Bond watch: Pierce Brosnan

Off to see Casino Royale tonight, the air alive with spoilers. So there’s just time to finish the overview of all that has gone before.

Goldeneye
The last time Bond had a major reboot, and he’d been off the screen for six years. It’s a majestic return, confident and plucky. Goldeneye looks gorgeous, with every shot carefully structured to maximise the glamour. A really beautiful picture to look at.

Bond returns, offering something new for the 90s. Yet it's almost entirely caught up in being about his past. Does 007 still cut the mustard now that the cold war is done?

It feels reassuringly like Bond's greatest hits: shiny satellite super-weapons like Diamonds Are Forever; all the guff about trust like in Licence to Kill; the electro-magnetic pulses threatened in For Your Eyes Only; the hidden dish in Cuba much like the volcano in You Only Live Twice. The base at the end is old-school style Ken Adam.

Yet it does feel very different from what we've seen before, with only Desmond Llewellyn handing over to the new fellow. The cast – mostly comprised of well-known British character actors – really helps raise the standard. And for all it’s a retread of a formula, it's written with depth and intelligence.

I liked how it deals with Britishness and Britain’s role in the world – what is the secret service for. No longer is Bond running to keep up with the Americans, he's prepared to discuss British weaknesses. There's something new about Bond admitting failures over the Cosacks. For the first time in ages there's a backdrop of political complexity, Bond dealing with the fall out from pragmatic decisions made by his masters before him.

Occasional slips are more notable because of this attention to detail. How does Bond, in a tank, overtake a train?

Like Rob Shearman's Dalek, the writing constantly confronts and challenges the weaknesses of James Bond. M, 006 and Natalya all have a pop at him, the best being M calling him a "sexist, mysoginist dinosaur".

I also like "Her Majesty's terrier," though I expect that more ably applies to Daniel Craig. Brosnan is excellent – deadly serious about the job, but twinkly when circumstance allows. He makes Bond fun again.

It's especially odd to see Bond in the heart of St Petersburg. I like all the stuff about his old enemies now being sort of friends. As we've seen before, Bond was always pro-Detente anyway, and it's a third party causing all the trouble. Would have liked to see him having some vodka and bread with Walter Gotell, though.

And then, at the end, Wade offers Bond and Natalya a lift back to a cosy place called Guantanamo. It's the final line of the film... and I wondered if they'd find Art Malik waiting for them...

Tomorrow Never Dies
Continuing on from Goldeneye, the Russians are our allies from the off. Bond helps sort out top brass's foolishness, letting us know he's still best. It takes a long time before we actually see him, too, so he makes a much stronger entrance.

The non-smoking Bond was noted at the time as a betrayal of what had gone before. But it’s moving with the times, and less strange a decade later. Bond was always a little into the future, and it’s better than him being such a tawdry old reactionary.

Actually, it’s a very confident opening, ballsy and exciting – all the more important considering it’s the first film since the death of Albert Broccoli. There are nice stylistic flourishes throughout, like the slow-motion sequence when the British ship is sinking. David Arnold’s score really helps – the first worthy successor to John Barry.

Again the cast includes a great wealth of talent, even in the minor roles. We get our first sighting of Colin Salmon, who Brosnan once mooted as his replacement. Still think they missed a trick there. Geoffrey Palmer is brilliant, and you can also spot Hugh Bonneville, Julian Rhind-Tutt and the bloke who played Mordred in “Battlefield”.

I wanted to say that it was Ricky Jervais who plays the fiendish Gupta (whose clothes my sister made!). He’s a beardie physicist, so we know he won’t make it to the end of the film. And in Stemper we’ve another blond villain with hobbies in torture and Nazism.

Again there’s a thirty party playing off the big powers: the threat of war here like in “Mind of Evil” (and Bond’s remote control car from “The Daemons”). The wheeze of a war being good for business and the media seems even more relevant today.

The film feels like it’s actually about something – real politics and the world that we live in. The gags about bugs in the software and M’s response to the death of Carver are also nicely judged.

For all Jonathan Pryce’s arched performance, Eliot Carver is a much more credible villain than usual. He doesn’t have piranha fish or walk with a limp, he’s just a weedy little bully who employs lots of burly henchmen. He’s believable as an excitable and spoilt control freak.

To further complicate the plot, Paris is a girl Bond really cares about – continuing the themes raised by Natalya in the last one about how the poor fella’s all on his own. That plays into Carver’s jealousy and insecurities (for all he’s spoken in front of his wife about getting Michelle Yeoh “behind a desk”). Again, these attachments between the characters help make the thing more complex and involving.

As a rule, it’s all nicely balanced between the real and the ridiculous. Dr Kaufman neatly bridges the funny and the sinister, and in his dispatch we see that ruthless steeliness that makes Bond so exciting.

Brosnan moves very gracefully, so can stroll from the printing press like he owns the place when he’s making his daring escape. His remote-control car that’s impervious to sledge-hammers still feels more real than the invisible Vanquish to come later… What’s more, Brosnan is really good at selling the special effects. I love his little cheer when his tyres re-inflate.

Michelle Yeoh is a great foil for him, just as able an agent as he is and quite happy to do her own thing. Bond doesn’t half choose him moments to make a move on her though – stop snogging and save her from drowning!

Again, there are nagging contrivances: that Gupta seen in the pre-title sequence is next working for Eliot Carver. Would Bond and Michelle Yeoh get the bends when they escape from the submarine? And, pedantically, Bond seems lost by her Mandarin (?) keyboard, though he’d studied “Oriental languages” in “You Only Live Twice”. (There’s a gag about his cunning linguini in this one.)

In the car chase, Bond’s bonnet-topped cable cutter is exactly the right height for the cable. And when he’s ditched the car, isn’t the car park he’s on the roof of still swarming with enemy agents?

Despite the car chase, and the fun spree on the motorbike later, another criticism is the lack of a memorable set piece – such a hallmark of a Bond film. But I don’t mind that. Better it’s all driving the plot, than the plot is strung round outlandish moments.

I also really like the closing theme, as sung by kd lang. For all it’s called “Surrender”, the Bassey-like belting out of the words “Tomorrow Never Dies” maybe suggest Arnold came up with two options for the opening. But cor, a Bond film that doesn’t end on a limp little fizzle. Hooray!

The World is Not Enough
Oh dear, oh dear. They so dropped the ball on this one.

The pre-titles sequence is utterly magnificent. It’s up and running quickly, Bond over his head in slick, modern Bilbao. Patrick Malahide makes a great cameo villain, and Bond resisting the obvious gags about the cigar girl’s figure makes the audience do the work for him.

It’s a great little sequence, Bond against four toughs, clinically working through them before making a daring escape. The swing down from the balcony is a nice mix of the funny and exciting that the franchise pulls off so well, and again Bronsnan’s demure cool lets him walk off like he owns the whole town. Bilbao in itself could have been the whole sequence, but the film then raises the stakes.

Bond has never been attacked at home before (the last time someone got into his London apartment was a pretty girl playing golf). It’s so iconic – and the sequence in the book of “The Man With The Golden Gun” where an enemy agent gets into the building was stolen for the original title sequence of the “Man from UNCLE”.

We then get the glorious chase down the Thames, full of nice flourishes and detail. With the villain still a mystery and Bond taking a tumble, it sets up the main film very nicely. It’s a much longer effort to the titles than usual – a full 13½ minutes. But it’s been worth it…

And then we’re in rainy Scotland for as long again, with people spoon-feeding the dull background and plot. The grey funeral merely reminded me of the spoof Casino Royale, and there’s a lot of sitting around in the MI6 castle waiting for Bond to get going.

Desmond Llewellyn’s final scene as Q is beautifully written and played (is “Never let them see you bleed” a knock at “Licence to Kill”?) but we’re half an hour into the movie before Bond is back to work. It utterly kills the pace and excitement set up before Garbage start singing. And despite its best efforts, the film never wins back that impetus.

This all seems to be an effort to create deeper and more complex character. We learn a lot about M in this one: that she was at Oxford and is also a mother. It hinges around her feelings for a dead friend, and how she is thus manipulated. This feels like the same trouble they had with Q in the 80s: trying to make his presence more important to the plot and allowing him more time on screen. It doesn’t work.

There’s also a lot of continuity baggage, with returns from Colin Salmon, Michael Kitchen and Robbie Coltrane. Only the latter actually has a part to play in the story, the others just prop up the background. It’s a waste – we don’t see a great deal of cleverness or guile in the corridors of MI6.

It’s also not a very pretty movie: drizzle and oil fields and dirty great industry. Bond has always managed a glamour before, but even the casino here is a bit tawdry. It’s not exactly the aspirational lifestyle that makes us run out to buy the placed product.

The industrial stuff hints at topicality, the plot toying with the fuel supply crisis. But this is all rather swept under the more soap-opera guff about how Sophie Marceau is really a wrong ‘un.

They really trowel it on with her. She can be nice and go to chapel (respectfully veiled, but still showing all her hair); she can be fearless about the pipeline; she can be cross about M’s involvement; and she can be wild and jump out of a helicopter. For heaven’s sake: spot the villainess.

At long last, someone attacks them as Bond and Sophie go for a ski. Actually, we could have skipped all the Scottish stuff, coming from the titles to her and Bond in the helicopter. “I don’t want you here,” she tells him.

“Tough,” replies Bond. “M thinks the people who killed your father will have a go at you. I’m not to leave your side.”

“Oh, really?” says Sophie, and promptly leaps from the helicopter. And Bond has no choice but to follow her. At least that would have got things moving.

When the baddies attack, they’re not very practical. The paragliding ski-machines seem incapable of catching their prey. Like the flying log-cutter later, it feels like too much of an effort to come up with something a bit different looking.

I like how Bond uses the coat John Cleese got lost in, to save them from the avalanche. And it’s nice to see Bond turning down a shag with Sophie (and not just ‘cos he’s getting too old). Except that a moment later they do shag, all erotically and done with ice. She’s making all the moves, so you can tell that she’s a wrong ‘un.

I guess it’s setting up that she’s just as ruthless about getting whatever she wants. It just makes Bond look a bit stupid.

He’s then off investigating like Bond does so well, and it’s good to see him using his resources and faking an ID. He then gets to meet Christmas Jones – so barely fleshed out as a character that she can only have been created for the film’s two woeful puns. In fact, I think the whole plot may have been conjured around that.

Reynard is too much of a one-note villain, a henchman not a villain in himself. That’s a remarkable waste of Robbie Carlyle. They struggle to make something of his unlikely injury, Sophie snogging him with ice just like she did with Bond. But for all the theatrics, we don’t feel any great love for Sophie. Which is what the whole thing rather relies on.

M’s kidnap makes M look stupid, and Bond falling for Sophie makes him just as much of a tool. So all this clever-clever character stuff had made everyone less impressive. Bond lingers over Sophie’s corpse when he finally kills her, when he should just march smartly away. Better to see him as a cold fish and wonder at the feelings within.

There’s then a last fight with Reynard and everything put right with the world. M returns to Scotland (for no very good reason – shouldn’t she be in London this time?), and she’s somehow lost Bond on the journey. They were in Istanbul together!

And then there’s the terrible gags. Cleese gets to finish on one about the Millennium bug – which just dates the film really horribly. There’s plenty I like – Coltrane, Goldie, even the X-ray specs. But it started so brilliantly well, and then fails to deliver the same standard. Such a shame.

Die Another Day
The opening surfing sequence is not especially wowing to look at (though I appreciate a sod to get filmed), and serves only to underline the paltriness of the later CGI.

The film in general has a gritty, dour feel – another in the long line of films promising a return to the bastard James Bond of the books. I assume the very treated look is due to overdone digital grading. Look at Toby Stephens as he launches the Icarus – the image grainy and bleached and too played with.

I’m guessing “Colonel Moon” is a riff off Kingsley Amis’s pseudonymous Bond novel, “Colonel Sun” (although that, with a kidnapped M, seemed more of an influence on the last one).

I like the mission going wrong, and Bond having to take on a whole army. The hovercraft are a nice new trick, and it’s a really good opening sequence. It could have finished with Bond swinging from his bell, but they suddenly do something very exciting. Bond is captured and goes off to years of being tortured. Suddenly what he gets up to has consequence.

It really feels new and daring. Which is a shame, because the film then consciously apes its past. The 20th film is written around set pieces from previous films in the series, and is littered with references and quotes. The franchise has been going so long, every film struggles to be wholly original. Is it wise to eat itself on purpose?

While it lasts, the Bond-on-the-run is electrifying. Brosnan retains Bond’s dignity when bearded and bruised, whether put in front of a firing squad or strolling into a classy hotel. The latter has the Bond theme playing because, clearly, he is still The Man. I like how Michael Madsen’s line, “You’d think he was some kind of hero,” plays against what we know of Bond and how Brosnan plays him.

M is much stronger behind the glass of his quarantined room. Even when she comes in to see him, she’s still a tough and unyielding boss. It makes her a much more powerful figure than she’s been thus far, and though her role in the film is much smaller than previously, she’s a much better character for it.

Like in “Licence to Kill” (an ominous phrase) Bond’s 00 status is rescinded. There’s something a bit… magical about how he escapes, and I’m not sure having a heart attack makes him very powerful. It’s all very dour and realistic, apart from when it isn’t.

Generally, in this first half of the movie things are kept real, and though it’s never stated explicitly, it’s all very conscious of 9/11. It dares to face North Korea as the enemy and to say things like, “One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter”. So there’s a great deal of weight behind all that Bond’s up to.

So by the time we get to Cuba, he’s in need of light relief. It’s great seeing him wearing Hawaiian shirts and driving classic cars, and still being indelibly Bond. And after what feel like an age he goes birding. Jinx has a surprising line in single entendres, and the sex scenes between them are more explicit than they’ve ever been. We normally cut away.

After a fun action sequence through the hospital, Bond heads home to the sound of the Clash. I like Madsen offering to sort out the rogue agent if M cannot, and also the punky verve and energy as it all sets off in London. At this point, all bets are still off about where the movie’s going.

The sword fight is silly and again Madonna can only say what she sees, as if this is somehow witty. But the real change of pace is when Bond is called into the abandoned Tube station. Suddenly all is forgiven, and we’re back in silly gags about gadgets and a smug rollcall of dusty old props. Bond’s response to the world having changed – “Not for me!” – is meant to make him a hero, but it also makes him sound like a relic from the previous century.

I don’t mind the invisible car.

The sequence of baddies getting into MI6 is thrilling, especially the dead Salmon and Moneypenny. It’s a rubbish cheat only to be a dream, especially as it’s a set-up for a crap gag later. How far Samantha Bond has fallen since keeping Bond at arms length in “Goldeneye”. And how much more thrilling, Bond having regained his friends’ trust, to lose everything again so suddenly.

Then Bond is off to Iceland, and Rosamunde Pike is the clearly tagged wrong ‘un. She doesn’t want to shag him, so there must be something dodgy. I’m not sure why Toby Stephens allows Bond to roam so freely about his secret base, but I like the subtle clues as to who he really is.

But, like the last one, the strong and engaging start fails to deliver at the end. It’s almost like the production team chicken out of their new ideas, and have to play it safe. It’s all just knocking down the blatantly set-down pins.

Chasing about ensues, culminating in some terrible CGI that even Brosnan cannot sell. But we’re soon into a great car chase where Bond is matched for gadgets. I especially love the use of the ejector seat.

Having saved Jinx and clocked in at work, Bond is then out to finish off Toby Stephens. It’s all pretty predictable, and the CGI plane is really ropey. Is the escape from the back of the plane in a helicopter a riff on “Living Daylights”? In that, they escape in a jeep, which is a much more ballsy effort.

The latter half of this one, especially, feels like Bond films you’ve seen before just not done quite as well. Brosnan is always a class act, but the writing hasn’t done him justice, continually undercutting his professional cool with weakness and stupidity. He looks and sounds perfect, but he says the crassest things.

He’s last to be seen as Bond snuggled up to Jinx, labouring at dialogue which subtly conveys the impression she doesn’t want him to withdraw his fat dick from inside her vagina.

But actually – arf! – she’s talking about some diamonds she’s got in her belly button. Ho hum. He deserved better.

Conclusion
So what have I discovered in working my way through this lot?

I like all the 007s themselves, though Lazenby feels more like a Bond rip-off than a Bond of his very own. Can’t choose a favourite from the others; an unthinkable thought in my teens!

And my revised list of favourites are: Goldfinger; You Only Live Twice; The Man With The Golden Gun; Octopussy; The Living Daylights; Tomorrow Never Dies. And my least favourite is A View To A Kill. Not sure Goldfinger counts, because it’s so far above the rest of the series. I’d choose Octopussy over Golden Gun if only allowed one movie per actor.

And I’m giddily excited ‘bout tonight!

Plaster, casts

I used to have an Old English Sheepdog called Florence (1984-96), who was scruffy and bouncy and liked to chase balloons. She was in no way like the city of the same name, from which myself, the Dr and my parents have just returned.

It’s a slap-in-the-chops of a beautiful city, even in drizzle and downpour. The first thing we did was clamber the more-than-400 steps to the top of Brunelleschi’s Duomo – a knackering mountaineer round and over and up through the workings, where it’s best not to dwell on the 15th-century-ness of the wonky zigzag brickwork.

Younger folk from other lands pushed past us back and forth up the haphazard corridor. I thought fondly of their being whipped and eaten by the monsters on the dome’s underside. Perhaps I was just feeling hungry.

Then, pop we were out into the tiny walkway on the roof of the world, looking out on to rooftops of the early Renaissance. Such a splendid vista that the usual vertigo forgot to kick in. The crappy o’erhanging sky leant it Turneresque grandeur, and we ahhed and cooed and took photos.

After late lunch and a bit of a wander, we continued to explore. The Baptistery reminded me of the Pantheon in Rome, and the Museo dell’ opera del Duomo contained all sorts of pretty things mostly brought in from the rain. Michelangelo’s Florentine Pieta is very different from his Rome one – this Jesus is bigger than those around him.

What’s more, it’s unfinished (because he broke it), so lets you see how the master worked. The trick to sculpting seems to be to start with a crude outline then gradually work in the detail.

Like with CGI, I told the Dr. She eyed me with one of those looks.

The next few days we criss-crossed the city, and even managed a trip out to Fiesole, where we clambered round the Roman theatre and I fell fast asleep on the bus. It occurred to me on the waterfront how much Florence now might resemble 1599 London, as given in the book I was reading.

Almost everywhere was acknowledging 40 years since a terrible flood, which did untold and awful damage to so many pretty old things. Black and white blow-ups of photograph showed church floors and cloisters and delicate bits of art covered all over in mud. Crude English captions brokenly explained that the real battering came not from the water, but from the diesel and engine oils mixed in with it, from the tens of thousands of cars caught up in the deluge.

Despite everything we’d been told, there was no queue into the Uffizi, and we marvelled at the Botticellis which the Dr so adores. There was a general pre-Raphaelite thing going on in the works of art she clung to. I was more struck by why "Florentine" is sometimes a synonym for "Can’t catch" – there’s willies every whichway you look.

What would be the collective noun for willies? "Wilkin" suggests the Dr. I’m going to vote for "Thatch".

There’s something of a giveaway in the works of Michelangelo. Even his unfinished men have perfectly polished torsos, while the women in the Medici Chapel look like men with blocky lumps… For such a keen observer of the physical form, he just didn’t have an eye for the ladies.

Of far more excitement to me was the Masaccio frescoes in the Santa Maria Novella and the Santa Maria del Carmine. 100 years before Michelangelo and da Vinci, Masaccio was painting some really cool things.

In his Trinity, he's playing with new-fangled linear perspective and making things freakishly stand-out - the 1427-28 equivalent of movies in lurid 3D. Only being used to pretty a church.

In a time of stylised, two-dimensional Byzantine stylings (which are all very nice in their way), he was basing his work on observation, using natural colours and a realistic feel. The characters in his pictures are real people, with emotional complexity writ large in their faces. I was especially taken with the photographic feel of some of the peripheral guest cast.

It’s a century ahead of the times to have individuals so real and distinctive. In the Branacci Chapel, St Peter is recognisable in a whole series of frescoes – as much to do with a recognisable head even in different poses, as because he's always wears the same colours.

"The rendering of the tribute money" also splits time up to create a narrative flow: in the centre, Jesus points Peter off to the left, where he’ll find a fish full of money, and where Peter already fishes. On the right, we see Peter handing over the miraculous cash to some bloke who is strapped for his taxes.

The only way to understand the picture is to read the story, by recognising the characters and their place in time. Long before I’d read Scott McCloud, I wrote an A-level essay on this early comic-strip form, based on how it met the strictures of “How to Draw Comics the ‘Marvel’ Way”.

I told the Dr. She eyed me with one of those looks.

On our last day, we managed the English Cemetery, where the Dr found a like-mind to discuss sneaky plans with.

We then took a train to Pisa, which crawled maggot-like from stop to stop so that we thought we’d miss our flight. Had just enough time to cab it to the wonky tower made famous in Superman III, stuff some Calzone and ignore the hawkers of watches, and then cab it back across the river to the airport.

Back home, via a just-missed train in East Croydon - those last six words a very poem of despair - to the cat and post and a quick-thinking use of Tsan. And the embrace of work like we'd never been parted.

St Hugh of Lincoln

Greetings from sunny, if cool, Florence. A full report on our exciting stair-climbing actvities will follow another day. In the meantime, here is something quite interesting I learnt while on the plane.

Today - 17 November - is the anniversary of the death of Queen Mary in 1558, and so the first day of the queenery of Elizabeth I. A decade later, the 17th November was being celebrated as "Accession Day" across the country.

"Elizabth's Accession Day was probably the first political holiday in modern Europe and initiated the string of nationalist holidays that are now a staple of the Anglo-American calendar. While holidays like Guy Fawkes' Day or Independence Day seem perfectly normal today, the notion of a non-religious holiday, or even of a holy day celebrating a living figure, simply unimagineable before this in Europe."

James Shapiro, 1599: A year in the life of William Shakespeare, p. 187.

Shapiro then goes on to detail the various objections and protests to this.

My maths is a bit wobbly, but I think we're two years off the 450th anniversary of this auspicious date. So I shall see you all back here on this day, 2008, to raise a glass to the ginger virgin and the ushering in of godless revelry.

Reach for the sky

Splendid curry with fine folk last night. Discussed Lesvos and Snowdonia, and topics in between.

Dawdled tipsily home and, as we agreed glasses of water and plans for today, the cat clambered into his litter box and pooed out quite a belter. Should have known it was brewing: he only waits for us to come home when he’s sitting on an elephant. That way we can clear it up quickly, and he’s not left to skulk round the stinkied-out house.

While the poop was dealt with by the eye-watering wife, I helped expunge the fug by opening the skylight. As regular readers will know, our kitchen is in the attic and keeps its windows in the ceiling.

Cut to:

This morning, I was awoke from tasty slumber by something of a panic: the Dr could not locate the cat. He wasn’t hiding behind curtains or on top of the fridge. He wasn’t lurking among the old Dr Who comics that clutter the legroom under my desk. Nor was he in the living room where O. has been sleeping – O. had shut the door to prevent more cat-sitting-on-face hilarity.

The culprit soon became clear: the open skylight window. It’s quite a leap from the worktop to the roof, but not impossible for a cat.

Yet we speak in this case of a cat who falls off the tabletop for no very good reason, who can miss the chair he’s jumping on to, who can lose his catnip mice and socks even as he’s playing with them, and who fell out of the living room window earlier this year.

We speak of a cat that is famously dim and an almost doggish klutz.

I climbed on a chair to poke my head out the skylight but could see nothing but the steep-inclined tiles and a clear if wintry sky.

Leaving the wife to call the cat’s name and shake a tin of treaty biscuits, I went to look out other windows for a hairy black splat in the neighbouring gardens. This work was interrupted by a shriek from upstairs.

The cat was poking his nose nonchalantly through the skylight, wondering as to all the fuss. I leapt on the chair and grabbed his front paws, and after he realised that fighting back meant he lost his grip on the tiles underneath him, he conceded to be hauled back inside.

Little sod seems rather pleased with his adventure. We suspect he may have gone up there for the sake of chasing birds. But, as I explained to him in stern parental fashion, “You are not the same as Alfie.”

Men in tights

The Dr says I should let people know of Boots and Bonnets.

It details the excitingness of dour and sulky men in tight trousers. Men who, time and again, turn out not to be quite as dour and sulky as they seem.

But still wear the tight trousers.

My life at your command

I am back from sunny Stockton and a weekend of not much sleep. Saw some splendid people, made some nice new friends, and got to introduce Toby Hadoke to an appreciative Brigadier.

The Big Finish panel was nobly handled by Charlie Ross, and the exciting things we spoke of there will be announced to the nation soon. But this post's heading might well be a clue.

Back home to the spin-drying and a happy-to-see-me cat, and work and O. await. Currently listening to the final edit of "The Oracle of Delphi" and wondering why this blog has disappeared.

Is this thing on? Hello?

Halfway house of death

The Cybermen in Dr Who are a bit of a grisly business. They’re a mash-up of old, worn-out bodies with shiny new kit attached. They’ve replaced their squishy bits – guts and eyes and emotions – with metal and plastic.

They’re not scary because they’re cold, callous robots who don’t know how to argue. They’re scary because they used to be people like you and me. Somewhere in their heads they still know that, and yet they still going round being baddies.

Often, we see people at a half-way stage in the cyberising process, battling to save the people they are from being eaten up by the machine. The spangly new series had Dr Who beat the Cybermen by reminding them of what they’d lost – a trick he’d used before getting Toberman and Lytton back on to his side.

The Age of Steel’s poor Sally Cyberman – worrying about her wedding and why she’s so cold – was in part inspired by “Spare Parts”, a horrific pair of CDs by m’colleague Marc Platt about a cyberised girl and her family.

Normally, even the converted women are made into Cybermen. They lose gender distinctions at the same time as their appreciation of sunsets and well-cooked meals. Though in Sunday’s Hoot Crowd we got to see a woman mid-enmanning, fetchingly decked out in Cyber-bra and thong.

The Cybermen are scary because they fall between two stools; because they’re not neat and tidy there’s room for stories to explore. It also explains why they can do illogical things – saying “Excellent!” and wearing jeans.

Unfortunately, I find I have also fallen between two Cyber-stools.

All set to laser-blast Amazon for my not-yet-in-my-hands DVDs, I discover the address I’ve given them is a bit of a mash-up, too – half the old, worn-out place I was living in this time last year, and half the new and spangly flat on which Daleks help pay the mortgage.

Gah. And I've already head my head examined this week. Think it's probably time for an upgrade.

That was Zing-Zang

The response of the young folk to yesterday's post is that this blog could be a lot blinger. Imagine! It doesn't flash and bleep or try to gouge out your eyes... And it's pretty unbook to leaves words unabbreviated.

Ho hum.

A rather lovely evening in the pub last night to celebrate G.'s latest birthday. Got to talk to J. for the first time in ages, and we were recognised for our famousness by a nice lady called Jenny.

This morning, the postperson brought many fine treats. Dr Who's Magazine features the second installment of Jonny Morris's comic strip, "Interstella Overdrive". It neatly solves the astonishing cliffhanger, and is jammed full of deft tricks and ideas. Cor, I wish I'd written that.

I did write "Summer of Love", which also arrived this morning and which I've got on as I type. "Actually, that is quite something," says Benny - about something that Joe Lidster's packing.

Benny and I [but not Joe, as I originally wrut] will be at this weekend's Dimensions. I suddenly afear that I'll spend the whole time being asked about time-travelling clap.

Speaking of writing, I've also seen off a few things today. "Old Friends" has gone to the printers today, a 65-page something else has finally been completed, and I've got a pitch to work on for John S. Drew's "Dome".

And on Monday, having had my ears both vacuumed, Codename Moose and I discussed a great many possible projects.

So busy. I'm not doing NaNoWriMo, though the Dr is. She is part of a gang lead by Falldog's Red Five, and wants to hog the computer tonight for more period excitement. Best finish off here soon.

Postie hasn't brought an Invasion yet, so I shall settle for Philip MacDonald...

If she doesn't scare you

The Dr has asked me to post something special, as she's showing my blog off today. Hello. Has she talked about walking the cat?

Blogs are a quick, easy and free - FREE! - way of telling the whole world things that matter. Friends and devoted acolytes can follow my adventures, and I seem to have acquired regular readers in America, Finland and Japan. Hello to you, too. Chilly, isn't it?

Because anyone can read the contents of bloggings, you should be a bit careful about what you write. I've talked before about how weird it is when people actually read this stuff.

It's not a private conversation, it's here for all to see. So don't talk behind people's backs and don't tell tales. The people you're talking about will find out eventually. No, they really will.

It happens so much there's even a word for people who get sacked because of what they've blogged. "BE YE NOT SO STUPID," advises the first person to be dooced.

With that in mind, I call the Dr "Dr" on here. This helps protect her identity (and odd habits) from those that don't know her. And she'd hit me were a Google for her real name to bring up all my strange ramblings.

Just imagine! Someone would be looking up the things she's said or written, and instead they'd find me going on about, oh I don't know, something like how she used to get teased for looking just like Cruella De Vil.

You see? By calling her "Dr" she has no reason to hit me.

And neither does her mum, who used to be a teacher and whose nickname was "Cruella De Vil", too.

Bond Watch: Timothy Dalton

Been ages since I last reported in on Mr Bond, and I’ve only “Die Another Day” still to go. But here’s the notes I had written up so far.

The Living Daylights
Cor, that was a bit good. Fast-moving and plotty and smart, and daring to try new things. This is the best Bond film in ages.

In Vienna, Bond helps a Soviet general defect, but won’t kill the sniper he’s meant to. The pretty girl, he says, didn’t know how to handle a gun.

In England, the general explains to Bond’s superiors that the KGB are now committed to killing other countries’ spies. He’s then recaptured, and Bond finds himself questioning the sense of the story the general told. So he disobeys orders to go back to Vienna, to look up the pretty girl…

The story is not hugely different from the previous three – a rogue element whose business interests are mucking up détente. But Living Daylights also feels like it’s about something real: Afghan rebels and opium wars are as much in the news today.

(I’m disappointed they never did as the rumours dared suggest, resurrecting Art Malik’s Oxford-educated Mujhadeen leader, but this time he’s considered a baddie…)

Dalton famously plays the Bond of Fleming’s novels, thuggishly brutal when he needs to be and straining at the MI6 leash. He freely disobeys orders – not killing who he’s told to, buying different wine, and embarking on a mission he’s just been told not to. He’s fiercely instinctive, and glowers when he gets told off.

For a 25-year old movie franchise – and a much older character – that means you really don’t know what to expect. Bond is dangerous and exciting, and he isn’t making quiche.

He’s always working the angles, and there’s some great stuff done with his tetchiness. I love the look of exasperation when Kara doesn’t understand she should get on the plane.

I note from the DVD extras that the soldiers on Gibraltar consist of the franchise’s stuntmen. I get the sense they went, "Cor, a Bond whose knees still work. That gives me an idea…” It’s not just that Dalton can lead the action. The evil milkman is the first time we really have a big special-effects stunt sequence that doesn’t feature Bond.

The evil milkman is another in the line of blond, blue-eyed Bond villains – though only in A View To A Kill is the Nazi subtext made explicit. Perhaps that explains this rubbish about Daniel Craig not being 007 what with the colour of his hair. But no, you fools, MI6 have recruited just the chap to fool their dastard foes.

John Barry delivers an exceptional, final Bond score – full of pace and energy. The Pretenders make the villains cool and the slushy love bits not too slushy. All in all, a smart, thrilling movie which promises many more years yet of Bond…

Licence to Kill
Or “Kilt”, as Glady Knight insists. Oh dear, oh dear. There’s so much good stuff in this and yet it’s really quite a mess.

Dalton’s tetchy Bond having been quite successful, his next film makes him much tetchier. The opening is unlike anything we’ve seen before. There’s grittier noise and music, and one of the first things said is “Bastard”. (I think its producer Michael G Wilson who says it, too, so it’s a real statement of intent).

Felix Leiter is getting married and wants Bond to be his best man. Presumably they’ve seen each other socially since they last worked together in the early 70s…

Felix now works for the DEA, and on their way to the ceremony Bond helps him catch a big drug dealer. But the drug dealer escapes and enacts terrible revenge. So Bond gets revengey too. When M tells him to pack it in and act just a little professional, Bond cheekily runs away…

Yeah, this is an odd one. In the pre-titles sequence, it’s strange to see Bond not working on his own, and being a bit of a team-player. Yes, he’s the one to go out on the wire, but it still feels like he’s playing second fiddle. There’s something small and mundane about him not saving the world but helping the police catch a criminal.

And then he runs off on his own. Always before, Bond has been something of a policeman – investigating crime and on the side of the angels. Here he’s a vicious Iago, poisoning Sanchez’s organisation from the ground up. That stuff works well, Bond being sly and using his experience and training. But the film can’t decide whether it wants to be fun or not.

There’s a big thing made about loyalty – which is more important than money to both Bond and Sanchez. But without the authority of MI6, it does feel like a high-pissing competition. Yes, it may all be about honour, but I’ve sympathy with M’s perspective on, “This sentimental rubbish”.

The sentimental stuff is oddly played. There’s some weird flirty thing going on between Bond and Dellah – she snogs him and gives him her garter. It reminded me uncomfortably of what Anthony Burgess called Ian Fleming’s own “Bondian self-indulgence”, his “rather cold love-making with other men’s wives”.

I suppose it’s to set up how close they all are, and explain why he’s so angry about what’s done to her. But they can’t be that close as she doesn’t know about his past: “He was married once,” explains Leiter, “but it was a long time ago.” Yes, it’s been two decades since OHMSS.

Benicio del Toro later preens that he and is cronies gave Dellah a “nice honeymoon”, and then Leiter gets fed to the sharks. This is markedly more nasty than previous Bond films, though the same thing happens to Leiter in the book of “Live and Let Die” (meaning that in John Gardner’s novel of “Licence to Kill” there’s something along the lines of, “Oh no, not again!”).

Dalton is excellent, and I like his sticky-up hair. He comes across as smart and resourceful while at the same time a dangerous arsehole. The thing about Bond is you want him on your side…

Del Toro and his boss, Robert Davi, are not camp villains in the vein of their predecessors – they’re vicious and horribly realistic. The damage done to people is much more horrific: in many ways its worse that Leiter survives, bereft of one leg and most of an arm. Bond’s body is replete with scars – as is Talisa Soto’s. And the deaths are much more dwelt on.

Imagine another film with the grinder sequence. We’d seen Benicio del Toro go into the grinder, the mess, and then Bond saying, “No need to be cut up about it.” Here, we see him hanging from Bond, then a shot of his feet going into the grinder, a shot of bloody mess, and then back to him hanging from Bond. For all Bond has seen off his enemies before, this is far more vivid and sadistic. And there’s no quip to undercut the violence – a signature effect in James Bond.

Which would all be fine were the film more consistent. The water-ski sequence is the like a jump back to the fun Bond of old, and the bar-room brawl is full of gags as if from a Roger Moore movie. There’s then a silly scene set in the London office, with Moneypenny being all weepy. A bit of levity is all very welcome at this point, but its very oddly judged. Can we really believe she’d be so schoolgirlishly silly about the vicious and surly Bond played by Dalton?

Another thought: For the first time since You Only Live Twice, Bond does not stop at home. We glimpse England – and Moneypenny – in a throwaway scene.

Anyway, things then get really peculiar. Moneypenny sends out Q to be of some assistance to the rogue and on-the-run former 007. Q really is the least likely assistant on a mission of vengeance, and I suspect the production team’s desperation at working Desmond Llewellyn into the story.

There’s something odd about him and Bond sharing a room, and how did he get his explosives through customs? The man’s meant to be having a holiday!

The silly gags with Q seem flippant and ill-judged, bumped up against the more vicious stuff. It doesn’t seem very well thought through. Since his never joking about his work in “Goldfinger”, there’s been a running gag about how Bond treats his precious equipment. But when Q reports in with his radio-broom (!) he then just throws it into a hedge. Where did it come from in the first place, and does he throw it away?

It makes undercuts any tension. The astonishing finale with the exploding oil tankers is seen off by Bond having girl trouble because of a misunderstanding. It’s a stupid situation, and Bond’s brilliant solution is to jump into a swimming pool with his clothes on. (Someone does this at Leiter’s wedding earlier, too, and they also look like a twat.)

Even that would be forgivable, but while he snogs the lady, one of the statues winks at him. And then an excruciatingly mimsy song starts up. And everything’s meant to be all okay because MI6 say they’ll give Bond his job back.

But if I was them, I’d not bother. For all Dalton is brilliant, his Bond is too much the bastard, too fond of breaking the rules. Much easier to get someone else, and ensure he knows his place…

Gaining entry

Oh hell, I've been wikied.

Blade runners

The Dr reports on a strange phenomena: our local supermarket no longer stocks razor blades in the aisle with the other Man Toiletries. Henceforth, blades shall be dispensed from behind the counter with the fags and scratch-away dreams.

The reason, as spelled out on a firm-but-fair notice, is that blades are too commonly pinched.

So is there a black market in razor blades, with people hawking them pub-to-pub in the same tatty carrier as their knocked-off DVDs?

Or do shoppers pocket the shiny, slim packs as they otherwise pay for their groceries?

Also, what is the difference between “gel” and “hydra gel”, as offered in soap from Gillette? I assume it's something to do with water, and not that if you cut yourself shaving you grow another head. But isn't a gel wet and hydrating anyway?

And, since I’m on to the prostitution of meaning in adverts, does anyone else squawk with rage at the Credit Suisse promise of “wealth protection”? I think of the synonyms "hoard" and "stash", and of a dragon asleep on dwarf-treasure.

Mind how you go

I usually avoid mimetic blogging, but this one seems right for today. Neil Gaiman, who has something of the darkest night about him anyway, warns writers to beware of death:

• Gaiman: Important and pass it on

Oddly enough, I’ve been writing about intellectual property only this very morning. (Amongst other topics; at half midnight I was still busily scribbling my way through education, thanks to the haste of the old folks.)

The Patent Office explains the different kinds of intellectual property – chiefly content, design, the technical aspects and distinguishing features – and says these can be owned, controlled and protected just like any kind of physical property.

“A-ha!” says my skim-reading teenager self. “But we all know that property is theft!” And I’m aware that various folk have sizeable concerns about IP and the way it’s protected.

The older, more mercenary and interest-declaring me can see a definite difference between abstract whimsies and chunks of land. The arbitrary allocation of territory based on various bits of bullying in the past might well be interpreted as social thievery. But if something I think up starts spilling out cash, it’s only fair I’ve a share in the profits.

It’s the same argument, I guess, about the huge sums a few footballers get paid. There’s a lot of money in football, what with lucrative telly deals. I’d rather it went to the people actually kicking the ball than to the chaps who draw up the contracts.

It’s important, too, that it’s only a few of the footballers who make thousands from every appearance. Very few hacks make a living from the things they dream up, too. And royalties are a way of justifying their – my – investment.

(I’m also acutely aware that most of what I’ve published belongs in some part to other people. This is because what are charitably called “shared universes” (and less charitably, “merchandise franchises”) have so far been the only ones not entirely to reject me. Bastards. I’m going to be a star.)

There’s a flimsy, meritocratic belief that if only we create something with the right vim, then to us will be due all the glory. Write a critical mass of the stuff over long enough, and you’ll start seeing a meaningful return. Even if it’s not in your lifetime, your kids (or friends or cats or cows) can still benefit from your efforts.

Which is probably obvious to everyone anyway, but only just crystallised for me. I am not very bright… but I shall be sorting out a will. If I should meet with an accident in the next couple of weeks, it’s because the Dr (or the cat) wants to own the rude play with girls kissing.

Naughty mooses

We shall refer to him by the codename "Moose" to protect his identity. This morning he asked if I'd yet read a synopsis thing he mailed at me last week.

I had to admit I had not, what with life being a bit manic recently and all the strange, angry talk when I'm sleeping. (But works have been done: my tax return is in and I've done all I can with the Daleks. Scripts are copied and posted, copies of things sent out to people, and I've kept up with floods and a small catastrophe between two of my favourite people, and even thought fondly of two scripts that are started.)

So in between rounds of the Education and Inspections Bill, I've been able to manage a gander. Codename Moose's story is about a disfunctional extended family er, playing naughty bunnies with each other.

Imagine my surprise on discovering that it features the identical twins of jokes to be found within "The Summer of Love" (which is, I hear, reaching subscribers right now). That play is also about a disfunctional extended family er, playing naughty bunnies with each other.

Perhaps, as the Dr has observed before, Codename Moose and I in many ways have the same mind. Or perhaps, when I sent him the script of my tastefully discreet play, he went and copied the answers.

No, Codename Moose! Bad Codename Moose!

The web of fear

Am still running to catch up with last week’s escape, with works clamouring at the door like a monster. Real life has not made this a little bit easier, but we shall not go into that now…

Nimbos leant me Cobweb by Neal Stephenson and Frederick George. (It used to be by “Stephen Bury”, but Stephenson is so big and famous these days they now use his real name.)

It’s the last of Stephenson books I had left to read – not including his non-fiction nor the one even he says doesn’t count:

“The Big U is what it is: a first novel written in a hurry by a young man a long time ago.”

Neal Stephenson.

Written in the late 90s and set during Gulf War One, Cobweb is about shenanigans in an Iowa university that might be linked to Saddam Hussein’s threat to use chemical weapons. A red-neck cop and a Mormon CIA agent both struggle, despite the best cobwebbing efforts of the procedural system, to figure out exactly what it is going on. And not to get killed in the process.

Like “Bury”’s Interface (a much better book, I think) it’s brutal and surprising and intricate, with a lot of political kudos. There’s real passion in how the system snafus the best efforts of good people to somehow get things right – big issues trashed by little politics.

There’s a nice bit late-on where the cynical, weary CIA man wonders if his niece is right, and the war’s about nothing but oil. We’ve seen him out-play the players and get his fingers in all pies, but even he doesn’t know.

Stephenson’s books are festooned with great and unusual characters living strange yet believable lives. He’s keen on exacting detail, so his worlds are built solidly from paper-clips up. And often there’s a great warmth and vitality to geeky underdogs.

It’s odd to read now – the plot links Iraq to a more general US foreign policy, the real enemy being Iran. It also includes a threat to crash a plan into a US city and talk of Saddam’s many WMDs.

The army are warned about the effects of anthrax and Clostridium botulinum, and it occurs to me now that today’s cosmetic-use Botox may be linked to the research done when it threatened our soldiers. Fashion taking its cues from mass slaughter…

It’s also odd that the book’s two protagonists never meet (though one leaves a note for the other). I suppose that sets them up to be played in any film by De Niro and Pacino – I wonder which of those would play Betsy?

Like other Stephenson books, the plot builds and builds to a disappointing last splurge, in this case an action sequence which felt thieved from something else. Clyde seems suddenly to be written for Steven Segal, unkillable and doing the job of a whole army.

So recommended, but try Interface and Diamond Age first.

Tea radicals

There was an advert on the Tube on the way into work today which says how drinking tea can help the conquest of free radicals.

Free radicals sound a bit dangerous, like a hardened gang of revolutionarry poets. There's a joke to this effect in "Never Say Never Again", when Bond is sent to a health farm to eradicate them. It would have been a very different film if only he'd drunk some tea.

This also made me remember a learned and pina-colada-fueled discussion on Saturday, which happened to mention biscuits. I remember suggesting you could serve Garibaldis and Bourbons all on the same plate, and see if they started fighting.

Individuals and their families

Back home and all sorts of thoughts to catch up on. As well as roofing and nice things to eat, O. treated me to three movies – two of which I’d not seen before.

The Incredibles is great fun, though I was a bit spooked by how much its abolition-of-superheroism stuff reminded me of Watchmen. But it left me with all kinds of niggle.

Mr and Mrs Incredible live a tawdry suburban life and have put weight on in all the wrong places since the days when saving the world was still legal. And then a mad villain comes up with a plot which requires not just their combined wits to foil it. They also need to bring along their kids…

Slightly weirded out by the ending. The kids get to be heroes, and then immediately both consign themselves to mediocrity – not trying too hard against other children for fear of standing out and forgoing Goth for an Alice band. And this when the big lesson is hey, it’s okay to be different.

The clash of the amazing with the deadeningly ordinary does not sit entirely on the same seat. For all the family is full of kooky powers, it’s still very nuclear – a dull ideal like in an advert for gravy.

It seems it’s okay to be an individual so long as nobody else notices. In some ways it feels as if the kids’ extraordinariness is just an awkward phase they’re going through.

And though Mr I’s best mate is Samuel L Jackson, the Black-Ice Man appears only briefly and smacks a little of tokenism. This kind of thing has been better and more deeply handled – I thought especially of Tom Strong.

Then on to the Godfather Part 1, which was nothing like the patchwork of clips I’ve previously been exposed to. Long and slow and engrossing, I particularly liked the sequence of Pacino in Sicily, where we see where the five families came from and how their gangsterism came about.

Al Pacino brings a girl to his sister’s wedding and tries not to reveal too much about the family. People come to see Pacino’s dad to show respect and ask for favours. And the family teases Pacino for being above their mucky stuff. But when dad gets the disrespectful treatment and is shot while out buying veg, Al decides he’s gonna get his hands dirty…

Corleone’s insistence that family comes before any thought of morality reminded me of the noble Baroness, Lady Thatcher, declaring that there bain’t be no such wossname as society.

Her comments have been taken to mean an everyone-for-themselves kind of attitude, though she’s actually talking about how we all have social obligations to one another.

A decade before Mrs T became prime minister, Scorcese shows exactly why it’s no good just looking out for your own. The vicious greedy war that follows is a plague on everyone’s houses.

And then Mars Attacks!, which I now realise is a great lodestone to my scribbling.

It’s not just the funny and alien babble which I’ve pilfered as my own. Griffiths in the Time Travellers is clearly meant to be played by Pierce Brosnan.

Fiddler on the roof

--- ETA: Pictures of the roof now available at Flickr. ---

Dear Dr,

Yesterday and today you would have been much excited to see my manliness, putting a roof together for a six-car garage. This involved lots of climbing up and down from shaky beams in the manner of a comedy monkey, and hammering and cursing and sweat.

But we are almost there - just another 10 slats or so and the whole canopy will be covered. Which is extremely satisfying.

You'd be very impressed by how much things have come on since last time we were here. Have been trying to get O. to take photos.

We have also been for some nice meals. On Sunday night, that place we had birthday tea in last time we were here, was so bustling - even at an un-Continental half seven - that we had to sit in the corner and wait with only a morsel of salty bread to sustain us.

After tea, we had cat-play and an open fire and one or three whiskies, and I went to bed a bit corpsish about eleven p.m. Must have been tired as I slept right through a very heavy delivery first thing. The pipes need connecting up - which is really quite a job - but O. will soon enough have central heating. Blimey.

Woke about eleven a.m. to bright and kind sunshine, and wrote seven pages of script I am happy with (and a few more I am not) before starting my roof duties.

Tried to blog last night but the connection died, and we were due for dinner at a nice couple's in a town a little up the road. Lovely food and natter, and a bath-weight of red wine. Can't have left much before midnight.

Today has mostly been roofing, though we did break off to go have a nice lunch. The small, cavern-like restaurant looked quite smart, so it was especially pleasing to wander in covered in sawdust and scritches.

We carried on with roofing in the afternoon, but the air-gun for shooting nails gave up the ghost and manual nailing was just not the same. O. had a good idea about going looking for figs, so we ventured down the road (merely 60 degrees of slope for about two hundred metres), where we found the figs all long-taken.

Staggered back up to the house and I suspect my knees are going to make a fuss about all this tomorrow. In fact, not sure if I have caught the autumnal sun or am just one huge bruise all over.

Am just waiting for himself to finish in the shower and then we are out for more noshing. You would like little Enzo, who is about the size Shaggy was when we got him, and more like a lemur than a cat. He likes bitey games, but he's not developed his claws enough to hang from your forearm. He is earning his keep though - he's really rather a good mouser. And he is sitting on my lap as I type this.

So, anyway. Things are good and I am being worked hard. And notice you are not here.

Lots of love,

Simon

He married him

I am in Italy and there is sunshine, plus O.'s estate is much different from last time. The Dr is delighted at my gaping absence as she can melt in peace at tonight's Jane Eyre finale.

Would feel a bit brighter if I hadn't been up at five this morning. And if I'd not gone to bed at one last night. But Falldog was getting hitched and we got to see all sorts of chums we've not seen in ages.

That Paul Cornell was looking very dapper - and again apologised profusedly for coming dressed like a farmhand to ours. Glitterforbrains advised me on dancing ("Don't try so hard, love,") and I got to ask Gary Russell, "How in heck did you manage?"

The groom and groom made some mention that theirs was "not really a wedding". But of course it is. It has to be.

Because of who it annoys when it is.

A massive contrivance

The Institute of Education was jam-packed last night for Stewart Lee’s tussle with Alan Moore and Melinda Gebbie.

We’ve been to a few of these Blackwells events now, and this was certainly the busiest, and with the best quality of audience questioning, too. This one was co-organised with ComICA, and (he googled) Chez Chrissie has some nice photos of it.

And all for a book that’s not published until 1 January 2008. I’ve not read it either...

“Lost Girls” is, if you have been living under some rocks, a three-volume comic book about three women meeting in a hotel on the eve of the first world war. And, er, then they lez up.

To make things more literary, the three women are Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz, Alice from Alice in Wonderland and Wendy from Peter Pan. The latter is still (depending who you hear it from) in copyright until the end of next year, which is why the book’s not yet been published in the UK and Europe.

Lee began by asking how many of the 1,000-strong (I’m guessing) audience had been able to get hold of a copy: about a fifth (I’m guessing). So we knocked through a sequence of pages, blown up on a whopping great projecto-laptop, with Alan and Melinda giving notes.

It has been a labour of love – both because Alan and Melinda are not just partners creatively and because it’s taken them 17 years to finish the thing. They spoke of wanting to produce a “benign” pornography, something that would appeal to both sexes. Or, Moore pointing out that porn for boys is piss-easy, a pornography of appeal to the ladies.

This was something that came out of the questions. Moore admitted he’d followed feminist arguments – both for and against porn – avidly, and found the debate rational and intelligent (as opposed to religious arguments against porn, based on “God doesn’t like the smutty stuff”). Angela Carter of course got a mention.

Gebbie argued she’d be much less bothered by porn if it wasn’t so industrial and soulless, photographed in tatty-looking rooms on a bed that’s been dragged from an alley. That did not, she said, make her feel like a goddess…

Pornography – the authors made no bones about that being what they’ve made – is a pejorative term. So they have attempted to do for this gutter genre what Moore did for another low form. Just as with superheroes, he’s subverted the derivative and derided, and made it all relevant and clever.

I’d argue that he’s done this with comics more generally. The Dr (who impressed me greatly on our first meeting by speaking knowledgeably of V for Vendetta) and I have read a lot of comics over the years, but we are not actually comics fans. The good stuff comes rare and occasionally, an exception to the tedious rule.

A colleague was telling me last week about his own experience working on a comic. The only letters they got were from those wanting to draw comics, with a small minority who asked about writing them. His conclusion – and he admits to not seeing the appeal – was that people want to make comics more than they want to read them.

Whatever the truth of that, Moore is a rare exception to my general dissatisfaction with comics.

I think this may even be dissatisfaction with most fantasy (and I’d include sci-fi in that bracket quite often), which tends to be about “escape”, so avoids reality when it can. Moore confronts the problematic in his fancies. He doesn’t just name-check politicians and political movements, he deals with the issues involved. V For Vendetta, for example, doesn’t need to include the word “Thatcher” to deal with (then) contemporary policy and its affects.

That’s the key thing – not the names that are being dropped but the affects that throwing these influences together can have.

Compare that to serious-minded Star Trek when it mentions the IRA, or when they realise that their precious warp drive is killing everyone on some planet. Topical and difficult as these things might be, they’re dealt with so glibly they hardly even register. Moore is all about affect, about wanting to touch the sides.

I think that’s important when considering how Lost Girls (which I’ve admittedly not read) uses its source works. Moore does not just name-check a few Victorian writers and artists whose works he wants to evoke. The various kinds of pastiche challenge the subtext of the originals, playing with their meaning and changing their effect.

Moore feels no need to explain the myriad allusions as he once might have – Google, he’s sure, will be more than adequate. He’s also unrepentant about how Lost Girls looks for the rude bits in children’s stories and brings them to the fore. Better to acknowledge our weird, sexy thoughts than to lock them away as too awful.

He was asked how he thought the original authors would have taken his revisionism – especially given Moore’s own lack of delight with adaptations of his own work. He argued he was not knocking out something derivative that claimed to be in any way the same thing. He’d made something new, something inspired by the original and which could not knock the original from its august and iconic pedestal.

But of course Barrie would probably hate it.

There was something more revealing earlier on, when he described Sigmund Freud – obviously a big influence on his reinterpretations – as a “coked-up kiddie fiddler”, with an apology to any Freudian relatives who might still be alive.

I thought it was interesting that he made a distinction between the sensibilities of the currently living and the long and now-mythic dead, the latter having lost their reality to the soup of history, so fair game to be played with.

(That’s my interpretation, not something Moore himself said…)

Preferring not to

In rain-lush Winchester this afternoon to see my Mum, whose birthday it is. We'd talked about going to see a matinee of the Queen, but got to talking more generally and so couldn't really be bothered. Talked films and things with the wee brother (who could also show some clips), and marriage and inheritance with the elder folk.

By something of coincidence after yesterday's post, my Dad is about to go visit Dresden...

The Dr had asked me to collect some of my 19th century novels for something a bit gothic she's working on. So on the train home I reread Melville's "Bartleby".

It's told by the master of a law office with chambers at some number on Wall Street. We hear of the three amusingly grotesque copyists under his employ: "Turkey", who is quiet by morning by pugnacious after his presumably boozy lunches; "Nipper" who's the opposite and quietens down in the p.m.; and "Ginger nut", the 12 year-old runner nicknamed after the cakes he's sent out for.

They're an odd and unlikely bunch, amusingly Dickensian and bit sloppy in their works. You feel the narrator is a little too accommodating of their whims. And then along comes Bartleby.

He's immaculate in demeanour and his copying is exemplary. But every now and then he'll respond to some minor request with, "I'd prefer not to." And the narrator is completely unable to say, "Like bollocks!" or "You're fired!"

And then it turns out Bartleby doesn't go home and spends his whole life in the office, and as the narrator investigates further it turns out the scrivener doesn't have much of a life anyway...

"So true it is, and so terrible, too, that up to a certain point the thought or sight of misery enlists our best affections; but, in certain special cases, beyond that point it does not. They err who would assert that invariably this is owing to the inherent selfishness of the human heart. It rather proceeds from a certain hopelessness of remedying excessive and organic ill. To a sensitive being, pity is not seldom pain. And when at last it is perceived that such pity cannot lead to effectual succour, common sense bids the soul be rid of it."

Herman Melville, Bartleby, the Scrivener: A Story of Wall-street.

For all it now reads as a period piece, it's also suffused with modernity. Sherlock Holmes is "modern" because he embraces the new - bicycles and railway trains and fingerprints and science. But this is modern because it's caught up in the loss of old systems - beginning with the narrator's change in status because of the

"sudden and violent abrogation of the office of Master in Chancery, by the new Constitution,"

Ibid.

- and ending with the abolition of the "Dead Letter Office at Washington".

It's all built up on atmospherics and the narrator's own sense of strange impotence. I think it could be told more concisely - and suspect Melville might have been paid by the word. But it's a creepy story about eroded identity and how we decline to confront the abnormal.

jus in bello

Nearing the end of AC Grayling's "Among the Dead Cities", which comes very much recommended. He attempts - as objectively and rationally as possible - to examine the case for the carpet bombing of Germany and Japan by the Allies in World War Two.

Do the obliteration of Dresden and Hiroshima - to name but two notable cases - qualify as war crimes?

I've mentioned to a few people that this is what I've been reading, and none of them have yet come up with an argument or point of view not covered in the book, either for or against.

The arguments are expertly articulated and balanced against one another, and we hear not just from contemporary sources who bombed and were bombed themselves, but from legal documents, commentators on war like Grotius and Sun Tzu, and any number of wise persons.

It is a comprehensive and compelling case, and Grayling argues that whatever the barbarities of the Nazi and Japanese regimes, the indiscriminate and relentless programme of destruction was not necessary, was not proportionate and was not nearly as effective as it's proponents claimed.

A lesser wrong than that committed by the enemy is still a wrong. And what's more - as Grayling also shows - these lesser wrongs only complicate the aftermath of any victory. Which is not surprising, because if the victors cannot abide by the rule of law and human decency, why should anybody else?

Bombing people "back into the Stone Age" does not endear them to kindness and civility. I am reminded of Bruce Robinon speaking of his script for the Killing Fields:

"If I get incredibly uptight and frustrated, I get breathless because I'm asthmatic. The same chain reaction could very well happen inside a body to create a cancer: there's no other way out. The American war machine dumped eight billion - not million, billion - dollars worth of bombs on Cambodia, and that country had no protection against this and I think it turned back: 'If we can't destroy the enemy, we'll destroy ourselves.' That's virtually what happened in Cambodia: it went on a self-destruct."

Alistair Owen (ed.), "Smoking in Bed - Conversations with Bruce Robinson", p. 45.

But the most shocking thing about Grayling's book is not the accounts of what it did to people and their cities, and how it hampered the liberation of France and made things just ever more worse. It is to learn Area bombing was finally outlawed internationally in an additional protocol to the Geneva Convention - adopted only as late as 8 June 1977.

And, as you read through the list of things unequivocably banned for being such untennable savagery, to think, "But I've seen our side doing that on the news..."

Favourite with a u

Many are the things to be said of the legendary Ian J Farrington, evil overlord of the Short Trips of Dr Who. We applaud the same football team and drink the same beer...

But my spelling has never been described as sexy.

Things Bernice

Had a nice time in the pub last night catching up with folk I'd not seen in aaaages. Got to pay a favour back too, but we can't yet speak of what it was to do with...

Had a nice chat with D. about Benny things generally and will see what we can do about his thoughts on special offers. He enthused gratifyingly about "Genius Loci" and how much it was a pleasure to read...

My chum Alex has written a typically Wilcockian review of "Genius Loci", as well as a pros and cons of its author. I shall take great pleasure in introducing him to Ben tomorrow...

There's also a review by Richard McGinlay at Sci-fi Online. Since the wheeze is that you don't need to know anything about Benny to enjoy it, I'm working on getting it read by other luminaries of sf. More on that soon, I hope.

McGinlay has also reviewed the first two Benny CDs of my watch - The Tartarus Gate and Timeless Passages. He seems broadly happy - though no, we hadn't even a whiff of Impossible Planet as we went into the studio.

Our next Benny episodes - "The Worst Thing in the World" and the anthology "Collected Works" - hurry into being as I type. Glad to hear people are picking up on the unrunning plots...

And still we press on. More dates to be agreed around people's availability, and the final okay to use [spoiler]. I've a last edit of my own "Summer of Love" to sign off today, and have just seen Mr Salmon's glorious art for "Oracle of Delphi". He asks what sort of street violence I want for the next one.

But these things will have to wait. Off as soon as I have my shoes on to a very exciting meeting. And no, of course I'm not telling...

“I make it better”

Herculean tasks yesterday meant I didn’t trot out similar thoughts as Alex on the not-very-amazing Mrs Pritchard.

I like the idea of an unlikely political candidate getting past the hurdles by just being a bit nice, and am keen on utopia generally. But, as Alex says, Mrs Pritchard is not actually very nice. She’s dismissive of people around her – her husband in particular – and lacks anything new to say.

There was no attempt to engage with the sorts of concerns we have politicians for – economics, communities, health, education, the environment… She can merely repeat, again and again, that’s she better than her sorry rivals. Which is hardly better than the silly bickering staged between the other candidates.

It’s consumer politics, more about the packaging than any real difference. Note that her qualifications for being Prime Minister are how officiously she ran her supermarket, abusing the public address system to ensure that her staff all look tidy.

I can see that there’s space for the series to develop and that she’s set up for dramatic falls (her husband walking out, her daughter being naughty with someone else’s chap, etc.). One commentator on Alex’s post says Meera Syal is in it next week, and I assume she’ll be more than a token.

But that’s not enough, and the series feels terribly naïve. Alex says its gender politics are 30 years out of date, while its comedy-villain Tories are from at least a decade ago. (See also the movie version of V For Vendetta).

That said, I note Dave Balloon’s speech yesterday was modelled on riffs and slogans T. Blair came up with 10 years ago – how biting his riposte to education³ were it made in ’96.

Like the all-fur-coat Mrs Pritchard, Dave’s not big on how he’ll do anything. We don’t yet have any idea how he will sort out the NHS, but I’m guessing he won’t abolish spoils to the private sector.

It’s also interesting that his support for civil partnerships – which earned some sour looks from his crowd – is based on marriage being “something special”. That’s the argument that in 2004 I heard Tory Lords use for why civil partnerships were an abhorrence.

In all, this speech to party faithful was hailed as something new and funky and exciting (which is not, you know, very “conservative”) and not even they seemed convinced. The same old reactionary bollocks with some late-20th-century spin. In fact, “Plus ça change…” could be the motto of Dave’s “new” party.

To get back to the telly, my real dissatisfaction with Mrs Pritchard is that despite all her promises, she’s just as amorphous as the “real” politicians she finds so dispiriting herself. Defenders of the programme say it’s meant to be an “ideal” and just a bit of fun. But that’s a feeble excuse.

It really could be amazing if it dared brave the issues it raises – a popular tea-time utopia with gags that might make you think. At the moment, it’s got all the sophistication and girl-empowerment of ads which sell household cleaner and gravy on the basis of how Dad’s A Bit Rubbish.

As things are, Mrs P is only “amazing” because a few people who ought to know better tell us so. I found the fawning cameos from the BBC’s news teams really embarrassing. Where were the awkward questions about her actual policies, or her business relationship with her chief sponsor, or how her support seems entirely from white, middle-England women of a little-above middle-age? Would Paxman have been so deferent?

As it happens, we saw Robert McCrum interviewing Paxman last night about his new book, On Royalty. A staunch Republican, Paxman admitted that in researching and testing his assumptions for the book, he came to believe something new. All sorts of things to think about:

How would abolishing the monarchy make things any better? Isn’t it good to have a rank to which the ambitious can never reach? A written constitution might be a Good Thing, but who is it as gets to write it? Why is the Queen a bit scary?

Paxman was teased for being “co-opted”, but I felt there was something more profound going on to do with asking awkward questions (on which more posts to follow). Am keen to read the book as soon as the Dr can stop licking it.

It was funny how different the audience were to the recent Gaiman gig. Gaiman’s audience was geekier, freakier and more devoted to his works, while last night’s groupies seemed more respectably ordinary. Paxman is also a lot more intimidating. And yet those asking questions were much more informal and chatty with Paxman, as if they were all old mates. Guess this is ‘cos he’s on telly – and so frequently a guest in their living rooms.

Incidentally, the bloke I bought the book from recognised my name and asked if I’d written for Telos. Fraid not, they didn’t like what I sent them.

The Dr is of course appalled at my appeal to young, handsome and geeky fellas, but she gets recognised all the time for her history and educative things. Being the subject of enthusiasm can be a bit odd, and in her case it’s not just geeky blokes who approach her.

“It’s weird when they’re fanny,” she said. It took a moment to get what she meant.

Signature time

This coming Saturday I shall be at Doctor Who Day 2, alongside Adric and Alydon and Aaronovitch. It’s the first signing the latter has done in 10 years, so that’s all a bit exciting.

Why bother?

Sci-fi’s a cruel addiction, unforgiving on its saps. There are those of us hooked on the good stuff while still ignoring school. But after the delicious thrill of seeing Harrison Ford snogging a Replicant or being plunged into carbon freeze, the good stuff is all soon used up.

I cannot begin to list the sci-fi I’ve hoped would not be shitty. Films, books and television shows that all promised to amaze us and then turned out a bit dim. But you keep looking. You keep hoping. You don’t let the bad shit get you down.

It was this sort of thought lolling through my brain as we dared Children of Men last night. That and the frustration of dealing with First ScotRail and rain.

Every now and then, a whisper ploughs through the bandy-legged sci-fi community with the excitement and real horror of a wolf. It dares portend that some new endeavour might well be the next good thing. And I can’t put in words the joyous relief on finding the whispers are true.

Children of Men is gripping, engaging and relevant, and manages to tick all the myriad nerd boxes while appealing to a far broader audience. The Dr was entirely caught up in it, and had to have a quiet moment afterwards.

It is – and this should not be underestimated – a film that might even impress my parents. (That it’s based on a book by PD James obviously helps. The only time I’ve got them to see something they weren’t going to anyway was when I said "Crouching Monkey, Jumping Cheesecake" was a love story by the bloke as did "Sense and Senility"… I am sly.)

It’s 2027 and the last human baby was born 18 years ago. London is miserable and surly, violence barely concealed from the street, and yet the rest of the world fares much worse. With nothing for humanity to hold out for, Theo (Clive Owen) is barely keeping it together. And then his ex-wife and mother of his long-dead child comes to find him. Her revolutionary friends need his help…

As a thriller, it’s plotty and well-paced and keeps the shocks and thrills cummynatcha. It’s a busy and hand-held movie, the violence abrupt and sudden. Characters are killed off in an instant and there’s no time to reel from the shock.

The cast are all excellent, even in brief cameo (hello there, my friend Mr Barnaby). Sir Michael Caine ensures Jasper’s the right side of annoying and Peter Mullan is dead scary as Syd. And, as he did in Serenity, the great Chiwetel Ejiofor plays a clear-sighted and charismatic villain, with motives that make terrifying sense.

That said, I felt the conspiracy thing with him turning out to have killed [spoiler] the only wrong-footed element. It would feel much better were events unconnected, Theo leading Kee through jarring and random brutality to the faint promise of hope on the far side. This felt a bit too conveniently plotted…

But that is a very minor gripe.

To nerdily enthuse on the consummate world-building, it’s also packed to the gills with detail. Billboards for the Evening Standard digitally flick between headlines; the trains and cars are all suitably different while remaining recognisably the same; there’s an awful, brief hint as to why Caine’s wife remains silent.

The cities are restless and dirty, while the countryside seems plush and overgrown – if you’ll forgive the massed heaps of burning cow. The film taps into all sorts of current sensibilities: foot and mouth, immigration, even biologically sustainable fuels.

The Dr was a bit surprised by how much about ‘now’ it is. As if this is something revolutionary in the genre of sci-fi and not an inherent component.

For all it’s an unrelentingly brutal dystopia, there’s some deftly handled gags: the art collection held in Battersea Power Station looks out on an inflatable pig; and there’s a car chase in cars that won’t start. For all the depravity and despair, it’s a richly drawn and realised world.

With humanity to be extinct in a century, there’s a lot on the struggle to remain meaningfully alive. Without it ever being explicit, there’s a lot on hope versus despair. For all it underplays the messianic thing, it does leave us with several huge questions. Is the [spoiler] at the end all that has been promised, and can the new [spoiler] heal a sick world? Is Kee alone or are there others who can [spoiler]?

I suspect it's a personal thing. The Dr was bothered and teary as the credits rolled, but I was strangely elated. A good and proper sci-fi movie. There's hope for humanity yet...

Royale with cheese

The West Wing's President Bartlett has a rant about James Bond being a wuss for having his booze shaken not stirred, but I suspect this is in large part to do with him not having seen the recipe for what, for a whole evening, Bond calls a "Vesper":

"'Just a moment. Three measures of Gordon's, one of vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet. Shake it very well until it's ice-cold, then add a large thin slice of lemon-peel. Got it?'

'Certainly, monsieur.' The barman seemed pleased with the idea.

'Gosh, that's certainly a drink,' saiod Leiter.

Bond laughed. 'When I'm... er... concentrating,' he explained, 'I never have more than one drink before dinner. But I do like that one to be large and very strong and very cold and very well-made. I hate small portions of anything, particularly when they taste bad. This drink's my own invention. I'm going to patent it when I can think of a good name.'"

Ian Fleming, Casino Royale, p. 51

Casino Royale is going to need quite a lot of work to make even a half decent film (I've never been persuaded that the Bond of the books is better than that chap on screen). For one thing, the main bulk of plot is over less than two-thirds in, and the remainder is Bond recovering in hospital, having nice dinners and lapsing into brutal mysoginy.

In the dour, post-war Europe of 1952, glamour and pizzazz are very hard to come by. But then the Secret Service come up with a crazy idea to ruin one of the Soviet's finest, who is playing Baccarat in a small town in France so as to win back the funds he "borrowed" from his masters and then subsequently lost. If only M can find an agent with some skill - and luck - they could really embarrass the commies.

So, 007 - given a licence to kill because he's killed two people since the end of the war - is sent out to play "nines". He's got an envelope full of money, two colleagues and a bloke from the CIA to assist him. But the baddies have gagdets and a carpet beater, and there's a final sting in the tale...

If you're more familiar with the suave and funny secret agent of the movies, the book-Bond is something of a shock. Many of the traits in this first book do appear in the films - using his own hair and some talcum powder to see if anyone's been in his room (pp. 12-13 and also the film Dr No), or introducing himself as, "Bond - James Bond" (p. 50). The women have silly names and can't help but shag him, and the villains are larger than life.

But Ian Fleming's Bond is a lot more of a bastard than even Connery or Dalton made him, and in the books he hardly ever gets the girl at the end. I was also surprised (though I'd read the book in my early teens) that in Casino Royale it's only the villains who have gadgets - an umbrella that shoots dum-dum bullets and a car that drops a blanket of spikes across the road. In the book such things are underhand cheating.

The Bond of the films is also something of a know-all on every subject except for diamonds. Book Bond has a keen eye for detail and admits his pleasure in food and drink is mostly to do with the loneliness of his job. Bless him. His perspective is coldly analytical, and by far the most effective bits of the book are when we see events and people through his eyes and with the "benefit" of his harsh understanding. When we jump to Vesper or Leiter's point of view, it's all a lot less exciting.

He's a nasty, scarred bloke who tested silencer guns for assassinations (p. 88) and admits the two people he killed to gain his Double-0 were "probably quite decent people" (p. 64). Part of the appeal - if not the charm - is this refusal to spare any punches. That's especially true of the infamous torture sequence, in which Bond spends an hour having his bollocks slapped with a carpet beater and then gets an "M' cut into the flesh of his hand. Unlike the films, this Bond bleeds pretty profusely.

The matter-of-fact prose and attention to detail reminded me in large part of The 39 Steps. Book Bond has more in common with that period piece than he does with today. But the violence is something else, vicious and unrelenting. It's this that marks it out as informed by the atrocities of World War 2.

It is odd to see Bond as a war veteran. He says he bought his Bentley "in 1933" (p. 36), at which point Fleming himself was only 25. If we assume Bond and Fleming are near contemporaries (and Bond can't really be very much younger), then 007 is just about 100 years old.

I think the great excitement about the book, though, is the thrill of such a vicious and experienced hardman getting it all a bit wrong. That's what really differentiates the Bond of the books from his big screen counterpart. He can be old and a dick and a clown and an arsehole, so long as he's never a loser.

Our friends in the North

Out first stop off was in Preston, where the Dr went to investigate the Harris Museum and I took Nimbos and K. to the Lamb and Packet, which was once something of a fixture in my life. Last time I was there was 9 years ago and I took my Mum. The town is the same only different in a bothersomely eerie way. Am a little shocked by how young the undergraduates appear, and they've also replaced with a snooker table the cosy snug where I'd wolf down roast beef in its own bowl of Yorkshire pudding.

Then on to Blackpool to spend a night with the outlaws, and we ventured out to enjoy the illuminations. At the Bispham end there was a particularly creepy group of smiley-eyed bears enjoying the swings and slides. The Dr also pointed out the Parthenon frieze on a gaudy Greek temple, but chickened out of asking in the Elgin hotel from whence they'd obtained their casts.

Next day to Lancashire where we met up with E. and C. in the Borough on Dalton Square. I had some nice local beer, but not enough to stop me getting some work done on the train up to Edinburgh.

There we met M. and Will and the Dr's old boss and supped beer in the Doric before going for big Chinese eats. Arrived in Dundee in the very small hours, and got a taxi out to M's new home. This is the most norf in Britain I've ever been, and I've only been in Scotchland the once before.

I have learnt some Doric, which as well as an Ancient Greek style is also the local dialect. "Press" means cupboard and "oxter" means "armpit", while "blaaderskite" is, broadly, bullshit.

Nimbos and I were sent away to explore the Discovery the next afternoon, which Scott captained on his first trip to the South Pole just over a century ago. The exhibition was very interesting, with Scott and Shackleton exploring together, and a good amount of detail on all they found out. Though the Discovery got caught in the ice and Scott wasn't very happy about being rescued, it was still a more successful trip than Scott's later one where he died, or Shackleton's one where his ship, Endurance, was lost. So this exhibition is more celebratory than I'd thought it would be.


The ship itself is fun to explore - and not quite so cramped or inaccessible to the tall as other vessels I've been aboard. I bought a big book on Scott, and then we had time to go see Dundee's statues of Desperate Dan and Minnie the Minx (who greatly resembles the Dr) before getting the bus back to Invergowrie.

Ladies had arrived by the time we got back, and feasting and fire and much pink fizz ensued. We were still going at half two this morning.


Got up slowly today, and this afternoon went for several hours walk up to Castle Huntly and back. Basked in the wintry sunshine and the Dr may even have tanned. Were back just in time to see the repeat of the Jane Eyre opener, and I have been allowed to blog in the difficult interegnum before episode two.

Food bubbles on the hearth behind me yummily. Stuffed vine leaves have just been mentioned. And all is rather well with the world.

The Highlanders

Off to Scotchland now for a few days to go see the second wife. Who we saw last night anyway to hand over her birthday present.

But it is an excuse to go more north of the border than I've ever been and to stop off and say hullo to people all along the way. Thrilling travelogue to follow...

Also saw other Scotch persons last night / this morning and discussed noise at full pelt. Am entertained by the notes I took. "Sonic or something," it says in red biro.

Most excellent canopy the air

It’s not guns that kill people, as the old proverb goes. It’s the pointy metal thumb in so much of a hurry that it will not stop for flesh.

Oh, and whoever it is pulling the trigger.

Proceeding logically from this, I endeavour to recall that my squawking fury is not caused by actual umbrellas. What follows is to save from murder the dim-witted dolts who will wield them:

1. Umbrellas don’t actually work
   Umbrellas keep the rain off your face and shoulders. A coat with a hood will do this too, and in a much more personal and unobtrusive manner.
   
   Some people say umbrella’s are practical, especially the folding-up-titchy ones. But that’s true of anoraks you can fold up, too, which also have useful pockets. And they don’t fold inside out in the wind.
   
   As Lee Evans has observed, the stem of an umbrella dangles down from the middle of the canopy, which is where you’d ideally be standing.



2. Umbrellas are bigger than you are
   Half the canopy goes unused on the far side of the stem (on a standard-sized brolly, not enough to share with someone else unless they stand directly in front of you). This is especially important to remember when somewhere densely populated – such as London or anywhere you’re not on your own.
   
   At least leave a bit more space around other people as you pass them. And remember that each corner of your canopy is tipped with a sharp little prong.
   
   People speak of it being unlucky to open an umbrella indoors, and this is not just superstition. Umbrellas are awkward and unwieldy and capable of doing much damage.
   
   If you should happen to plunge into someone else – by “if” of course I mean “when” – do try to remember you weren’t looking where you were going as your umbrella was obscuring your view. Assume the person you’ve just barged into has done their best to get round you.
   
   Unless, of course, they are blinded by a brolly of their own.
   
   Golfing umbrellas are especially entertaining. We shall leave “golf = evil” for another post.



3. Umbrellas are not worked with the feet
   Amazing, I know, but it’s perfectly possible to lower an umbrella at the same time as moving your legs. You do not need to stop just inside doorways.
   
   This is good because otherwise people behind you spend more time getting wet. And considering the ways you will die.

Secrets and lice

Took the Dr to see Neil Gaiman last night, in the same venue as we saw him last year. Rather than being interviewed by a sleb acquaintance, he cracked on with a reading from his new Fragile Things.

"The day the saucers came" is a fun little poem, while "How to talk to girls at parties" took me back to my own sorry soirees as a teen in Southampton and Romsey. Both are a bit weird (the stories that is, not the bastides of Hampshoire.)

Questions were then asked and we are sworn to secrecy on the details of his project with Penn Gillette. But cor and golly and woo.

There was also some good-natured stuff about how Gilliam can have the rights to Good Omens for a groat - because that's the smallest amount that allows a 10% agent's fee. They've already sourced a farthing from eBay.

Nina Sosanya was in the audience. The couple next to me haggled about what they had seen her in and concluded it was one of the Matrices.

Now I am going to shave my head, which is the nearest I can get to justifying today's headline.

Not-so-new romantics

The Dr kicked me out while Jane Eyre was on for fear I’d roll my eyes. It’s her favourite book, a comfort in dark times and she’s this thing about cross blokes on fire.

It also doesn’t help that she once saw my A-level copy, where the staid portrait on the cover has been coloured in with biro.

By the time I got home (from watching Mark of the Rani extras with Nimbos), she was absorbed in a trashy documentary about romantic fiction – “Reader, I Married Him”.

As well as chatting to writers of chick-lit about their wares, Daisy Goodwin did a “scientific” experiment to prove she enjoys the books she enjoys, while various marketeers explained at length how you should judge books by their covers.

One lady tried to argue that calling it all “chick-lit” is another example of evil male patriarchy, putting women back in their place. “What bollocks,” I thought. It’s no more sexist than assuming that sci-fi is the province of spotty boys.

Obviously I have a vested interest in this; as well as being a spotty boy, I write exploitative knock-off sci-fi with gratuitous girl-on-girl action. I’m not quite as bothered to be barred by sex as Ray Connolly writing in the Telegraph, but the documentary did miss something important more broadly about genres of writing.

Part of genre’s appeal (I’d argue) is we know more-or-less what we’re getting, familiar pieces and situations just in a new combination. As a result, we are comforted rather than challenged. Sometimes we don’t want to have our brains turned upside down and just want to read something fun.

By giving a kind of writing its own sub-category, you not only pigeon-hole the way that it’s marketed, you also cleave it from the rest of fiction and so imply it can't be as good.

(People struggle to describe what the rest of fiction might be called. “Literary fiction” is a common, snobbish term. “Mundane fiction” (i.e. stuff without spaceships) is the same kind of snobbery on its head.)

Generic fiction is seen to be derivative, predictable and lacking nuance. Sci-fi suffers from this a great deal. The monthly Ansible includes “As Others See Us”, in which the great and good deny peddling sci-fi. Their wares, they say, are about how technology can change our lives or about rethinking political systems. Whereas science-fiction is something less noble.

I’m not for a moment suggesting that sci-fi is all marvellous, or all operates as speculative philosophy. The great majority of it is a bit rubbish – but that’s no different from any other genre, or even of publishing as a whole.

The problem, I think, is that the genre gets judged by its lesser works, whereas anything of any merit transcends the genre label. So we tend not to think of “Nineteen-Eighty-Four” or “The Handmaid’s Tale” or “Cold Comfort Farm” as sci-fi. Despite the evident sf props and stylings, they’re too good to be lumped in with all that ray-gun shit.

“Generic” doesn’t just mean “of a genre”, it also means non-proprietary, common or in other ways undistinguishable. It has similar, derogatory connotations to “mediocre”, which would explain why, as in the Ansible column, some authors are keen to deny all hint of genre attaching to their serious literature.

It’s difficult to agree on what makes good fiction generally. It’s also difficult to discuss this sort of thing without resorting to personal anecdote. But when I find a Good Book I seize on it. Usually it’s all I buy for months of birthdays – until it’s superseded by the next exciting new find.

In some cases, the birthday message scrawled inside the cover says something like, “Don’t mind the cover!” (I’m thinking of you, Neal Stephenson). Covers may make a book stand out on a shelf but it’s the quality of the content that sells the second and third copies.

The packaging at best means an unheard of book declares, “I’m like that other thing you liked…” This is also the worth of endorsements from best-selling authors and peers.

There were people appalled on the documentary at Austen’s work under chick-lit covers because (again) Austen outstripped the genre. The documentary seemed to miss the difference between marketing a book so it’s prominent in bookshops and the innate quality of the writing itself.

As the Dr was saying last night, Janes Austen and Eyre aren’t just about snagging a stiff-collared Mr Right, who’s not so sulky when you get to know him. There’s something more socio-political going on, with stuff about education and history and warfare, and all kinds of insight and nuance.

So I think genre is a good way of selling more-of-the-same to people already converted, but it's a barrier to getting new blood in. It's not evil patriarchy, it's Catch-22.

What would David Niven do?

For as long as I can remember stalking secondhand bookshops, there have always been certain regulars. While scanning the shelves for the Target logo or works by Philip K Dick, I'd tick off the old Colemanballs, EC Tubb's skiffy and David Niven's autobiography.

"The Moon's A Balloon" also turned up on my grandfather's bookshelves, from which I'd been told to help myself. It was added to the Flashmans and Kiplings and histories of India, something to look into sometime. I picked it up last week while reading something else and rather got involved.

Niven's a stylised, old-school actor, at his steely cool best in "A Matter of Life and Death" and "The Pink Panther", and retaining his dignity amid celebrity car crashes like "Casino Royale" and "Escape to Athena".

He was also his pal Ian Fleming's first choice for playing the movie James Bond (you can see why Fleming was then a little nervous of the ungroomed, burly Scot they ended up casting).

The stylised manner encourages the stereotypes: A skinny weasel with a pencil-moustache that looks like he's drunk too much cocoa; A cad, a rake and an athletic boozer; The name-dropping pal to princesses and presidents.

The book does not exactly undercut this impression. Often Niven's memory of a film is to merely list the cast and say what he thought of the director. He's gushing of friends - whether Bogie or JFK - and the more famous ladies he dallianced with are deftly left unnamed.

"I apologise for the ensuing name dropping. It was hard to avoid it.

People in my profession, who, like myself, have the good fortune to parlay a minimal talent into a long career, find all sorts of doors opened that would otherwise have remained closed. Once behind those doors it makes little sense to write about the butler if Chairman Mao is sitting down to dinner."

David Niven, Introduction to "The Moon's a Balloon" (1971), p. 11.

That said, it's a lot ruder and more caddish than I'd expected, with intimate accounts of his teenage training under (or on top of) a prostitute and a later problem of frostbite of the cock. The stories are peppered with "fucks" and the odd "cunt" unbefitting a gentleman.

The stories are often very funny. At the outbreak of war, Niven - already the film star - decided to join up with the RAF. Despite his producers and managers and the British Consul advising otherwise, he travelled back to Europe. In Paris he was reunited with a fashion-house model, now living as the mistress of a "rich industrialist".

"Monsieur" has installed Claude in the apartment below his family, and so Niven's visit must be conducted in silence.

"If 'Monsieur' had had the foresight to install a pane of glass in his floor, he could have gazed down on the ridiculous spectacle of two people thrashing around below with handkerchiefs stuffed in their mouths. As it was, it was a miracle he didn't come down to investigate because Claude, towards the end of the evening, decided to freshen me up with an alcohol rub. She intimated this in sign language and fetched a large bottle of eau de Cologne. Unfortunately, as I turned over to have my back done, I knocked the bottle out of her hand with my elbow and most of its contents went straight up my behind. Shrieking agony in whispers is a difficult thing to accomplish."

Ibid, p. 206.

Reviews in the front of the book (and also on the Internet) speak of the book's witty charm. Yes, it is a merry read but for all Niven's light touch he comes across as quite a shit.

Petulant, silly antics verge on the monstrous. Expelled from school for posting dog shit to a friend, his early military career is full of daft pranks. When the RAF failed to hand him the top-job he wanted, he responds with a resolute "Then fuck you!"

"'Get out of my office,' he shouted. 'Get out!'

We were standing toe to toe when an inner door opened and an Air Commodore appeared.

'What the devil's going on in here?'

'And fuck you too!' I shouted unreasonably and made for the door and the giggling crowd outside it."

Ibid., p.209.

Even at the end of the book, he's still difficult to work with - leaving it until the last couple of minutes before a live TV play before getting into costume. And only then discovering he's locked himself out of his dressing room. This last-minute chaos clears the lines from his head, of course.

"I hate getting drunk," he protests on page 188 though eight pages later his home has been christened "Cirrhosis by the Sea" by Cary Grant. He has a surprise birthday party in a brothel and at a bash with the Kennedys ends up offering Senator Edward his trousers. We hear of friends and colleagues finished off by the booze, and Niven makes no bones about the kif and horse tranquilisers.

Which all means that when his first wife is killed playing Sardines at a party - falling down the stairs in the darkness - I wondered if he was holding back on the details. He's certainly very curt about the marital difficulties he had with his second wife - a brief mention of "another miscarriage" and a short "trial separation". Having been so articulate about his earlier revelry it feels like he's now clamming up. (Wikipedia suggests more of what was really going on...)

The book ends with Niven visited by a hippy goddaughter, who brings along a Lancashire hippy called Big Top because of his ginger Afro. Niven is sniffy about the man - who smells like "a haystack" - and about the party his goddaughter then takes him to. There's movie and live-action gayness above an antique shop, amid carriage lamps and blow-ups of Mao.

"This isn't your scene is it?" says the goddaughter and allows him to escape. We leave him alone in the night-time, panting for breath, gazing up at the moon and quoting hippy fantasy by EE Cummings.

It's a strange and bitter-sweet ending. With Niven's earlier rant about the sorry state of the film business, you feel the good times are ended. Like 007, he's of another era, a frantic-living playboy who didn't die young and so rather outstayed his welcome.