The Highs:
1. Arab Spring.
2. An amazing weekend visiting Jo in Paris with Charlotte. It reminded me of how wonderful continental Europe is.
3. Leaving Talis to set up a (so far) successful business.
4. Dave's 50th party at the Barton Arms.
5. I join the Prince of Wales Writers' Group and start writing a novel.
6. Fantastic weekend with Dave in St Ives. We happily blow our life savings on a stunning piece of art.
7. A week in the Lake District at Tiplog with Dave and Dave Aveston.
8. Two exciting weeks in Mumbai and Kerala. India is endlessly fascinating.
9. Bill and I meet Odyssey at the Hare and Hounds, Kings Heath.
10. Echo and the Bunnymen at the Symphony Hall with Sandra.
11. Jury Service in June. I loved it!
12. Dave and I meet Roy Hodgson at Bank.
13. The Academy - three days of intensive learning with the Institute of Ideas in July.
14. Working with schools - another great evening judging for the Debating Matters competition. Plus, being a Dragon in the Dragons' Den at Small Heath School, judging marketing plans.
15. Clay pigeon shooting with Dave.
Lows:
1. The summer riots
2. The Birmingham Rep is still closed and there are no theatre highlights this year, which is unprecedented.
3. Dave fell downstairs and broke his toe just after Christmas.
4. Headaches get worse again, after two years of improvement.
5. The moment when I realised I would be losing my job.
Saturday 31 December 2011
Sunday 18 September 2011
Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy
In yesterday's Guardian Review, William Boyd described the problem that faced the screenwriters of the newly-released film adaptation of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy:
You could indeed argue, as my friend Bill did on Facebook, that even the celebrated 1979 BBC serial, which had seven one-hour episodes to play with, nevertheless struggled to convey fully the labyrinthine complexity of the novel. Having stayed up all night to watch it, Bill said:
The first Le Carré novel I read, The spy who came in from the cold, is a book that I recommend to anyone who is grappling with the nuances of office politics. That's one of the many strengths of Le Carré - he takes apart the mental machinations of every individual player, and expertly rolls out the consequences on the game at hand. The dynamics he reveals are specific to the fictional situation - Le Carré is brilliant at context-building - but there is also something universal that transcends Secret Service operations during the Cold War, for example.
Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy is certainly demanding on the audience. At a superficial level, I couldn't help but wonder, about 45 minutes into the film, how today's cinema-goers will react to this beige, hazy, grainy portrayal of a bunch of washed-up forty-something males going about their deceptively mundane business. More problematic though is the complex unwieldy plot that resists the confines of a two-hour dramatisation. There are no handy little sub-plots to cut out (an ex-BBC friend told me that when the serialisation of Martin Chuzzlewit was being planned, he overheard a colleague say "We're just going to cut out the whole of the American section") because the narrative is too tight for that, and particularly in the first half, the scene-changes are frequent as the narrative is forced to represent all the multiple agendas, suspects and possibilities, which are fundamental to the story.
For all that, there are big bold splodges of brilliance which I will remember for a long long time. My favourite scenes mostly involve the flashback to the Circus in its heyday (unanimously deemed to be World War Two). At a raucous Christmas Party at the Circus, Santa Claus is substituted by a Vladimir Lenin look-alike, dressed in scarlet red of course, and giving every impression of being an annual ritual. The whole party erupts into a joyous rendition of the Soviet Union national anthem. Everyone in the room, including the female eye candy (I assumed them to be translators, transcribers or secretaries) was absolutely word perfect.
The incongruity of Cold War Western spies fervently embracing Soviet culture was, to say the least, striking. It was only when the gramophone needle dropped on La Mer by Julio Iglesias that I truly understood the significance. In an espionage drama centrally concerned with betrayal, you have a group of operators who can only survive the deadly demands of Cold War fieldcraft by steeping themselves in every single aspect of enemy language and culture. La Mer reminded me of a time when I eagerly devoured all things francophone. I even bought my first copy of Le Monde at the age of 12 (at WH Smith in Manchester's Arndale Centre).
The central paradox of espionage is neatly encapsulated in that rapturous scene in which the enemy's anthem is sung so joyfully and sincerely that it could easily be the opposing side - Karla's team over at the Kremlin. It's hard not to grow to love a culture that you are deeply acquainted with. You could even argue that such expert knowledge is impossible without that underlying passion in place. The scene prepares the audience for the final betrayal, the end-point of the film, and maybe injects some sympathy into a character (no spoilers here - I'm following William Boyd's good example) who sees only a grinding decline in Western culture (a sentiment echoed elsewhere in the film), and who has been fatally exposed to something seductively foreign.
"Adapting a novel for the cinema presents unique problems - it's not at all the straightforward process people assume, particularly if the novel is as complex and cerebral as Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy."
You could indeed argue, as my friend Bill did on Facebook, that even the celebrated 1979 BBC serial, which had seven one-hour episodes to play with, nevertheless struggled to convey fully the labyrinthine complexity of the novel. Having stayed up all night to watch it, Bill said:
"It's classic TV drama - meditative, but tense, and subtle. Great to see all that tobacco smoke and 70s grimness. It's vividly realised but, still, I miss the atmospheric detail and the interiority that only the novel can give."
The first Le Carré novel I read, The spy who came in from the cold, is a book that I recommend to anyone who is grappling with the nuances of office politics. That's one of the many strengths of Le Carré - he takes apart the mental machinations of every individual player, and expertly rolls out the consequences on the game at hand. The dynamics he reveals are specific to the fictional situation - Le Carré is brilliant at context-building - but there is also something universal that transcends Secret Service operations during the Cold War, for example.
Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy is certainly demanding on the audience. At a superficial level, I couldn't help but wonder, about 45 minutes into the film, how today's cinema-goers will react to this beige, hazy, grainy portrayal of a bunch of washed-up forty-something males going about their deceptively mundane business. More problematic though is the complex unwieldy plot that resists the confines of a two-hour dramatisation. There are no handy little sub-plots to cut out (an ex-BBC friend told me that when the serialisation of Martin Chuzzlewit was being planned, he overheard a colleague say "We're just going to cut out the whole of the American section") because the narrative is too tight for that, and particularly in the first half, the scene-changes are frequent as the narrative is forced to represent all the multiple agendas, suspects and possibilities, which are fundamental to the story.
For all that, there are big bold splodges of brilliance which I will remember for a long long time. My favourite scenes mostly involve the flashback to the Circus in its heyday (unanimously deemed to be World War Two). At a raucous Christmas Party at the Circus, Santa Claus is substituted by a Vladimir Lenin look-alike, dressed in scarlet red of course, and giving every impression of being an annual ritual. The whole party erupts into a joyous rendition of the Soviet Union national anthem. Everyone in the room, including the female eye candy (I assumed them to be translators, transcribers or secretaries) was absolutely word perfect.
The incongruity of Cold War Western spies fervently embracing Soviet culture was, to say the least, striking. It was only when the gramophone needle dropped on La Mer by Julio Iglesias that I truly understood the significance. In an espionage drama centrally concerned with betrayal, you have a group of operators who can only survive the deadly demands of Cold War fieldcraft by steeping themselves in every single aspect of enemy language and culture. La Mer reminded me of a time when I eagerly devoured all things francophone. I even bought my first copy of Le Monde at the age of 12 (at WH Smith in Manchester's Arndale Centre).
The central paradox of espionage is neatly encapsulated in that rapturous scene in which the enemy's anthem is sung so joyfully and sincerely that it could easily be the opposing side - Karla's team over at the Kremlin. It's hard not to grow to love a culture that you are deeply acquainted with. You could even argue that such expert knowledge is impossible without that underlying passion in place. The scene prepares the audience for the final betrayal, the end-point of the film, and maybe injects some sympathy into a character (no spoilers here - I'm following William Boyd's good example) who sees only a grinding decline in Western culture (a sentiment echoed elsewhere in the film), and who has been fatally exposed to something seductively foreign.
Wednesday 4 May 2011
Almost strangers
We were all encased in our private domains. We weren’t invited to party elsewhere. We didn’t drive but we didn’t drink. We watched the wedding of almost strangers. On the telly; on our own. We watched the guests in Westminster Abbey. We judged the hats of almost strangers. We failed to enter their private world. We stayed in our homes. The shops were empty. We didn’t gather. We didn’t care. We all switched off at the boring speeches. We all drifted off and did different things.
We gathered in a public place. We worried. We cared. Desperate to help. We stared at the patient. We touched him. We stroked him. We tried to enter his private world. We all signed his book in case he survived. We bonded with visitors who were almost strangers. We formed a community – a makeshift network. We all compared notes on making a difference. We brought him juice. We brought him fruit. We brought him chocolate. We badgered nurses. We gave our time. We tried to reach him. We humanised the hospital in case he could hear us. We chatted. We laughed. To raise his spirits. To raise our spirits. It was fun. It was desperate. We groped in the dark. We helplessly watched as he sweated and suffered. We tried to interpret his feverish speeches. We shamelessly watched the most personal of battles.
And always we wondered, how could it happen? A strong healthy man cut down in his prime. As if he were governed by natural laws – of princes and paupers, pomp and disease.
We gathered in a public place. We worried. We cared. Desperate to help. We stared at the patient. We touched him. We stroked him. We tried to enter his private world. We all signed his book in case he survived. We bonded with visitors who were almost strangers. We formed a community – a makeshift network. We all compared notes on making a difference. We brought him juice. We brought him fruit. We brought him chocolate. We badgered nurses. We gave our time. We tried to reach him. We humanised the hospital in case he could hear us. We chatted. We laughed. To raise his spirits. To raise our spirits. It was fun. It was desperate. We groped in the dark. We helplessly watched as he sweated and suffered. We tried to interpret his feverish speeches. We shamelessly watched the most personal of battles.
And always we wondered, how could it happen? A strong healthy man cut down in his prime. As if he were governed by natural laws – of princes and paupers, pomp and disease.
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