and went through it last summer – more than five years after we began “trying”, and in our mid-thirties.
There are all sorts of percentages for how successful it will be depending on the exact problem. For example, you seem to have a better chance if the chap's sperm is okay and the issue is with the lady. The statistics are also less good for women after they turn 35 – we're luckily just inside that bracket before we try this second go. One doctor said this was because we had “got through the tests relatively quickly”, so some poor women must find this all especially cruel.
Once you're doing IVF, the process takes about two months. The wheeze is to jump-start your system to get it going, then extract the bits, put them together manually and re-insert them into the womb. There are distinct stages, and – a bit like end-of-level baddies in a computer game – you can only progress to the next stage when you've passed the last one.
First you go on what's basically the pill. Then, on the 21st day of your cycle you start injecting yourself with drugs that effectively put you through the menopause, shutting down your system. Symptoms of that can include hot flushes, night sweats, hormones all over the place (so lots of crying for no reason) and hair growth (sadly, the Dr didn't grow a beard). You have to inject the drugs at the same time every day, you can't drink and you're not scintillating company anyway. So it kills your social life.
After two weeks you go for a scan to see that your insides are shut down. If they have you're on to the next stage, injecting the menopause drugs and the drugs that put you through puberty. That's why you feel like you're being pulled in two directions. The Dr felt giddy, found it difficult to concentrate and kept forgetting things (she lost her mobile phone three times last year while on the various drugs). She only wanted to eat sweets and her body changed shape completely.
All the stuff with the clomid the previous year had prepared us a bit for these side effects. Knowing to leave early and to apologise in advance made things a little easier, but you're constantly on edge, madly hoping that you'll get to the next stage. It's also not easy to see someone you love going through something like this – and being completely unable to help.
Then there's another scan to see that your ovaries are producing follicles – the things that house the eggs. You'll have some idea already if it's working because you're swollen and sore, and even walking a step is painful. If it is working, they call you in for what's called a "harvesting", where they remove the follicles. This process hurts, so they put you on opiates and you still feel pretty wiped out and bruised. You're not allowed to leave on your own; you need someone else there to ensure you get home. The Dr was bruised for weeks afterwards.
They're hoping for about 10-12 good eggs from this harvesting, so there's some to fertilise and some to freeze so you can skip to this stage if you need to go through the process again. If you're with a chap, he donates his sperm at this stage and the boffins put it all together.
If that putting together works, two days later you're in again for the implantation, which is pretty straight-forward and easy. Then you wait two weeks to see if it's worked. “Try not to worry,” they say, as one might advise, “Try to walk to the Moon”. You get used to the matter-of-fact language as you go through the process. “If you've not bled after a fortnight,” they tell you, “do a pregnancy test”. Depending what statistics you read, at implantation your chances of pregnancy are about 40%.
Once there, you face all the normal risks of pregnancy, though IVF increases your chances of having twins which can mean a whole number more complications. Most people I've talked to who've done this thing see twins as just catching up on all the time spent getting this far.
But if it doesn't work – and last time ours didn't on the 14th day – you can try again.
It's all a numbers game, with the waiting “room” (a corridor) at the Assisted Conception Unit filled with the same despair and desperation, the plaintive longing for miracles, as in any Ladbrokes. According to the British Medical Journal,
It's about £4,000 to go through the whole thing (roughly what I get paid for a novel), and about £1,000 if you've got eggs already frozen, plus the £400 per year for freezing them. There's a brilliant bit of internal market cleverness when it comes to buying the drugs – the hospital gives you a list of the drugs you need and numbers for three suppliers. You take a morning off and ring round these people, getting the best price. There was about £70 difference between them, depending on postage arrangements. We couldn't, though, then order the drugs ourselves. We had to schlep back to the hospital who did it for us. Any savings made had been lost in the time faffing about. But this is apparently a key part of “Patient Choice” and is somehow empowering for us.
We've also had delays because of ongoing building works at the hospital, and our second go looks like it will be split between two different sites, so there'll be added excitements about where we're meant to be for any given part of the cycle. Ordinarily, stuff like that would just be annoying, but on something so complex, emotional and intrusive, it leaves you howling at the sky.
It also doesn't help that we already know what to expect – the side effects and pain, the desperate hope and even more desperate disappointment. It took several months for the Dr to get the drugs out of her system last time; she still felt clutzy and forgetful, and kept finding herself lost or double-booked.
There are difficult decisions to be made about how long you try for: how much the drugs affect the lady, how much you can afford, how close you get at each stage, how much you're wasting your time. It is, all told, weird and knackering. It's like we've both been carrying this weight around with us for years.
You start noticing how much female identity is built up on having kids – especially when women get to their late twenties. It's still surprising how often strangers will ask if you have children and then ask why not – are we “focusing” on our careers? You notice how many people see their kids as an achievement, not the result of alcohol, fumbling and interlocking parts and being lucky in the draw. We've been envious, yes, and sometimes upset, as our friends and relations get pregnant with such relative ease. It's not quite the same as watching my colleagues get thrilling writing gigs – where I'm torn between thinking both, “Good for them,” and also “Bastardsbastardsbastards!”
Sometimes we've hidden away from celebrations rather than be spectres at the feast. Not that that's how other people treat us, it's how we feel ourselves. I struggled for a long time to explain how this feels, but a good friend, K., described what we're going through as a kind of grief. That's exactly what it feels like – as if part of our future has died.
And yet through all of this the Dr and I are closer than we've ever been. Oh, we've had some spectacular rows, but mostly its being howling at the sky rather than each other. I don't think we'd have made it this far otherwise. And we've learned who our friends really are. The weirdest thing about all of this is what it does to other people as they try to help. There's the cheery teasing about us not turning up to things, or about leaving early. Or the ones who interrogate us about how we're feeling and want details of all the worst bits. Or – a favourite – those who tell us how difficult being pregnant and having kids is, as if in many ways we're blessed.
I know it's all well meant but these things don't really help. All that happens is that we want to withdraw, to hide away and lick our wounds. One kind person even told us – for our benefit, I'm sure – that we were being over-sensitive. But it's difficult to feel anything but broken, and constantly pelted with stones. There's news of abuse or neglect of children, or you see people shouting at their kids in the street, or yet another “authority” speaks out about IVF or even that marriage is all about having kids, or that some medical condition is a moral judgement on the person who has it, and it's like twisting the knife.
We're not expecting the second go at IVF to work. We're already prepared for the result of that: the blunt statement that we can't have children. We just have to grit our teeth and get on with it; whatever happens, then we can move on.
So the best thing is not to crowd us, or worry if we disappear. But it is good to know that our friends are thinking of us. The best thing to ask is, “How are things going?” and after that, “Would you like a drink?”
This goes on a bit, is probably a bit mawkish and we know that everyone has their own shit to deal with. But anyway, here goes...
The usual method of making a baby is via the ancient combination of alcohol, fumbling and interlocking body parts. There are all sorts of reasons why this might not work – apparently some one in seven couples have fertility problems. All sorts of tests and treatments can help spot the problem and, with luck, sort it out.
This all takes time. You might hear helpful comments about IVF being for women in their mid-thirties who have “left it too late”. The Dr and I have been “trying” (i.e. with alcohol and interlocking parts) since before we got married in 2004, when we were both in our late twenties. The doctors won't consider you've got a problem until you've been trying for about two years, so we started tests in late 2005.
There are a lot of tests: taking supplements, giving samples, prodding around in the plumbing. We collect matching punctures from the blood tests. None of it is particularly fun, and we made regular trips to the GP and two separate hospitals. I'll write about the joyous practicalities of sperm tests – and the instruction sheets they give you – another time. Medical stuff works on the basis of “Have a go and see what happens.” We tried a lot of different things.For most of 2008, the Dr was on nasty stuff called clomid which made her paranoid, weepy and claustrophobic. About 11 pm every night she'd want to be home in bed, and away from other people. We didn't know this at first, of course, but worked it out by degrees. By the last month of the treatment I'd realised that when the Dr said “I want to go now”, whatever the time, wherever we were, we had to get up and go – usually without saying goodbye to anyone.
Gradually, I also worked out that I should let people know at the start of a night out or meal or wedding that this was what we might do. “Don't,” I'd say, “worry, or hold us up as we go. We'll just disappear.” And it helped to have enough money on me for taxis so as to avoid crowded trains. Generally, it made even the most simple tasks much more complicated. And after all those months, the clomid didn't have any positive effect.
If none of these tests and experiments work you get put on to in vitro fertilisation (IVF), where instead of using alcohol and interlocking parts the sperm and egg are mixed up in a petri dish. We were recommended for our first go at IVF in late 2008, and went through it last summer – more than five years after we began “trying”, and in our mid-thirties.
There are all sorts of percentages for how successful it will be depending on the exact problem. For example, you seem to have a better chance if the chap's sperm is okay and the issue is with the lady. The statistics are also less good for women after they turn 35 – we're luckily just inside that bracket before we try this second go. One doctor said this was because we had “got through the tests relatively quickly”, so some poor women must find this all especially cruel.
Once you're doing IVF, the process takes about two months. The wheeze is to jump-start your system to get it going, then extract the bits, put them together manually and re-insert them into the womb. There are distinct stages, and – a bit like end-of-level baddies in a computer game – you can only progress to the next stage when you've passed the last one.
First you go on what's basically the pill. Then, on the 21st day of your cycle you start injecting yourself with drugs that effectively put you through the menopause, shutting down your system. Symptoms of that can include hot flushes, night sweats, hormones all over the place (so lots of crying for no reason) and hair growth (sadly, the Dr didn't grow a beard). You have to inject the drugs at the same time every day, you can't drink and you're not scintillating company anyway. So it kills your social life.
After two weeks you go for a scan to see that your insides are shut down. If they have you're on to the next stage, injecting the menopause drugs and the drugs that put you through puberty. That's why you feel like you're being pulled in two directions. The Dr felt giddy, found it difficult to concentrate and kept forgetting things (she lost her mobile phone three times last year while on the various drugs). She only wanted to eat sweets and her body changed shape completely.
All the stuff with the clomid the previous year had prepared us a bit for these side effects. Knowing to leave early and to apologise in advance made things a little easier, but you're constantly on edge, madly hoping that you'll get to the next stage. It's also not easy to see someone you love going through something like this – and being completely unable to help.
Then there's another scan to see that your ovaries are producing follicles – the things that house the eggs. You'll have some idea already if it's working because you're swollen and sore, and even walking a step is painful. If it is working, they call you in for what's called a "harvesting", where they remove the follicles. This process hurts, so they put you on opiates and you still feel pretty wiped out and bruised. You're not allowed to leave on your own; you need someone else there to ensure you get home. The Dr was bruised for weeks afterwards.
They're hoping for about 10-12 good eggs from this harvesting, so there's some to fertilise and some to freeze so you can skip to this stage if you need to go through the process again. If you're with a chap, he donates his sperm at this stage and the boffins put it all together.
If that putting together works, two days later you're in again for the implantation, which is pretty straight-forward and easy. Then you wait two weeks to see if it's worked. “Try not to worry,” they say, as one might advise, “Try to walk to the Moon”. You get used to the matter-of-fact language as you go through the process. “If you've not bled after a fortnight,” they tell you, “do a pregnancy test”. Depending what statistics you read, at implantation your chances of pregnancy are about 40%.
Once there, you face all the normal risks of pregnancy, though IVF increases your chances of having twins which can mean a whole number more complications. Most people I've talked to who've done this thing see twins as just catching up on all the time spent getting this far.
But if it doesn't work – and last time ours didn't on the 14th day – you can try again.
It's all a numbers game, with the waiting “room” (a corridor) at the Assisted Conception Unit filled with the same despair and desperation, the plaintive longing for miracles, as in any Ladbrokes. According to the British Medical Journal,
“One cycle of IVF offers a 25% chance of pregnancy; three cycles offer a 50% chance”.On that basis, the National Institute for Clinical Excellence in 2004 published guidelines,
“aimed at raising infertility service provision in England and Wales to the standards enjoyed elsewhere in Europe”,which included the key recommendation of,
“up to three free cycles of in vitro fertilisation (IVF) for couples who have been unable to conceive for three years because of an identifiable reason—provided that the woman is under 40 years old.”That recommendation is still not happening: it all depends where you live and which health authority you're under. We're caught between two health authorities, so went with the one that said it would pay for two goes. Until, that is, we actually needed to have a second attempt, when it admitted it would only pay for one.
It's about £4,000 to go through the whole thing (roughly what I get paid for a novel), and about £1,000 if you've got eggs already frozen, plus the £400 per year for freezing them. There's a brilliant bit of internal market cleverness when it comes to buying the drugs – the hospital gives you a list of the drugs you need and numbers for three suppliers. You take a morning off and ring round these people, getting the best price. There was about £70 difference between them, depending on postage arrangements. We couldn't, though, then order the drugs ourselves. We had to schlep back to the hospital who did it for us. Any savings made had been lost in the time faffing about. But this is apparently a key part of “Patient Choice” and is somehow empowering for us.
We've also had delays because of ongoing building works at the hospital, and our second go looks like it will be split between two different sites, so there'll be added excitements about where we're meant to be for any given part of the cycle. Ordinarily, stuff like that would just be annoying, but on something so complex, emotional and intrusive, it leaves you howling at the sky.
It also doesn't help that we already know what to expect – the side effects and pain, the desperate hope and even more desperate disappointment. It took several months for the Dr to get the drugs out of her system last time; she still felt clutzy and forgetful, and kept finding herself lost or double-booked.
There are difficult decisions to be made about how long you try for: how much the drugs affect the lady, how much you can afford, how close you get at each stage, how much you're wasting your time. It is, all told, weird and knackering. It's like we've both been carrying this weight around with us for years.
You start noticing how much female identity is built up on having kids – especially when women get to their late twenties. It's still surprising how often strangers will ask if you have children and then ask why not – are we “focusing” on our careers? You notice how many people see their kids as an achievement, not the result of alcohol, fumbling and interlocking parts and being lucky in the draw. We've been envious, yes, and sometimes upset, as our friends and relations get pregnant with such relative ease. It's not quite the same as watching my colleagues get thrilling writing gigs – where I'm torn between thinking both, “Good for them,” and also “Bastardsbastardsbastards!”
Sometimes we've hidden away from celebrations rather than be spectres at the feast. Not that that's how other people treat us, it's how we feel ourselves. I struggled for a long time to explain how this feels, but a good friend, K., described what we're going through as a kind of grief. That's exactly what it feels like – as if part of our future has died.
And yet through all of this the Dr and I are closer than we've ever been. Oh, we've had some spectacular rows, but mostly its being howling at the sky rather than each other. I don't think we'd have made it this far otherwise. And we've learned who our friends really are. The weirdest thing about all of this is what it does to other people as they try to help. There's the cheery teasing about us not turning up to things, or about leaving early. Or the ones who interrogate us about how we're feeling and want details of all the worst bits. Or – a favourite – those who tell us how difficult being pregnant and having kids is, as if in many ways we're blessed.
I know it's all well meant but these things don't really help. All that happens is that we want to withdraw, to hide away and lick our wounds. One kind person even told us – for our benefit, I'm sure – that we were being over-sensitive. But it's difficult to feel anything but broken, and constantly pelted with stones. There's news of abuse or neglect of children, or you see people shouting at their kids in the street, or yet another “authority” speaks out about IVF or even that marriage is all about having kids, or that some medical condition is a moral judgement on the person who has it, and it's like twisting the knife.
We're not expecting the second go at IVF to work. We're already prepared for the result of that: the blunt statement that we can't have children. We just have to grit our teeth and get on with it; whatever happens, then we can move on.
So the best thing is not to crowd us, or worry if we disappear. But it is good to know that our friends are thinking of us. The best thing to ask is, “How are things going?” and after that, “Would you like a drink?”
Monday, February 01, 2010
God is love
Spotted by the in-laws in Fleetwood:
I now imagine Jesus and Valentine out on an awkward date, trying to make conversation over dinner at Pizza Express, amid other, just-as-uncomfortable couples.
I now imagine Jesus and Valentine out on an awkward date, trying to make conversation over dinner at Pizza Express, amid other, just-as-uncomfortable couples.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Books finished, January 2010
I've nicked this from a chap called Roo Reynolds, whose own blog I stalk. Here are the books I've finished this month:
"The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart" by Jesse Bullington
Reviewed this for Vector, so I'll blog that later this year. But spectacularly not my cup of tea and I struggled to find anything nice to say. Sorry, Jesse. Amazon's reviewers clearly like it.
"The Story of Parliament in the Palace of Westminster" by John Field
A rather dry, worthy and partisan history of the buildings most people refer to as the "Houses of Parliament" - you can tell Field was a teacher. Some periods in history are lavished in detail, others barely get a mention. For example, Field abruptly jumps from the Second World War to the end of the 20th Century, with a rant about democracy now and our place within it.
Yet there's plenty of fascinating top facts and insights. There's the appalling comedy-of-errors as bureaucracy and petty politics, committees, inquiries and an ever-changing brief hamper the building of Pugin and Barry's new palace in the mid-Nineteenth Century - and killed off both those men. The frescoes of radiant British history famously came out too dark because of the inclement British weather, while the over-large statues of major British figures were quietly moved elsewhere. It leaves you amazed that we ever had an Empire. You can almost believe the old argument that we took Africa and India more by accident than design.
I was also fascinated by subtle changes wrought on the constitution during the brief reign of Edward VI. His dad, remember, had broken off from the Catholic church so as to get a new wife (which is why anyone from the Church of England who speaks against divorce and remarriage should be beheaded for Treason). During Edward's reign (with my emphasis in bold),
It's packed with stuff like this. Another favourite is in 1842, when the non-parliamentary Royal Fine Arts Commission held a competition for the interior decoration of the new palace, with two notable firsts:
"Matilda" by Roald Dahl
It's odd for me reading it again how thrilling and vivid it is, with Dahl simply and elegantly drawing us in to the adventure. It struck not only how black and white his characters are - villains like Matilda's parents and Miss Trunchball are 100 per cent villainous - but that this reflects a child-like view of grown-ups. There's no sense of these adults having once been children themselves - Miss Trunchball denies that very thing - or of their characters and outlooks developing. What, I wondered, went so wrong to turn Miss Trunchball into such a monster?
It also seems of its time, with Dahl sniffy about television and Matilda's dad a brash, conscience-less small businessman, reaping the boon of the Eighties. The plot is about a young girl taking charge of her life and reclaiming a stolen inheritance - just like the Victorian novels that Matilda reads. But it's also about the pernicious greed of its age.
It also seems odd now that Dahl recommends Hemmingway and, "Brighton Rock" to the children readers, and quotes from Dylan Thomas' haunting, "In Country Sleep". And I'm delighted this edition includes writing tips from Dahl, which includes his "constant unholy terror of boring the reader". We're already working our way through more of Dahl, so will blog some more on him soon.
"Family Britain 1951-57" by David Kynaston
I loved "Austerity Britain", which I read last year and singularly failed to blog. This picks up the story, a whopping, fat mash of diary extracts, political journals, news, sport and current affairs, building up an impression of the era. It's utterly compelling and covers such enormous ground. Kynaston's got an eye for details which inform or reflect the worries of our own age - the terror of "coshing" from teenage boys, the fury of the tabloid press, the floods and train disasters and the impact of invading - in this case, Suez - without a UN mandate. The truth is just starting to come out as the book closes, with Prime Minister Eden's explicit lie to the Commons about there having been no secret plot with Israel.
Kynaston's also good at explaining the effect of such moments, such as this quotation from the Daily Mirror on 5 November 1956, explaining why everyone must abide by international law if it's to have any meaning:
Three choice moments from the book to whet your need to read it: in 1952 in Oxford,
And though I don't agree with the sentiment, I loved Churchill's masterful analogy for the political divide at the 1955 General Election:
"The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart" by Jesse BullingtonReviewed this for Vector, so I'll blog that later this year. But spectacularly not my cup of tea and I struggled to find anything nice to say. Sorry, Jesse. Amazon's reviewers clearly like it.
"The Story of Parliament in the Palace of Westminster" by John Field
A rather dry, worthy and partisan history of the buildings most people refer to as the "Houses of Parliament" - you can tell Field was a teacher. Some periods in history are lavished in detail, others barely get a mention. For example, Field abruptly jumps from the Second World War to the end of the 20th Century, with a rant about democracy now and our place within it.
Yet there's plenty of fascinating top facts and insights. There's the appalling comedy-of-errors as bureaucracy and petty politics, committees, inquiries and an ever-changing brief hamper the building of Pugin and Barry's new palace in the mid-Nineteenth Century - and killed off both those men. The frescoes of radiant British history famously came out too dark because of the inclement British weather, while the over-large statues of major British figures were quietly moved elsewhere. It leaves you amazed that we ever had an Empire. You can almost believe the old argument that we took Africa and India more by accident than design.
I was also fascinated by subtle changes wrought on the constitution during the brief reign of Edward VI. His dad, remember, had broken off from the Catholic church so as to get a new wife (which is why anyone from the Church of England who speaks against divorce and remarriage should be beheaded for Treason). During Edward's reign (with my emphasis in bold),
"The 1548 Parliament passed the First Act of Uniformity, which introduced an English prayer book, imposed penalties for non-observance, and ordered the suppression of both images and Latin primers. It was the first occasion when religious practice had been proscribed by a secular authority. The Second Act of Uniformity followed in the 1552 Parliament which required every subject to attend church on Sunday, at one of the rechristened services of morning prayer, evening prayer, or the Lord's supper. This Act was the beginning of 'keeping Sunday special'. It was accompanied, appropriately by an Act for the control of alehouses by Justices of the Peace, when liquor began for the first time to be licensed."So "keeping Sunday special" was a specifically anti-Catholic measure, not our version of the Sabbath. It's also worth noting that Edward VI did not so much rule himself as governed through helpful "uncle" figures and Parliament - nearly a century before Oliver Cromwell, let alone the constitutional monarchy of William and Mary.John Field, "The Story of Parliament in the Palace of Westminster", p. 79.
It's packed with stuff like this. Another favourite is in 1842, when the non-parliamentary Royal Fine Arts Commission held a competition for the interior decoration of the new palace, with two notable firsts:
"Cartoons were invited, either of subjects from British history, of of scenes from the works of Spenser, Shakespeare and Milton. The exhibition [of these] was the occasion for Punch to appropriate the word 'cartoon' and apply it for the first time to comic subjects, the magazine's own spoof entries. It was the first time that state patronage had been offered to artists."Field is right that the palace today still feels like a gentleman's club, with arcane rules and traditions deliberately aimed at tripping up the newcomer. He's also good on Lords reform, and the value of individuals of experience and with ostensibly less party allegiance to the scrutiny of Bills. So plenty of valuable research and insight, but the phrasing and grammar could be better, and there are odd concentrations of focus which mean the book loses a few marks.Ibid., p. 191.
"Matilda" by Roald Dahl
"It's a funny thing about mothers and fathers. Even when their own child is the most disgusting little blister you could ever imagine, they still think that he or she is wonderful."I've long meant to remedy the Dr's ignorance of the works of Roald Dahl. This was a perfect place to start, with a small, bespectacled and earnest girl who was reading newspapers at the works of Charles Dickens at the age of five. She was quite enthralled.Roald Dahl, "Matilda", p.1.
It's odd for me reading it again how thrilling and vivid it is, with Dahl simply and elegantly drawing us in to the adventure. It struck not only how black and white his characters are - villains like Matilda's parents and Miss Trunchball are 100 per cent villainous - but that this reflects a child-like view of grown-ups. There's no sense of these adults having once been children themselves - Miss Trunchball denies that very thing - or of their characters and outlooks developing. What, I wondered, went so wrong to turn Miss Trunchball into such a monster?
It also seems of its time, with Dahl sniffy about television and Matilda's dad a brash, conscience-less small businessman, reaping the boon of the Eighties. The plot is about a young girl taking charge of her life and reclaiming a stolen inheritance - just like the Victorian novels that Matilda reads. But it's also about the pernicious greed of its age.
It also seems odd now that Dahl recommends Hemmingway and, "Brighton Rock" to the children readers, and quotes from Dylan Thomas' haunting, "In Country Sleep". And I'm delighted this edition includes writing tips from Dahl, which includes his "constant unholy terror of boring the reader". We're already working our way through more of Dahl, so will blog some more on him soon.
"Family Britain 1951-57" by David Kynaston
I loved "Austerity Britain", which I read last year and singularly failed to blog. This picks up the story, a whopping, fat mash of diary extracts, political journals, news, sport and current affairs, building up an impression of the era. It's utterly compelling and covers such enormous ground. Kynaston's got an eye for details which inform or reflect the worries of our own age - the terror of "coshing" from teenage boys, the fury of the tabloid press, the floods and train disasters and the impact of invading - in this case, Suez - without a UN mandate. The truth is just starting to come out as the book closes, with Prime Minister Eden's explicit lie to the Commons about there having been no secret plot with Israel.
Kynaston's also good at explaining the effect of such moments, such as this quotation from the Daily Mirror on 5 November 1956, explaining why everyone must abide by international law if it's to have any meaning:
"'Once British bombs fell on Egypt the fate of Hungary was sealed,' asserted its leader. 'The last chance of asserting moral pressure on Russia was lost when Eden defied the United Nations over Suez.' Almost certainly Khruschev would have acted as he did anyway, sooner rather than later, but undeniably Suez provide opportune cover."The struggles of the British Communist Party to reconcile themselves to the fate of Budapest - and to revelations about all Stalin had been up to - seem another world, as are the worries about coal fires and rationing, or the assigned roles for men and women. It's the world we live in and another planet - something you can experience with this incredible, haunting slideshow of photographs of the 1950s.
Three choice moments from the book to whet your need to read it: in 1952 in Oxford,
"a thrusting Australian undergraduate had stood for secretary of the University Labour Club and, in defiance of the rule against open canvassing, had campaigned on the slogan, 'Rooting for Rupert'. Complaints were made to the club's chairman, Gerald Kaufman, who initiated a tribunal. The outcome was that young Rupert Murdoch was not allowed to stand for office."That same year, the forthcoming White Paper about ending the BBC's monopoly on television - allowing the creation of ITV - led to "agitated correspondence" in the Times:Ibid., p.102.
"'This is the age of the common man, whose influences towards the deterioration of standards of culture are formidable in all spheres,' warned Lord Brand. 'It is discouraging to find that it is in the Conservative Party which one would have thought would be by tradition the party pledged to maintain such standards, that many members in their desire to end anything like a monopoly, seem ready to support measures which will inevitably degrade them.' Violet Bonham Carter agreed: 'We are often told the B.B.C. should "give the people what they want". But who are "the people"? The people are all the people - including minorities. Broadcasting by the B.B.C. has no aim but good broadcasting. Broadcasting by sponsoring has no other motive but to sell goods."Just as today, hacking flesh from the BBC might let other people make money - some of them Tory grandees - but does it mean any improvement in telly? There's an argument now that ITV has suffered not because it's up against the BBC, but because commerical television can only flourish and not dilute the quality of its material while it has a monopoly, too.Ibid., p. 106.
And though I don't agree with the sentiment, I loved Churchill's masterful analogy for the political divide at the 1955 General Election:
"'Queuetopia remained Churchill's central metaphor for socialism in action - a term designed specifically to appeal to housewives. 'We are for the ladder,' he declared in his election broadcast. 'Let all try their best to climb. They are for the queue. Let each wait in his place till his turn comes.'"In all the book is a window into an age so much like and so different from our own - an expert piece of world-building, to use the science-fiction term. Interspersed with the names of films and performers, brands of cigarette and clothes, sportsmen and commentators and etc., the impression builds into a vivid portrait. It's a place of green smog that stings the throat like pepper and shrouds the stage from an opera-going audience, of "National butter", of the slow, slow end of rationing and the first shifts in public opinion on the medieval laws on homosexuality and on capital punishment. A glorious book and enthralling. I eagerly await the next volume.Ibid., p. 33.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Chased
The Doctor Who Restoration Team have announced the contents of the forthcoming DVD of 1965 stories The Space Museum and The Chase, which includes details of the extras, including:
In the mean time, I'm pitching every which way, have a thing to finish by Sunday and got odd bits of work and training cropping up. Shower is still out - will post some pictures sometime - so I've been much better at going to the gym, since then at least I can wash. And I've also got a great long post to write about Something Important, but that will have to wait until next week.
"Last Stop White City (dur. 13' 15") - School teachers Barbara Wright and Ian Chesterton were the first people from Earth to travel with the Doctor and his granddaughter Susan in their time and space vehicle, the TARDIS. From their first step into the TARDIS in 'An Unearthly Child' to their departure at the end of 'The Chase', the duo were involved in sixteen thrilling adventures that captured the imagination of a generation. This documentary tells their story. With actors William Russell, director Richard Martin, studio vision mixer Clive Doig and writer Simon Guerrier."The DVD is out in the UK in March. I've got a few more credits to come on Doctor Who DVDs - for example, as the boss Tweeted today:
"Noel Clarke (@NoelClarke) signed up to narrate challenging doc. Likely release date early 2011. Produced by Guerrier Bros."I've also received my special edition DVD of Girl Number 9, featuring some particularly good not-walking-into-anything acting from me.
In the mean time, I'm pitching every which way, have a thing to finish by Sunday and got odd bits of work and training cropping up. Shower is still out - will post some pictures sometime - so I've been much better at going to the gym, since then at least I can wash. And I've also got a great long post to write about Something Important, but that will have to wait until next week.
Monday, January 25, 2010
The poseability of Isskar
Alex was off buying toys again when he spotted Play's splendid description of this Martian monstrosity:
"Reaching up to 7 feet tall, Ice Warriors were a large imposing race of reptilian humanoids from the planet Mars whose civilization was destroyed during The Doctor's search for a segment from the Key to Time."Those last 15 words are wot I did. I matter and am important!
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Will scrawl for food
Not dead, just busy with all manner of efforts to be gainfully employed. Freelancing involves a lot of pitching and begging and poking of feet into doors, but in the last few months my hit rate has been down.
Got plenty of work on, and am working every spare moment, but not all of it's very highly paid. Then there's the projects which get cancelled when I'm already well into them, or the fun discussions after delivery where it turns out the bosses can't pay all that they said.
This sort of thing has gone on since I went freelance back in 2002, but it seems to be happening a lot more in the Current Climate. There seem to be far more people gunning for the jobs, and that can even mean the applications process is all much more complicated so as to ward some of these people off.
But a desperate Tweet earlier this week has paid off rather nicely, and I've spent a busy few days pitching stuff every which way. Got some meetings and things coming up, too, so it's all looking a bit more hopeful.
In the meantime, I had a lovely afternoon at the NFT on Saturday, with Bernard Cribbins on fine form as he entertained a packed cinema mostly full of geeks. I think I must have known half the people there, and got to say "Wotcher" to most of them. Also chastely admired a pretty lady two rows in front, before realising it was Channel 4 News' Samira Ahmed.
On Sunday, the Dr dragged me from the typing to go see Sherlock Holmes. Must admit I dragged my feet a bit - I've avoided Guy Ritchie since Revolver [my review of which has vanished from the Internet; I shall look into that]. But it's a smart, exciting and funny film, packed with glorious details, from the works of Conan-Doyle himself and Victoriana. The House of Lords is too wide, and an insider would spot that it's got the wrong walls and ceiling. And Tower Bridge was built in 1894, so some years after Holmes' fateful adventure with the chap with chalk on his lapel. But that's me desperately trying to find fault with the thing. Go see; it's really good.
Oh, and the church down the road is now extolling that Jedward is a lot like the story of Jesus:
Got plenty of work on, and am working every spare moment, but not all of it's very highly paid. Then there's the projects which get cancelled when I'm already well into them, or the fun discussions after delivery where it turns out the bosses can't pay all that they said.
This sort of thing has gone on since I went freelance back in 2002, but it seems to be happening a lot more in the Current Climate. There seem to be far more people gunning for the jobs, and that can even mean the applications process is all much more complicated so as to ward some of these people off.
But a desperate Tweet earlier this week has paid off rather nicely, and I've spent a busy few days pitching stuff every which way. Got some meetings and things coming up, too, so it's all looking a bit more hopeful.
In the meantime, I had a lovely afternoon at the NFT on Saturday, with Bernard Cribbins on fine form as he entertained a packed cinema mostly full of geeks. I think I must have known half the people there, and got to say "Wotcher" to most of them. Also chastely admired a pretty lady two rows in front, before realising it was Channel 4 News' Samira Ahmed.
On Sunday, the Dr dragged me from the typing to go see Sherlock Holmes. Must admit I dragged my feet a bit - I've avoided Guy Ritchie since Revolver [my review of which has vanished from the Internet; I shall look into that]. But it's a smart, exciting and funny film, packed with glorious details, from the works of Conan-Doyle himself and Victoriana. The House of Lords is too wide, and an insider would spot that it's got the wrong walls and ceiling. And Tower Bridge was built in 1894, so some years after Holmes' fateful adventure with the chap with chalk on his lapel. But that's me desperately trying to find fault with the thing. Go see; it's really good.
Oh, and the church down the road is now extolling that Jedward is a lot like the story of Jesus:
Monday, January 11, 2010
Wet wet wet
A practical post today. Yesterday, my Daewoo DH-6100P HDD/DVD recorder would not eject a disc. It would try to play the thing but get caught up in a weird loop of cogitation. I tried restarting the machine but that only meant it came on again thinking, "Ooh, a disc" and hit the loop before getting to the stage where it would let me eject. What a clever bit of design.
Googling, Jimlad on AvForums had had the same problem, and I dared to follow his method of taking the bastard thing apart. A little to my amazement, that proved easy enough and the thing is now working. The Dr got to watch the end of Season One of Poldark and of Being Human before the latter's 2.1. Hooray!
I am always in frustrated awe of those who can actually make and fix things. And it's even more enraging when people who can do things don't.
Some 18 months ago, I spent about more than a month and a lot of money getting my bathroom fixed so it wouldn't leak on the people downstairs. It didn't work, and last September we were dribbling again. The Man - my sister's handy significant other - poked about a bit, muttered about cowboys and made a temporary fix.
Today he was back again to do things more finally. We thought we'd remove a couple of rows of tiles, let the dampness dry out over the next few days (we'll be using washing facilities at the gym and a mate's house), then reseal it all double-strength.
Only it never proves that simple. Anything we probe in this house reveals amazing corners cut - as we discovered weeks into living here with our boiler. The tiles round the shower turn out to have been fixed to a painted wall. The paint appears glossy and plastic, so water will run off it, but that also means its like the tiles have been fixed to glass. You put your finger under one tile, and the whole wall comes away.
Water has wormed its way through to this slick patch, and leaked right through the plasterboard into the wall behind. This means an interior wall with damp, which is something of a bad thing. We'll set heaters on the wet bits and try and get it sorted. We'll also need more tiles.
And, just to add to the joys, on the adjacent wall, the bottom tiles came off to reveal a dark hole. The shower mechanism and pipes turns out to be hidden behind a false wall that loses us maybe four or five inches of bathroom - enough extra space to allow us to fit a bath, though we can't afford anything nearly so fancy. It's all tided up now - the Man is very good - but I find even sat here in the next room tapping away that the darkness is looming.
Googling, Jimlad on AvForums had had the same problem, and I dared to follow his method of taking the bastard thing apart. A little to my amazement, that proved easy enough and the thing is now working. The Dr got to watch the end of Season One of Poldark and of Being Human before the latter's 2.1. Hooray!
I am always in frustrated awe of those who can actually make and fix things. And it's even more enraging when people who can do things don't.
Some 18 months ago, I spent about more than a month and a lot of money getting my bathroom fixed so it wouldn't leak on the people downstairs. It didn't work, and last September we were dribbling again. The Man - my sister's handy significant other - poked about a bit, muttered about cowboys and made a temporary fix.
Today he was back again to do things more finally. We thought we'd remove a couple of rows of tiles, let the dampness dry out over the next few days (we'll be using washing facilities at the gym and a mate's house), then reseal it all double-strength.
Only it never proves that simple. Anything we probe in this house reveals amazing corners cut - as we discovered weeks into living here with our boiler. The tiles round the shower turn out to have been fixed to a painted wall. The paint appears glossy and plastic, so water will run off it, but that also means its like the tiles have been fixed to glass. You put your finger under one tile, and the whole wall comes away.
Water has wormed its way through to this slick patch, and leaked right through the plasterboard into the wall behind. This means an interior wall with damp, which is something of a bad thing. We'll set heaters on the wet bits and try and get it sorted. We'll also need more tiles.
And, just to add to the joys, on the adjacent wall, the bottom tiles came off to reveal a dark hole. The shower mechanism and pipes turns out to be hidden behind a false wall that loses us maybe four or five inches of bathroom - enough extra space to allow us to fit a bath, though we can't afford anything nearly so fancy. It's all tided up now - the Man is very good - but I find even sat here in the next room tapping away that the darkness is looming.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Lost and found (alternative take)
To the NFT last night for the annual Missing Believed Wiped – an evening of odd bits of old telly that have found their way back to the archive. I missed the 2008 event due to commitments, but blogged the one before.
As I said then, it's always an odd collection – and the appeal lies in just than incongruity. Things you'd never see together, and things you'd never seek out, make for a tantalising window to the past.
First was a short film on the Bob Monkhouse Collection – as Jonny says, in large part it seemed a collection of Monkhouse's own appearances. The some 50,000 film cans and videos are of limited appeal to the NFT because much of the programmes already exist in some form. Kaleidoscope have stepped in to manage the collection, which is fascinating as an insight into Monkhouse himself. He used the tapes as research for jokes and people he might work with, but also the mentality behind the collection says a lot in itself. The history of the collection – Monkhouse was taken to court for giving a copy of Goldfinger to Terry Wogan – also reveals a lot about archives in themselves.
This was followed by a collection of comedic bits from the early days of satellite station BSB. As Ian Greaves explained, junking of archives was still going on as late as the 1990s. The material shown in itself wasn't particularly brilliant, but showed early material from Keith Allen and Armando Ianucci – the latter probably the best of the lot.
I thought a lot more of His Lordship Entertains than Jonny did – and more readily saw the debt owed it by Fawlty Towers. The jokes came thick and fast, and there were also all kinds of jokes: word-play, slapstick, farce and character stuff. I loved the two old ladies telling filthy stories (a vacuum cleaner stops us hearing the most saucy bits), and was impressed by how many aged actors were involved. I think it was pushing beyond Up Pompeii, but I'm not sure what it was pushing towards.
Till Death Do Us Part was pretty ropey, with – as Jonny says – the best bits all Dandy Nichols as Else, who tellingly took no part in the topical bits. It was a surprisingly cheap show – all set in Alf's living room but for two brief scenes in front of blown-up photos, and with lines only for the regular cast of four. It was an uncomfortable episode too, not because of the words “coon” and “wog” so much as how much of the programme was given over to Alf's ranting. The cool kids might roll their eyes at his prejudice, but there was little in the way of counter-argument, and the last joke depends on Alf being clumsy rather than being wrong. The viewing notes expressed surprise that “some viewers actually agreed with Alf”, but the episode is all about him having his say.
Both these episodes seemed to be about the loss of the old Empire – Ronnie Barker's Lord Rustless having to open up his stately home as a hotel rather than flog it to the National Trust, Alf horrified by Britain losing it's place as a first-rate nation. But there were also lots of odd little details I loved: Rita (Una Stubbs) laquering her handbag, or having to boil a kettle to do the washing up. And Else, who lives in Wapping, has apparently never before been to Downing Street or Buckingham Palace.
(The ever-wise T. also pointed out that Mr Quill himself, Bill Burridge, is one of the non-speaking crowd at Downing Street. Frank Gatliff – Badger, butler to Barker – was obviously Ortron in The Monster of Peladon.)
Jonny didn't sit through part two of the event, which was all music from the 60s and 70s. The only extant episode of Time for Blackburn from 1968 had a very quick-edited performance by The Who of “The Magic Bus”, that made the women sat next to me dizzy. There was an odd interview with Jonathan King at a record industry do, and a plug for a “psychedelic pantomime”. But mostly it seemed a sub-Top of the Pops, with Blackburn barely bumbling along through the links, at one point explaining that he was always up himself.
We next had a selection of clips from Look! Hear!, a regional youth programme from the 1970s. The Dr almost exploded when a young, jumper-wearing “Mike” Wood introduced Black Sabbath, years before he followed in the footsteps of Alexander (mostly with his top off). There was also a glorious live performance by The Selecter, when the kids in the audience took over the stage. Somehow, a camera was ready up in the lights to look down on the action.
There were then two episodes of Top of the Pops. The first, from 1976, reminded us how old the presenters used to be, and how hokey the sets. Pans People managed to be sexist and yet not quite sexy, and we cheered at a bit of E.L.O. But mostly the music was pretty execrable – as Dick Fiddy said in between episodes, that's why we needed punk. I thought the Dr might tear her ears off during a performance by R and J Stone of “We Do It”. But the episode also ended with the Bohemian Rhapsody video. How odd to see something so familiar in context, and see just why it blew all competition from the water.
I'd forgotten how awkward the audiences always were in these things, nervously watching the cameras for their cues. But it also surprised me how multi-racial the music programmes were compared to so much other telly of the time – something I've been researching recently for a work thing.
The second episode was from 1967, in ropey black-and-white that kept coming to pieces. Fluff Freeman introduced “See Emily Play”, Pink Floyd fronted by Syd Barrett (who I thought looked a lot like Benjamin Cook). The picture flickered and snowed, the sound dropping out and then dropping back in. I'd love to see a reconstructed version, but this warped and warping effort took me right back to all those nth generation videos of old Doctor Who that made up a lot of my teenage life.
There was then a bit more warped footage from later in the episode – Ray Davies (introduced as “Dave” by Fluff), and Procul Harem's “Whiter Shade of Pale” with a lead singer dressed for no reason at all as a stereotypical Chinaman. It was sometimes a job to tell what were original video effects and what was the tape going weird, and Fluff seemed to commentate from another glacial age. How strange for a programme – and a time – to be so cool and so square all at once.
After, there was just time for a beer and to say hello to the many, many like-minded chums, but we ducked out of festivities in favour of just getting home while there were still some trains.
As I said then, it's always an odd collection – and the appeal lies in just than incongruity. Things you'd never see together, and things you'd never seek out, make for a tantalising window to the past.
First was a short film on the Bob Monkhouse Collection – as Jonny says, in large part it seemed a collection of Monkhouse's own appearances. The some 50,000 film cans and videos are of limited appeal to the NFT because much of the programmes already exist in some form. Kaleidoscope have stepped in to manage the collection, which is fascinating as an insight into Monkhouse himself. He used the tapes as research for jokes and people he might work with, but also the mentality behind the collection says a lot in itself. The history of the collection – Monkhouse was taken to court for giving a copy of Goldfinger to Terry Wogan – also reveals a lot about archives in themselves.
This was followed by a collection of comedic bits from the early days of satellite station BSB. As Ian Greaves explained, junking of archives was still going on as late as the 1990s. The material shown in itself wasn't particularly brilliant, but showed early material from Keith Allen and Armando Ianucci – the latter probably the best of the lot.
I thought a lot more of His Lordship Entertains than Jonny did – and more readily saw the debt owed it by Fawlty Towers. The jokes came thick and fast, and there were also all kinds of jokes: word-play, slapstick, farce and character stuff. I loved the two old ladies telling filthy stories (a vacuum cleaner stops us hearing the most saucy bits), and was impressed by how many aged actors were involved. I think it was pushing beyond Up Pompeii, but I'm not sure what it was pushing towards.
Till Death Do Us Part was pretty ropey, with – as Jonny says – the best bits all Dandy Nichols as Else, who tellingly took no part in the topical bits. It was a surprisingly cheap show – all set in Alf's living room but for two brief scenes in front of blown-up photos, and with lines only for the regular cast of four. It was an uncomfortable episode too, not because of the words “coon” and “wog” so much as how much of the programme was given over to Alf's ranting. The cool kids might roll their eyes at his prejudice, but there was little in the way of counter-argument, and the last joke depends on Alf being clumsy rather than being wrong. The viewing notes expressed surprise that “some viewers actually agreed with Alf”, but the episode is all about him having his say.
Both these episodes seemed to be about the loss of the old Empire – Ronnie Barker's Lord Rustless having to open up his stately home as a hotel rather than flog it to the National Trust, Alf horrified by Britain losing it's place as a first-rate nation. But there were also lots of odd little details I loved: Rita (Una Stubbs) laquering her handbag, or having to boil a kettle to do the washing up. And Else, who lives in Wapping, has apparently never before been to Downing Street or Buckingham Palace.
(The ever-wise T. also pointed out that Mr Quill himself, Bill Burridge, is one of the non-speaking crowd at Downing Street. Frank Gatliff – Badger, butler to Barker – was obviously Ortron in The Monster of Peladon.)
Jonny didn't sit through part two of the event, which was all music from the 60s and 70s. The only extant episode of Time for Blackburn from 1968 had a very quick-edited performance by The Who of “The Magic Bus”, that made the women sat next to me dizzy. There was an odd interview with Jonathan King at a record industry do, and a plug for a “psychedelic pantomime”. But mostly it seemed a sub-Top of the Pops, with Blackburn barely bumbling along through the links, at one point explaining that he was always up himself.
We next had a selection of clips from Look! Hear!, a regional youth programme from the 1970s. The Dr almost exploded when a young, jumper-wearing “Mike” Wood introduced Black Sabbath, years before he followed in the footsteps of Alexander (mostly with his top off). There was also a glorious live performance by The Selecter, when the kids in the audience took over the stage. Somehow, a camera was ready up in the lights to look down on the action.
There were then two episodes of Top of the Pops. The first, from 1976, reminded us how old the presenters used to be, and how hokey the sets. Pans People managed to be sexist and yet not quite sexy, and we cheered at a bit of E.L.O. But mostly the music was pretty execrable – as Dick Fiddy said in between episodes, that's why we needed punk. I thought the Dr might tear her ears off during a performance by R and J Stone of “We Do It”. But the episode also ended with the Bohemian Rhapsody video. How odd to see something so familiar in context, and see just why it blew all competition from the water.
I'd forgotten how awkward the audiences always were in these things, nervously watching the cameras for their cues. But it also surprised me how multi-racial the music programmes were compared to so much other telly of the time – something I've been researching recently for a work thing.
The second episode was from 1967, in ropey black-and-white that kept coming to pieces. Fluff Freeman introduced “See Emily Play”, Pink Floyd fronted by Syd Barrett (who I thought looked a lot like Benjamin Cook). The picture flickered and snowed, the sound dropping out and then dropping back in. I'd love to see a reconstructed version, but this warped and warping effort took me right back to all those nth generation videos of old Doctor Who that made up a lot of my teenage life.
There was then a bit more warped footage from later in the episode – Ray Davies (introduced as “Dave” by Fluff), and Procul Harem's “Whiter Shade of Pale” with a lead singer dressed for no reason at all as a stereotypical Chinaman. It was sometimes a job to tell what were original video effects and what was the tape going weird, and Fluff seemed to commentate from another glacial age. How strange for a programme – and a time – to be so cool and so square all at once.
After, there was just time for a beer and to say hello to the many, many like-minded chums, but we ducked out of festivities in favour of just getting home while there were still some trains.
Saturday, January 09, 2010
Beyond the sea
To see Darker Shores last night, a Victorian ghost story by Michael Punter. After a spooky night in a guesthouse by the sea, Professor Stokes (Tom Goodman-Hill) calls in spiritualist Tom Beauregard (Julian Rhind-Tutt). The house seems to be haunted by its dead master, but both men are haunted too...
It's an effective, spooky drama with plenty of clever effects. Like "The Woman in Black", it conjures a compelling atmosphere through some very nifty stagecraft. The performances were also excellent - though I worried at first about Rhind-Tutt's American accent. The Dr loved the frock coats and the all-black Victorian set.
It's a richer story than "The Woman in Black", the characters vivid and well-drawn, and each with a credible history that blends into the story. It's also a lot funnier than "The Woman in Black", and had Things To Say. It seems nothing Victorian can get away these days without a mention of Darwin, though the play pressed the fallacy (as discussed on QI just last week) that Victorian churchmen hated Darwin for linking us to monkeys. The church had long-accepted that the Bible was metaphorically not literally true, but holy folk were troubled by the essential cruelty of evolution.
I also felt the play cheated in its final revelation, introducing something in its last scene that explained the mystery. How much better to have placed all the pieces before us well in advance, and then still delivered the surprise.
But still, a splendid night out. Sadly, it's closing in just a couple of days. I hope it is put on again.
Afterwards, we stalled in the bar for another beer, surrounded by Famous Actors. One of them, at least, I'd met before (and signed an autograph for his son), and another I sort of know through other people. But I never know the etiquette of these things and so kept timidly out of their way. Also, I was too busy discussing the career of K9 with Psychonomy.
For the second night running there were no trains home from Victoria, so we took a circuitous route via Balham and Babylon and bus, getting in about midnight for a crumpet and some tea.
It's an effective, spooky drama with plenty of clever effects. Like "The Woman in Black", it conjures a compelling atmosphere through some very nifty stagecraft. The performances were also excellent - though I worried at first about Rhind-Tutt's American accent. The Dr loved the frock coats and the all-black Victorian set.
It's a richer story than "The Woman in Black", the characters vivid and well-drawn, and each with a credible history that blends into the story. It's also a lot funnier than "The Woman in Black", and had Things To Say. It seems nothing Victorian can get away these days without a mention of Darwin, though the play pressed the fallacy (as discussed on QI just last week) that Victorian churchmen hated Darwin for linking us to monkeys. The church had long-accepted that the Bible was metaphorically not literally true, but holy folk were troubled by the essential cruelty of evolution.
I also felt the play cheated in its final revelation, introducing something in its last scene that explained the mystery. How much better to have placed all the pieces before us well in advance, and then still delivered the surprise.
But still, a splendid night out. Sadly, it's closing in just a couple of days. I hope it is put on again.
Afterwards, we stalled in the bar for another beer, surrounded by Famous Actors. One of them, at least, I'd met before (and signed an autograph for his son), and another I sort of know through other people. But I never know the etiquette of these things and so kept timidly out of their way. Also, I was too busy discussing the career of K9 with Psychonomy.
For the second night running there were no trains home from Victoria, so we took a circuitous route via Balham and Babylon and bus, getting in about midnight for a crumpet and some tea.
Friday, January 08, 2010
Being cold
The first copy of my Being Human book, The Road, arrived yesterday, in all its lovely paperback glory. The book is set for release on 4 February, but will probably be seen in shops before then.By a nice coincidence, in the evening it was Being Human Live at the Curzon in Mayfair, where we got to see the first episode of the new series - on Sunday on BBC 3 at 9.30 for you ordinary mortals.
No spoilers here, but cor that was exciting. The event also had cosplaying vampires and stalkers tumbling about as we waited, and the shiny famous actors up on the balcony, waving at the mob. After, there was a drinkie with the lovely BBC Books lot and then a long trek home. This morning, the Man came to look at our leaky roof and concluded that it's not leaking. Instead, the snow on the concrete tiles has conjured condensation, which is collecting in pockets of the felt, and then dribbling out. So we've put plenty of cardboard down and will monitor the situation. I bet you're thrilled by this, but it's been quite the drama here.
Tuesday, January 05, 2010
Who. Am. Iiiiii?
Had an appointment at that hot-bed of terrorism University College London this afternoon. Got taken for lunch in the Senior Common Room - by someone both senior and common - and admired the paintings.
As we left, I noticed this plaque in honour of a local celebrity, but can only assume it was researched on Wikipedia. Where is the mention of "The Rapture", or those four episodes of Sarah Jane's Adventures?
Thence with Nimbos to the Wellcome Collection for a nose round their free Identity show, which runs until 6 April. In eight rooms - with doors which are hiding - we learn of nine lives that illuminate what makes us who we are.
There were plenty of top facts and things to ruminate on. One caption explained that the publishers of the first version of Pepys' diary (Latham and Matthews, 1983),
The exhibition deftly mixes up the lives as lived by people, and the pioneers and theorists transforming how we (think we) live our lives. There's the impact of IVF has on a family of twins, and people who've campaigned and had surgery to change the gender-labels affixed at birth.
I was also impressed by the room shared by Sirs Francis Galton (inventor of eugenics and the fingerprint) and Alec Jeffreys (pioneer of DNA profiling), and the wealth of detail about phrenologist Franz Joseph Gall - including how much he was mocked in his own time.
A set of stairs also leads up to the permanent exhibition on Wellcome himself, packed with the odd things he collected. I loved the caption on Hiram-Maxim's Pipe of Peace:
As we left, I noticed this plaque in honour of a local celebrity, but can only assume it was researched on Wikipedia. Where is the mention of "The Rapture", or those four episodes of Sarah Jane's Adventures?Thence with Nimbos to the Wellcome Collection for a nose round their free Identity show, which runs until 6 April. In eight rooms - with doors which are hiding - we learn of nine lives that illuminate what makes us who we are.
There were plenty of top facts and things to ruminate on. One caption explained that the publishers of the first version of Pepys' diary (Latham and Matthews, 1983),
"took advice on whether they were likely to be prosecuted under the 1959 Obscene Publications Act by printing for the first time Pepy's reference to his wife's menstruation."Pepys' contemporary Robert Hooke, meanwhile, kept a diary from 1672-80 that was limited to "terse observations of fact" - though he did helpfully use a "Pisces" symbol to mark days on which he ejaculated. On the wall behind these extracts played diary extracts from Big Brother.
The exhibition deftly mixes up the lives as lived by people, and the pioneers and theorists transforming how we (think we) live our lives. There's the impact of IVF has on a family of twins, and people who've campaigned and had surgery to change the gender-labels affixed at birth.
I was also impressed by the room shared by Sirs Francis Galton (inventor of eugenics and the fingerprint) and Alec Jeffreys (pioneer of DNA profiling), and the wealth of detail about phrenologist Franz Joseph Gall - including how much he was mocked in his own time.
A set of stairs also leads up to the permanent exhibition on Wellcome himself, packed with the odd things he collected. I loved the caption on Hiram-Maxim's Pipe of Peace:
"Hiram Maxim (1840-1916) invented the machine gun and also a patent inhaler (his Pipe of Peace), which he devised to treat his bouts of bronchitis. His friends worried that this invention could damage his reputation. As he said: "It is a very creditable thing to invent a killing machine, and nothing less than a disgrace to invent an apparatus to prevent human suffering."Pipe of Peace and Maxim Inhaler by Sir Hiram Maxim
English, acquired before 1936
Medicine Man exhibition, Wellcome Collection, London.
Sunday, January 03, 2010
Saturday, January 02, 2010
But you shouldn't be here at the same time, with him
How splendid that Doctor Who Confidential caught the moment that Matt Smith met Russell T Davies – the latter trying not to be in the way. Naw.
But it occurred to me after a Spitfire or two that there was no sign of Tennant and Smith being there at the same time. And that films of more than one Doctor are rare. Excluding Doctor Who itself, this is what m'colleague Will Howells reckons is the definitive list of multiple Doctors in film and TV:
But it occurred to me after a Spitfire or two that there was no sign of Tennant and Smith being there at the same time. And that films of more than one Doctor are rare. Excluding Doctor Who itself, this is what m'colleague Will Howells reckons is the definitive list of multiple Doctors in film and TV:
- Escape (1948) – William Hartnell as “Inspector Harris”, Patrick Troughton as “Jim – a shepherd”
- Would Any Gentlemen...? (1953) – Hartnell as “Detective Inspector Martin”, Jon Pertwee as “Charley Sterling”
- Dial 999 ep 1.16: “50,000 Hands” (1959) – Hartnell as “Jeff Richards”, Troughton as “Tramp - uncredited”
- All Creatures Great and Small ep 3.4: “Hair of the Dog” (1980) – Troughton as “Roddy – uncredited”, Peter Davison as “Tristan Farnon”
- Jude (1996)- Christopher Eccleston as “Jude Fawley”, David Tennant as “Drunk undergraduate”
- Mrs Bradley Mysteries ep 1.1: “Death at the Opera” (1999) – Davison as “Inspector Henry Christmas”, Tennant as “Max Valentine”
Friday, January 01, 2010
Sex and the City
To Wilton's Music Hall last night to see Fiona Shaw perform TS Eliot's The Wasteland single-handed and without a blindfold.
The venue was extraordinary – a 150 year-old music hall round the corner from the Royal Mint (and a stone's throw from where I worked 10 years ago). Stripped back to the brick and in desperate need of funding, it was a treat just to get through the door. Try the splendid virtual tour.
Shaw was extraordinary, nimbly skipping her way through Eliot's mash of tangled voices. The lighting was also exceptional, with sudden darkness or eerie shadows cast in perfect time. Brilliantly simple, brilliantly effective.
It's an odd poem, all odd, jangly bits of imagery and overheard snippets of speech. The Dr argued it's mostly about shagging and life in London (the title of this post is from her). As we schlepped our way back across Tower Bridge afterwards, she wondered whether her tastes in poems have been shaped by the ancient Greek stuff she's read, where it's all about the metre. I nodded along as if I understood.
I'm never sure with this sort of poetry whether it's very, very clever or not clever at all. There's bits I really like. The simplicity of the “Death by Water” section, for example, in which tall and handsome Phlebas has drowned offers no comfort or meaning. It's haunting because he's so bluntly gone.
There's also probably something clever going on since he'd died both recently (he is “a fortnight dead”) and in antiquity (he is called “the Phoenician”). I suspect there's also a very clever reason why Iain M Banks got the titles of two books from this section. But I've never understood what that was.
Having seen Stephen Fry talk on poetry back in 2005, I dared speak of poetry as “nuggets of meaning that can’t be said in any fewer words”, and I guess that's what The Wasteland is. But Codename Moose also recently referred me to a phrase in John le Carre's review of The Suspicions of Mr Whicher:
Speaking of immaculate restraint, it's Russell T Davies' last Doctor Who tonight. What an extraordinary, glorious, mad-as-badgers joy these 60 episodes have been – a golden age of telly. The range and depth and balls of it all. Thank you, Russell.
The venue was extraordinary – a 150 year-old music hall round the corner from the Royal Mint (and a stone's throw from where I worked 10 years ago). Stripped back to the brick and in desperate need of funding, it was a treat just to get through the door. Try the splendid virtual tour.
Shaw was extraordinary, nimbly skipping her way through Eliot's mash of tangled voices. The lighting was also exceptional, with sudden darkness or eerie shadows cast in perfect time. Brilliantly simple, brilliantly effective.
It's an odd poem, all odd, jangly bits of imagery and overheard snippets of speech. The Dr argued it's mostly about shagging and life in London (the title of this post is from her). As we schlepped our way back across Tower Bridge afterwards, she wondered whether her tastes in poems have been shaped by the ancient Greek stuff she's read, where it's all about the metre. I nodded along as if I understood.
I'm never sure with this sort of poetry whether it's very, very clever or not clever at all. There's bits I really like. The simplicity of the “Death by Water” section, for example, in which tall and handsome Phlebas has drowned offers no comfort or meaning. It's haunting because he's so bluntly gone.
There's also probably something clever going on since he'd died both recently (he is “a fortnight dead”) and in antiquity (he is called “the Phoenician”). I suspect there's also a very clever reason why Iain M Banks got the titles of two books from this section. But I've never understood what that was.
Having seen Stephen Fry talk on poetry back in 2005, I dared speak of poetry as “nuggets of meaning that can’t be said in any fewer words”, and I guess that's what The Wasteland is. But Codename Moose also recently referred me to a phrase in John le Carre's review of The Suspicions of Mr Whicher:
“written with great lucidity and respect for the reader, and with immaculate restraint”.It's the lucid, restrained bits of The Wasteland – and of writing generally – that really prick my brain. The density of meaning, though, is a swirling fug around that.
Speaking of immaculate restraint, it's Russell T Davies' last Doctor Who tonight. What an extraordinary, glorious, mad-as-badgers joy these 60 episodes have been – a golden age of telly. The range and depth and balls of it all. Thank you, Russell.
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