Opera and Film

I'm going to my first professional live opera next week. So a free illustrated talk last Thursday was very timely. Good thing I'm on the mailing list for this place.

Gresham College was founded in the sixteenth century by Sir Thomas Greville, the son of a London Mayor . Barnard's Inn, was the model Inn of Chancery for Dickens when he wrote 'Great Expectations'. It's certainly a lovely space, and the right size to feel comfortable, with an unusual ceiling that reminded me of the medieval banqueting hall at Eltham Palace, although not so vast. The audience filled about 100 seats. The 'folded linen ' oak panelling I've also seen in some National Trust properties.

The talk was one of the best I've heard. Gresham topics tend to be scientific, although Divinity is included, so I don't go very often. With subjects like 'Film and Music' and 'Psychology of Theatrical performance' on this year's programme I've made a few entries in my diary. There's also a series of talks on American Presidents by a visiting American Professor.

I'm glad this talk was prompted by the fact that so many people now watch opera on DVD, but others in the series cover different kinds of film music. I'm looking forward to 'Brief Encounter'.

Professor Roger Parker really knows how to entertain a (mainly elderly) audience His illustrations of filmed opera, from early silents where the singers just acted to an accompaniment, to the latest DVD versions, were a revelation. Imagine Sophia Loren blacked up and lip-synching 'Aida', or Placido Domingo obscured by a dust cloud in Francesco Rosi's 'Der Rosenkavalier'.

The information about how film interacts with opera music performance will add to my enjoyment of the opera recordings I own - mainly taped from TV. My only concern now is that 'La Boheme' next week will be a bit of an anticlimax. The Coloseum will have to be good to beat Barnard's Inn.

Gresham College: http://www.gresham.ac.uk/text.asp?PageId=3

Mingling with Flying Canapés

On London’s wettest day of the year, I stepped out of a downpour into the glamorous venue chosen for Dimsum’s Chinese New Year Party. The volunteer-run website, owned by Editor Sarah Yeh, recently won first prize at the Pearl Awards for Services to the UK Chinese Community. The event was sponsored by CMC Marketing.

Awana Malaysian Restaurant is in Sloane Avenue and the name apparently means ‘In the Clouds’. I learned this from reading a Michael Winner Sunday Times review that was framed on one of the walls inside.

I’m not very keen on ‘mingling with flying canapés’ because sometimes you need a rugby tackle to get any food. It’s called ‘networking’ and you get to meet people with similar interests and come away with a handful of follow-up business cards. When I’d shed my umbrella and coat, collected my name label and a Tiger beer I was all set.

The average age of the mainly Chinese attendees mingling in the romantic lighting of the restaurant space was about 25. I chatted to Michelle Zhang, editor of a Chinese newspaper based in Milton Keynes and agreed about that city’s lack of history. Then Directing President of a Hong Kong film group described a style of independent films called ‘mocumentaries’ as ‘like Borak’. I also talked to an Education Associate for the London-based Yellow Earth theatre group.

Early on, when trays were presented with a bow, it was easy to help oneself to delicious snacks such as peanuts and the tiny crispy fish called ikan bilis that taste like bacon, small squares of pancake with a spicy dip or tiny pastry cups with a savoury filling. Later, I could only admire the trays of satay and other delights as they flew past.

I enjoyed the musical interlude provided by Amanda Wong, who sang a couple of soulful Chinese ballads, although she struggled to be heard above the chatter.

Travelling home on the tube I heard passengers told not to alight at Victoria as the eastbound platform was flooded. They’d have to get off at St James’s Park and head back westbound. I had to leap across streams on Lewisham Hill, but was glad I’d braved the weather.

The ‘goody bag’ I’d been given on leaving had a voucher for a two-course lunch for £12.50 including a glass of wine. If it stays fine I might well take advantage.

About Dimsum:
http://www.dimsum.co.uk/features/dimsum.co.uk-wins-the-pearl-awards-2008.html

Awana:http://www.awana.co.uk/

CMC Markets: http://www.cmcmarkets.co.uk/

Yellow Earth Theatre: http://www.yellowearth.org/

How to Blog

Practice is the best way to improve my writing, I've found, but I do love 'how to write' books. I never thought there were 'how to blog' books, though, until I came across 'The Weblog Handbook' in the library. It's one I wish I'd read a couple of years back.

I already have a good book called 'Writing for the Web'. It was useful for writing general webpage copy but it doesn' specifically cover blogging. This one does and its a well set-out accessible read by an expert.

Rebecca Blood was in on the ground floor with the original bloggers who practically all knew one another.

She defines a blog as 'a coffeehouse conversation in text, with references as required'

The book goes into reasons to blog and how to choose a 'host' as well as topics like choosing a name; setting a realistic schedule; getting (and keeping) an audience; observing web etiquette; guarding privacy.

I totally agree with what she says about how blogging improves writing:

'If you have something to say, taking the time every day to write it down until it says exactly what you mean will make you a better writer.'

I don't post every day, but I think about how events can be put into words (and pictures) for my next post. Hopefully, with practice, I will improve.

Rebecca Blood's book:

http://www.rebeccablood.net/handbook/

Writing for the Web:

http://www.clarity4words.co.uk/desktop.htm

Treasures from Shanghai at the British Museum

It's not what I'd call 'treasures' - a few Neolithic jade axe-heads and some ungainly bronze cooking pots. Not that they've been used for cooking- they're connected with obscure ceremonial rites. Admittedly, they're highly decorated, too, but the carved or raised patterns are so stylised so you have to scrutinise them to make out animals and birds. Shame, because I've been to the Shanghai art gallery and museum and it really does have some 'treasures'.

I might attend one or two of the talks to improve my appreciation level.

The exhibition's free, and all in one room, at the end of the 'Grenville Shop'. Now that has some real treasures: 'exhibition watches' at £85, a 'Gilgamesh resin relief' at £150 and 'cuneiform scarves' at £60 each. As Arthur Dailey would say, it's a right little goldmine.

Details of the Exhibition

http://www.britishmuseum.org/whats_on/future_exhibitions/treasures_from_shanghai.aspx

Chinese New Year Lunch

Singapore food was the best I'd ever tasted and the chance to work there changed my life. With a mix of Chinese, Malay, Indian and British cultures, there seemed to be a festival every other week. When not shopping or eating, Singaporeans spent their spare time at the cinema.

In 1989, with Thatcherism raging, R had taken early retirement. I stuck a pin in the foreign jobs pages of the Times Ed and in 1990 signed a three year contract to teach for the Singapore government.

I was posted to Maris Stella, a Chinese High School for boys. My students' grandparents came from South China and spoke a variety of dialects but Prime Minister Lee Kwan Yew declared English and Mandarin as the official languages

For me the biggest surprise was the school ethos. All the fighting and swearing in London classrooms hadn't prepared me for a culture where homework was done on time and the worst form of misbehaviour was falling asleep in the back row. Singapore is 60 miles from the equator so it's not surprising they succumbed to the heat. Unlike banks and businesses, there was no air-conditioning in government schools, only overhead fans. Lucky I was standing up, otherwise I'd have been asleep myself.

Back in London, I was keen to learn more about a culture that had such respect for learning. I signed up for evening classes in Mandarin. at my old alma mater, Goldsmiths College. My first teacher was an infinitely patient and encouraging Taiwanese lady.

Over the next 15 years I wrestled with this fiendishly difficult language at Morley College, Westminster University and SOAS. Currently I attend a twice weekly class at a community college in Soho.

In 2003, with Blairism raging, I even took a job in northern China for a year to try to speed up the learning process. This time I was an editor with an educational publisher and was even more impressed with the dedication of the Chinese teachers I met. R joined me aftr six months and enjoyed it more than Singapore, despite the -20 degrees centigrade of Winter months.

I've met a lot of fascinating characters and marvellous teachers over the years, and I'm as enthusiatic about Chinese culture as ever.

I miss the excellence of Singapore food, but I can recommend the 'Top of the Town', where my classmates and I enjoyed a Chinese New Year lunch .

Top of the Town: http://www.viewlondon.co.uk/restaurants/top-of-the-town-info-8789.html

A Pleasure Deferred

It's all very well the radio saying don't go out unless your journey is really necessary, but I'd been looking forward to 'La Boheme' for weeks. I've only been to about three live operas before, all amateur productions, so this will be a treat. I loved the film of 'La Boheme' with Pavarotti, but you couldn't take him seriously as an artist starving in an attic.

I could take the DLR from Lewisham, change at Canary Wharf onto the Jubilee Line, then walk from Waterloo.

Besides, if not so many people can make it to the Coliseum I can probably turn it to my advantage and change to a better seat in the interval. 'It's bound to be cancelled', says R, who knows his bridge game won't happen, but what about 'the show must go on' and all that, I'm thinking.

He tells me it's going to be broadcast live on Sky Arts but I know the the dish can can play up when it snows, so I'll need reassuring. We watch a very interesting programme about Gaudi in Barcelona, but sure enough, as the flakes fall faster outside, so the picture begins to crackle and freeze, just like the weather. So I can't rely on it for this evening. It'll be a pity to get there and find it's cancelled, but even worse to miss it.

Suddenly, the problem's solved- an email from ENO tells me the show is cancelled, and I can swap my ticket for a another date later in the week. Most civilised. So I'm set for a double helping of Coronation Street and the opera still to look forward to. All being well.

Going to the Pictures

I remember when cinemas had signs outside saying 'No Babes in Arms'. I'm sure my parents ignored them because it seems I saw every war film, every western, weepy and musical in the late forties and fifties. No wonder I took to Film Studies so readily, when it was invented.

In those days, cinemas had only one auditorium but the programmes changed twice a week. There were two neighbourhood picture palaces and my parents took me on Tuesdays and Fridays. I went again on Saturdays with my sisters for the childrens' matinee. This was in pre-TV days.

R's father was actually in the film industry - in the distribution arm. That's to say he put together the elaborate cardboard foyer displays, and changed the 'stills in the glass cabinets outside. The mention of his father's name at the Camberwell Odeon was an open sesame for R to get in free.

Some of my friends will pay to watch the odd costume drama or literary adaptation, if there's not too much sex or violence. R, like me, just likes sitting in the warm darkess for a couple of hours. It's a kind of addiction, or folie a deux, without too many dangerous side-effects. Even the financial burden is softened by our Unlimited Cineworld tickets.

In my case, it's the mix as before, because we take it in turns to pick the films and our tastes are very different. With ten-screen venues, there's a lot of room for horse-trading and a lot of hammering out the merits, or even the meanings, afterwards.

Just recently the films have been top-notch. I've had a surfeit of Kate Winslet, though, and I couldn't understand most of 'Valkyrie'. What can you do when all the characters are in the same uniform with identical haircuts and set-in-cement expressions, so their superiors won't guess they're out to blow up Hitler ? Still, it was good to learn that there was a lot of opposition in the ranks, which I hadn't known about before.

The film I enjoyed most was 'Slumdog Millionaire' because everything about it was excellent. 'The Reader' was the most controversial and I think Kate Winslet deserves an Oscar for that one, not 'Revolutionary Road'. I thought Sean Penn as Harvey Milk was wonderful, but then so was Mickey Rourke in 'The Wrestler'.

Sometimes, when we've been several days on the trot, I say something like 'Mmm, maybe we need time to process these films, you know. Like sleep helps you process what you've been through during the day.'

He looks at me as if I'm crazy, and I know he's right. We're hopelessly addicted.

Gin and Vice in Georgian London

Who'd a thunk it? Benjamin Franklin lived within spitting distance of Charing Cross Station back in Georgian times. Not that there was a station there when Benjamin Franklin inhabited 36 Craven Street, in 1757-1775.

Not that I'm that well up on American Presidents, either. For me, they generally come heavily mediated by Hollywood films, and if Frank Langella's current portrayal of Richard Nixon is anything to go by there's probably little connection with reality.

'Benjamin Franklin' was the answer to one of the 'Slumdog Millionaire' quiz questions, so I was better prepared, I thought, for a visit to his house in Craven Street.

It was a U3A notice of a talk on 'Vice and Debauchery in Georgian England' that drew me in, interest provoked by the Hogarth exhibition at the Tate Britain last year . It wasn't a surprise to find a scene from his cartoon series called 'The Harlot's Progress' attached to the door, and I passed some time talking to two 'interns' (ie unpaid employees) in the entrance hall before being joined by another U3A member to whom I chatted before the lecture.

The room was full by the time we sat down. It was strange being addressed by a young fresh-face American about such a sleazyy topic, especially as his research was so thorough. One cringed to think of the sordid details he'd have had to wade through. He knew all the gradations of prostitutes from Duke's mistress down to streetwalker as well as the ins and outs of gin production and drinking customs as well. His talk was well-laced with anecdotes.

The talk was an excellent £3.50's worth. Incredibly as it seemed, by the time we'd heard that one in four houses in Westminster was a gin shop, some residents stayed clear of vice. It was also known as 'The Age of Englightenment'. On my next visit maybe I'll find out how Benjamin Franklin kept to the straight and narrow whilst living in the midst of temptation. I suspect that he didn't.

More information about the house, talk and events:

http://www.benjaminfranklinhouse.org/site/sections/default.htm

About Frost/Nixon :

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0870111/

About Slumdog Milllionaire:

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1010048/

Predatory Squirrels

It's good to have this glass door beside my bed. Most mornings I wake to the sound of the birdfeeder banging against the balcony bars. I let the blind up slowly so as not to frighten off the pair of blue tits who build their nest underneath, or the fat robin that's been hopping around lately, hoping to catch the bits of peanuts that fall down.

Most of the time, though, it's these squirrels, one gnawing at the plastic base of the feeder until there's a hole big enough for a nut to be extracted, one waiting his turn in the branches. They're only stopped from getting the whole cache at one go by the metal mesh I've had to put inside. They take very little notice of me, even when I rap on the door.

My dilemma is how to feed the small and needy while deterring the big, fat and more agile greedy. I wouldn't begrudge them, but I suspect they've got a heap of nuts hidden away somewhere.

Chinese Paper Cut


Whoa! At the mere hint of a tax rebate I've become an art collector. Normally, I walk round London with eyes down (metaphorically speaking) and desires reined in when it comes to buying.

It's the Age of Restraint since R and I sat down and made a budget last September. It took several days of sitting down and a lot of shouting, as I recall.

Apparently (well, it's a fact) when you get to 65 your tax code goes up. If I'd sent back the form asking 'Have your circumstances changed?' and tracked down my NI number before Christmas I'd have found out earlier. I wouldn't have accumulated enough to make me throw caution to the winds, though. Well, I wouldn't have bought this picture.

I'd had to miss the January 17th launch of this very small exhibition of Chinese Paper-cuts, at Charing Cross Road Library, which was annoying because I'd met the artist at the Probsthain's woodcut exhibition and said I'd write about it for the Dimsum website. I was reminded it was there when I called in at the library last week, looking for a copy of 'Revolutionary Road''.

I was amazed by this transformation of paper-cut art, which I'd previously seen only as one-dimensional representations of symbolic animals and plants. These were abstract, and made from layered papers in different colours to resemble paintings . The one I chose was a 'Double Happiness ' symbol, harbinger of married bliss. You never know.

Later in the day I met up with the artist, who'd been summoned by the libararian, and had a mini guided tour with explanations. 'Double Happiness', for instance, can symbolise other unions, such as a priest and religion, or an artist and his muse. He was as entertaining as I remembered and told me he'd reduced the prices considerably for Chinese New Year. I felt a bit guilty, but after all, if the piece hadn't cost only £45, I couldn't have afforded it.

Anyway, my picture is on display until February 2nd, when the artist says he'll have it all packed and ready for collection. I expect he'll put another in its place, because the exhibition lasts until February 7th.

No 'Revolutionary Road' to be had, but a minor revolution for me, debut art collector.

Here's more about it:

http://westminsternewsletters.info/libraries/newsletter_02.html#OneBook

Beside the Seaside

My friend, who teaches in Bahrain, arrived looking shattered after a seven hour flight and three hours in the rush hour. She was fit for only local sight-seeing.

The National Maritime Museum promotes our 'Glorious Naval Heritage' and 'Britannia Rules the Waves' , etc, but for me and my companion 'sea' means 'seaside'. The 'Beside the Sea' exhibition of photos, posters and a video of film clips was a trip down memory lane, although we remembered different towns. As my friend's a native of Hull, in her case it was Scarborough, home of Alan Aykbourn plays in the Keith Joseph Theatre

Preston is only fourteen miles cycling miles from the doyenne of resorts: Blackpool. Luckily, the Fylde is flat there, particularly if you take the coast road, instead of the shorter route via Kirkham and the High Gate Hotel. I did this sometimes, glad to see the pub sign at the top of the long haul with its message:

'The gate hangs high,

And hinders none.

Refresh yourself,

Then travel on.'

It's an Italian Restaurant now.

Sometimes, in the two-week factory break called 'Preston Holidays', my mother bought a 'Family Runabout' a green card with a map of Fylde rail routes printed on the back. Rail stations from Southport to Windermere were marked with dots. For a whole week we travelled every day , with Blackpool the favourite. For a change we'd go to Lytham and St Annes for sand-dunes, or Fleetwood to pluck winkles from the rocks. Southport we shunned because the sea never came in.

I think 'Golden Mile' is excellent to describe the flat, biscuit-textured sand that was perfect for sand-castles, the sea close by for carrying water to moats; no shelves, or shingles; no breakwaters. For a child Blackpool on a sunny day was perfect. There were places along the 'prom' where my mother paid for tea and we sat on benches at board tables to eat 'butties' from home.

I like other seaside places - I lived in Southsea for three happy years when I was first married. Now Whitstable's a favourite, and I go back to Southport a lot, where the sea still stays out but Lord Street was Napolean's model for the Parisian Boulevards.

The museum display isn't all about sandy beaches; there are photos of old-fashioned bathing machines and piers, even fishermen posed self-consciously holding nets by boats in Cornwall.

It was a good to be reminded of happy holidays on a wet afternoon in Greenwich. My friend said she felt quite revived; ready to travel on and spend the weekend with another friend, who lives in Eastbourne.

Here's a site that lets you click and revive your own particular memories:

http://www.nmm.ac.uk/visit/exhibitions/on-display/beside-the-seaside/home/

Rainy Thursday

I felt sorry for the hot chestnut man opposite Charing Cross Station when I saw the his umbrella lifting in the wind. As for poor Oscar's coffin, where I usually rest my bag to replace my freedom pass - no chance, because it had a large puddle on it.

Oscar Wilde: http://www.online-literature.com/wilde/

Spanish Interlude

On a murky London evening, I was happy to recall the unusual week I spent last September in Spain. I went with Vaughan Town, a company which introduces Spanish business people to mother-tongue English speakers on an ‘immersion’ week. Regular 'Sangria evenings' take place in Dirty Dick's, opposite Liverpool station. Vaughan Town veterans renew friendships and answer 'newbies' questions.

I’d been studying Spanish for a while, as a kind of antidote to Chinese. Spain's a lot more accessible than China, too. We’d had a few home-swaps and a few cheap package holidays. It’s not easy, though, to plumb the Spanish psyche, when all the people you meet are waiters, couriers or shop assistants. I craved more in-depth conversation, even in English.

Last year, a classmate told me about Vaughan Town. A week of speaking English to Spanish business people, on a one-to-one basis, sounded like hard work. Still, all I had to pay was the air-fare to Madrid and two over-night stays there at either end of the week. Easyjet and a hostel made it affordable.

In fact, I loved it. We were driven to a 4-star hotel at Monfrague in the Extramadura region, all stone walls, rows of dusty olive trees, and distant mountains, about three hours from Madrid. The hotel had the biggest bedroom I’ve ever stayed in, plus excellent meals with wine.

For five days, the rule of speaking only English was observed even at meal-times. Almost all the Spaniards worked for international companies in Madrid, but one ran hot-air balloon flights near Valencia. We talked as we strolled down to the village or near the pool or on the hotel terraces.

I learned a lot, and enjoyed working with the 14 or so friendly ‘Anglos’. Activities and entertainments in the programme were all designed to help the Spaniards achieve fluency. Many of the Anglos, including Americans, Australians and even an English couple living in Spain, had done the programme before, some several times. It seems to be addictive.

Venues are now Gredos, for those who like a rural locations, and the medieval city of Salamanca.

I’d never been to Madrid before, except to change planes. I loved the Tapas events at either end of my stay. On the way back, I had time to wander around before my flight back to London. Madrid reminded me of London, with its tree-shaded squares and back-streets. My companion was a Texan lady I’d bonded with over Spanish-size gins and tonics in the hotel bar every night. So I learned nice things about Texans, too.

Dirty Dick’s http://www.dirtydicks.co.uk/

Vaughan Town http://www.vaughantown.com/EnglishNew/indexenglish.asp

Raise the Red Lanterns

Gerrard Street's all set for the Year of the Ox!

Virtue Windows at the Maritime Museum

When friends arrived from the coast they’d heard about these stained glass windows on display at the local Maritime Museum. Apparently made for the Baltic Exchange building that was destroyed by a bomb in 1992, they're designed to impress the public with the fiancial house's lofty 'mission statement', in five panels with allegorical figures and a curved ‘half dome’.

The 'virtues' represented: Truth, Faith, Hope, Fortitude and Justice, had me thinking about the how they'd be represented in today's financial institutions : Spin, No Accountability, Government Bail Outs, Directors Bonuses and Pension Cuts - not virtues at all, really.

The museum staff practise their own virtues, though. My friend was in a wheelchair and as soon as we arrived one of the ‘Meeters and Greeters’ team at reception stepped forward to conduct us to a glass-sided lift and make sure we got up to the right level. When we left she was there again to ask about the visit and to remind us to drop in again.

It’s free to go into the museum and see the windows, with their story on plaques attached to the walls.

It’s a good museum for children and adults, filled with paintings and artefacts connected with Britsh naval history. My favourite item is the coat that Admiral Nelson wore at Waterloo, with a bullet hole in the shoulder. The Museum's very elegant, light and airy, situated at the bottom of Greenwich Park.

About the exhibition:

http://www.nmm.ac.uk/visit/exhibitions/on-display/stained-glass-from-the-baltic-exchange

Scottish Stories

I was pleased when I was asked to reviewing a collection of short stories from Scotland called ‘Bucket of Frogs; New Writing Scotland 26’. I've always felt a connection with Scottish writing.

My love for Scotland started with my junior school singing teacher, Mrs Buchanan, a doughty woman who conducted singing lessons while standing on a bentwood chair. I remember the combined gusto and suspense as we sang:

'Sure, by Tummel and Loch Rannoch and Lochaber I will go.
By heather tracks wi' heaven in their wiles;
If it's thinkin' in your inner heart braggart's in my step,
You've never smelt the tangle o' the Isles.'

Much later I was asked to read a poem by Robert Burns at the funeral of a friend’s husband, a Glaswegian. The words reflected the man's own befiefs in a mix of nostalgia and optimism that seems to characterise much Scottish writing:

'For a' that, an' a' that,

It's coming yet for a' that,

That Man to Man, the world o'er,

Shall brothers be for a' that.'

A more personal connection was set up when as a teenager I hitch-hiked over the border to get married. We were delighted by the generosity and friendliness of the lowlanders, who would stop their cars or trucks almost as soon as we set foot on the road, offering us a lift to ‘Gala’ (Galashiels), the nearest town of any size to where we stayed. Inevitably, sooner or later we were asked whether we were ‘runaways’ our denials greeted with knowing smiles.

Marriage laws are the same all over Scotland, not just Gretna Green, and it seemed a good idea in 1962, when my boy-friend was 25 and I was just eighteen, and my parents wouldn’t give consent. They were still mad at me for leaving my home in Preston a year or so earlier and in those days you had to be 21 to marry without your parents' permission. We lived in Portsmouth, where, as a student, my partner wasn’t allowed to live outside ‘approved’ digs unless he was married. Lack of money meant we'd have to hitch-hike to Scotland and back, but that was just a bonus.

We stayed in a YHA hostel overlooking a romantic ruined abbey, in the tiny village of Melrose. Like Gretna, it had a registrar’s office. This was to establish the required two week's residency in the country. When the hostel warden asked us, reasonably enough, ‘Will ye no’ be moving on to the Highlands?’ we assured him we were happy to walk the nearby Eildon Hills. They had been adored by Sir Walter Scott, who died at the house he built at Abbotsford, his sofa placed so he had a good view of them.

After reading the novels of Ian Rankin, Jackie Kay and Val MacDiarmid, I was anticipating more of the same quirky humour, gritty settings and down-to-earth characters in the collection I reviewed. They were there, right enough, in some beautifully written poems and stories.

I wasn’t expecting dismal urban living, the decline of traditional industries and loss of thriving rural or seaside communities. Maybe the short story format brings these aspects into sharper focus., or maybe it's a corrective to the 'tartan heritage' tourist theme.

Here’s what I wrote for ‘The Short Review’, a website devoted to short story collections:

http://www.theshortreview.com/reviews/BucketofFrogs.htm

Melrose Abbey: http://www.aboutscotland.co.uk/mel.html

Robert Burns:http://www.nls.uk/burns/index.htm

Jackie Kay http://www.bloodaxebooks.com/personpage.asp?author=Jackie+Kay

Ian Rankin http://www.ianrankin.net/

Val McDermid :http://www.valmcdermid.com/pages/interviews5.html

Abbotsford: http://www.scottsabbotsford.co.uk/

Prince Charles Diversion

When we went to the Prince Charles yesterday it was good to see the red lanterns are already up in China town. They’re ready to celebrate The Year of the Ox on January 26th.

I won’t often stray from the Cineworld circuit (unless it’s to the NFT). These and sofa.cinema take care of my foreign film needs. Still, when I’m waiting midweek for a programme change I’m vulnerable. So when R said ‘The Wave’ at the Prince Charles had good reviews I went along.

The German, title is ‘Die Welle’ and it’s about a school teacher who sets out to prove to his class of High School students they could become Nazis if conditions were right. It all ends in tears. The plotline was fairly predictable, but the main problem was the lack of definition to the characters, apart from the teacher, and he had to keep you guessing how serious he was, so acted low-key. I hadn’t expected ‘High School 3’ but these kids were lacklustre to say the least. It was strange, too, that although the wife was heavily pregnant, she and the teacher never mentioned the baby or discussed future plans, such as when they’d move off the houseboat where they lived. It was as if a whole scene had been cut out.

It reminded me of watching films in Singapore, where whole scenes were cut out for censorship reasons, regardless of how it affected the plot. We saw Jodie Foster in ‘The Accused’, for instance, and the rape scene was cut. One minute she’s dancing to a juke-box in a café with some boys looking on and the next she’s hysterical and Kelly McGillis is encouraging her to take them to court. What, for just looking???

The seats at the Prince were less comfortable than Cineworld and the screen a lot smaller than I’m used to. That 'Studio' at the NFT has ruined me. At £4 for the afternoon show it wasn’t bad. The sound wasn’t as good but as it’s often too loud in Cineworld so I didn’t mind that. I thought I might go deaf after ‘Slumdog Millionaire’ at West India Quay.

The huge letters in Leicester Square to welcome Will Smith were startling. I’d be even more impressed if it was Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Prince Charles Cinema: http://www.princecharlescinema.com/

The Wave: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1063669/

Sofa cinema: http://www.sofacinema.co.uk/visitor/home.html

The Accused:http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0094608/

Crime Reading Group

At first glance, the last two books chosen by my crime reading group have only murder in common: Kate Summerscale’s ‘The Suspicions of Mr Whicher’ is a true story set in Victorian England; George Pelicanos’s ‘The Night Gardener’ is fiction, about a serial killer in Washington DC, in 1985. Both, however, foreground the social setting.

Summerscale’s fascinating glimpse into Victorian society suggests that police detectives, recruited from the working class, were supposed to concentrate on pickpockets and prostitutes. They were expected to defer to middle class suspects, not suggest they might murder family members. Mr Whicher should keep his suspicions to himself to avoid being vilified by the forelock-tugging journalists of the time.

Pelicanos’s hero, Italian detective Gus Ramone, happily married with an African- American wife, worries about his teenage son in a neighbourhood where drug crime is rife among teenage boys. Parents will empathise with the officer’s efforts to establish residency in the right school catchment area and his fears about discrimination.

Family solidarity is key, but it works two ways: the Saville-Kent kind breeds violent resentments between siblings while social status protects them from the law; the Ramone kind struggles to guard vulnerable youngsters from a downward spiral into crime.

A big advantage of a library group is books, chosen months ahead, are always made available for borrowing.

It’s great to hear different opinions and discuss styles in crime writing. Most members know much more about crime writing than I do. I can’t wait to start the next choice, ‘Vanish’, by Tess Gerritson, collected from the library today. Looks like a real ‘page-turner’.

The Suspicions of Mr Whicher: http://www.mrwhicher.com/

The Night Gardener; http://www.iht.com/articles/2006/07/25/features/bookmer.php


Vanish: http://www.bookreporter.com/reviews2/0345476972.asp

Lewisham Library : http://www.qype.co.uk/place/196911-Lewisham-Library-London

The Gentlemen of St James's

For all government ministers throw up their hands in astonishment at ‘social immobility’ and ‘class divide’, they're embedded in England’s institutions, such as ‘The Gentlemen’s Club’. We spent Sunday afternoon being reminded of this, in St James’s.

J. is training as a Westminster Guide and generously treated friends to an inaugural walk , taking in the arcades and passages, shops and clubs located around the church of St James. It’s an area redolent with the notion of the ‘English gentleman’, and shops which provide the accessories, from fine wines to country house clothes. Woolworths may go to the wall, but here it’s Floreat Asser and Turnbull.

Here, too, are the gathering places. Boodles and The Atheneum, Whites and The Reform Club are concealed behind discreet façades while we listen to tales of gambling, fine dining, and political chicanery within. Admission is by election and our privilege is to be allowed to stand on the pavements and gawp.

That epitome of the English gentleman, George 'Beau' Brummell, commemorated in bronze in Jermyn Street, didn’t worry about pavements. After washing from head to toe, in an age when few people bothered to bathe, he took five hours to dress. Then he had his sedan chair brought into his house so as not to sully his boots by London’s mud on his way to his club.

R once trained as Greenwich Guide and was impressed by the research that had gone into preparing the walk. I was amazed at J’s mastery of a tortuous route and memory for the facts.

The area is not so compact as Greenwich, but the walk was pleasantly varied. Greenwich has some real heroes, of course, unlike the effete and privileged drones of St James’s, for all their tourist appeal. I may be biased, of course.

Beau Brummell :http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beau_Brummell

St James's : http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St_James's

For details of future walks, email: westminsterwalks@yahoo.co.uk