“Unapologetic” by Francis Spufford

Posted on January 20, 2013 by Houyhnhnm

This book was greeted with huge triumph and relief by Christians, mainly fading Anglicans, as a new candidate for the project of doing-religion-without-actually-believing-it’s-true-in-the-way-that-we-think-people-in-the-past-did. Like Don Cupitt and Karen Armstrong, Quakers and Unitarians.

So does it pass muster? Yes, in that nothing like this has been written before – a defence of Christianity written as a rant in a cafe, with swearing and everything. It’s nothing like Lewis’ careful analogies for the working man, being more like, I suppose (I haven’t read it), Surprised by Joy. His demolitions of Dawkins et al are funny and convincing (though this is not hard for adherents of doing-religion-without-actually-believing-it’s-true-in-the-way-that-we-think-people-in-the-past-did, as Dawkins attacks a straw man – the certainties of old-fashioned belief – not modern liberal religious practice.

Like Cupitt in The Last Philosophy, he begins with a moment alone with himself: for Spufford this is a visit to a country church, where he sits, an anti-Larkin, and contemplates Life. His thoughts drift towards what he calls the Human Tendency to Fuck Things Up – the HTtFTU; by using this as a starting point he follows Paul and countless evangelical preachers, who see Christianity as a remedy for the guilt brought about by our Fucking Things Up. And it’s here that I found myself, to my surprise, losing Spufford’s argument, because, rightly or wrongly, I quite simply don’t feel dragged down in this way. I am, though, (hardly worthy of comment) attracted to the story of Jesus, and Spufford’s retelling of this in the middle of his book (“Yeshua”) is excellent and special.

Overall Spufford is with Aidan Andrew Dun and The Life of Pi: the world is made of stories, and it is not dishonest or escapist to base one’s life on stories which seem to convey “truth” – truth not about subatomic particles (though accounts of these in scientific textbooks are as much “stories” as the tales of Grimm), but truth about human beings and how they relate to the world and each other.

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“Need to Know” by Timothy Good

Posted on January 8, 2013 by Houyhnhnm

Convincing, against my expectations. It’s impossible to accept what must otherwise be the case: that the vast range and amount of direct eye-witness evidence is all either faked or imagined. And it’s even more clear that the US authorities believe in UFOs, and don’t want us to.

So why do the aliens people have seen, met, and done post-mortems on seem humanoid? Isn’t it more likely that alien life is utterly, er, alien? Yes. But if alien life does exist, and if it is humanoid, then the application of Ockham’s Razor would suggest that either human life is a plant from another planet, or, get this, that the aliens are WHAT WE WILL EVOLVE INTO, COME BACK IN TIME TO VISIT US. It’s Doctor Who.

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“The Song of Achilles” by Madeline Miller

Posted on January 3, 2013 by Houyhnhnm

A fascinating attempt to novelise the Iliad, taking the material beyond the confines of Homer’s poem, both before and after, but not falling into the trap of having to tell the whole bloody story in detail, wooden horse and all (one of the weaknesses of the broadly successful film Troy). Miller, apparently inspired by Shakespeare’s take on the story in Troilus and Cressida, writes as Patroclus, cleverly choosing Homer’s favourite character (frequently addressed by the poet directly as “you”), and tells his life story, from running away after killing another boy to his time (neatly) as a ghost after his killing by Hector (Homer has Patroclus appear as a ghost to Achilles, so that’s OK). Her style (as usual with me) grated at first: spare, often journalistic ‘vivid’ present tense sequences, trying to convey her subject’s thoughts, often self-consciously jarring. This unease didn’t really ever go away, though there are wonderful passages, particularly those involving fast action: Patroclus’ direct challenge to Thetis on the cliff is an early example; the first actual battles around Troy are later ones.

What’s really interesting for me, however, as someone who teaches the Iliad, is what she does with it.

Larger scale reshapings include the development of Thetis into a malevolent, intolerant, controlling, and ultimately tragic seaweed-smelling fishy force, and of course the focus on the relationship between Patroclus and Achilles, portrayed fully as a ‘gay’ one, sticky moments and everything, although all a little coy, Mills and Boon. (Their relationship works well, until the ‘Iliadic’ final quarter, where Patroclus’ exasperation with his lover’s selfish behaviour, and, in fact, Achilles’ actual selfish behaviour, aren’t 100% convincing – but perhaps that’s Homer’s point: Achilles is exceptional). The Iliad starts with Chryseis not being returned to her father, and ends with Hector’s body being given back to Priam: Miller does well to nest this within her own version – Patroclus’ being exiled from his father at the start, and at the end his being buried with Achilles. She also uses Homer’s portrayal of Achilles as a bard, a singer, throughout her novel, and in her ambiguous title (”of” meaning “sung by” and “about”; subjective and objective genitives). Achilles, with Helen, are uniquely in the Iliad fully conscious of their roles in a story, to the extent of starting to create the artwork before it’s all over, Helen by her weaving and Achilles by singing.

But it’s the little observations, the little twists, which, in true Charles-Martindale style, educate one about the original. These include, in no particular order:

  • Agamemnon’s embassy to Achilles doesn’t fail just because he sends others, but also because it’s at night and in private.
  • Also on the embassy in Book 9, Miller makes much of Phoinix’ use of the Meleager story to try and persuade Achilles to fight; she changes it in making it Meleager’s wife, Cleopatra, who persuades him to fight, not the people in general, thereby making the story hit Patroclus harder, linking her and his name (κλεος + πατηρ vs. πατηρ + κλεος).
  • Aias’ role in the embassy is particularly poignant, as if Achilles returns he, Aias, will lose his status as άριστος Αχαιων.
  • Achilles’ steadfast and stubborn refusal to listen to the concerns and suffering of the Greeks is part of his divine element: that’s what the gods do all the time. It is Patroclus’ kindness, in Homer & Miller, which makes him so human by contrast.
  • Nestor’s plan for Patroclus to fight dressed as Achilles is arguable a “Mauretania”: a deliberate and cynical attempt to get an ally to enter a war by engineering the loss of something dear to them, something whose loss will make their fighting inevitable.
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    The Life Of Pi (film)

    Posted on December 31, 2012 by Houyhnhnm

    [Megaspoiler alert: reading this really will spoil your enjoyment of the film]

    The story which Pi tells to the writer in this film is one which will apparently give the hearer faith in God. But after t-10 minutes I was puzzled: what was the point of this tale? Admittedly it was amazing to watch: a boy trying to survive in a lifeboat with a Bengal tiger (and, to being with, a hyena, an orang-utang and a zebra) for company; it’s very exciting (because of the ever-present danger of death by hunger, thirst, storm or tiger), visually stunning, and imaginatively inspiring, particularly the floating island of meerkats, but what’s the point of it all?

    And then we meet the Japanese insurance officials, trying to find out from the ship’s last survivor what happened; Pi has no idea why the ship sank, but the tale he tells is so impossible that the officials can’t put it into the record. So they ask him for the ‘truth’, and get another version of the story, where the animals are replaced by people, the tiger by Pi himself. Pi seems to give the pen-pushers this reverse allegory to help them do their jobs – after the previous hour or two we as viewers can’t at first accept that it’s actually what happened, but then we do, and it’s a little disappointing, that the tiger was not only unreal in the CGI sense, but was also unreal in what really happened to Pi, who’s clearly dealt with the loss, the violence and the cannibalism by this allegorisation. And where’s the God-proof?

    But then, t-5, we return to the Canadian flat, Pi and the writer. Writer asks where’s the proof of God; Pi asks which version of his story he ‘prefers’ (nicely ambiguous); writer says the one with the tiger: qed.

    The insurance officials had to have one version of the story, and we, the writer and Pi need the other.

    *

    Pi’s story is mythic, in that it breeds interpretations, ramifications. The zoo and the cargo ship are controlled versions of the lifeboat, the island of meerkats readily fixable, as Strawberry’s warren in Watership Down, onto any situation of deadly danger lurking behind an apparent paradise (the tooth inside the flower). Pi’s full name, Piscine, refers to a nice little version of the Pacific, and his memorising of hundreds of digits of the number pi must mean, er, something: that’s how well put together and mythic this story is…

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    The Hobbit

    Posted on December 30, 2012 by Houyhnhnm

    In brief, it’s The Hobbit made into what it was after LOTR. In the appendices to LOTR JRR manages to fit the two novels together, sorting out the role and nature of Gollum’s ring, and making the Necromancer in Mirkwood, whom Gandalf drives from Dol Guldur, into Sauron. It’s now been filmed as a proper prequel, with the same atmosphere as the other films: no longer does it stand out as a slightly embarrassing kiddie story. That said, there are nods to this, in particular the anachronistic jokes (“crochet – a fine game if you’ve got the balls for it”; “and also invented the game of golf”; and “do you have any chips?”) and the characterisation of the dwarves.

    What does become clearer to me, however, as the gentle fading of my teenage passion for LOTR helps me see more clearly, are Tolkien’s limitations. It’s not a problem per se that there are no female characters at all in the film apart from Galadriel, but it does suggest something about this Catholic’s make-up. LOTR continues the narrowness of vision, with Aragorn’s wooing of Arwen in Appendix A being something no Tolkienite can want to show his mates. The women are all unattainable Marian elves, or fairy-tale princesses (Eowyn gets a fuller role, as does Shelob…). Second, the battle scenes are pathetically limited, because we can only cheer when orcs get sliced up: conflicts between groups of ‘goodies’ do happen, but in the back story. The Iliad, in the 8th century BC, saw, more fully than anyone since, the tragedy inherent in war; Tolkien doesn’t manage to convey it – his morality here is Odyssean. And lastly, racism. I’m sure it’s unconscious, but (as with Lewis’ Calormen (“hot men”)) the human baddies (e.g. the Haradrim) are clearly drawn as Ottomans/Muslims/Arabs, with darker-skinned allies from further south. It’s (western) Europe vs. the Middle East, a Crusade. Related to this are the (conscious: Tolkien has admitted this in interviews, and even made the dwarves’ language Semitic in style) similarities between the dwarves and Jewish stereotypes (more): I’d kind of noticed this before, but only when watching the film, seeing the dwarves desperate to return to their ancestral home, did it all click. I don’t know much about Wagner, but there are I think gold-keeping dwarves in the Ring… Wagner’s friends aren’t as nice as JRR’s. On a similar but related note, to me orcs and elves are like Swift’s Yahoos and Houyhnhnms – separations of the bad and good sides of human nature; Tolkien does say that orcs are corrupted elves.

    And the film didn’t seem long at all: as things drew to a close I thought it was probably a false ending, but it wasn’t.

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    “Mariana” by Monica Dickens

    Posted on December 29, 2012 by Houyhnhnm

    Normally I get annoyed with the first few pages of a novel, and have to be coaxed into the author’s world; with this book I was hooked at the start, raving about the prologue of Mary in her Essex cottage hearing that her husband’s ship has been sunk; One Day is a love story ending with the unexpected death of one of the lovers; “Mariana” ends with a lover’s unexpected survival – much more satisfying. It’s superbly written in every sense: Dickens’ style is extremely easy to read yet in no way simple – a wide vocabulary and complex sentences are no barrier to the reader’s progress. And you feel in an expert’s hands: the first chapter gives one such confidence in the author’s ability to take you where she wants you to go.

    And it is pretty much a straight story, the episodes of Mary’s life teetering dangerously near a kind of grown-up What Katy Did Next. Dickens lets the implications of her story emerge for themselves, but sometimes, mainly on p226 and a few times afterwards, has her heroine muse on the lack of control one has over one’s one life, and how one’s attempts to piece together life’s jigsaw are normally less effective, and less successful, than life’s own efforts; other people, other events, sort things out despite our efforts. This modest philosophizing moves centre-stage at the book’s close, when a miraculous chance, beyond anyone’s control, sets Mary up for apparently inviolable future happiness – the jigsaw is done.

    Her structure, and how she leads the reader into, and then out of, Mary’s memory of her past, is masterful. For example, towards them novel’s end, when we begin to surface into happiness, Mary takes Sam to her malevolent old Gran, who starts playing the role of an intolerant grandmother from a novel Mary remembers. And soon afterwards Sam comments that their relationship is so happy that no one would ever write a book about it; this rather arch note is allowable because its ironic light: most of Dickens’ book has been about Mary’s unhappy relationships, and hence (QED) respectable material for fiction. But these literary touches are light and deft: overall the novel succeeds because of its straightforward qualities: description, characterisation and structure.

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    “In Defence of History” by Richard Evans

    Posted on November 25, 2012 by Houyhnhnm

    Evans seems at first to imply he’s replacing, and steering midway between, E.H. Carr and Sir Geoffrey Elton, and defending History against all things post-modern, but ends up steering midway between post-modernism and ‘traditional’ history.
    The Afterword, added for this edition, is a very unusual apologia, a detailed attempt to refute the clearly widespread and hostile reception given to the first edition. Apart from being less well edited (typos, repetitions (Peter Ghosh)), this is usually convincing, but has two weaknesses, one amusing and the other more serious, and for me puzzling. Firstly he tries to defend himself against charges of being rude about other historians (which he often is, gently but cuttingly sardonic), and usually fails. Secondly, often his final objection to a hostile review from a post-modernist is that, because a post-modernist doesn’t believe in objective facts, but that everything is text and all utterances are relative, they therefore can’t say anything about his own book and mean their comments to be taken seriously. This point strikes to the heart of post-modernism, so it was surprising to see it really only used in the ad hominem Afterword; it appears again in Adam Schatz’ review of a biography of Derrida in the LRB: how can Derrida say anything, even that texts’ meaning is impossible to pin down? Perhaps he addresses this somewhere, or perhaps one just isn’t supposed to ask this, but it puzzles me. But if postmodernists could justify using traditional reason to argue for its impossibility, these ripostes of Evans wouldn’t work.

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    “Cargo of Eagles” by Marjorie Allingham

    Posted on October 30, 2012 by Houyhnhnm

    Another great Albert Campion whodunit: there’s something about Allingham’s writing which I really really like. It’s a kind of knowing, yet sympathetic distance, a strong narrative voice, but always stopping before it gets too playful and you lose connection with what she’s writing about.
    I had read this one before, many years ago, but as usual had forgotten loads , including, er, whoactuallydunit. Unfortunately, however, I was less pleased with this particular story’s denouement: it seemed more or less unworkoutable; Campion, absent for most of the book, working behind the scenes, just seems to set an triumphant final trap, and then explains everything, as is proper, in the summer house. I was left thinking grrr – unfair – but then on reflection found at least one tiny clue which I could conceivably have noticed, but hardly (Doll had a “wide mouth”, and her mother belonged to a family which resembled fish – yes – it’s not much). I’m sure there’s I missed more. But at least it’s not bloody P.D James.
    But the characters, the suspense, and the settings are so well done. It’s all set on the Essex coast, in a fictional remote harbour called Mob’s Bowl, linked by a secret route of lanes and byways to Mob’s Hole in Wanstead, now the site of the Nightingale pub, where I used to work, and half a mile from where I grew up. I guess Mob’s Bowl is supposed to be somewhere east of Tilbury – “Thames Haven” looks about right, though that’s probably an oil refinery. She’s good, in all her books, on the clash between the pre- and post-War generations: in this one it’s traditional coastal families versus mods and rockers – two sides which the denouement cleverly brings together.

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    Wendy Shutler, Ivor Game and Ben Richardson at the Poetry Café

    Posted on October 30, 2012 by Houyhnhnm

    A randomly-chosen and wonderful evening, a mixture of poems and songs. Wendy Shutler’s poems were perfect for readings like this: clearly written and delivered, funny, personal (mainly auto- or pseudoauto-biographical), with many a clever and/or poignant twist. Ivor Game’s songs and singing were (for me at any rate) pretty unspeakably beautiful – wonderfully roaming vocal line, in a quiet, high, voice; tiny songs – very short, little voice, each one expressing a single, love-based thought: jewels. Ben Richardson’s songs and singing were less to my liking – more conventional – but his initial instrumental piece was wonderful, and he’s obviously an excellent guitarist. And I think we were the only members of the audience not known personally to one of the performers: a real intimate gig.

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    Ginger and Rosa

    Posted on October 29, 2012 by Houyhnhnm

    Advance reviews not good: poor script, poor Rotten-Tomatoes score. Luckily I don’t often read reviews, and when I do often ignore them, as I really enjoyed the film. Sure enough, once warned of poor script you’re on the look out, and there were some clunky lines (making things too obvious), but otherwise it’s a really good film, emotionally engaging, tightly shot with lots of close-ups of faces, and intellectually interesting, showing as it does the clash between morality on a world, political, canvas, and on a personal level within families: Ginger’s father, Roland, a lifelong campaigner for justice and an imprisoned conchie in the war, can’t see how his insistence on personal freedom in love is screwing up his (wife and) daughter. And excellent performances, particularly from Ginger herself.
    Afterwards our argument centred on whether the title was right, as the film was really about Ginger, not Ginger and Rosa, and, it was argued, much of the film was about Ginger’s relationships with others, which, while affected by Rosa’s behaviour, weren’t directly with Rosa. It seemed clear to me, however, that the title is right, and Rosa is the catalyst for the film’s climax: it’s the revelation of her pregnancy which directly sets off Ginger’s crise, and hence her mother’s Greek-tragedy-style suicide attempt, and hence the film’s (well-judged and undecided) conclusion.
    It’s well put together: starting Hiroshima shots move to the two mums giving birth in neighbouring beds, with the two dads waiting in silence on a hospital bench; and at the end we see father 1 with daughter on hospital bench, with mum 1 upstairs fighting for her life. And it’s fears of another Hiroshima which drive Ginger’s (and, strangely, Roland’s) behaviour. It’s a film that has stuck with us.

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