The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild (2017)

There are not many movies in the Letterboxd Diary this month because I have suffered a relapse of an old addiction: I have gone adventuring in Hyrule again.

For the uninitiated, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild is a videogame. It is, more specifically, an ‘open world’ role playing game — that is, a game in which you can explore the fictional world as you like, going anywhere and interacting with anything. (In this respect, open world games are much like conventional table-top role playing games.)

The Zelda games started being released in 1986, so Breath of the Wild was more or less the thirtieth anniversary version. As in (most of) the others you play as Link, a hero adventuring through a fantasy world on his way to (inevitably) rescue the Princess Zelda. The plot (such as it is) and the lore of the setting are even more ludicrous than you might be imagining; but as games, they are terrific. There are very good reasons why Breath of the Wild is rated as one of the best videogames of all time.

Many of these reasons have to do with how innovative it is within the ‘open world’ genre. Breath of the Wild’s approach to this genre has been hugely influential, changing the way other games now approach it.

But these innovations have also been incredibly useful for me. For a start, I am terrible at video games. I have awful hand eye coordination and consequently find most of them incredibly difficult to play. I want to enjoy video games, but I have, in the past year, bounced off sci-fi epic Mass Effect, cowboy saga Red Dead Redemption, and the grey and gritty Batman Arkham series, all of which required me to have split-second timing and a voluminous memory for button combinations, all of which are beyond me.

Nintendo, on the other hand, have a long history of trying to be inclusive with players and consequently have control systems that even a klutz like me can handle. And the game is incredibly forgiving. Even though, in the middle of a fight, as I struggle with the buttons, I will accidentally crouch down, or whistle for my horse, or start climbing a wall, the game is lenient enough that I won’t die too often.

More importantly, Breath of the Wild’s emphasis on player agency means I can play in a way that suits my ability: sniping enemies from a distance, or simply avoiding them altogether, playing not as a hard bitten adventurer but as a happy wanderer, exploring the wilderness stopping to chat with passers by.

And what passers by! This is the true delight of Breath of the Wild. In the tradition of Nintendo’s inclusiveness, the game is largely free of the adolescent grim n’ gritty histrionics that make the worlds of other games so tiresome. It is, instead, a little cartoony, a little whimsical, even a little funny. It is full of odd delights, strange discoveries and a constant appeal to play further.

There is a lot of discussion of how games need good writing and good plots, and goodness knows that’s true, but Breath of the Wild has neither and while it may be inventive in their application, uses the basic structures of a million other role playing games. What it does do is create a world of staggering and engrossing wonder, and invite the audience to make it their own, a thing that only a game can do and possibly where games truly constitute the new popular art of the twenty first century.

Breaking containment

It’s been a rough few weeks in the Metropolitan household: our beloved communal spaniel broke his leg, and has to be immured in confined spaces with no running or jumping while it heals. This is pretty much a spaniel’s idea of hell, although — and this is one of my most impactful learnings from this entire experience — it turns out you can get dog tranquilisers.

Worse, we twice had to leave him in the care of more competent strangers while he had surgery, and the second time we did this he gave us a look of such distress and betrayal that I don’t think Toby and I will ever recover. So in an act of self-soothing — and speaking of lapsing into old addictions — I’ve spent a lot of the last couple of weeks re-watching the early seasons of ER with one hand on a disorientated dog. My takeaways are:

• So much under-the-duvet rustling followed by people popping their heads out and saying ‘hmmmm!’ Absolute pet hate of mine.

• The ‘90s went big on cool-toned lipstick and blusher, and I’m sad we don’t do this any more. For the past ten years all lipsticks have been orange, which makes me look like a cadaver.

• It’s literally closer to being a ‘70s show than a 2020s show, and sometimes you can really see it. Several outro sequences are shot in slow-mo, and one ends in a sudden freezeframe, a practice that should have been killed dead ten years earlier by the Police Squad epilogues.

• However much we try, it’s really hard for us Gen Xers to comprehend how sexist the ‘90s were, even when we were on the sharp end of that sexism ourselves. Pat yourself on the back if you lived through it and didn’t kill anyone.

• The medics are incredibly judgemental about their patients, and use medical procedures as moral punishments. At least once per episode, someone deliberately does something that ought to be career-ending.

• On a related note: Dr Doug Ross is an absolutely massive wanker.

• The casting was astonishing: so many then-unknowns who dripped with charisma. Lots of them were gifted comic actors as well, and it’s a lot funnier than The Pitt. (Mind you, many major diseases are a lot funnier than The Pitt.) Like Casualty and The Bill in the UK it also operated as a funnel for new talent, meaning that the extras are spectacularly good value too: there’s a very young Kirsten Dunst, and lots of people who went on to star in The West Wing. At one point Toby Ziegler turns up having ill-advisedly used an entire tube of performance-enhancing cream on his schlong.

There: that’s not likely to upset anyone, is it? Last week’s essay about ER’s unacknowledged (and legally murky) successor The Pitt, on the other hand, provoked big feelings in a lot of people. Several days later there was still a full-blown row going on in the comments, and for the first time we were sent a report about a comment requiring moderation (although thankfully it was just spam). It has been a reminder that we break our ‘no hot takes’ rule at our (and your) peril.

The Metropolitan is a small-ish newsletter. We didn’t intentionally plan it that way (we hoped to make money out of this, lol). But it turns out our audience is self-limiting by virtue of being discerning, highly intelligent, and unusually attractive. That’s just the way it is. Then, every now and then, a piece breaks containment, as happened with our piece about The Pitt. Mostly this is very gratifying because it brings in new people (hello! We’re not usually this self-referential, honest). But, because this is in the internet, a few of the drive-by comments were jarring.

As I remarked to Toby at one point this week: ‘I don’t like it when people read the things I’ve written.’ Obviously I’m being a precious little hothouse flower, and I don’t literally mean this. But while talking to people on the internet is one of my favourite things, absorbing random hostility from strangers on the internet (or seeing our subscribers having to absorb it) is one of my least favourite things. It’s a conundrum alright.

So for what it’s worth, and in case we mistakenly publish something popular again, it turns out you can report posts in the comments. If you find someone in there being an unmitigated dick, let us know. I’ve moderated before and goddammit, I will moderate again if I have to.

Letterboxd Diary

What has enjoyed watching this month.

The Palm Beach Story (1942)

I know, I know, a film I should have seen by now, especially since Metropolitan co-founder Nettie Richardson has been urging me to for years, but OH MY GOD, what a dollop of incomparable delight, what a joy, what a movie.

Gerry (Claudette Colbert) is convinced that she can better help her inventor husband Tom (Joel McCrea) by marrying someone richer, so she heads to Palm Beach to acquire a divorce. On the way she falls in with millionaire John D. Hackensacker III (Rudy Vallee) and his husband-hungry sister the Princess Centimillia (Mary Astor). But husband Tom is in hot pursuit, and when he catches up with them the highest of jinks ensue.

I haven’t even mentioned the Ale and Quail Club and their splendid spaniels, the hard of hearing Wienie King, or Toto, the incomprehensible hanger-on. You can see why the Coen Brothers love Preston Sturges so much.

Sullivan’s Travels (1941) was already one of my favourite films, so I should have known, but the moment this finished I found a Preston Sturges boxset on eBay and bought it immediately, not least because so few of his films are available to stream.

This is not altogether surprising. Much has been made, recently, of the Netflix model of movie making, where the plot is explained in words of one syllable in every other scene, in which characters must clearly enunciate their every motive and emotion, and in which exciting action must be regularly included to keep audiences watching. This is all done on the assumption that viewers aren’t viewing: they’re looking at their phones and simply have the TV on as some customisable wallpaper.

The Palm Beach Story is the anti-Netflix film. Look at your phone even for a second and you will miss two plot points, three jokes and some great performances. It is fast talking and fast moving - and, like so many ‘30s and ‘40s movies, surprisingly fast living; stimulatingly adult about relationships and life.

Tom’s invention is a sort of chainmail landing strip that could be suspended between skyscrapers to make an airport in the middle of a city. The film is a similarly ludicrous construction of filigree complexity and surprising strength. Unlike the regulated structure of modern movies, it has a habit of darting off in odd directions, filling itself with mad details and delightful decoration. This is never more evident than in the way the movie begins where other romcoms end: with a wedding. We open with a madcap marriage that seems to feature two Joel McCreas and two Claudette Colberts, something which isn’t explained until the very last scene of the film, leaving the audience in a fevered state of anticipation and confusion throughout.

Unless they look up a synopsis on their phones, of course.

The Master (2012)

Paul Thomas Anderson’s thinly veiled portrait of L. Ron Hubbard and the founding of scientology. Joaquin Phoenix is Freddie Quell, an alcoholic Navy veteran who falls into the orbit of Philip Seymour Hoffman’s Lancaster Dodd, a self-aggrandising writer who is in the process of building his own cult.

I’ve always been fascinated by the Hubbard story, particularly since I came to it through reading about Jack Parsons, the rocket engineer who was also an occultist and a follower of Aleister Crowley. Parsons engaged with the young Hubbard in a magical working, and then Hubbard conned Parsons and ran off with his ‘wife’. These are the bare bones of an utterly unhinged story that someone absolutely has to adapt some day.

The Master is not that story, but it did make an interesting coda to all those war films we watched last month: it is the story of what happened next, the search for stability and identity in post-Second World War America after the chaos and regimented service of wartime.

More specifically it’s about visions of masculinity, captured perfectly in the two central performances. Phoenix’s performance is one of intensity and tightly wound energy, perfect for a man who is being burned from the inside by his own addictions and impulses and who cannot quite comprehend what is happening to him. Hoffman’s performance, in contrast, is one of huge but contained charisma, an avuncular facade on a monumental ego.

These are two models of being a man for the post-War generation. On the one hand you have the tortured masculinity of a Brando or a Dean, an extreme physicality which masks a damaged spirit. On the other hand you have the patriarchal gravitas of a Welles or a Wayne, the expression of extreme and furious control. In some ways these represent the opposition of underground with the mainstream, the son and the suburban father; the opposition, that is, of the Baby Boomers and the Silent Generation, the dynamic that did so much to determine the American culture of the latter part of the twentieth century.

Inherent Vice (2014)

The Master led, inevitably, to another PTA/Joaquin Phoenix collab, a loose adaptation of Thomas Pynchon’s Inherent Vice. The movie is appropriately baggy, free-associating and incomprehensible, although it never quite captures either Pynchon’s lyricism or his delightfully terrible sense of humour.

It does, though, capture something of that vision of mid-century California, a very Jack Parsons combination of esoteric culture and cutting edge technology: ashrams and chip fabs, hyper consumerism and alternative lifestyles, suburban sprawl and off grid cults. It’s the setting of so much of my adolescent reading: Pynchon, a lot of Philip K. Dick, Hunter S. Thompson, William S. Burroughs and trace amounts of William Gibson and Neal Stephenson. It’s an hallucinatory landscape, a Fata Morgana of the World of Tomorrow quavering in the heat haze between the sea and the desert.

It makes Inherent Vice something of a hangout movie for me, albeit an odd one, with its trippy disjunction and doper’s paranoia, in much the same way I found David Fincher’s Zodiac a comfort watch during the pandemic.

Macbeth (1948)

Speaking of Welles, I finally got around to watching his 1948 adaptation of Macbeth, which he described as a cross between Wuthering Heights (1943) and Bride of Frankenstein (1935). What it most reminded me of, though, is a Warner Brothers or UPA cartoon of the same period (congratulatory), most particularly the backgrounds.

The settings of Macbeth have the same sense of gigantic minimalism and stylised decoration as the modernist backgrounds of a Gerald McBoingBoing film, or Chuck Jones’s masterpiece What’s Opera, Doc? (1957). It is a theatre set grown to movie proportions, full of sound and fury and, to be fair, signifying a great deal in this case.

I wasn’t too sure about Welles’ ‘Scottish’ accent, which is better than Christopher Lambert’s in Highlander (1986) but not by much; but I did like his crown, even though he dismissed it as making him look like the Statue of Liberty.

He ended up with it because he had virtually no budget, and so had little choice in costuming. But this probably also accounts for the brutal, brooding sparseness of the sets. Ultimately the film is an excellent example of what can be achieved with little money but a huge amount of ambition and, more importantly, inventiveness.

Strongroom (1962)

And speaking now of low budgets, I stumbled across this no budget British thriller on the BFI channel, which has listed it with a recommendation from Quentin Tarantino.

It’s the story of a carefully planned bank robbery which, like all carefully planned bank robberies, goes awry and ends with two of the bank staff - the manager and his secretary - trapped in the air tight vault.

The film then cuts back and forth between the two of them trying to find a way out, and the robbers realising that if the trapped staff die it will be murder, which at that point was a hanging offence in Britain. Slowly the robbers realise they are going to have to break back in to save the people they have robbed.

It’s an amazing little set up, but what’s fascinating about it is how much time it makes for the characters, even the ramrod straight and efficient early ‘60s movie police.

There’s a lovely example of this in the scene where, struggling for air in the vault, the manager and secretary are talking about how they ended up there. He reveals that he always wanted to be a printer but his parents wanted him to go into a managerial profession. A printer! An apparently odd little gracenote but absolutely spot on for the character, a man who would have been happier racking up lead type into perfectly kerned lines. The film is full of these odd moments and is all the better for it. (Insert here the rant above about the Blake Snyder mandated movie structure and its failings.)

Playlist

: Here’s my favourite ten tracks for this month.

Concrete Trees - Annabelle Chairlegs

Some garage power pop to start us off in an appropriately enthusiastic spring mood.

Tadano Tomodachi - salyu × salyu

Off kilter Japanese pop that sounds like it was made to accompany speeded up footage of flowers bursting into bloom like fireworks.

Monkey System - Black Flower feat. Meskerem Mees

This, on the other hand, is quite shadowy and slinky with a nicely quirky jazz rumble behind it.

Tincture - Perfect Binding

There’s something quite dark about this, too, but in a more valve driven, garage rock style.

Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh - Say Hi

Big fan of the horns on this track, fitting alongside the lo-fi indie guitars splendidly.

Domino - Nicole Atkins

Lovely piece of noirish soul with a splendid chorus.

Out of Town - Water From Your Eyes

I am somewhat partial to this kind of quirky indie accompaniment to a lyrical pop tune.

Lie In The Gutter - Peel Dream Magazine

Stereolab meets Yo La Tengo - not that surprising a meeting if we’re going to be honest.

Waves - ISTA

Some psychedelic rock to match the coming sunshine.

Bad Kids - TTRRUUCES

I was thinking that this sounded reassuringly late ‘00s to me (a little bit stomp! clap! hey!, a little bit Go! Team) and then discovered that they formed in the teens in Broadway Market, where I was living at time, and realised why it sounded so friendly and familiar.

The whole playlist is on Spotify as usual:

For more Shakespearean kings on a low budget, there’s always the Hollow Crown sequence of history plays:

The Pitt was first broadcast in the US 18 months ago, but thanks to the perverse incentives of competing streaming services it has only just become available in the UK. This piece contains some spoilers, including for later episodes of the second season.

I generally enjoy using Bluesky, the ‘progressive’ micro-blogging alternative to X, but it has to be said that it is often a little insane (as opposed to X, which is often a lot insane). Even among the mostly temperate centre-left people I follow, there is now a furious anti-Americanism that I haven’t seen in the wild since the fights over missile deployment at Greenham Common in the ‘80s. I’ve seen British centrist dads talking about how they’re gleefully haranguing random US tourists in holiday hotspots, and European academics saying that any American not engaged in active insurrection is a collaborator.

It reminds me of how I felt after the Brexit vote, when good liberals around the world suddenly decided that all Brits were mad, stupid and self-aggrandising. It was a desolate feeling. How much worse that feeling must be if you’re an American progressive under Trump.

I’ve been thinking about this while watching The Pitt (HBO). The Pitt is a hospital drama; more specifically, it is a very, very thinly disguised successor to ER (so thinly disguised that it is now the subject of a lawsuit by the estate of ER creator Michael Crichton). It even stars Noah Wyle (the young Dr Carter in ER) as a now-grizzled head of an emergency department in a hospital in Pittsburgh, essentially extending the ER universe 30 years into the future.

The Pitt made me think about the experience of US progressives because, like ER, The Pitt is structurally ‘progressive’. More than any other kind of medicine, emergency care is perfect for illustrating the contingency of fate (we’re all one badly-placed ladder away from dependency). Progressive positions are inherent in The Pitt’s dramatisation of vulnerability and care, and the injustices of low wages, poor living standards and commercialised healthcare. It also illustrates the merits of funding public services through general taxation, without which (in emergency departments) people literally and quickly die.

Like ER, The Pitt uses the medical emergency as a metaphor for America. A trauma department can plausibly host pretty much anyone, from rednecks and frat boys to selfless carers and homeless people (carefully referred to, in the ever-changing lexicon of the liberal left, as ‘unhoused’). This allows all kinds of political issues to be miniaturised and dramatised. Hell, the second season is set on the actual Fourth of July and features several walking metaphors, including a sunburned woman in a Stars and Stripes bikini and a guy who’s been impaled on a literal flag. (Each season of The Pitt takes place over one day, like 24.)

Patients arrive with conditions that have worsened because they have lost Medicaid; they leave against medical advice because they cannot afford bills for ongoing hospital care. There are storylines about the experiences of people with disabilities, people with mental health difficulties, women who’ve experienced violence, and Black and trans women’s specific experiences in healthcare. Immigrant families are shown to have fewer resources than established American families. Clinicians are shown enduring insanely long hours and low wages; one student doctor is squatting in an unused ward because he can’t afford to pay rent. The focus is on the American system’s failure to recognise interdependency, support vulnerable people, fund healthcare, and value people’s identities.

So far, so ER, which had plotlines about the cruel insufficiency of the US health insurance system, and which was one of the first mega-shows to frankly portray racism and its souring effects on a diverse population. ER, too, had plotlines about sexual violence, trans women and Black women; it showed major characters with physical disabilities and learning difficulties, and tried to portray the extra hurdles they faced in accessing healthcare. As for healthcare workers, the pilot episode had Dr Benton — Dr Carter’s mentor — noting that ‘we work 36 hours on, 18 off, which is 90 hours a week, 52 weeks a year. For that, we are paid $23,739 before taxes.’

Watching ER now, though, the differences with The Pitt are stark. For ER, politics was only ever one part of the dramatic mix; the ‘90s, in the west, were a time of relative political quietude, and the show was as concerned with the staff’s romantic attachments as it was with the national psyche; the over-arching plotline in the first season was whether Nurse Carol would or would not get back together with Dr Ross. As we have discussed before it was, in effect, a soap.

The Pitt is so, so much bleaker. Its only interest in its characters’ personal lives is to show us how dysfunctional they are; there is much less banter, and no kissing. Instead it places politics front and centre. Fundamentally, it is deliberately dramatising the despair (and ineffectiveness) of the American progressive left under Trump in this specific political moment.

The main characters are all well educated and in secure work; they are all disciplined, effective people who are accustomed to working hard and reaping appropriate results. And they are all finding that, nevertheless, their daily environment is hostile, chaotic, cruel and unsafe. (The second season features a violent incursion by ICE agents that has immigrant workers and patients running for the exits.) They are all (by virtue of the specialism and workplace they have chosen) personally committed to the values of equality and compassion; and they are all working within a larger system that expressly contradicts their values. Tell me this isn’t a metaphor for the most visible parts of the anti-Trump coalition: Democrats, campus protestors, academics, posters on Bluesky; lesbian moms and literal medics on the streets of Minneapolis.

Like progressives everywhere, the staff at The Pitt are explicitly unable to cope with the catastrophic upending of their expectations: the social cruelty, the injustice, the profit-driven decision making. Suicidality is addressed many times, as is paralysing anxiety. One of the most remarked-upon scenes in the first season shows Noah Wyle’s character, Dr Robby, having a panic attack. In Season 2, it’s the turn of one of his younger staff members, a woman in her 30s, to collapse in emotional distress while at work. In explanation, she speaks for all progressives, and young progressives most of all: ‘I’m doing everything right, it’s everything around me that’s all fucked up… I had it all planned out, and now everything’s out the window.’ Despite experiencing the same symptoms so recently himself, Dr Robby dismisses his distressed staff member as a ‘fucking liability’.

The Pitt isn’t afraid to address the generational tension within the progressive movement. Robby and his friend Nurse Dana are the Gen Xers in the Pitt; they have seen a little too much, and they have been unable to change anything much for the better in the last 30 years. (Indeed, The Pitt shows many things as having got expressly worse since ER.) Worse, as the line from It’s A Wonderful Life has it: they’re discouraged. They have lost their hope, and don’t know how to offer any to their younger allies.

Robby eventually apologises to his anxious staff member for being ‘a dick’, but immediately returns to his obsession with workrate, and the merits of effectiveness over empathy: ‘now, I need you to stop feeling sorry for yourself and focus back on your patients’. And, many times, the series dramatises the benefits of experience and a cool head; the older staff do know useful things that the younger staff don’t know.

To a young student who becomes tearful while treating a dying patient, Robby advises that ‘as professionals, we have to create emotional boundaries for ourselves.’ This is true when performing a difficult technical procedure under pressure, but we are shown that it is also profoundly damaging in other contexts. Robby’s attempts at professional cauterisation are botched at best, and have terrible consequences for his own health. His idea of creating a boundary is to deny his fear and anger while shouting at his staff. A Boomer nurse has even less understanding of progressive Millennial and Gen Z angst; for her, they are all simply ‘fucking snowflakes’. ‘I’m not sure this environment is healthy for anybody,’ remarks a Gen Z medical student having a very bad day. Well, that’s unchecked right-wing authoritarianism for you.

‘A lot of what happens around here isn’t right’ Robby says at one point, in a tone that suggests everyone should suck it up. When a peer tries to work the system to protect a vulnerable patient, he says the quiet part out loud: ‘This is not about social justice!’ But the younger staff members are not ready to accept that things are as they are; they are not numb or defeated. They are consciously furious, and disgusted by the Gen Xers’ willingness to make small compromises with a brutal system. They also find older staffers significantly lacking in fellow-feeling and solidarity. As one young doctor remarks, ‘Everyone here talks about “community” and “family,” and then they throw you under the bus.’

Even worse for Gen Xers’ self-esteem, the Gen Zers and Millennials have noticed that Gen Xers are old, and they explicitly find them tedious. If the Gen Xers think the young staff are snowflakes (although they are too PC to say so out loud), the young staff think the Gen Xers are useless and senseless, offensive and mistaken. Their contempt is held in check only by their understanding that the Gen Xers are — for now — technically in charge. They are, mostly, just waiting for us to fuck the fuck off so that they can start to fix the things they think we’ve broken.

Even our stories about the early internet have lost what little charm they had. A major plot point in S2 has the hospital computer systems going offline; suddenly (in a deliberate nod, again, to ER) everything must be done on paper and clipboards and x-ray film. Older staff members (and older viewers) are relatively happy; this is a world they command, a warm bath of nostalgia for the days of Doug and Carol. But the younger staffers are just impatient. Without the fond memories, this technological time warp offers only inconvenience and difficulty. When Robby attempts to patronise a Gen Z student by starting a sentence with ‘When I was at medical school…’ she impatiently shuts him up: ‘...you didn’t have cell phones, or TikTok, or armed ICE agents. I get it.’ Robby is reduced to muttering to himself: ‘Actually, we did have cell phones. Although not at the beginning.’

Dr Robby is the hero of The Pitt, but he’s a very post-COVID hero: not just flawed but actively broken, unpredictable, angry and occasionally malicious. He is reluctant to hand over to his replacement as he heads off for a three-month sabbatical; it is not a coincidence that this replacement is younger, browner and a lot more female. He explicitly believes that he is the only person capable of doing his job. ‘White knight, white noise’, as one Black doctor says behind his back.

In the first season of ER viewers were repeatedly asked to think about the line between confidence and over-confidence. If a medic is under-confident, they will fail to act decisively; if they have too much misplaced faith in their abilities, they risk killing people. Damage is done either way.

The Pitt too has a dilemma for viewers: how do you properly resolve the tension between empathy and effectiveness? Too much empathy produces panic and paralysis; Millennial and Gen Z staff members are shown zoning out, frozen in horror, or running off into corners to cry. They have fidget toys and noise-cancelling earbuds; they listen to playlists of rain sounds and watch calming abstract videos. All of this, it is implied, is because they are so vividly experiencing the pain and distress caused by a system they cannot control.

As coping strategies go, are these things better or worse than emotional cauterisation? Is it better to feel everything, to ‘stay woke’ at the expense of tactical advantage? Or is it better — as the older staff members do — to develop tunnel vision, to focus on what you can control; to find immediate, attainable solutions to smaller, less structural problems; to stem the bleeding, and pass the problem up the line? Is structural inequity an urgent priority or an impractically vast abstraction? If only we could answer this question to our own satisfaction.

More earlier Noah Wyle adventures in medicine:

Part history, part reminiscence, and part short story collection focused on Lake Wobegon, a fictional small town somewhere in the overlooked middle of Minnesota, in the overlooked middle of America, in the overlooked middle of life. Lake Wobegon Days grew out of the humorous stories told by Garrison Keillor on his radio show A Prairie Home Companion. Most of the book contains versions of these stories, little windows into the lives of the people who live in the town, but it is padded out with whimsical and sardonic local history.

It has been a quiet week

In 1978 the BBC changed the broadcast frequencies of its national radio stations (Radios 1, 2, 3 and 4). As part of the publicity drive to make sure no one missed the cricket scores, they issued a set of little diamond-shaped stickers for the tuning dial of your radio, to remind you of the new frequency. As dutiful BBC listeners, my family added the stickers to the radio in the kitchen; and, honestly, we needn’t have bothered. Because once we’d found the new frequency for Radio 4, the tuning on that radio never, EVER changed.

We were a Radio 4 household. From the moment my mother got up in the morning to the moment she went back to bed, from The Today Programme to Book at Bedtime, there was a radio on somewhere in the house, and that radio was tuned to Radio 4. I grew up in a house of comforting, long wave voices, warmed by the bakelite and valves of Broadcasting House and hissing with the weather over London: Brian Redhead, Jenni Murray, Derek Cooper, Corrie Corfield. Everything we did — meals, housework, games — was accompanied by an ethereal chorus of financial experts and foreign correspondents.

And American humourists: because in 1986, Book at Bedtime broadcast Garrison Keillor reading extracts from Lake Wobegon Days, and he fitted in perfectly. His husky, languid, avuncular voice, the drawn out lilting twang of his accent, the gentle melody of his sentences: this was a voice made for the airwaves, a man who surely looked like the speaker grille of a radiogram. The stories were gentle too: little vignettes of small town life, with small stakes and small import.

Keillor has described himself as ‘America’s tallest humourist’, and that comic understatement and use of the word ‘humour’ are key, although his use was so understated as to be missing a ‘u’. ‘Humour’ was the dominant mode of Radio 4 comedy. This meant things that wouldn’t actually make you laugh, but were undemanding and bearably amusing; a background gurgle of cheerful satisfaction to burble along with whatever you were actually paying attention to. Comedy doesn’t have to be confrontational, despite what American stand-ups with worrying personality defects would have you believe. But ‘humour’ is always cosy. Like all comedy it relies on common understandings and culture; but it plays with those understandings gently, aiming for the knowing chuckle of recognition rather than the startled bark of surprise.

Not that Keillor can’t be funny. He can make you laugh out loud with his word choice, sentence rhythm or just the splendid comic situations. But it is a very cosy kind of funny: a wood-panelled, leather-covered funny, chummy and apparently unthreatening.

It is also quite clever, another thing that helped it fit into Radio 4. The common understandings and culture it played upon were educated and metropolitan. This is particularly true in the early part of the book, which gives a fictional history of the town of Lake Wobegon. Keillor is parodying American small town histories, and he relies on the reader knowing about French voyageurs, patterns of late nineteenth century immigration to the States, and East Coast literary culture.

This fictional history tells us that the town of Lake Wobegon was originally named New Albion (another way of saying ‘New England’); perhaps this is why it slipped so seamlessly into Britain’s flagship speech radio station. The joke has another level though, this time about the US’s relationship with Britain; we’re told that as Lake Wobegon gains immigrants from other parts of Europe, from Germany and Norway, it adopts a (humourous) new name of Native American origin, and becomes a distinctly American place.

Keillor is also parodying the form; many of his jokes lie in the structure and niceties of local histories. The book is full of wonderful footnotes (one of which is 20 pages long), ludicrous diversions and whimsical grace notes. Altogether, then, the tone of Lake Wobegon Days is distinctly that of the American middle class intellectual: people who read (or write for) The New Yorker, people who wear tweed jackets with suede elbow patches, people who watch Woody Allen films and drink small drinks in dark, wood-panelled bars in big cities.

This tone was very distinct from the tone of Reagan’s America that we Brits perceived dimly from across the pond: a tone that was all sunshine and DayGlo, go-getting and self-aggrandising, ‘greed is good’ and ‘Mr Gorbachev, tear down this wall!’ Compared to grey and seedy mid-’80s Britain, the Reagan tone felt foreign and strange, and it provoked both contempt (for its brashness) and envy (of all that sunshine, money and giant plates of food). As teenagers, we largely consumed this tone via a loud, queasy TV show called Entertainment USA. Its British presenter, Jonathan King, has since been convicted of serious sexual crimes; but even before that, you could instinctively tell he was a wrong ‘un, and some of his slimy, malicious inauthenticity rubbed off on the teenage British Gen X perception of the States.

Lake Wobegon, the book and the town, stood against all that. As the book has it: ‘Lake Wobegon survives to the extent that it does on a form of voluntary socialism with elements of Deism, fatalism, and nepotism. Free enterprise runs on self interest. This is socialism, and it runs on loyalty.’ For all its parody, Lake Wobegon Days extols community and mundanity rather than Reaganite brashness and hucksterism. Where our vision of America in the ‘80s was all television (so many channels! So loud! So exciting!) this was radio. The sound of home, of comfort and of recognition.

Where all the children are above average

This comfort of home and recognition is the comfort of childhood. For all the joking in the book, it contains a deep strain of nostalgia for the storied childhood of the American Boomers, all long golden baseball summers and crisp, magical Christmases, white picket fences and kindly neighbours, Dad away at some ill-defined ‘work’ and Mom in the kitchen baking apple pie. This is the normality the Boomers rebelled against when they joined college protests (before they sold out by going into advertising after their first divorce); and this is the the normality that, by the ‘80s, they worried would be denied to their latch-key Gen X kids.

But the Boomer rebelliousness is in there too. Lake Wobegon Days is full of pretentiously intellectual teenagers (all male) chafing against normality. The footnote that runs to 20 pages is a list of gripes from one of them about how his parents’ politeness and ordinariness has stifled his creativity. Many of these teenagers, after all, are Keillor himself.

Keillor was born plain old Gary, but uses Garrison to denote his authorial voice. That ‘-son’ is a sonorous, distinguished East Coast appendage: Dickinson, Emerson. The book itself is a rebellion, after all, a metropolitan jest at the expense of the upwardly mobile author’s down-to-earth small town origins. The inhabitants of Lake Wobegon are unlikely to be reading Lake Wobegon Days. But Keillor makes fun of himself too, in the form of all those anxious young men. Their notions of sophistication always turn out to be laughably unsophisticated and their literary aspirations mere pulp. But their angst is real.

While Keillor’s sideways perspective may seem a little snipey, the small town mentality is hidebound and stifling, and all too often objectionable. Take ‘the Norwegian Bachelor Farmers’. Keillor makes great play of these uncouth, unmarried lunks with their terrible manners and antisocial attitudes but, while they might be outsiders in the eyes of the town, in many ways they typify the stolid, unpretentious, hidebound spirit of Lake Wobegon. Moreover, as Clarence Bunsen points out, they are kin to the ambitious and rebellious young men: ‘the bachelor farmers are all sixteen years old. Painfully shy, perpetually disgruntled, elderly teenagers leaning against a wall, watching the parade through the eyes of the last honest men in America: ridiculous.’

Outsiders in ‘80s Lake Wobegon they might have been, but now the Norwegian Bachelor Farmers are the presiding spirit of America; their watchword ‘tellwitcha’ — ‘to hell with you’ — is now the country’s motto. Minneapolis may have voted for Harris, but the rest of Minnesota, the rural parts where Lake Wobegon might be, voted Trump. Stearns County — home to Holdingford, the ‘most Wobegonic’ town in Keillor’s words, which now bills itself as ‘The Gateway to Lake Wobegon’ — voted for Trump by a margin of two to one. The metropolitan jest has, over the years, grown stale.

‘The Lake Wobegon effect’ has become a shorthand for illusory superiority, the tendency to overestimate one’s own abilities. It’s named after Keillor’s customary radio sign-off: ‘That’s the news from Lake Wobegon, where all the women are strong, all the men are good-looking, and all the children are above average.’ (It’s is a close cousin of the ‘Dunning Kruger effect’, the phenomenon where the less someone knows about a subject, the more confident they are of their ability to master it.)

It’s tempting to look for the Lake Wobegon effect in contemporary politics, or perhaps in the Baby Boomer generation themselves; but there’s a wider possible application. Most of the studies into the phenomenon of ‘illusory superiority’ have been done in the States. Researchers have found no evidence for it in East Asia, for instance. There, they have found, instead, a consistent underestimation of competence. Perhaps, after all, ‘illusory superiority’ is merely a description of being American; a state that not even the most wholesome, most whimsical, most humorous inhabitants of Lake Wobegon can avoid.

Of course some Radio 4 comedy could be very funny indeed:

One of the most celebrated comic texts in modern English, 1066 And All That was written by Punch contributor Robert Yeatman and history teacher W C Sellar, with illustrations by John Reynolds. It apes the form of a school history textbook, but one that’s been written by an distracted child staring down the barrel of an end-of-year exam. It presents a mangled, otherworldly version of English (never British) history from the arrival of Julius Caesar to the end of the First World War, confidently identifying ‘103 Memorable Things, 5 Bad Kings and 2 Memorable Dates’ along the way. The authors declare at the beginning: ‘History is not what you thought. It is what you can remember. All other history defeats itself.’

The first memorable date

In 1983 I was 12, and learning about motte and bailey castles at school. I didn’t care much about the ins and outs (or rather, the ups and downs) of castle construction then, and I still don’t care now; but I was paying close attention, because our teacher, Mrs Twombley, was one of those teachers, and she had me in a trance. It was the first time I’d been taught history as a discrete subject, and I was discovering that I really liked it. I was also discovering that Mrs Twombley had a lot of strong opinions about Mrs Thatcher: opinions that were not entirely relevant to the context of the thirteenth century. Lots of history teachers, in my experience, have strong opinions about Margaret Thatcher. I suppose she was just a historical sort of person.

It was around this time that I bought 1066 And All That from our local bookshop, using my own pocket money. I hadn’t heard of it, and I don’t think my parents had read it. But in the way that you do when you’re entering your teens, I’d decided that something (history, in my case) was going to be one of my ‘things’, and this tiny little volume full of jokes felt like that kind of thing a History Person should own.

In this I was completely right, although it took me a few decades to work out why. Although it’s only 125 (small) pages long, 1066 And All That is one of those books that repays close reading over a lifetime, because the more you know, the funnier the jokes become. My most well-developed opinion about it — aside from my belief that it’s a work of genius, and should be in those capsules that we send out into space in the hope of explaining ourselves to aliens — is that it’s one of the most accomplished surveys of English history ever written. For starters, it takes a genuinely unusual and wide-ranging level of knowledge and understanding to write jokes this good. And I have never read a better commentary on the mistakes we make with history, both in the general and in the particular. The riotous confusion of the text satirises the fallacies, prejudices and anachronisms of all truly popular histories, formal or informal; and it is also a devastatingly effective demolition of the peculiarities of English national self-regard.

In my early teens I had enough knowledge to understand the parts about the Tudors (‘Broody Mary’) and Henry VIII’s succession troubles (‘Anne had a girl too, in a way (see Elizabeth).’) But, being a student at a comprehensive school in the 1980s (and not a boy at a boarding school in the 1910s), most of the book was riffing on periods of history that I knew absolutely nothing about. Much of the section about Anglo-Saxon England, for instance, with its mentions of the ‘Venomous Bead’, went straight over my head. It was literally last month, when reading Marc Morris’s The Anglo-Saxons, that I understood one of these jokes (‘Non Angli, sed Angeli’ — ‘not Angles, but Anglicans’) for the first time.

But even so, lots of the individual jokes (‘A Wave of Egg-Kings’) were still funny, because Sellar and Yeatman had an eerie talent for language that is funny in itself even when shorn of meaning. You don’t, for instance, need to understand anything to be made delirious by the end-of-chapter tests (‘How angry would you be if it was suggested that the XIth Chap. of the Consolations of Beothius was in interpolated palimpsest?’) The proof of its universality is that so much of it has become part of the British comic lingua franca: Wrong but Wromantic, the Boer Woer, ‘Do not attempt to write on both sides of the paper at once’. The tropes are uncannily accurate to this day; most British people do mentally categorise their monarchs as either ‘Good’ or ‘Bad’, and the English obsession with being Top Nation isn’t so much a joke as a material fact.

You can find perfectly serious analyses asserting that 1066 And All That is both postmodern and anti-imperialist, and the thing is, I’m not even sure they’re wrong. Don’t take it from me: take it from History Today, which noted that it ‘gleefully rips apart the idealised conception that imperial England had of itself. “War against Zulus. Cause: the Zulus. Zulus exterminated. Peace with Zulus”, runs a line on Victorian history.’ It’s this sense of revelry in Britain’s humiliation that’s notable in a text written a century ago by two Establishment-class products of High Imperial Britain. Long before the Tehran Conference, long before Suez, Sellar and Yeatman saw that British global influence was coming to an end (and thus that ‘History came to a .’), and they seemed entirely cheerful about it; the unwritten code of 1066 And All That is that England’s pretensions to power have always been ludicrous. (It took Britain’s political class another three decades to resign itself to the end of Empire, and some of them haven’t got there to this day.)

The postmodernism is right there in its famous declaration that ‘History is what you can remember’, an assertion that provides more than enough material for a PhD thesis. It’s also in the jokes that overflow the main text and embed themselves in the frontmatter. From the title page (‘ROBERT JULIAN YEATMAN, Failed M.A.. etc., Oxon.’) to the acknowledgements (‘The Editors’ thanks are also due to their wife’), the formalities are disrupted and <steeples fingers> interrogated. This meta approach wasn’t new to me in 1983, because the other publication I was obsessed with at the time was Smash Hits, another text in which the ‘serious’ and the ‘silly’ were wrapped around each other like a double helix. Both publications signal a kind of full-body commitment to the principles of the thing: that the formal structure exists only to hold the material, and that you can bend that structure into any shape you like, if the material is good enough. It’s significant, then, that there isn’t a duff line in the whole book.

I have no doubt that the Smash Hits luminaries — Neil Tennant, David Hepworth, Mark Ellen, Tom Hibbert — knew 1066 And All That like the backs of their hands. It’s that kind of book: beloved of the upper-middles, available in all grammar school libraries, namechecked by broadsheet journalists on social media. It has the same slightly exhausting cultural valence as Molesworth, and I know (from having never read Molesworth) that if you don’t build up an intimacy with these things at a young age, the constant references (usually made by people who went to better schools than you) can feel exclusionary and snotty. But I’m here to tell you, straight from Mrs Twombley’s slightly shabby classroom, that — like the works of Shakespeare and Tom Holland dancing to ‘Umbrella’ — 1066 And All That is so good that it belongs to all of us, whether we know it or not.

The second memorable date

Slightly shamefully for a history graduate, I’m very bad at retaining information. The moment I stop actively learning about something, 90% of the relevant facts simply flee from my head. I say this is shameful ‘for a history graduate’ because I’m not any other kind of graduate, and so I can’t say whether it matters so much for other subjects; but history, done right, is a vast multi-dimensional matrix of information, in which Henry the Lion getting out the wrong side of the bed in Saxony could result in chaos anywhere between the Welsh Marches and Jerusalem. If you can’t firmly affix the points in your matrix — if you can’t remember that Luther’s Ninety-Five Theses roughly coincides with the last years of Leonardo da Vinci, the departure of Magellan, the arrival of European adventurers in new (to them) areas of Mexico and Bangladesh, and a significant expansion of the Atlantic slave trade — then you’re just not going to be very good, as a historian.

As a result, I’m always wildly impressed by people who can read something once and just remember it. For instance: about 15 years after discovering 1066 And All That, when I was 27 and working in publishing, I overheard the following conversation between my boss and an author:

My boss: So when do you think you can deliver the manuscript?

The author: Well, as someone once said: ‘Prediction is very difficult, especially about the future.’

My boss [posh murmured laugh]: Oh, quite. Niels Bohr, wasn’t it?

In that moment, my boss seemed to me devastatingly debonair. I mean, I’d never even heard of Niels Bohr, and yet my boss was, evidently, familiar with all the notable things Niels Bohr (who?) had said and done; furthermore, he was able to pull that knowledge out of his arse at will. He had, I marvelled, reached a pinnacle of generalist fluency; an unfathomable number of facts clicked in his head, like tiny marbles.

And then, quite recently, I realised that this incident took place roughly two months after Michael Frayn’s Copenhagen — a play about Bohr — had opened in London. And my boss was exactly the kind of guy who would get tickets to the hot new play at the National in 1998. In other words: my boss didn’t have a brain like a card catalogue, with all the world’s most important facts codified and memorised and cross-referenced. (Some people do: the other Tom Holland seems to have a brain like this.) He had merely remembered something from a play he had seen a few weeks before. My memory is sub-par, but — and this is important — lots of other people’s memories are sub-par too. Most of us are living error-strewn lives, surfing along on mangled fragments of half-remembered bollocks; and that’s OK.

This spirit of comfortable self-deprecation — the cheerful middle-aged admission of general ignorance and defeat — pervades 1066 And All That. It’s a tone that says: don’t feel bad because you don’t understand the relationship between the Picts, the Irish and the Scots. At least you’ve paid your tax bill and you know where your stopcock is. The fundamental joke of 1066 And All That — that none of us can remember a bloody thing, and it doesn’t matter — acts on the fiftysomething reader like a hot water bottle applied to the lumbar region. As Sellar and Yeatman say in their Compulsory Preface (‘This Means You’): ‘Histories have previously been written with the object of exalting their authors. The object of this History is to console the reader.’

This consolatory proposition underlies much ‘wry’ humour, which is why wry humour tends to find favour with the middle-aged. (Younger people still have hope that they will turn out to be exceptional.) The British humorist Alan Coren deployed this tone regularly, and was extremely good at it; around the time I first read 1066 my father was reading Coren’s Golfing for Cats (1975), with regular breaks to lie down on the carpet and weep with laughter. (Coren called it Golfing for Cats because he’d observed that best-selling books tended to be about cats, golf or Nazis. In a move that absolutely would not be countenanced today, the cover of the first edition sported an enormous swastika.)

I find most wry humour insufferable; all those sloppy toilet books written by people who seem to truly believe that they know everything, and who in fact know little aside from laziness and a lack of self-respect. Most people should be firmly discouraged from looking sideways at things, at least until they’ve learned to look properly, straight-on. But in the right hands comic writing about serious things is a life-enhancing practice, precisely because the nature of things does matter. Well-executed wryness scours the line between the ephemeral and the important. Sellar and Yeatman both fought in the First World War (Yeatman was severely wounded, shot through ‘like a colander’, and won the Military Cross). You’d never know this from the way they write about it (‘Though there were several battles in the War, none were so terrible or costly as the Peace signed in the Chamber of Horrors at Versailles’), but it surely informed their sure-footedness; 100 years later you can read their summation without experiencing any embarrassment on their behalf.

Although I have read 1066 And All That literally hundreds of times, I haven’t finished decoding it yet. Even to a relatively well-read fifty-something, it’s still full of arcana. On the imprint page, in tiny 6-point print underneath the catalogue information, there is a dedication: ‘Absit Oman’. It turns out this is a play on the Latin tag ‘absit omen’ (‘may what I have written not come true’); and it is a joke about Charles Oman, a celebrated Edwardian military historian whose books Sellar and Yeatman probably had to read at school (Fettes and Marlborough, respectively).

In 2026 it took me about two minutes to find this out, but in 1983 I wouldn’t have had a hope in hell. Nobody I knew had heard of Charles Oman, or understood Latin tags. I would have read it, thought ‘that’s probably a joke, but I don’t know how’, and moved on. Like so many things, 1066 And All That is the product of a lost world, a world in which people sometimes had to just not know things, and nevertheless pick up the shreds of their dignity and move on with their lives. What was the date of the Pheasants’ Revolt? Was it King Alfred or King Arthur who married the Lady Windermere? What is the explanation for Lamnel Simkin and Percy Warmneck? The quiet humility of knowing that you don’t know, and that you might never know, was good for the soul. In one of their terrifyingly hostile quizzes, Sellar and Yeatman suddenly demand: ‘What have you the faintest recollection of?’ Not much, to be honest. But that’s OK.

Some jokes, though, were not just comprehensible by 12 year olds, they were written by them.

Library Corner

What has read this month

A Reluctant Spy (David Goodman, 2025)

A wonderfully wry, gently smart spy thriller. Glaswegian misfit Jamie Tulloch is recruited out of Cambridge into SIS’s ‘Legends’ programme, in which real-life people lead real-life lives in order to establish cast-iron ‘legends’ that can be handed over to real spies when the situation demands it. When Tulloch’s handover goes to pot, he decides to just go with it, stepping into a field agent role with no training, no briefing and no clue what he’s doing.

Two things I really enjoyed about this: the first was the invocation of Zanzibar, which sounds absolutely delightful. An odd side-effect of reading thrillers is that you are introduced to parts of the world you’ll almost certainly never see; over the past year or so I’ve vicariously visited Tehran, Damascus, Moscow and the Florida Everglades. Something about the dictates of the genre – describing the location of a dead drop, narrating the experience of cleaning your tail – incentivises wonderfully evocative descriptions. But they’re always in the service of a plot, which stops them from becoming tedious drones about landscapes.

And the second highly enjoyable thing was Goodman’s quietly intelligent refusal to impose stereotypes on his characters. Tulloch feels like a real person, as does his unwilling field colleague. Sure, there are a few Russian goons and one or two Deeply Nasty Super-Spies, but most of the characters – up to and including the slightly bewildered public school boys at SIS headquarters – are just ordinary, flawed people who are trying their best. If you’re getting a bit bored with the thudding cynicism of all the British Slow Horses impersonators – endless books in which every single senior intelligence officer has the brain of a spaniel and the morals of a Roman consul – it’s a lovely little palate-cleanser.

The Anglo-Saxons (Marc Morris, 2021)/Millennium (Tom Holland, 2008)

The Anglo-Saxons was on a 99p deal on Kindle last month (sorry if this info comes too late to be of any use) so I took a punt, and was very glad I did. Morris has a wonderfully conversational style; thoughtful and interesting but utterly clear and comprehensible for the beginner.

He opens with a brilliant anecdote about a Suffolk farmer called Peter Whatling who lost his hammer in a field in 1992 and, in the course of searching for it, made a discovery ‘so startling that he immediately contacted both the police and the local authorities’; a hoard of Roman treasure, ‘one of the most spectacular ever unearthed in Britain’, that is now known as the Hoxne Hoard and can be seen in the British Museum. The team from the Suffolk Archaeological Unit, Morris notes, ‘also found Mr Whatling’s hammer’.

This is a great way to start a book about the Dark Ages (as we’re now not supposed to call them); but opening with a good anecdote is a relatively easy trick. What grips you is where Morris goes next: why was this hoard buried in the first place? The answer, he says, lies in one of history’s iron laws. ‘There is one paramount factor that consistently prompted people in all periods to conceal their valuables in the ground: fear.’ Fear of what, in this instance? Well, you should read The Anglo-Saxons to find out.

The book ends with the Norman invasion of 1066, so after finishing it I went back to Tom Holland’s Millennium, a survey of Western Europe before and after the year 1000CE. Reading these two back to back helped me to finally understand why I really struggle with Millennium: its narrative relies far too much on the ‘Peter Whatling’s hammer’ trick, but Holland doesn’t go anywhere comprehensible with his evocative openings. Again and again he drops you very effectively into some epochal moment (he opens with the Road to Canossa), and then just gets distracted by a now-occult aspect of Medieval theology, warbling on about it in increasingly strained language. ‘Not everything is to do with god, Tom!’ you cry, desperately turning the pages trying to find the bit where he presses a cold flannel to his forehead and remembers that he’s writing a history book. How this for a sentence: ‘To those who had imagined that the convulsions of the age might spell the imminence of the end days, and who had laboured mightily in the expectation of their coming, the failure of the New Jerusalem to descend could hardly be regarded as a cause for unconfined rejoicing.’ I understand it, Holland, but I don’t have to like it.

I have a lot of time for Holland (the co-host of the all-conquering Rest is History podcast and an extremely well-regarded popular historian). In a popular culture that is terrified of intellect and formal academic accomplishment, his success is one of the bright spots. So I shouldn’t complain; I’ve really enjoyed some of his other books. But there’s something about the way he writes about Christianity that just jangles my nerves. He’s a bit like someone who’s just given up smoking and can’t talk about anything else. Perhaps it’s just no use attempting him on this subject if you’re a lifelong atheist.

Letterboxd Diary

What has enjoyed watching this month.

Bonnie and Clyde (1967)

Arthur Penn’s Bonnie and Clyde is, of course, usually seen as marking the beginning of ‘the New Hollywood’, introducing Nouvelle Vague film-making techniques and a stylised grit to American cinema. At first glance it seems terribly of its time, but it remains remarkably relevant. With its meandering plot, stylised and stylish characters and frank violence and dialogue, it comes across as a ‘60s Quentin Tarantino film. Or, more accurately, the kind of ‘60s/‘70s film that Tarantino is constantly remaking. Its position now, as a work of more historical than artistic interest, is perhaps an indication of how Tarantino will be remembered, too.

As you would expect, I would also recommend watching it just to see the outfit C. W. Moss (Michael J. Pollard) is wearing when he first meets Bonnie and Clyde. Absolute perfection.

Speed (1994)

Speaking of Tarantino, here’s a film – one that’s the antithesis of New Hollywood – that he was originally approached to direct. Apparently he also likes it, despite calling it a ‘situation’ movie: a film that’s all about one high concept and nothing else. But that concept is a banger, literally: a bus has been rigged with a bomb (built around a wristwatch) that will explode if the bus’s speed falls below 50mph. The set-up is full of metaphors for the film itself: relentless movement, a clockwork-driven Hollywood plot mechanism, an object engineered to deliver nothing but pyrotechnics. The casting of Dennis Hopper, the enfant terrible and prime mover of New Hollywood, as a cackling one-note villain, emphasises that this is very much not a New Hollywood movie. It is slick, propulsive, precision-made entertainment. The setting is entirely hermetic, all enclosed spaces (lifts, buses, trains) and enclosed situations (the passengers and the police); the plot is a thing happening entirely within a movie, containing no reality whatsoever.

And, for once, Tarantino is right: it’s one of the better examples of its kind, and a terrific ride.

Das Boot (1981) / Greyhound (2020)

Another episode in the ongoing ‘finding something to watch with Rowan’s Dad’ project: this month, we fought the Battle of the Atlantic from above and below (and from either side).

First of all, we managed to find the 1984 full-length German-language version of Das Boot, which meant hours trapped in the stifling confines of U-96 with Karleun Jurgen Prochnow and his sweaty, bearded crew. Das Boot was made at the height of the Cold War, when West Germany was a key ally for the West; as with many war films of the time, it portrays most German combatants as anti-Nazi, as suspicious of the party members in their midst as they are of the British. On the other hand, it is rigorous in showing the crew of the U-Boat as fiercely dedicated to blowing up Allied convoys and fighting Royal Navy destroyers. While it is anxious to show them aghast when they discover they have torpedoed a burning Allied transport with crew still aboard, it is also careful to mete out justice at the close, with [spoilers] most of the crew killed in an RAF raid on the submarine pens. By this point it has managed to make the crew and their tribulations convincing and sympathetic enough that the moment is heart-breaking, even as it is reassuring that the war will be won by democracy in the end.

Greyhound (2020), part of Tom Hanks’s apparent mission to document every theatre of the Second World War, quite understandably does not feel the need to humanise the enemy. The view from the bridge of an escort destroyer is that the U Boat Wolf Pack is an insidious and ruthless danger. What Greyhound does have in common with Das Boot, though, is that it is very good at the business of the battles. Both also convey an acute sense of desperation and panicked struggle; not just for the survival of the crews, but for the survival of a political and civilisational idea.

Sadly, though, being an American film about an American ship, Greyhound is unnecessarily snide about the British. Das Boot, on the other hand, is commendably respectful about being hunted down and depth charged by the Brits, even if they are on a ship called something like HMS Tiggywinkle and crewed by John Mills and Richard Attenborough.

The Fabelmans (2022)

Greyhound led, inevitably, to Saving Private Ryan (1998). Rowan is never happier than when watching Tom Hanks win the Second World War, but that wasn’t the only reason; we’d just watched The Fabelmans, and were on something of a Spielberg jag.

The Fabelmans is a lightly fictionalised autobiography of Spielberg’s childhood and teenage years, and is one of the best things he has done in years. It is an example of what he is best at: films about middle class suburbia. I do not mean to damn with faint praise, being a middle class suburbanite myself.

It is customary to see Spielberg as lacking the ‘grit’ of the other New Hollywood tyros, but this is only true if you define ‘grit’ as ‘tormented, inarticulate men being dysfunctional at each other with guns and swearwords’. There’s a sequence [spoiler] in which Mitzi Fabelman (Michelle Williams) watches footage of her extra-marital affair that her son has accidentally recorded; I defy anyone to watch it and then argue that Spielberg films don’t contain grit.

It is also a perfect example of just how good Spielberg is as a director. He doesn’t try anything fancy; he just rests the camera on Williams’s face and trusts the actor to do their job. Williams absolutely does, in spades: joy at the memory of a family holiday, pride in her son’s film, and then a mounting horror, shame, anger and fear.

Also, you get David Lynch (looking very like my old friend Ben Wallers in his military surplus jacket) as John Ford, delivering some of the best visual storytelling advice I’ve ever heard.

Playlist

: Here’s my favourite ten tracks for this month.

Nothing From Nothing - Billy Preston. The weather has turned cold again in the UK, but this is a joyous slice of ‘70s soul pop to cheer us all up.

Mystery - Boxed In. Very taken with the way the almost rave piano resolves into a lovely upbeat indie chorus here.

Golden Meadow - Ancient Infinity Orchestra. This is possibly a little too much of a sleepy, summery sort of jazz for the time of year, but it’s splendidly dreamy.

Every Beat That Passed - Lost Horizons feat. Kavi Kwai. Something about this track immediately made me sit up and take notice, and then I discovered a member of the Cocteau Twins was involved. I am nothing if not predictable.

Plate - Genevieve Artadi. Even more predictably, I just discovered that this lovely bit of wonky funk (possibly funky wonk) was featured on the soundtrack of The Bear.

Katachi - Shugo Tokumaru. This is a great bit of upbeat Japanese pop which I picked before I knew it also had an amazing video.

EXPRESS YOURSELF - Kahil El’Zabar. This is a delightful jazz reworking of the Charles Wright track, somehow managing to be both hot and cool at the same time.

Laid - The Pains of Being Pure at Heart. I was never a James fan at the time, but being the age I am, this song is a powerful inducer of nostalgia, and I think I prefer this version to the original.

Happy Djong - Twelve Point Buck. Speaking of nostalgia, this has a splendid lo-fi fuzz to it that is deeply reminiscent of all the pre-grunge bands I listened to in the late ‘80s.

Echo Beach - Martha & The Muffins. It’s not nostalgia if you still listen to it regularly because it’s still great. I don’t know why this suddenly appeared in rotation this week, but it always makes me happy. Here’s the performance on Top of the Pops from 1980, introduced by the gruesome Dave Lee Travis, not (yet) an accused sex offender (rare among that generation of Radio 1 DJs) but I warn you to never look at his book of celebrity photographs.

The whole playlist is on Spotify as usual:

Speaking of Hanks, Spielberg and World War II:

An early reality TV series in which neighbours are challenged to redecorate each other’s homes in a limited time period and with a limited budget. They can call on the resources of carpenter ‘Handy’ Andy Kane and presenter Carol ‘nominative determinism’ Smillie. They also have the help [citation needed] of one of a suite of interior designers: jumpy cool mum Linda Barker, hip head girl Anna Ryder Richardson, or foppish spaniel-man Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen. The remodelling is done in secret, with each episode ending with the grand reveal to the other team, who are now going to have to eat dinner under a chandelier made out of a colander.

Rooms

In the late ‘90s some friends needed furniture for their new offices and that, inevitably, meant a trip to the fabled two towers of Croydon IKEA. Equally inevitably, that meant getting lost in Thornton Heath. Eventually, like Sam and Frodo trying to reach Minas Morgul, they had to ask a passer-by for directions. This South London Faramir was holding two differently flavoured Bacardi Breezers, with which he gestured as he said: ‘Keep going till you get to a little fuck-off. Then go left. Then there’ll be another little fuck-off, where you go right.’

Once they had discovered that a ‘little fuck-off’ was a mini-roundabout, the directions from the Bacardi Geezer — like a friendly ranger of Gondor — came good. Instead of killing a giant spider, on reaching IKEA they bought (also inevitably) a blue sofa.

The blue IKEA sofa was everywhere at the time; it’s even in the Museum of the Home’s exemplary ‘90s living room. There was an awful lot of IKEA in Changing Rooms: cheap furniture that could be easily acquired and easily — if not competently — customised. IKEA was the furniture retail equivalent of MDF, a cheap and adaptable wood substitute without which Changing Rooms could not have existed.

Both these things were relatively new: IKEA first came to Britain in the late ‘80s, around the same time that MDF started in mass production. The potential audience for Changing Rooms was also pretty new. By the late ‘90s almost half of under-35 year olds in the UK owned their own home, and were looking for cheap furniture to put in it. This was pretty much the peak of home ownership in the UK. (Within a decade, we would discover that the cheap mortgages that had enabled this boom had been a very, very bad idea indeed.)

Even those of us who were still renting tiny flats (and the tiny TVs on which we were watching Changing Rooms) were sitting on our own IKEA chairs and eating our supper off IKEA crockery with IKEA cutlery. This was not just because IKEA was cheap and practical, but also because it was stylish: all Scandinavian simplicity and understated design. Wildly affordable stylish homeware had not previously been available to the British. You could have cheap and nasty things, or florid and expensive things. The only way you could get nice furniture cheaply was to buy it second hand, with free clothes moths thrown in. Or you could ‘salvage’ old furniture other people had thrown away, which is why our sofa smelt funny in damp weather. Cheap and modish was new, and undeniably exciting. Not to mention very handy for Changing Rooms.

Watching Changing Rooms was like wandering through the exploded house of an IKEA ‘Showroom’, with all its mocked up sitting rooms and bedrooms and kitchen/living spaces. Like a funhouse mirror version of the Museum of the Home, it offered a glimpse of all those other possible lives. It was a series of domestic dioramas, like looking out of the window of a suburban train: lives suddenly opened up before you and then carried away.

We were also watching Changing Rooms, to be frank, because it was on. With a choice of four TV channels and no internet to speak of, you watched what you were given. BBC2 went on at 6pm (the moment I got in from work) for Star Trek: The Next Generation, and then stayed on until I went to bed. I couldn’t think of anything else to do, and wouldn’t have been able to afford it if I could.

But the show also held a specific appeal for me, because I was working in design. My friends who got lost in the fuck-offs were buying furniture for their web design agency (another New Thing), and I ended up working there with them. Web design has a lot in common with interior design: people think it’s all about the visuals, but really it’s all about the usability, and if that’s done well you won’t notice it at all. There’s even language in common: screen furniture, wallpaper and, in those days, an awful lot of tables.1

I felt an intense empathy with the Changing Room designers in their battles with vague and incomprehensible briefs, small budgets and over-involved clients. (Design clients always think designing is easy, and they always refuse to believe that the professionals know what they’re doing.) The fevered invention, and the desperate search for anything that could be easily reused and repurposed, was all too familiar. Frankly, I admired their professionalism. They designed, as all practical designers must, for the audience: not the battling DIYers who were going to have to pay to have that room re-redecorated afterwards, but the audience at home. Their unhinged creations were not supposed to be good interior design; they were supposed to be backdrops for dramatic reveals. They were supposed to be good TV.

Changing

In 1962, the BBC bought a derelict semi-detached house in Ealing and filmed DIY guru Barry Bucknell as he spent a full year renovating it. In the Reithian frame of the BBC’s purpose this was more information and education than it was entertainment; Barry Bucknell was there to teach the nation how to Do It Themselves. Before the Second World War most Britons had lived in rented property, but after the war an increasing number owned their own homes (by the ‘70s this was the majority). They needed to know how to lay a path, plaster a wall and put up a shelf, and the BBC was going to make sure they did it properly, while wearing a tie.

The closest television got to Changing Rooms in the ‘60s was a show called, deliciously, In Your Place (1967), in which two interior designers pitched different ideas for remodelling a room. There were two amazing things about In Your Place: firstly, it was presented by voice-of-Dougal-and-father-of-Emma Eric Thompson; and, secondly, there was no competitive element. The two designers presented their designs, everyone said how interesting they both were, and then the show ended. The point was for the viewer to be introduced to new concepts in interior design, not for them to experience any dangerous excitement.

BBC2 was still proudly ploughing the gentle education furrow in the late ‘90s. (In fact there was probably a programme about gentle ploughing somewhere in the schedule.) On the day Changing Rooms first aired, the channel also broadcast an appreciation of the apple orchards at Wisley, a display by young sheepdog handlers, and a look at the pickles of Italy and Scandinavia called A Perfect Pickle Programme. Even the less rural programmes were still relentlessly responsible. In the same week, instead of engaging in heavy-handed banter and male status anxiety, Top Gear worried about the EU mechanism for setting car part prices.

The only other show on BBC2 that was remotely as fluffy as Changing Rooms was Ready, Steady, Cook, a show in which cooks were given random ingredients and a time limit and told to conjure a meal. There are no coincidences here: they were produced by the same man, a man who was about to launch the UK’s version of the Dutch reality show Big Brother. That man was Peter Bazalgette, the great-great-grandson of Joseph Bazalgette, a Victorian engineer best known for his totemic improvements to London’s sewerage system. In other words, both Bazalgettes have been instrumental in massive changes to British cultural and domestic life. Joseph helped take effluent away from people’s homes, while Peter… well, like an episode of Changing Rooms you know how this is going to end.

If we’re trying to be fair about it, there’s an argument that Bazalgette was attempting to redress an imbalance in the way Reith’s principles had been applied. For a long time, ‘entertainment’ had been deprioritised in lifestyle programming in favour of a whole lot of education and information. Shows like Changing Rooms and Ready, Steady, Cook, which introduced competition and ‘stakes’ into lifestyle programming, were intended to right that bias. And Changing Rooms did sometimes contain trace amounts of information. Instead of magically revealing a set of MDF bookshelves, ‘Handy’ Andy would occasionally stop and explain how he had done something. But the information was a bit like the oats in Honey Nut Cheerios: it wasn’t the point. It was just there to assuage any residual guilt we might have about consuming so much rubbish.

Here’s a proper documentary about ‘Handy’ Andy himself from Adam & Joe:

From one angle Changing Rooms looks very innocent these days: a spoonful of sugar in the high-roughage BBC2 diet. But it was actually the first tremor of the approaching cultural earthquake of Big Brother, the beginning of the end of Reithian broadcasting. Thirty years later, all lifestyle programming is some form of game show; the news is dramatic wallpaper; and every documentary features a replaceable celebrity going ‘on a journey’ to discover something you already know. Broadcast television thinks it can compete with internet video by deprioritising information and education. Meanwhile, what are we doing with this glut of streaming video? Watching reviews of power tools and DIY how-to videos on YouTube.

For a (slightly) more sober form of ‘90s lifestyle programming, there’s always people and their cars, instead of houses, and From A to B:

There’s a thought experiment (most often associated with a short story by Ursula K. Le Guin) that runs like this: Imagine a perfect state. Nobody is hungry, lonely or unfulfilled; all needs are met, and everyone lives in a perpetual state of serene delight. But the price of this perfection is that one child must be kept in total isolation and darkness from the moment of her birth. She lives in filth in a dark cellar, and she eats survival rations of bread and water delivered through an air-gapped door. If she were ever to know the sun on her face, or any sense of human comfort, the perfect state would dissolve. (This proposition doesn’t make any sense. That’s why it’s a thought experiment.)

And the question is: do you think this is a defensible bargain? Or not? On the one hand: without this child’s sacrifice, many people would be hungry, unhoused, unhappy, or treated with cruelty. On the other hand: Christ on a bike.

This thought experiment pops into my head quite often when I think about the British royal family. Not that the UK offers a perfect existence to its people (insert your own hollow laugh); but that, at some level, us Brits are happy to exchange one family’s happiness, their fundamental freedom to thrive, for a broader political settlement.

What we’re avoiding, in this bargain, is putting too much power in the hands of our fellow voters. We’re avoiding an elected head of state: a President Farage, a President Vorderman, a President Corbyn or a President Martin Lewis (the last one is thought to be the most probable). You might truly believe, as a matter of sheer principle, that President Farage would be preferable to a hereditary monarch. But you have to accept that President Farage (or President Corbyn) would have the power to open and close Parliament, appoint Prime Ministers, direct the armed forces and sign (or refuse to sign) laws. Be honest: if you’d been President in January 2020, would you have signed the European Union (Withdrawal Agreement) Act without the slightest hint of fuss or grandstanding?

If nothing else, the heirs to the throne — with a few notable exceptions — have been trained all their lives to keep their hands where we can see them, and not make any sudden moves. Which is more than you can say about the British electorate right now.

So we keep the Windsors where they are, trapped under glass. And we never admit to ourselves that we’re doing this for us, not for them. We make them rich, and give them really ugly mansions to live in, and then we scream at them to be more grateful and more entertaining; in any other context we would call the dynamic abusive. One moment we are making reverences to their magic blood; the next moment we are enraged because they’ve tried to exert the most basic rights to privacy over their pregnancies, their kids, their divorces or their terminal illnesses. Witness the way Kate Middleton (I know that’s not her name) was forced to release a hostage video after taking some time off to have chemo. No wonder so many of them are completely cracked. Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor tests this sympathetic position nearly to destruction; but even he, dreadful little shit that he is, has endured a context of emotional and personal madness that few would emerge from intact.

One of the odd things about the royal family is that their most fervent persecutors are the people who claim to support them most. Those wet, empty weirdos who press up against the police cordons and buy the commemorative partworks are the same people who cannot imagine that the members of the royal family deserve ordinary human kindness. They certainly don’t accept that the royals are entitled — in the words of Article 8 of the European Convention on Human Rights — to ‘privacy and family life’. Those of us who are ambivalent about the royals are much more likely to think they should be left alone to perform ordinary human functions in private.

It all went wrong, of course, when the royals made the tremendous mistake of re-introducing good-looking outsiders. When I was growing up in the 1970s, not one of the Windsors would have drawn a second glance in the average high street disco. The Queen and Prince Philip were in their 50s and their kids were in their 20s and 30s, and there wasn’t a pretty face to be found anywhere. As a unit, they were as jauntily compelling as a bollard in the rain. They had exactly the same valence as Sunday afternoons; they dragged on, and they had to be endured. By the time Prince Philip conceived an epochally disastrous scheme to marry Charles to a posh virgin, my fundamental opinions had already been formed; these people were square. I was required to watch the wedding of Charles and Diana in 1981 — they put it on the big projector screen in the assembly hall at school — and even as a ten year old I couldn’t get excited about it.

There is, admittedly, a strong strain of snobbery among those of us who aren’t impressed by the royals. If you’re posh enough, it’s just classic-brand snobbery; there are plenty of old English and Scottish families who think the Windsors are laughably bourgeois. More commonly, though, the snobbery of un-royalists (who are not always outright republicans) is cultural and intellectual. It is the snobbery of the Guardianistas and the grammar school kids (let’s face it, it’s quite funny that all the elite schooling in the world couldn’t produce three decent A Levels from the Queen’s children collectively, let alone individually.) We are quite capable of our own kind of nastiness; faced with the frothing irrationality of the royal fans, we respond with personalised abuse of the principals.

But our emotional detachment— and, honestly, our mild contempt — also enables a certain amount of empathy. It’s because we don’t think these people are magic that we are able to recognise them as people.

In early September 1998, just after Diana’s death in Paris, my flatmate and I had a spare room that we needed to fill. We had put an ad in Loot, as one did in the late ‘90s, and needed to decide which of the respondents we might be happy to see when making our way to the bathroom for the first piss of the day. We invited the candidates over, one by one, for a chat in our living room, and we kept the rolling news coverage on in the background as a test. This was during the ‘WHERE IS OUR QUEEN, WHERE IS HER FLAG?’ mania, after the death but before the funeral. The main story of the day was that the police were asking people to stop leaving bouquets outside Buckingham Palace, because the rotting foliage was becoming a health hazard.

Only one of our prospective room-mates — and it’s probably not a coincidence that he was Swedish — pointed at the telly and said, as an ice-breaker, ‘Can you explain to me what the fuck is going on with all this bullshit?’ Reader, we offered him the room. I suspect some of the other ad respondents had thought the same thing, but had bitten their tongues (it was a mansion flat at the top of Brixton Hill with a massive garden).

The public response was certifiable, but what was worse was the way those small boys were required to follow their mother’s coffin through the streets, and to not cry. They were 15 and 12. It still makes me angry to think about this. The usual excuse, now that everyone recognises it was a cruel shitshow, is that ‘the Firm’ insisted on it and nobody else felt able to intervene. Who knows if that’s true; during this period in particular, Downing St and the tabloids didn’t seem to have much trouble getting the Firm to do things it didn’t want to do.

There certainly wasn’t any widely expressed public discomfort that these traumatised boys were being forced to participate in the festivalisation of their own grief. The frothers wanted them there, and their tearful reluctance only made it more delicious. Like a sex aid or a lemon reamer, they enabled viewers to squeeze out something gratifying. There was no screaming headline in The Sun about their exploitation; there were no questions in Parliament. The royalists thought the cruelty was fine, and everyone else kept their mouths shut. Whenever Harry pops up these days promoting some podcast nobody wants, I think: you know what, mate? You’ve earned the right to do whatever you like. (Within the law. Which is the bit his uncle seems to have forgotten.)

In her famous 2013 essay ‘Royal Bodies’, Hilary Mantel described Kate Middleton as ‘a jointed doll’ whose ‘only point and purpose’ was to have children. For this, Mantel was excoriated by the hysterically hard-of-thinking. She was, of course, noting the suffocating fate of royal women, and the way the British public feel entitled to eat them alive. And she was, of course, also being a massive cultural and intellectual snob. It’s really hard not to be, when you’re talking about the royals. I can imagine that the essay might have been infuriating for Middleton, who seems like a perfectly smart person. (She got into a competitive university under her own steam; lots of people don’t.) It isn’t nice to be called a jointed doll, even if it’s intended as commentary on your position rather than your literal person. It was reported at the time that she was upset by it. I wonder whether, after 13 years of insanity and intrusion, she isn’t now beginning to see Mantel’s point. I like to think that Kate might be yet another middle-aged, middle class woman radicalised by the real queen.

It won’t surprise anyone that Mantel wasn’t a flag-waver, but she also wasn’t a doctrinaire republican. ‘Is monarchy a suitable institution for a grown-up nation?’ she asked. ‘I don’t know.’ But what she’d noticed, she said, was that the British public treat the monarchy as ‘an entertainment, in the same way that we license strip joints and lap-dancing clubs.’ And when you conceptualise human lives as entertainment, ‘adulation can swing to persecution.’ Call me a foaming egalitarian, but I don’t think King Charles should be giving speeches while recovering from cancer treatment; I think he should be sitting very quietly on a soft chair in a lovely garden, eating a lentil salad.

The story in which Ursula K. Le Guin described her thought experiment was called ‘The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas’. These people — the ones who walk away from the state — are the heroes. They choose exile rather than be morally complicit in the bargain that underpins their privilege.

I’m not one of these heroes; I’m far too afraid of President Farage. But if we must trap these people under glass — and on balance, I’m OK with that — we should at least have the courage to recognise that we’re asking them to make a gruesome sacrifice. As Mantel said, ‘I’m not asking for pious humbug and smarmy reverence. I’m asking us to back off and not be brutes.’ Given that we don’t live in a thought experiment, perhaps we should consider how the terms of the royals’ captivity might be changed.

This isn’t the first time Hilary Mantel has appeared in The Metropolitan and I think it’s safe to assure you that it won’t be the last, either.

Elevator Pitch

The eponymous Highlander is Connor MacLeod (Christopher Lambert), a sixteenth century Scottish clansman, who miraculously recovers from a mortal wound. The flamboyant Ramirez (Sean Connery) reveals to him that they are both members of a mysterious group of immortals who can only be killed by having their heads cut off. Now the immortals are gathering in ‘80s New York for a decapita-thon in which the last one with an intact noggin will win the nebulously defined ‘Prize’. All of which has attracted the attention of the NYPD, even as MacLeod must face the most fearsome of all the immortals, The Kurgan (Clancy Brown). Because, as the poster says: “There can be only one.”

It is somewhat ironic that Highlander uses decapitation as a plot element, because it is a film best enjoyed without a brain.

Quentin Tarantino has coined a meta genre he calls ‘the hang out movie’: one in which the core appeal is hanging out with the characters. In some movies — such as any film by Jim Jarmusch, or Richard Linklater’s Slacker (1990) — the depiction of ‘hanging out’ is pretty much the whole film. But a ‘hang out’ movie can fall in any genre; Tarantino was specifically talking about Howard Hawks’’s Western Rio Bravo (1959). Tarantino’s own Pulp Fiction (1994) is a ‘hang out’ movie.

Highlander is a subtly different kind of ‘hang out’ movie, though; it’s the kind of movie you put on while hanging out. It was made in the VHS era, when you could put films on in the background while you played with action figures and recited the catchphrase dialogue. It is perfect for projecting on a blank wall in a hipster dive bar at 2 in the morning, so that the drunks can get hysterical about the OTT sequence that follows the first decapitation: cars in a parking lot rhythmically bumping up and down, a hose unfurling in a tumescent burst of froth, and Christopher Lambert moaning orgasmically. (This is referred to as ‘The Quickening’, a medieval term for the first sense a woman has of pregnancy, which should give you some idea of the adolescent Freudian stew involved.)

Highlander is an emblematic Hollywood popcorn flick, all hot air and explosions, too much sugar and too much salt. It is a high concept movie in which superficially ‘cool’ concepts are arranged in a vast and teetering pile, until everyone involved is dizzy and nauseous with altitude sickness. In no particular order, it confronts the viewer with a rain-slicked and neon ‘80s New York; Japanese katanas; swordfights in back alleys; smart, world weary cops; Highland battles in the bagpipe-skirling mists; Dutch angles and frenetic editing; Queen; Christopher Lambert’s slow and wonky smile; and Sean Connery’s eyebrows.

As with its VHS inheritance, Highlander belongs to the era of music videos; the director Russell Mulcahy made his name directing Ultravox’s ‘Vienna’ and Duran Duran’s ‘Rio’ and, perhaps most pertinently, The Buggles’ ‘Video Killed The Radio Star’, the video that launched MTV. It has been designed to work like a music video; its visuals are an accompaniment to something else. Not music (although Queen wrote songs for the soundtrack), but the viewer’s own imagination.

It is a vibe movie, and the vibe is ‘what a teenage boy thinks is cool’.

Delights

All of which, on rewatch, made me wonder why I had loved it so much back in 1986. Sure, I had been a Queen fan, but by 1986 I was starting to drift away from them because they seemed so uncool: mainstream music for stadium-rocking dads. And, admittedly, I was a Christopher Lambert fan, having already seen him in Subway (1985). But while Subway -- a product of the ‘80s French ‘cinema du look’ -- is a very shallow film, it is the Mariana Trench compared to Highlander.

The very shallowness of the film, the fact that it is little more than a vibe, is part of its appeal. Of course, I wasn’t immune to the swords and sorcery, the mean streets of gritty Manhattan, the sheer velocity and chutzpah of Mulcahy’s hyperactive directions. But all that high concept -- the secret society of immortals, the head lopping, the ‘Prize’ -- could easily have turned into an indigestible slop of exposition and lore. Sure, it opens with a voiceover, which is always a bad sign: someone, while viewing an edit, said ‘wait, what?’ and demanded that an explanation be included.

But it doesn’t need it. Highlander, very wisely, doesn’t care. It knows that it’s all just an excuse for the cool bits. No one watching this cares where the immortals come from; they just want to see swordfights. It is notable that the sequel, which did try and expound on the mythology, is widely considered to be one of the worst films of all time.

Disappointments

This is a film in which Christopher Lambert, a Frenchman who couldn’t speak English when filming started, plays a Scot. Sean Connery, a Scot who has never once attempted any accent other than his own, plays an Egyptian with a Spanish name. Clancy Brown, an American, plays an ancient steppe warrior named after a kind of burial mound. This film is not just stupid on the surface; it is stupid all the way down, through the script, the idea, the casting, the production and the motivation. Its stupidity is the only deep thing about it.

But it’s not malicious; it is gleeful, boyish. It is stupidly fun. Stupidly entertaining. Maybe even stupidly cool.

Can We Show The Kids?

So, here’s the thing: you don’t have to. You can just wait for the remake. Yes, a remake, starring Henry Cavill, Dave Batuista and Russell Crowe, is being remade right now. It is directed by Chad Stahelski, the man behind the John Wick movies. Which are, not incidentally, an artisanal blend of the very stupid and the very cool.

Which rather begs the question:

Why Are They Remakering This?

Well, for the same reason they’ve just made yet another sequel to Tron (1982), the same reason they’re making a new adaption of the toy-line-turned-Saturday-morning-cartoon Masters of the Universe (1983--85), and the same reason the Star Wars will continue until morale improves.

Like John Favreau (the man behind The Mandalorian and Grogu (2026)) and Travis Knight (the director of Masters of the Universe (2026)), Chad Stahelski is Gen X. Our generation is now ‘in charge’ (for a given value of ‘in charge’; obviously, we’re not competent to run a major government or anything) and is busily revisiting our childhoods. Boomers like George Lucas and Steven Spielberg recreated the Flash Gordon and Rider Haggard adventures they had adored as kids and gave us the Star Wars and Raiders of the Lost Ark and now we, in turn, are remaking them. We might be lazy and feckless, but on the other hand, we’re entirely artistically derivative.

Those ‘70s and ‘80s blockbusters created the ‘four quadrant’ model: a massively expensive blockbuster with something for everyone, and nothing of substance for anyone. But there was another model: the stupid VHS cult hit. Highlander was distributed by Cannon, the production-house-cum-financial-shenanigan that was a prolific creator of thick-eared nonsense to be rented from Blockbuster on a rainy afternoon: like Cannon’s original adaptation of Masters of the Universe (1987), Highlander was a commercial flop that was re-rented, rewound and rewatched over and over again.

Now, the mainstream cinema of the twenty-first century is a mixture of event movie and enjoyable genre trash: endless brand-extending multiverses of imponderable lore and impenetrable visual effects. There is not much that distinguishes Highlander from a mediocre Marvel movie. The technology has improved; beyond the windows of Connor Macleod’s apartment in Highlander there is an absolutely awful backdrop photo of Manhattan, while a Marvel movie will have a slightly unconvincing CGI rendering, and costume design, fight choreography and scriptwriting have improved immensely.

But while Marvel movies have resources that Russell Mulcahy could only dream of, these are, basically, the same film over and over again. A vaguely drawn McGuffin; a bunch of one-dimensional characters; some lumpy plot mechanics; and, most importantly, a huge pile of ‘cool’ stuff with which to overwhelm the viewer. When they said ‘there can be only one’, it turns out they meant there could be only one kind of film.

There were some slightly more successful high-concept action flicks in 1986, most notably Top Gun:

Small Prophets (2026)

The BBC’s hit du jour, Small Prophets is a comedy drama that differentiates itself using comedy that’s actually funny and drama that isn’t grindingly predictable. As with his previous hit The Detectorists, it feels like Mackenzie Crook is trying to make up for being integral in Ricky Gervais’ rise to fame by making shows that are kind and human. (Crook recently told The Guardian that ‘after The Office, I wanted to write something that wasn’t cruel.’)

The closest the show gets to a villain is the protagonist’s next door neighbour Clive, an athleisure-wearing Millennial whose house is devoid of decoration or personality, and whose life is a stew of status anxiety and militant normality. He is the villain because the protagonist, Michael Sleep, is a slacker. (It’s right there in his name. He is a Sleep; dreaming through life.) Michael is a Gen X man in late middle age with an extravagant white beard and a vintage French artisan’s jacket; he spends his time on whimsical projects for his beloved, and he hoards ‘70s ephemera. I am in this picture, and I’m delighted by it.

The story is appropriately oneiric too, incorporating a little ancient Egyptian magic, rare books and a flock of folklore signifiers: birds and hares and the titular homonculi. In an even more laser-targeted Gen X feature, these supernatural beings are stop-motion animated, rolling in a little Ray Harryhausen to go with the Action Man helicopter and the Modest Mouse t-shirt.

Oh yes, the homonculi. At one level, the weird little creatures that <spoiler> prophesy truthfully </spoiler> act as a metaphor for contemporary technology: a magical Polymarket, a stop-motion AI. They are strange intrusions from imaginary worlds that threaten to completely upend the way we think about the real one.

Small Prophets tell us that magic is everywhere, even in the back alleys of an anonymous town; at one point an adult mugger mistakes Michael for Father Christmas. In a typically excellent piece on why fantasy is appealing, Frances Spufford inadvertently outlines most of the reasons why it works in Small Prophets. Most particularly, it insists that the world is full of small wonders. As Spufford puts it, fantasy is ‘a kind of necessary realism, arising in response to qualities of the contemporary world that we couldn’t properly attend to, couldn’t narrate, any other way.’

The whole thing has left me deeply torn about the prospects of Crook making a sequel. I’d love to see more of this quietly magical world; and yet I’d rather leave it as it is, a remarkable little jar of wonder. Just lovely.

Steal (Amazon Prime, 2026)

Top subscriber (we recommend his Substack if you like elegantly waspish missives about maths) requested our views on this one, and who are we to refuse to watch a big dumb thriller? Sophie Turner is Zara, a frustrated back-room staffer at a City hedge fund who has a terrifying day at work when armed robbers break into the office. There’s a twist at the end of the first episode that sets the narrative ticking, and then we’re off.

Turner is fabulous, but you probably already knew that. There should be a compound noun for ‘thinking you’ve discovered a promising actor, then finding out that they have been globally famous for a decade because they were on Game of Thrones.’ This has happened to us about five times now. (We are not watching Game of Thrones and you can’t make us.) What can we say? There’s a reason our strapline is ‘no hot takes’. Anyway: the downside of Turner being so convincing and understated is that you really notice when the actors around her aren’t. The romantic interest is flaccid, and one major character is so persistently whiny and helpless that it’s a surprise when he calls his own Uber. There are some great little turns though: Ellie James should have her own ‘tough London detective’ show, and Anastasia Hille is absolutely terrifying as Zara’s mother.

Professor Johnson (passim) said he thought Steal was good but was missing something, and that’s the TL;DR. As with Turner’s performance, it’s one of those shows where some things are done so well that the less successful aspects stand out all the more. It’s sharply written: the dialogue is cracking, and the exploration of Zara’s background is much more interesting and nuanced than you might expect. The police simply do their jobs, which is always a relief; investigative incompetence is overused as a plot-driver. As with The Diplomat, this is a show that actually understands London’s geography, and allows a realistic amount of time for a character to travel from the City to Hackney. It isn’t afraid to show finance jobs as mostly very boring, which is a departure for a financial thriller. And it’s pleasing to see these young, not that well paid support workers living in realistically nasty, poky London flats. (The realism has its limits, though; Zara’s one-bed in the Leopold Building on Columbia Road would be worth somewhere north of half a million.) All in all it feels like a show written by an intelligent, witty person who understands the world it’s set in.

But there’s an underdeveloped political angle that gets jammed in uncomfortably right at the end; and the actual plot, if you focus on it, is nuts. It felt like a show that’s 80% of the way there but needed a little bit longer to cook. Maybe there’s something about the financial imperatives of streaming that forces creatives to push things out the door before they’re quite ready. That said: we watched it all the way to the end.

Letterboxd Diary

What has enjoyed watching this month.

Predator: Badlands (2025)

A Predator (an alien species known in-universe as the Yautja) arrives on the galaxy’s deadliest planet to prove his prowess and finds himself up against the most dangerous prey of all: man. Well, man-made androids, which, as we’re all discovering, are worse than actual humans.

The Predator originated in 1987 monster flick that put one down in the Colombian jungle to hunt a special ops team headed by Arnold Schwarzenegger. The idea is that these aliens are the ultimate killers, devoted solely to hunting and gathering trophies. The mythos has evolved a little since then, we’ve learned more about their simplistic language, culture and homeworld, but the core idea is pure and, equally, simple.

All of which makes me wonder: if they’re these vicious murder monsters with claws so long they can barely press their computer buttons, where did they get all their terrifying toys from? Their invisibility cloaks and absolutely-not-lightsabres and laser traps? There appear to be no scientist Yautja, or engineers or writers of instruction manuals. Who invented and designed and built those faster-than-light engines and anti-gravity generators?

I realise, of course, that I am taking this all too seriously. The point of the Predators is to be a brute force that highlights human ingenuity and intelligence, but that also makes them a metaphor for precisely those special ops types that Arnold played in the original film. The ‘tip of the spear’ that so conveniently forgets the long haft of science and culture and technology that supports them. All the people who know how to make big fucking guns and run supply routes for food and ammo and still remember that the proper name for the shaft of a spear is a ‘haft’.

On the other hand, there’s something there. Such stupid questions often open up new clever answers and more ideas for more story. The Predator franchise was reinvigorated by Dan Trachtenburg with the very enjoyable Prey (2022), which starred Amber Midthunder as a Comanche woman facing off against a Yautja in nineteenth century America, a film that made the colonial metaphor aptly monstrous. Badlands is not quite as enjoyable but Trachtenburg at least seems interested in trying to do interesting things with the concept.

What’s noticeable is how much more adaptable and pliable a silly movie like Predator is than a genuinely brilliant and artful film like Alien (1979). The two franchises are often yoked together as sci-fi movies full of homicidal monsters, but the original Alien film is simply too good to sustain good sequels (I know, I know, Aliens (1986) is jolly good fun, I grant you, but it can’t hold a flamethrower to the original). Start somewhere stupid and you have somewhere to go.

Late Shift (2015)

A single late shift in a Swiss hospital as nurse Floria (Leonie Benesch) is faced with mounting stress, panic and exhaustion.

The Metropolitan Editors have been Leonie Benesch fans since seeing her much put-upon naïf Greta in Babylon Berlin (2017—). She is an absolute master of wide-eyed distress and barely contained anxiety, and brings it all to Late Shift. Indeed, there’s a striking moment of relief in which Floria jokes with a colleague and I think that may be the first time I’ve ever seen Leonie Benesch laugh on screen.

The film ends with text highlighting the shortage of nurses in Switzerland, although I’m afraid that British viewers may greet that with a hollow laugh. Compared to some NHS hospitals, Floria’s seems remarkably well supplied, staffed and funded.

I Shot Andy Warhol (1996)

This is Mary Harron’s ‘90s biopic of Valerie Solanas (Lili Taylor), the writer of the militant feminist S.C.U.M. [Society for Cutting Up Men] Manifesto and the woman who tried to murder Andy Warhol.

The film is remarkably even-handed. It details both the hideous and routine abuses that Solanas suffered at the hands of a misogynous patriarchy, and her mental health issues that – while socially exacerbated – may also explain the violence of her reaction. It also takes a long, curious but not cynical look at Warhol and the Factory movement. At its heart is a consideration of sexuality, gender and biology that takes in every angle and remains admirably inconclusive.

Two things stood out on this rewatch, having not seen the film in thirty years. One was how fascinated my friends and I used to be with the Warhol New York scene; how desperate we all were to be Factory workers. Not only were so many of the Warhol crowd so dissolutely, stupidly cool, but also they represented an alternative to the more legible ‘60s legends that Boomers couldn’t stop making films and albums about during their ‘80s midlife crises: Beatlemania, Woodstock, Chicago, Vietnam. A less mainstream alternative ‘60s ancestry runs from Warhol to the YBAs, from the Velvets to the indie charts, and from Solanas to Riot Grrl.

The other thing that stood out was that we had to watch this on YouTube, because it isn’t available for streaming. Which is a shame, because it’s good: thoughtful, spacious, affecting, political, insightful, compassionate, complex. Just as the Factory disappeared from the mainstream mythology of the ‘60s, so there was another, more interesting ‘80s and ‘90s that is missing from the retro recreations like Stranger Things (2016-25).

Michael Clayton (2007)

We have been catching up on the latter half of the second season of Poker Face (2023—25). The first half got bogged down in some complicated story arc business that caused us to give up for a bit, but after that was all wrapped up Poker Face gets back to the cases-of-the-week stuff that it does so well.

Anyway, in one episode characters kept going on about how much they loved Michael Clayton, and we realised that we could remember nothing about it. So we went and rewatched it and discovered why: it’s not in the least memorable.

You know, it’s fine. Everyone apart from Sidney Pollack overacts a bit, but only Tom Wilkinson goes too far. The plot is almost knotty, but is full of loose ends and not at all believable. It’s the sort of thing that the Coen Brothers would have played for dark laughs, and it might have worked better that way.

So why do I keep reading things by Americans who seem to think it’s an all-time classic? I recently read something comparing it, as a perfect Hollywood product, to Casablanca (1942), which is befuddling. For a start, it doesn’t have ‘Cuddles’ Sakall or a rousing rendition of ‘La Marseillaise’.

My theory is that the corporate thriller has more relevance and bite in the States than it can do here. The typical British corporation is a bunch of chinless wonders in drip-dry suits who play golf and musical chairs with board memberships. The typical American corporation is a quasi-nation state that destroys environments, runs politics and grinds up lives for no greater motive than making the line go up and to the right.

The corporation driving the plot of Michael Clayton – a chemical manufacturer fighting a class action lawsuit over its toxic products – is all too believable. However, the subplot – in which Tilda Swinton’s in-house counsel hires some assassins to do away with troublesome lawyers – seems slightly too cartoonish from this side of the pond.

It is noticeable that writer/director Tony Gilroy’s Star Wars contribution Andor (2022–2025) was able to take a fundamentally silly sci-fi setting and use that to create a persuasive, chilling and gritty story of fighting oppression in a way that the apparently realist Michael Clayton doesn’t quite manage. Perhaps the ludicrousness of the sci-fi genre allows you to build thriller-level stakes without sacrificing the realism of the politics.

The Red Shoes (1948)

In The Mood For Love (2000)

Two tales of doomed love for Valentine’s Day. Well, not quite, but I’ve been meaning to watch Wong Kar-wai’s In the Mood for Love for years, and so was delighted to find it had appeared on streaming. And now I’m going to have to buy it on DVD because it is utterly magnificent.

The Red Shoes, on the other hand, is the great masterwork by my favourite film-makers Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, and I rewatched it solely because it was on iPlayer. It’s a good deal more histrionic than the achingly restrained In the Mood for Love, but the films have two things in common: they are not only very good but they are also extraordinarily beautiful. In the middle of a dull and rainy February I inadvertently created a little island of beauty, Wong Kar-wai’s cool greens and Michael Powell’s saturated red as an antidote to the endless grey of a British winter.

This might have to become a habit. Perhaps I might try the beautiful ‘half-asleep’ grainy midcentury colours of Ozu’s Late Autumn (1960) or Tati’s Mon Oncle (1958). Kubrick’s masterpiece of entrancing tableau Barry Lyndon (1975), or Wes Anderson’s sugar frosted dioramas of The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014). Classic technicolour musicals, perhaps: the jewel colours of like The Umbrellas of Cherbourg (1964) or Cecil Beaton’s stunningly monochrome Ascot of My Fair Lady (1964). The magical scenery of Hayao Miyazaki’s Kiki’s Delivery Service (so perfectly cosy for late winter), the luminous black and white of Cocteau’s La Belle et la Bête (1946). All that visual delight and untrammelled beauty in which to luxuriate while outside it rains.

Playlist

: Here’s my favourite ten tracks for this month.

The Word The War - Liam Kazar

This is a nice chugging groove to bring us into March, just a hint of warm weather to come.

Taivshral - ENJI

This is a woozy piece of lyrical jazz pop, I think Enji - Erkhembayar Enkhjargal - is Mongolian by birth, although I’m not sure what language she’s singing in.

Dead - Komeda

I was quite a fan of Komeda in the ‘90s but somehow I’d never heard this track before.

Garden Botanum - These Trails

Here’s a delicate piece of ‘70s hippie folk to carry us into the new green of Spring.

Talk To Leslie - Katie Alice Greer

I’m rather fond of these lyrics where you can tell that there’s a story there, but what it actually might be is left carefully opaque.

Rabbit - Youth Lagoon

This is a beautiful, elegiac piece of music that has ear-wormed me for days.

so unique - Tikhet, Sepalot, Angela Aux

This has a nice lo-fi hip hop tone to it, with a touch of Motorik driving it along (appropriately for a German outfit).

Lights Out - Santigold

I’d somehow managed to forget all about Santigold and this track until Spotify reminded me, and it’s still great.

Be My Forever - Don’t Thank Me Spank Me!

There’s a band name guaranteed to make middle-aged Dad-adjacent listeners uncomfortable.

Mata Zyklek - Angine de Poitrine

My new favourite band. It’s ‘Tohogd’ on the Spotify playlist but there’s no video of them playing that live on YouTube and if you’ve never seen them before, it’s not to be missed. The Mighty Boosh plays Battles. They’re not just weirdo costumes though, it’s also incredible music. The perfect combination.

You can find the whole playlist on Spotify, as usual:

Here’s our piece on Andor, to make up for being mean about Michael Clayton:

Nu Shooz

I first heard ‘I Can’t Wait’ by Nu Shooz in a shop on the high street. I can’t remember which shop, but it can’t have been one of my usual haunts (the second-hand record shop, the comics store, or the model shop with a sideline in role playing games). They didn’t play that kind of chart music.

‘I Can’t Wait’ is an echt piece of mid-‘80s chart music, with that peculiarly crystalline ‘80s production that sounds machine-made. It is full of stuff, and yet full of space. There are all kinds of odd noises: insistently chiming percussion, stabs of tinny synthesised horns, gasping emulator barks like a robot faking an orgasm. Each of these noises was selected with care and skill and placed into an delicate but unbending structure, like lab-grown gems in a surgical steel tiara.

I wasn’t in the habit of listening to this kind of chart pop in 1986. I wasn’t entirely immune to chart music, but I was listening to Q-approved album rock like Paul Simon’s Graceland and crate-digging for second-hand copies of Japan obscurities. ‘I Can’t Wait’ reached number 2 in the UK charts, but I hadn’t heard it until I walked into whichever branch of whatever it was.

That meant that I didn’t know what it was. Which was a problem, because I really wanted to know what it was. I heard the hook, the ‘ah-ah-ah-ah-ah’ of the over-excited android, the big galumphing steps of the bass; but I had no way of knowing to whom they belonged. This was 1986: there was no Shazam, no internet (that I could use). Dial-a-Disc might have worked, but I didn’t even know that this was a chart hit. I knew nothing about it and could find out nothing about it, until I turned on BBC Radio 1 and managed to catch a DJ back-announcing it.

In a world of narrow media channels, that radio DJ’s act of curation was vital. Curation was how you discovered new things, whether they were new to the world and or simply new to you. In the week ‘I Can’t Wait’ reached number 2, John Peel’s show on Radio 1 featured — among many other things unlikely to trouble the official Top 40 — Eric B and Rakim, The Minutemen and some ‘60s ska from Roland Alphonso and the Ska-talites.

But even a daytime DJ off-handedly crashing the outros on the assigned playlist could perform crucial acts of curation, helping to build and refine the tastes of listeners. Even if their curation only confirmed the fact that you couldn’t stand Simply Red, freshly ousted from the Number 2 spot by Nu Shooz.

I Can’t Wait

But by 1986, DJs didn’t just play the hits.

‘I Can’t Wait’ originally appeared on Nu Shooz’s 1985 album Tha’s Right, but that version did not become a hit. The version that did was a remix by the Dutch DJ Peter Slaghuis.

John Smith, the founder and chief songwriter of Nu Shooz, claims Slaghuis didn’t like the song and ‘didn’t fool with it very much’. A lot of what he did do sounds terribly ‘80s now; basically a man playing around with new effects he’s found on his synthesiser. But it was undoubtedly his remix that made the song a hit.

The album version is eminently ignorable funk-pop, an indistinguishable wash of horns, guitars and vocals. It’s actually quite hard to pick the hook out from it. The production in Slaghuis’s ‘80s remix pares the song down to its elements, emphasising every sting and riff; if you’ll excuse the pun, it makes it pop. His experience of what worked on the dance floor no doubt informed his sense of what would work as a chart hit.

This reinvention is integral to the DJ function. Even if a DJ is just playing records at a wedding disco, they are always constructing: building an experience out of individual songs, building a taste out of influences or, as with hip hop DJs, building completely new music using a mixture of old and new parts.

The ‘80s DJ explosion was enabled by new, cheaper technologies. 1986 saw the launch of the Rane MP 24 (a mixer that updated club DJing) and the Casio SK-1, a consumer-level sampling keyboard that could (in theory) make the same robotic moaning noise as Peter Slaghuis’s E-mu emulator.

The collision of the punk DIY ethos, new independent record labels and newly affordable technology meant anyone with a Saturday job could sidestep a considerable part of the traditional music industry. Two people with a keyboard could be a whole band, like those ‘fire and ice’ synth-pop duos of the early ‘80s (or, indeed, like Nu Shooz themselves, who had considerably slimmed down from their original 12-person line-up). One person with two turntables and a stack of old soul records could be a hip hop DJ. Add in a sampler, a drum machine and a four-track recorder, and you too could reinvent dance music. As well as empowering creative people, new technologies were spawning new genres: techno, acid, rave. These genres were underground and, in the late ‘80s, practically outlawed, but they were about to completely revolutionise mainstream pop.

Now, anyone can create a polished production on their phone and broadcast it to the whole world. Amateurism — the act of doing or making something principally for one’s own amusement — has begun to feel like an odd, endangered pursuit; if technology can produce something with the veneer of pinpoint professionalism, it becomes hard to insist on the personal and creative value of making things that are slightly shit, things that no sane person would want to spend money on. (The repeated act of making slightly shit things is, of course, the means by which you gradually become able to make something that is not shit.)

Meanwhile, the ease of making professional-grade outputs apparently demands the simulacrum of a professional-grade distribution network, and so technology busies itself with the generation of artificial DJs. On Spotify I can activate ‘DJ X’, an AI host with a fantastically irritating upbeat American ‘voice’. DJ X can play tracks from my playlist, interspersed with authentically inane chatter. DJ X is awful but, more importantly, it is also useless. It plays songs that Spotify knows I like; it isn’t offering songs that I might like, but don’t yet know. It’s not going to play me anything from Radio Freedom: Voice Of The African National Congress And The People’s Army Umkhonto We Sizwe, as John Peel did in June 1986.

I’m not really a DJ guy, but I think we need DJs more than ever. Now that we have torn down the barriers to making music, we need curation at the other end. We need taste and expertise; people who can hear a muddy jazz-funk album track and realise it can be remixed into a banger. People who will add that banger to a high street shop playlist, where it can catch the ear of an unwary shopper.

And this time, I will have Shazam at the ready.

It might even be someone making a record by sampling the bass line from ‘Cavern’ by Liquid Liquid

Content warning for sexual assault

When I was 19 and sitting by myself on a cold beach in Swansea — I was wearing an actual coat — a man nearby took out his penis and started wanking while staring at me. He was white, and looked like he was in his thirties. He had fine shoulder-length blonde hair that was blowing around in the wind.

He was about 20 feet away. He had silently taken up position on top of a little sand dune in front of me, filling the sky. He was staring intently at me with something in his face: anger, disgust, malice.

But all that came second. I was reading a book, so it was the noise that I heard first. What’s that? And I looked up, as I was supposed to. The frictive swish. The sticky, clicky swick-swick-swick as he jerked his foreskin over his glans.

It was the noise that pinned me in place, and it’s the noise that I still remember now.

It was frightening, yes; there was nobody else around, and I didn’t know whether he would try to rape me. But more than anything else it was horrifying. He was like a maggot, striving in the darkness, no separation between form and purpose. There was no cognition, no explanation, no context. It was like looking up from your book and seeing someone eating a baby. I couldn’t place him. What on earth is happening here? Swick-swick-swick.

He was an ordinary man. He had limbs, a face, a brain. He was wearing clothes, so I assume he went into shops and bought things. There was a bag lying on the dunes at his feet, so I assume he had possessions. He definitely had parents; probably acquaintances, a home.

And yet he chose — he chose — to dislocate me, to permanently injure my sense of control and belonging and autonomy and safety. He had chosen all of this before I had even looked up from my book. And I can’t fathom, I literally cannot comprehend why you would choose to do that to an individual sitting in front of you, someone who hasn’t harmed you; someone you’ve never met.

It upsets me that I have spent my precious time wondering what he was thinking.

My initial response was to turn back to my book and pretend to carry on reading for five minutes. Swick-swick-swick. I kind of admire young me for this; it was objectively batshit, but I was in an objectively batshit situation through no fucking fault of my own. Non-compliance was my only weapon. I calculated that the absence of a response would be less gratifying for him than any of the other options.

I think this might have worked, because he was still fruitlessly jerking when I ‘reached the end of the chapter’, neatly packed up my sandwiches (I had gone off them) and walked away. I didn’t know whether it was better to look over my shoulder (to check he wasn’t coming after me) or not look over my shoulder (swick-swick-swick). Such is the dilemma of the modern girl.

What I wanted to do was kill him. This isn’t a figure of speech; I’d still like to kill him. I mean, let’s face it, men like this are a fucking waste of skin. If I could have been certain I’d physically be strong enough, and that I’d get away with it, I would have bludgeoned him or strangled him and not felt a moment of remorse from that day to this. Imagine how much you’d enjoy the news coverage: ‘Wife of murdered postman/civil servant/doctor pleads for information as police hunt continues.’ It would have been brilliant, and awfully cathartic, honestly. Because he wasn’t the first man to do something like this to me. He wasn’t the second. He wasn’t the third. You get the picture.

But I live in the real world, where women go to prison if they kill men like this on the ‘insufficient’ grounds that they are worthless sacs of gristle and shit. So I assume he’s still out there: passing women in the street, giving women his coffee order, dandling granddaughters on his knee. I’m left with the rage and the disgust, and it has nowhere to go.

I think maybe men, good men, don’t realise what the rage does to you. It’s become a commonplace that every woman you know has experienced sexual assault. I doubt any man reading this (Metropolitan readers being who they are) would dispute the significance of that. But I do think, really, that you don’t understand what it’s like: not the assaults themselves, but what it does to you, to carry around the accreting weight of fury over decades. To never achieve catharsis. And to know, with absolute certainty, that nothing will change.

I have watched the unfolding of the Mandelson/Epstein scandal and found myself unable to operate effectively. I can’t keep on task. How can it be that we’re watching this happening, again? As I write this, Harriet Harman is on a podcast pointing out that Mohammed Al Fayed may have trafficked and raped hundreds of women. He died in his bed in his nineties; the Met Police did not pass most of the complaints on to the CPS. The Guardian is reporting that a man has pled guilty to raping and assaulting a woman whose husband has already pled guilty to drugging and raping her; four other men are pleading not guilty. In Britain this week a man was convicted of raping several babies. He was working in a nursery. What the living fuck are we supposed to do with this?

So what I do is: I sit and stew, and I think. And what I think is, the outer edge of male sexuality is the fundamental factor that determines female subjugation. Women cannot fix this, and men have shown that they don’t want to. A tolerance of male sexual extremity is priced into our society and culture. Our systems accept that it will happen; all we can do is get out the swabs and buckets afterwards. There’s not a thing women can do about it: its drive, its implacability, its violence, its all-encompassing range. We just have to hope that our assaults will be small and survivable.

And I think we never talk about this, not in a serious way.

Women (and children) live within the bounds of the threat posed by male sexual predation. It sets the terms on which we are allowed to exist (wary forbearance, limited expression); it shapes our consciousness (complicit, ashamed). It determines the things human society accepts as the price of admission (the near-universal female experience of assault), and the things we absolutely cannot imagine (anything that would act as a structural brake).

Let’s face it: a female-dominated society would long ago have established a thousand different norms. Adult men would be assumed capable of sexual abusiveness until they had concretely established otherwise. Men would have to offer up their phones and hard drives for forensic investigation when applying for a job, joining a gym, moving home, joining a dating app or opening a bank account. Any ‘he said/she said’ cases would be explicitly legally weighted in women’s favour. You’d need your wife’s consent to get Viagra.

But that sounds nuts, doesn’t it? It would have some really unfair outcomes (ha!), and it goes against everything we believe about how justice and society works. And that is, of course, my point. It is extraordinarily hard to construct a plausible narrative about a society that effectively curbs the extremities of male sexuality. Those who try to imagine it sound like lunatics. Ask any political lesbian.

So can we please at least acknowledge — can we at least say it out loud and look it in the face — that in our actually-existing culture, in order not to inconvenience the majority of men who, yes, do not do this shit: in order to accommodate you, to not be unjust and unfair to you, to not limit your life chances, to not get all fucking hysterical about it — we accept that women’s safety and happiness and ability to thrive is permanently and consistently impeded.

And what I think is, ordinary feminism looks ridiculous and whiny to outsiders because we can do nothing more than tinker around the edges of this fundamental problem. Feminist action on male sexual violence — brave and difficult as it is — can be nothing more than a desperate rearguard action. Excuse me, sir, can South Yorkshire Police please more accurately record the numbers of men raping young girls in Bradford!

And I have to live in this world, this world in which a surprisingly large number of men search for rape-themed porn, and a bunch of lads in Downing St remove a talented woman so that Jeffrey Epstein’s friend can have her job. I live in the world where the Epstein affair is broken down in lots of different ways — a scandal about ‘paedophilia’ (so much more piquant than boring old misogyny for the jaded Westminster hack), an exciting political horse race, a chin-stroking conundrum about the moral bounds of lobbying, a scripted nod to ‘the victims’ — but is never viewed through the only lens that brings it all into focus. And I wonder why I can’t concentrate.

For more on the male gaze (as if there isn’t enough already):

Gormenghast is a vast and labyrinthine castle, immured by tradition and ritual. But new life has come in the form of Titus Groan: a son to the melancholy Lord Sepulchrave Groan and the countess Gertrude, a brother to the wilful young Fuchsia. There is also Steerpike, a youth who has escaped the monstrous kitchens to become an assistant to the family doctor Prunesquallor and who wishes to rise further. To do so he embarks on a campaign of manipulation and destruction that ends in the death of Sepulchrave. Change and youth has come to Gormenghast, and that may not be a good thing.

The Legend

Mervyn Peake’s Gormenghast trilogy -- Titus Groan (1946), Gormenghast (1950) and Titus Alone (1959) -- is one of the great fantasy epics of post-Second World War Britain. However, it is not one of those fantasies.

Largely identified with the legacy of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings (1954-55), fantasy as a genre has become associated with pseudo-medieval secondary worlds, complicated maps and names with apostrophes in them. There are other traditions associated with C. S. Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia (1950-56) and T. H. White’s Once and Future King (1938-58), although those are, respectively, secondary world and pseudo-medieval.

Titus Groan is not like these books; it is not an heroic fantasy of kings and monsters. To begin with, Peake goes under his full name, Mervyn, instead of his initials, which tells us something about the man. And while the book is full of silly names, it has no map in the front; indeed, the castle defies cartography. Titus Groan has more in common with Kafka than the Brothers Grimm, and more in common with Dickens than Beowulf. It is fantastical, rather than a fantasy.

What it does have in common with these other post-Second World War epics is that it is a product of its times. The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe (1950) is set during the Blitz and concerns a moral struggle with forces of oppression. The Once and Future King is about an Albion modelling for the world a better way of living than ‘might makes right’. Much as Tolkien resisted any contemporary political parallels, The Lord of the Rings features a struggle against a world-dominating power in which victory is won, ultimately, through the selfless service of the petit bourgeoisie (and his batman).

Peake sees mid-century Britain in a more acerbic light. The aristos are mad, and everyone else is a servant. Whatever glories it might once have had are mouldering or gone; the infrastructure is moribund and meaningless. The whole thing is bound together with maddening ritual and suffocating tradition that allows for no innovation, no life, no joy. Gormenghast is a model of post-Imperial Britain, and instead of looking back at past splendour it looks forward to future squalor: the Britain of the ‘70s and ‘80s, a grim little isolated island full of decaying relics and weird characters.

This was the last book I had read to me as a child. Well, not the whole book: my father read me the first paragraph or so and then handed it to me to finish for myself. Reading it subsequently at a British boarding school in the early ‘80s, I recognised its world immediately. Not only because I too was trapped by tradition in a crumbling pile of masonry haunted by monstrous individuals, but because that wider vision of an outdated and inward-looking culture was all too accurate.

The first paragraph captured me instantly:

GORMENGHAST, that is, the main massing of the original stone, taken by itself would have displayed a certain ponderous architectural quality were it possible to have ignored the circumfusion of those mean dwellings that swarmed like an epidemic around its outer walls. They sprawled over the sloping earth, each one half way over its neighbour until, held back by the castle ramparts, the innermost of these hovels laid hold on the great walls, clamping themselves thereto like limpets to a rock. These dwellings, by ancient law, were granted this chill intimacy with the stronghold that loomed above them. Over their irregular roofs would fall throughout the seasons the shadows of time-eaten buttresses, of broken and lofty turrets, and, most enormous of all, the shadow of the Tower of Flints. This tower, patched unevenly with black ivy, arose like a mutilated finger from among the fists of knuckled masonry and pointed blasphemously at heaven. At night the owls made of it an echoing throat: by day it stood voiceless and cast its long shadow.

Yep, that’s just a paragraph. Remember the reference to Dickens I made earlier?

Peake was better known as an illustrator and painter before he wrote Titus Groan. And he writes like a painter: his style is Impressionistic, piling up language like paint to create an impasto, a physical landscape of verbiage, full of light and shade. But the effect is Expressionistic. Everything is packed with emotion. He looks as an artist, seeing everything minutely; but he describes what he sees with the pathetic fallacy of a poet, investing it with meaning. Everything becomes present and alive. It is, for a certain kind of reader, an intoxicating experience.

Peake was a child of Empire. The son of missionaries, he grew up in colonial compounds in China; he was an outsider there, and was subsequently an outsider in Britain. That view from without, and the Chinese culture he grew up around, deeply influenced the style and subject of his books.

This makes Titus Groan itself an outsider in the British post-War fantasy canon. It is not quite a secondary world, but it is also not quite ours; it is not pseudo-historical, but it is also not quite contemporary. It is not quite anything else; it is wholly itself.

Its legacy does not compare with the vast shadow that Mordor casts over contemporary culture, but it is perceptible in some places: in ‘All Cats Are Grey’ and ‘The Drowning Man’ on The Cure’s album Faith (1981); in characters in George R. R. Martin’s books; in the fugitive corridors and odd rooms of Hogwarts.1 A certain kind of reader will always find Titus Groan: outsiders, or those who would like to be outsiders. And then the book will find its way into them.

The Reality

‘A certain kind of reader’. Let’s be honest, a male reader, most likely. A young male reader. Probably not great at PE, possibly given to writing bad poetry, definitely with a high opinion of their own intellectual or artistic abilities.2

Like many ‘cult’ works, the cult is as exclusionary as it is inclusive. Peake’s prose bears a lot of responsibility for this. He is an artist with a thesaurus as a palette, picking obtuse and esoteric words to fling at the page. The reader is either going to embrace this kind of sesquipedalian extravagance, happy to have their vocabulary expanded along with their mind; or they will quail in horror, overwhelmed and under-entertained.

The prose is symbolic of a deeper theme. Peake’s paragraphs are as torturous and antiquated as the castle; the language models the dark complexity of his setting and typifies the density of the culture he is depicting. It also models a certain personality: the trivia-hound, the snapper up of unconsidered trifles, the flaneur, the collector. Gormenghast, the castle, and Titus Groan, the book, are as full of weird detail and strange objects as the bookshelves, pockets and mind of a certain kind of small boy.

Along with all that junk there are, of course, bright gems: startling visions that lodge in the imagination. The Hall of Bright Carvings. The Room of Cats. The Tower of Flints. The sisters, Cora and Clarice, taking tea on the trunk of a dead tree growing horizontally out of the top of a tower. Fuschia’s attic, populated with imagined characters who caper for her amusement. Gertrude’s bedroom, dark with ivy and rustling with birds and cats.

There is a moment in Titus Groan that is easily overlooked, but which I think is key. In an obscure corridor, in a heap of rusting and cobwebbed armour, Steerpike finds a swordstick. He purloins it, cleans it up and uses it as a cane. The swordstick is a metaphor for Steerpike; it presents as purely practical and useful, but contains the potential for violence and death. It is also emblematic of Steerpike’s role in the world of Gormenghast: crafting a new sharp reality out of untidy remains.

And it is also emblematic of a major theme of the book: that this terrible, stifling place is full of wonders, for those who look for them. Steerpike is one of those people; the Lady Fuschia, Titus’s older sister, is another. These are the young people who struggle against the dead weight of tradition and the stones of Gormenghast.

Steerpike, though, is the villain. Peake is very clear that his ruthless individualism is just as horrible as the relentless ritual of previous generations. Peake evidently has a cynical view of the coming generation of the ‘50s, seeing them as a mixture of rebellion for rebellion’s sake and of naked self-interest.

Fuschia has the soul of an artist, and covers the walls of her room with drawings; her mind is full of fertile imaginings, and she is consequently doomed. Neither the traditions of Gormenghast nor the manipulations of Steerpike have room for her. Titus, who is an infant for most of this book, will eventually flee the castle entirely.

The hero of the series turns out to be the unlikely Dr Prunesquallor, the family doctor. He is a ridiculous figure, etiolated and effete, and cursed with a hideous whinnying laugh. Behind his thick spectacles his magnified eyes swim like jellyfish. A member of the educated, tasteful, professional bourgeoisie, within the castle he belongs neither to the ruling class nor to the servants. He scorns the affectations and traditions of the aristocracy, but he also suspects the greedy insurrection of Steerpike. He is the only one with an independent and functioning mind and, more importantly, a moral core of iron.

In placing his hero among the bourgeoisie, Peake is finally in accord with the other post-Second World War British fantasy epics. T. H. White’s King Arthur is not raised as a knight, but as a lowly member of his foster-father’s household; he comes to Camelot as an outsider. Narnia is saved by a gaggle of middle-class kids; Middle Earth is saved by an independently wealthy gentleman and his gardener.

After all, these polite country squires and small town doctors and modest gardeners had just joined in epic journeys across North African deserts and South East Asian jungles and up onto European beaches to help save civilization. And these were the people who were to define the post-Second World War country, a country which is now majority ABC1s (although, tellingly, half of them claim to be working class).3

Perhaps the thing that has stopped the Gormenghast trilogy reaching the national treasure status of Lord of the Rings or the Chronicles of Narnia is that, for all its fantastical setting, it’s entirely too truthful in its vision of that nation.

Speaking of treasures, national and eldritch, here’s where that ring came from:

Books to fall asleep to (non-pejorative)

: I finally wrestled Diarmaid MacCulloch’s Thomas Cromwell to the ground this month after a couple of false starts. Hilary Mantel and MacCulloch were researching Cromwell at the same time in the late noughties, and developed a close friendship while doing so. (This is ballast for my thesis that the pragmatic, adaptable and economically literate Cromwell was an appropriate hero for the anti-ideological age of Clinton, Blair and Obama.) Mantel published first with Wolf Hall in 2009, but MacCulloch managed to slip Thomas Cromwell (2018) in between Bring up the Bodies (2012) and The Mirror and the Light (2020), a run of events that transformed this eminent historian of Christianity into a best-selling non-fiction author.

Thomas Cromwell is catnip for the Wolf Hall devotee, albeit necessarily a little confrontational in places. Rationally, I knew that Cromwell got up to a lot of, er, crappy stuff (self-enrichment, torture, toadying, killing), but Mantel tends to let him off the hook (or perhaps shows us Cromwell letting himself off the hook - although I honestly think it’s more the former than the latter). MacCulloch, appropriately, is unsentimental and unsparing in the details.

Thomas Cromwell has gone straight into one of my favourite genres: books that I can read myself to sleep with. The boundaries of this category – which exists only in my head – are extremely well defined. The writing must be excellent; mangled sentences, repetition, stupidity and boring vocabulary keep me awake. The subject matter must be non-fiction (novels are too involving), and it must be something I’m genuinely interested in (I mean no shade here, but I personally do not care about gardening or the history of aviation). The narrative must be as un-pulsating as possible, for obvious sleepy reasons; I love Michael Lewis, but he’s for staying awake with, not going to sleep with. And the author must be a genuine subject expert, preferably an academic or someone who works in one of the less groovy think tanks. Journalists and professional writers tend to be far too good at telling a story, and that only makes me want to stay awake so that I can find out what happens next.

What I like is an extremely erudite, clever, informative-but-meandering drone delivered with real panache. My favourite book of this kind is Christopher Clark’s Iron Kingdom (an 800-page, 350-year history of Prussia), which includes sections on the Brandenburg education system that would send a caffeinated cocaine freak into a deep snooze. Richard Rhodes’s The Making of the Atomic Bomb is another absolute killer (hundreds of pages about electrons hitting foil sheets), as is Tony Judt’s Postwar (much, much more than you ever needed to know about the European Economic Community).

Thomas Cromwell contains multiple passages about Tudor ‘affinities’, the informal groupings of men-on-the-make who clustered around Court personalities. MacCulloch is, quite justifiably, keen to establish exactly who was in Cromwell’s affinity, and these passages – in which the movements of Mr (later Sir) Edward Squidlington are painstakingly traced over decades, from abbey to fishpond to New Year present to account book – are absolutely, perfectly boring.

Letterboxd Diary

What has enjoyed watching this month.

Bourne-ville

The Bourne Identity (2002), The Bourne Supremacy (2004), The Bourne Ultimatum (2007)

I was actually looking for The Matrix (1999) for a little January comfort watch and then discovered that it wasn’t available to stream anywhere so I settled on that other Gen X action stalwart, Jason Bourne.

At the time Bourne was heralded as a Bond for a new generation, with none of the blatant sexism, xenophobia or quippy amorality that Gen X found so queasy. Bourne had a serious German girlfriend, a begrudging facility with the beautifully choreographed and crunchy fight scenes, and knew that the intelligence services he once worked for were sinister and unreliable.

It’s that last point that really stood out on this rewatch. The films are solely about Jason Bourne’s relationship with the CIA he once served, and this severely limits the sequels. They keep having to go further up the chain of command to find ever-more-evil CIA chiefs for Bourne to hit with a rolled up magazine. Each subsequent film is a retread of the previous one, but with Albert Finney instead of Brian Cox, David Strathairn instead of Chris Cooper. We avoid the ludicrous threat escalator of Marvel films (I’m going to destroy you! I’m going to destroy the USA! I’m going to destroy the galaxy! I’m going to destroy THE MULTIVERSE!) But it also means that the films are only ever about Bourne and his vengeance.

More realistic stakes are also less idealistic ones, apparently. This super-spy isn’t capable of dispensing justice, serving their country or saving the world; he can only look after himself. Perhaps it’s this really that made Bourne the perfect action hero for Generation X: he was socially liberal and yet deeply individualistic.

Le Samourai (1967)

In which Alain Delon’s loner hitman screws up a job and finds himself on the run from the cops, the mob that hired him and, ultimately, himself.

It’s no less ludicrous than Bourne films, really, and I’m not sure I buy the porcelain Delon as a killing machine any more than the pug-nosed Matt Damon. But by golly, it’s beautiful. The opening sequence alone is worth the price of admission: a static shot of Delon smoking in bed in a darkened room as the credits roll over the top. At first you think the film is in black and white, until he finally moves and you really it’s just that his whole world is grey: a grey room, grey clothes, grey cigarette smoke. He is the only discernable thing in his world. And so, right from the beginning, you know what this man is like and can probably guess that he’s doomed.

Santosh (2024)

A Bourne antidote: a British/Indian film with a perfect Hollywood set up. Santosh is a young Indian woman living in a drab town far from the bright lights. When her cop husband dies suddenly in the line of duty, she discovers that she is allowed to take his job in lieu of a widow’s pension, and finds herself investigating the death of a young girl while under the wing of a rare senior female detective.

The film then proceeds to do something very un-Hollywood with the concept. Instead of telling a story about a counter-intuitively brilliant detective team fighting engrained misogyny, the film exposes a vein of brutal police corruption that provokes unpredictable responses from Santosh herself. (The film, which also touches on the status of Dalits and the self-serving behaviour of rural elites, still hasn’t been officially screened in India.)

One of things that stood out to me is how the film seems to deliberately protect Santosh herself from the threat of physical violence, and instead subjects her to moral violence. She is in a three-way fight between her desire to do a good job as a police officer, her desire to be accepted by her mentor and her fellow officers, and her basic humanity. Shahana Goswami plays this absolutely perfectly, simultaneously naive, hard, nervous, stern and troubled. We should warn you, though, that it’s incredibly depressing.

Mountainhead (2025)

Part of the job of satire – altogether now – is to comfort the afflicted as well as afflict the comfortable. In fact you could argue that is most of the job. Rude impersonations and clinical piss-taking don’t tend to change anyone’s behaviour, but they reassure the rest of us that we are not alone in finding things awful, ridiculous or frightening. Satire tells us that there are fellow humans who feel the same way we do: people we can trust, people with whom we might huddle and even organise; people alongside whom we could even seize power, thus becoming the objects of satire ourselves.

Jesse Armstrong’s directorial debut is a satire about four tech moguls who go on a retreat and, confronted with each other’s awfulness, lose their minds. It’s not telling us anything we don’t know: we know these people are awful. (Two of the characters are assumed to be avatars for Peter Thiel and Elon Musk; Steve Carrell is extremely good in the former role.) Part of how awful they are is that they insist on thrusting their awfulnesses into our faces every day through their apps. We know they’re over-schooled and undereducated, asocial and amoral, unloved and uncontrolled.

What Mountainhead does is reassure us that we’re right: they are awful. It gives us a space to laugh, with a ghastly sort of terror, at the men who have taken one of the greatest human inventions and turned it into a machine for producing misery, madness and money. And there are some good laughs and splendid jokes in Mountainhead. But sadly they start to diminish as the plot moves into gear.

Armstrong likes a dark realism in his satires. Part of the success of Succession (2018–23) was that the Roy family were realistic characters. The satire was still there, but as you got to know them – and to understand why they were like that – you started to feel some grudging sympathy for them (if not actual empathy). The satire bit harder and comforted the viewer a little more precisely because these were people, not thinly-veiled caricatures.

Because it has to establish a narrative and deliver plenty of laughs within a two-hour window, Mountainhead does not quite have the time to develop the characters enough. And the movement of the plot from character-based comedy to murderous farce perhaps needed a little more absurdism in it to help it take off. There is a moment in the film, in the middle of a murder attempt, when a bevy of lawyers are summoned to negotiate between the aspiring killers and the terrified victim. Sadly, we never get to see the drafting of the resulting contract. I would have liked to see that film: a film about the cringing minions, not just the monsters they tend to and facilitate (another thing Succession pulled off brilliantly with the ghastly Gerri, Hugo, Karolina and Karl.)

The Ice Storm (1997)

A case study in how a film can seem terribly adult and subtle when you’re in your twenties, and somewhat blunt and hysterical thirty years later. A group of affluenza-afflicted suburbanites in the early ‘70s treat Cosmopolitan and Playboy like instruction manuals (wife-swapping, self-actualisation, Valium, shop-lifting) while causing untold misery to themselves and everyone around them, particularly their kids.

We got kinda irritated by it on this rewatch and ended up mostly paying attention to the sets. It’s interesting to compare its echt suburban ‘70s interiors with those of The Holdovers (2023), which is rapidly becoming a Christmas staple in this house. The Holdovers takes place in a ‘70s that is not only a little bit ‘60s, but a little bit ‘40s and ‘50s too, and even a little bit 1890s in some places. Given that most people don’t throw out their furniture every ten years, The Holdovers feels like a more recognisable ‘70s. I do, though, want an awful lot of the furniture from The Ice Storm. Apart from the water bed. And the bowl of keys, obviously.

Playlist

: Here’s my favourite ten tracks for this month.

Give Me The Simple Life - Annie Ross, Gerry Mulligan Quartet. Starting January with good intentions of leading the simple life after all the Christmas indulgence.

Keshukoran - Sister Irene O’Connor. Sister O’Connor is Catholic nun who writes her own devotional music, produced and engineered by a fellow nun, Sister Marimil Lobregat.

Deeper - Attica Blues. Somehow January feels like a trip-hop sort of month: a little bit blue, a little bit woozy, a little bit unnerving.

Kamukamo-Shikamo-Nidomokamo!! - MONO NO AWARE. But perhaps we need to stop moping about and perk up a bit. Or a lot.

100 Horses - Geese. I’m old, so I’ve heard a lot of hip New York bands. At the beginning I kept expecting someone to shout ‘Blues Explosion!’ Then I thought David Byrne might join in. And then I wondered if it was The Strokes. But then, I like all those bands too.

Big Balloon - Dutch Uncles. I’ve heard a lot of Manchester bands in my time, too. This is a good one, a lovely mixture of muscular rhythm and soaring tune.

The Late Great Cassiopia - The Essex Green. Speaking of New York bands, here’s a nice piece of psychedelia-inflected rock.

Kantori Ongaku - Devendra Banhart. Ah, the twenty-first century Donovan. Well, I have a soft spot for the twentieth century Donovan n’all, so I am happy to have another one.

Musician, Please Take Heed - Emily Browning. I’m afraid I’m a Belle and Sebastian fan (a middle-aged indie white man? Really?), but I’m willing to admit that Stuart Murdoch’s whine can be an acquired taste.

Beartown - Polar Bear. Finally a little blue, woozy, unnerving circus march to accompany us into the dregs of winter.

You can find the whole playlist on Spotify, as usual:

For visions of history that are guaranteed to keep you awake, there’s always the genre that has termed ‘macaron timeclash’:

‘A lot of actors who are handsome when young need to put on some miles before the full flavor emerges... Here Clooney at last looks like a big screen star; the good-looking leading man from television is over with.’

Roger Ebert, review of Out of Sight, 1998

I’ve got a lot of time for the late film critic Roger Ebert, so I don’t mean to diss the big guy. But this approbative statement about George Clooney back in 1998 — that ‘the good-looking leading man from television is over with’ — merits some unpicking.

George Clooney was already a huge star before the release of Out of Sight, Steven Soderbergh’s sexy, grown-up crime caper. (If you haven’t seen it, or haven’t re-watched it in a while, you should get on it; it’s still enormous fun.) His turn as Doug Ross in ER from ‘94 to ‘99 had made him as famous as it’s possible for a mid-career actor to be.

And Clooney does nothing in Out of Sight that he had not done in ER. He delivers his lines confidently, looks at you from under his great big sable eyelashes, and doesn’t mess up. He is very beautiful, and has a carefully modulated and charming hyper-awareness of same. (Take that thing where he catches his breath in the middle of a sentence and then chuckles; I always interpret this as him happily remembering what his face looks like.)

This is all good. I like watching George Clooney do these things. But how was any of it a departure? Yes, Out of Sight is a film, not a TV series, but it’s a well-made, romantic slice of cartoonish Americana; it’s not flipping Eraserhead. And nobody argued they couldn’t take James Gandolfini seriously because he was in The Sopranos. So what is the key category distinction here? Could it be that medical dramas are regarded as flippant entertainments for women and children, while sweary dramas about guns and crime are regarded as profound meditations for serious, grown-up boys? Could it be that the anticipated audience for Out of Sight was considerably richer in testosterone than the core ER audience, and was therefore better able to confer distinction?

Anyway: because Clooney is basically movie wallpaper these days (albeit very nice wallpaper from a darling little studio in Amalfi), what you really notice, watching Out of Sight now, is how extraordinary Jennifer Lopez is.

I hadn’t paid much attention to Lopez since Out of Sight was released, but I had a dim impression that she became a mildly tragic figure whose fame-hungry manoeuvres keep the online gossip sites humming. The only things I ‘knew’ were that she was in that film where she said ‘gobble, gobble’, she sang ‘Jenny from the Block’, and at any given moment there’s a 50% chance she’s married to Ben Affleck.

This made Out of Sight a surprising re-watch. Because what Lopez is in that film, most of all, is a giant star; the audiences just didn’t know it when they took their seats. She is likeable, charismatic, slightly mysterious, a little withheld, massively cool, entirely believable and jaw-droppingly beautiful. She is on screen with an array of storied Hollywood talent — Ving Rhames, Michael Keaton, Viola Davis, Albert Brooks, Dennis Farina and even (briefly) Samuel L. Jackson — and it never occurs to us to think that she doesn’t belong there.

I’ve already admitted that I had zero knowledge of what happened to Lopez’s career after Out of Sight, so I will try to keep the thinly-disguised digest of Wikipedia entries to a minimum. But one way of answering the question ‘Whatever happened to Jennifer Lopez?’ is: She has been successful beyond anyone’s wildest dreams. She has starred in dozens of movies, owns a production company, has a streaming deal with Netflix, has made a string of studio albums, sells out enormous arenas, and has a residency in Las Vegas. She also has a consistent record of activism in Democratic politics, especially on immigration. After a speaker at a Trump rally made remarks about Puerto Rico being ‘an island of garbage’, she was one of the people who pushed back; her parents are from there.

What she isn’t, of course, is a critical darling. Interesting directors are not giving her cameos as a hot older woman or a wise midlife CEO or a hardbitten, wisecracking bitch. She’s not being cast by Rian Johnson or Wes Anderson or Kathryn Bigelow. She is not — as Clooney is — relaxing into a warm hip-bath of general acclaim. She is not — as Brad Pitt is — being invited to show her range. Nor is she — as Cate Blanchett is — having fun in Soderbergh’s latest. Maybe she’s ‘difficult’, but I mistrust the media’s reporting on these things; and anyway, have you met actors?

The turning point in Lopez’s career was the gleeful odium that rained down on Gigli, the 2003 rom-com where she first met Affleck. It’s in Gigli that she delivered one of the most brutally reviled lines of all time, the aforementioned ‘gobble, gobble’. As everyone quickly found out — mostly without watching the film — the line is a playful request for cunnilingus. It was delivered by this outrageously attractive woman who was, by the time of the film’s release, going out with the guy to whom the request is directed. He seems to have been the only person who didn’t mind.

I’m going to focus on the guy in question because I think his place in the American imagination explains something about what happened. Ben Affleck the person is a real boy who has some privileges and has faced some challenges. But ‘Ben Affleck’ was, at this time, the prime avatar of a white working class guy from some state where it’s always cold, and where the local plant is always laying people off. ‘Ben Affleck’ suffers the trials of Job, and nothing is ever his fault. ‘Ben Affleck’ turns up late to a job interview because he was nursing his invalid mom, and is told that the position has just been filled. He walks despondently through the snow to a neighbourhood bar where he spends his last ten dollars buying a beer for his brother, whose family — including the little kiddo with the bad chest — is about to be made homeless. In the parking lot of the bar, ‘Ben Affleck’ is set upon by psychotic motorcyclists for no reason. Bleeding from a head wound, ‘Ben Affleck’ stumbles off, trips over a loose bootlace and falls through the window of a local business, which unfortunately turns out to be a bank that is in the middle of taking a cash delivery. Reaching for his ID to calm the security guard, ‘Ben Affleck’ instead pulls out the unlicensed gun he is looking after for a friend. The only thing ‘Ben Affleck’ has going for him is the love of a demure local girl who says she will wait for him until he gets out of prison.

What ‘Ben Affleck’ is not supposed to do is happily comply with sexual commands from a fabulously beautiful and rich movie star lady.

Because of the blithely stupid recursive quality of popular media in the Noughties, the brutality of the critical response to Gigli became a news story in itself. (I don’t think this would happen in the same way now; there are too many people primed to say ‘Well, actually…’) For a couple of months after its release, everyone online in the English-speaking world was making jokes about how bad it was, even though hardly anyone actually saw it. (The ‘worst film of all time’? Do me a favour. I’m willing to bet that Ben Affleck has made worse films all by himself.)

It’s impossible to watch the ‘gobble, gobble’ clip now without cringing, but that’s partly because it’s impossible to separate it from its impact. It’s also very hard, on a female-solidarity level, to watch a woman request oral sex (still a bit of a mainstream taboo-buster at the time, honestly; there’s even a whole sub-plot about this in The Sopranos) while knowing how the request itself, an experimental assertion of ordinary female sexuality, was subsequently weaponised against her.

In fairness, it is also true that no amount of talent or sex appeal can render the phrase ‘gobble, gobble’ acceptable. It was an error to include the words ‘gobble, gobble’ in the script. A better director would have cut the words ‘gobble, gobble’, possibly after throwing up in a small bucket, and a better or more confident actor might have refused to say ‘gobble, gobble’. Mistakes on all sides.

In those few unwitting seconds, Lopez is kissing goodbye to any possible universe in which she becomes a four-quadrant movie superstar. For me, that’s what makes it hard to watch. I at least hope, for J-Lo’s sake, that Affleck was amazing at cunnilingus.

Lopez has said that she found the response to Gigli ‘eviscerating’, as well she might. In 2004, a year after it was released, her performance in another co-star vehicle with Affleck was cut to the bone after test audiences objected to seeing them as a couple (despite enthusiastically consuming media that insistently featured them as a couple). But, incomprehensibly, she chose not to lie down and die in a puddle of shame. She just kept on working in the fields that still welcomed her, becoming extremely popular with audiences that people are sniffy about: teenagers, pop fans, romcom aficionados, Spanish speakers, daytime TV watchers, wedding planners (sorry). (Her work rate is truly extraordinary; you get the sense she thinks everything she has might disappear at any moment.)

Throughout it all she has remained on the front page of the tabloids, all sequins and bikinis and gold hoops. She has been the opposite of demure. I can’t help but feel that part of the ‘problem’ with J-Lo is that she is brassy, not classy. She’s admitted that some parts of her experience have been painful, but she hasn’t shown any goddamned penitence; she hasn’t apologised for rudely continuing to exist and make oodles of money. She didn’t get down and stay down until someone told her she could get up.

Reviewing one of her movies in 2005, Ebert nailed the unreasonableness of her punishment while also encapsulating this sense that Lopez needed to be forgiven. (Forgiven for what, exactly?) He observed that the average reviewer ‘will have no respect for Jennifer Lopez, because she is going through a period right now when nobody is satisfied with anything she does... Give Lopez your permission to be good again; she is the same actress now as when we thought her so new and fine.’

As you watch Lopez now opposite Clooney in Out of Sight, the subsequent mismatch of their career trajectories seems absolutely wild; it bears no relation to what you’re seeing on screen. I’d like to see what she would do now in a big, smart, grown-up movie. It’s only fairly recently that beautiful young women actors have been allowed to age at all; to — as Ebert puts it — ‘develop their full flavour’. I’m still not over the thrill I get every time one of these women pops up with a scraggly neck and a deeper voice: Julia Roberts, Kirsten Dunst, Kristen Scott Thomas, Kate Winslet, Winona Ryder (and yes, none of these actors are women of colour, are they?) I want more; we’re not at parity yet. Think of all the cumulative hours you’ve spent watching John Travolta and Alec Baldwin and Mel I-can’t-believe-I-am-having-to-say-this Gibson.

In her terrifying book Toxic, examines the ‘strange, febrile years of the noughties’ in which internet-driven incursions into the physical and emotional privacy of famous women had horrible consequences. Ditum writes: ‘For the public, tearing these women to pieces was both a social activity and form of divination. In the entrails of their reputations, we hunted for clues about what a woman ought to be.’ It’s hard not to hear echoes of Lopez’s experience in that.

I almost hope she fell foul of the complex forces Ditum describes, because the alternative is that audiences diverted the course of a woman’s career because she had the temerity to go out with Ben fucking Affleck. I mean, he’s fine, but he’s no George Clooney.

Speaking of which, here is George being a ‘good-looking leading man from television’ in ER

Edmund Blackadder (Rowan Atkinson) is a suave, cunning and much put-upon member of the court of the capricious and all-powerful Elizabeth I (Miranda Richardson). With the hindrance of his idiot hanger-on Lord Percy Percy (Tim McInnerny) and his innocently dumb servant Baldrick (Tony Robinson) he is constantly devising schemes to get ahead, all of which fail, leaving him constantly just a few steps ahead of the executioner.

Blackadder

If you’ve ever noticed that older adults tend to have a peculiarly clear and immediate recall of events from their childhood and adolescence, you might be interested to know there’s a term for this phenomenon: ‘the reminiscence bump’. This refers to a fertile period, memory-formation-wise, that kicks off around the age of 10 and peaks somewhere between 15 and 25. This explains why cinemas are full of billion-dollar remakes of ‘80s comic books, why Facebook groups are full of crumblies posting about Spangles, and the existence of this newsletter.

It also explains why these memories are so beguiling and cosy: we were young when we formed them, and did not yet have the understanding or context to properly comprehend the world. The recollections might be clear, but they also tend to be narrow in focus and misleading in apprehension.

The reminiscence bump appears to happen because this is a period in our lives during which everything is new, including us; and new information is important information. So in it goes: into our memories, our world views, ourselves. All of which is a long-winded explanation of why, while watching Blackadder II recently, I raised a little cheer at random phrases. ‘A nugget of purest green.’ ‘You have a woman’s hand, my lord!’ ‘You’re so clever today, you better be careful your foot doesn’t fall off.’ The lines that provoke this response aren’t usually ‘jokes’ in the sense of punch lines; they’re set-ups, or bits of business. But they are nevertheless hard-coded somewhere at the root of my personality, impressed upon my brain at its most malleable and hungry moment.

It should be noted, however, that Blackadder II is also full of incredible jokes. One of the reasons it went in so hard and deep is that it is very, very good. It is significant that I don’t remember whether I even saw the previous series of the show, The Black Adder (1983).

The Black Adder was written by Richard Curtis and Rowan Atkinson as a vehicle for Atkinson. It is set in the late Middle Ages, opens with the Battle of Bosworth, and features Atkinson as an idiot prince ineptly scheming to get ahead at court. It is not very, very funny. It is full of funny ideas, but the execution is off. It smacks of an idea that has been both over-thought and under-thought. The opening episode, for example, starts with a voiceover (never a good sign) explaining how Henry VII rewrote history, wiping a fictional Richard IV from the record. If this isn’t complex enough, a lot of the subsequent jokes rely on the audience having an intimate knowledge of Shakespeare’s Richard III.

Blackadder II, on the other hand, begins with a knob joke. We are introduced to Blackadder as he and Percy are practising archery indoors, and Baldrick is holding the target. Blackadder distracts Percy, who consequently hits Baldrick in the genitals with an arrow.

Of course, this is not just any knob joke; it’s a good knob joke that escalates in all kinds of unexpected ways. But it is a knob joke nonetheless; a mangled knob, rather than a mangled quotation from Shakespeare.

Blackadder II was written by Richard Curtis again, but this time alongside Ben Elton, who had made his name with the anarchic student sitcom The Young Ones (1982). It is often claimed that it was Elton who brought the knob gags to Blackadder II, but this flies in the face of the evidence: there are plenty of rude jokes in The Black Adder. They’re just not very good. One thing that Elton clearly did do was persuade everyone that Rowan Atkinson — who later found international fame as Mr Bean, and whose true comic love is clowning — could get big laughs as a witty and intelligent authority figure.

In other words, Elton brought a different comic sensibility, which went along with his different background. Curtis and Atkinson had both been to Oxford, and Atkinson was already a TV star after appearing in the sketch show Not The Nine O’Clock News (1979—82). Elton, meanwhile, had studied drama at Manchester (alongside Rik Mayall and Adrian Edmondson), and was strongly associated with what was then called the Alternative Comedy scene. And while he was in the process of becoming a TV star himself with Saturday Live (1985—88), his preferred mode of performance was stand-up.

Elton has spoken about how torturous he found working on Blackadder with all those Oxbridge graduates: Curtis, Atkinson, McInnerny, producer John Lloyd, Stephen Fry and Hugh Laurie. The ‘Oxbridge’ of it was relevant, and not for inverse snobbery reasons. It was Elton’s belief that the tutorial system at Oxbridge had encouraged in these men a strong preference for disputation. Script-reading sessions, he says, were like agonising quasi-tutorials in which the comedic potential of individual words was discussed at such length that everything stopped being funny. Eventually, unable to bear it any longer, Elton stopped attending them.

The combined backgrounds and talents of Curtis and Elton made the resulting partnership extraordinarily fecund. Indeed, I think there’s an argument that the three seasons of Blackadder they wrote together is the best work either of them has done. The historical satire is leavened with slapstick, the in-jokes with knobs. Just like The Black Adder, Blackadder II has plenty of Shakespeare jokes in it; indeed, there’s one early on in that first episode, shortly before Baldrick’s lucky willy. But it’s a joke about a woman disguising herself as a boy, instead of a ‘humorous’ misquote from a history play. At a more fundamental level, the show’s setting is not the incomprehensible Wars of the Roses, but a period every British child knows all too well; a period that is instantly recognisable from ruffs and codpieces; a period that needs no explanatory voiceover.

Baldrick’s lucky willy joke is a good example of how the rebooted Blackadder approached history. Elizabethans did indeed sometimes practise archery indoors (albeit in the long galleries of grand houses, rather than tiny sets in television studios), but it absolutely doesn’t matter if you don’t know that. If anything, the scene is somewhat funnier if you don’t, the idea of indoor archery being somewhat preposterous.

Then, there is the depiction of Elizabeth I. Miranda Richardson plays her as a psychopathic pony girl, a Tudor St Trinian with access to an executioner. This means there is somewhere around three different levels of comedy in this character. One comedic level springs from portraying Elizabeth I in this way at all. There is a view of the Elizabethan era that is foundational to British sensibility, and it runs as follows (please imagine it heavily italicised): it represented the end of the damp, incestuous, confusing quagmire of medieval Britain, and the glorious beginnings of Empire. Given this, it is comically impudent and slightly rebellious to present Gloriana as a petulantly insane schoolgirl.

Then there is a deeper historical joke, one that is more nuanced and a bit sad: Renaissance princes were, essentially, coddled posh kids who existed in luridly weird circumstances. Their childhoods frequently combined imminent violence with extreme luxury. They believed themselves to be anointed by God, and yet were repeatedly presented with evidence that they were human. They were often, as a consequence, driven more than a little mad.

But the primary-level joke is the obvious one: Miranda Richardson is hilarious. Elton has said that Richardson’s performance was the one that always surprised and delighted him and Curtis; they literally did not know what she was going to do next. It’s a wonderfully unhinged bit of business, totally mad and utterly committed.

But then, all the core cast are brilliant, including Tim McInnerny in his television debut as the spectacularly dim Percy and, particularly, Patsy Byrne as Queen Elizabeth’s childhood nurse, a deliriously lurid performance. And we haven’t even got to the cameos from legends, including Miriam Margolyes and Tom ‘The Doctor’ Baker.

This was the genius of Blackadder II: the marriage of deep wit, punchy jokes, and superlative performances.

II

These days, Blackadder II is a historical comedy in another sense. It is a testament to the BBC of the period.

When it was made in the mid-’80s, the BBC had all the infrastructure of a state broadcaster. Indeed, it was practically a little state itself. It had the studios at Television Centre, where most of Blackadder was filmed. It had a costume department that could handmake Elizabethan costumes for a six-episode sitcom. And, as one of only four television stations in the UK at the time, it had the clout to pull together an amazing crew to make it.

As well as not being hugely popular, The Black Adder was also hugely expensive; as John Lloyd said, it looked a million dollars, but unfortunately cost two. But it was nevertheless recommissioned, because this was a time when the BBC was willing to give shows a chance. Curtis cannily recruited Elton, who insisted that rather than being an expensive, location-shot parody, Blackadder had to become a much cheaper (and more familiar) studio-set sitcom. Then, with perfect comedy timing, the show was cancelled. But after reading the scripts, the incoming Director of Programmes, Michael Grade, reversed his own decision and gave it another go. This brave behaviour by a senior manager says something about the internal culture of the BBC at the time.

Now, that internal culture is as lost to history as Merrie Old England. Admittedly, it was a culture of state control, limited opportunity and suffocating bureaucracy; but it was also a culture that allowed for innovation, principles and taste. It was a culture in which an unsuccessful, niche period comedy was given the room to become a national institution, instead of being quietly cancelled halfway through by a streaming platform that cares only about quarterly results.

But that’s probably just my reminiscence bump talking.

Speaking of the hysterical terrors of the Tudor court: here’s Wolf Hall

There’s a famous dunk in Mad Men in which some young dweeb in a plaid coat (I don’t know who he is, because I’d stopped watching Mad Men by this point) says to Don Draper ‘I feel bad for you’ and Don Draper devastatingly replies ‘I don’t think about you at all.’ Zing!

When you’re young, this is a thermonuclear insult. The thing is, though, by the time you’ve reached middle age, it really should sound like sanity. Most of us aren’t thinking about most other people, most of the time. This rubric explains 99% of petty social hurts: birthdays that get forgotten, parties you don’t get invited to, Christmas cards that never arrive… why not assume that none of this stuff is intentional? ‘They’re probably not thinking about me’ is a life hack, not an opening of hostilities.

I’ve been thinking about this recently because I’ve been spending time with large groups of people over Christmas and New Year, and — as an introvert — socialising with large groups of people almost always makes me deeply uncomfortable. And when I can’t get comfortable, I have to guard against bad self-soothing strategies (getting drunk, falling silent, sulking), and coming up with wrong explanations of why I’m feeling uncomfortable (‘that person is unpleasant’, ‘I’m bored’, ‘everyone hates me’, ‘this is a terrible party’). I say I have to guard against them; I don’t say that I always succeed, which is why I am sometimes functionally indistinguishable from a grouchy, self-obsessed bastard. Or a drunk person.

If you think that saying things like ‘as an introvert’ is pretty much like saying ‘as a Capricorn’, I do understand your reservations. Introversion/extraversion is not, of course, a well-evidenced medical condition. It is a proposition, a theory about personalities; it derives from Jung, but then, what doesn’t? Jung didn’t intend that everyone should start labelling themselves ‘introverts’ or ‘extraverts’; he thought most people had elements of both, which seems true on a common-sense level. From my lofty position as someone who has a Level 3 Certificate in Counselling, I’m going to go ahead and say that if you’ve read brief descriptions of introversion and extraversion and found that neither particularly resonated with you, you can probably tick ‘N/A’ and move on with your life.

Any value in these personality theories lies in the extent to which individuals use them as constructive tools for understanding themselves and making positive changes in their own behaviour. (In this, you might say, they are exactly the same as astrology.) All I know is that around a decade ago, I saw a Twitter conversation about Susan Cain’s book Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking (2012), and the value of the introversion/extraversion model felt suddenly, startlingly clear.

I’ve never read Cain’s book. I don’t read self-help books, as a rule, and the Wikipedia summary linked above makes it sound a bit insufferable. (If it’s true that she claimed that introversion should be the next big civil rights cause, then I can only say ‘WTF’.) But the premise of the Twitter conversation was more specific: the idea that the difference between introverts and extraverts can be explained using the metaphor of a social ‘battery’. For introverts, this battery — the amount of available energy for face-to-face interactions with other people — is depleted by spending time with other people, especially in large groups, and can be ‘recharged’ only by solitude.

Until I read this, I’d always assumed that I wasn’t an introvert because I’m not shy. I’m pretty self-confident, not notably self-effacing, and sociable when I want to be. The social battery metaphor explains why someone like me might nevertheless frequently find it impossible to socialise. Introverts can be social; they can happily give a presentation at a conference or go to the pub. What makes you an introvert is when, after doing these things, you have an immensely strong, almost sub-cognitive need to sit by yourself in a quiet room for a few hours. The bigger the gathering, or the harder you have to work (eg getting to know new people), the quicker your battery runs down. If you’re in a situation in which you cannot recharge, the problems begin (see above: withdrawal, substance abuse, sulking, etc.)

When I saw this ‘social battery’ metaphor, a lot of pieces suddenly clicked into place, and I saw a whole bunch of slightly painful stuff in a different light. For instance: it made sense of why, while taking my A Levels, every working day for two years I bought a hurried sandwich in the huge, noisy canteen and then furtively took it to a toilet cubicle, where I would lock myself in and read a book for an hour until my next lecture. I’d felt bad about that for decades; it was objectively very weird (not to mention incredibly unhygienic) and I couldn’t work out why the young me had done something so strangely, self-defeatingly tragic. Why hadn’t I gone to the library, or a park, for crying out loud? Well: because other people were in the library and the park.

It also made sense of the fact that despite finding it easy to give public speeches and appear as a media spokesperson on TV, I am almost physically unable to ‘network’, even though it’s a critical part of my job -- another thing I’d been ashamed of for years, because it affected my professional competence. (The impossibility of networking, for me, is quite hard to describe. I don’t just mean ‘it’s difficult’ or ‘I don’t like it.’ It’s more like that feeling of total paralysis that you sometimes get when you’re dreaming.)

For decades, I’d thought of these things — and literally hundreds of similar incidents, big and small — as evidence that I was a deeply awkward and perhaps slightly broken person. This assumption was buttressed by the fact that my whole life, I’ve been relatively unpopular. I’ve always had some good friends, and believe me I’m extremely thankful for that. But I’ve never more than a handful at any one time, and often appreciably fewer than other people around me.

What’s wrong with that, you might say: if you’re an introvert, surely limited popularity is the goal. Which is kind of true, except that for a long time I didn’t understand why it was happening. I didn’t realise it was the logical outcome of my own core preference for limited socialising, a preference that turns out to motivate me more strongly than my (also-existing) enjoyment of friendship. Instead, I just thought I must be repellent in some mysterious way that nobody could explain.

Understanding ideas about introversion allowed me to shift the explanation. I wasn’t repelling people; most people probably felt neutral-to-warm about me. But making friends is an action, a process. You cannot just loll about, reading books and eating pies in total silence, and expect fully-formed friends to fall into your lap. I had subconsciously chosen to not do the things that are necessary to the active formation of friendships.

Decades ago I had a conversation with a friend during which she said something that I didn’t really understand, but which I’ve never forgotten. It had the force of something deeply true, and people don’t say deeply true things very often. We were talking about why she attracted roughly ten times more romantic interest from men than I did, despite (we both agreed) me being better looking. (I’m not trying to be all Samantha Brick about this. All the evidence demonstrated conclusively that my friend was much, much more attractive than I was. But I had a better face, and I thought that meant I was owed… something. Men’s attention.)

After nibbling around the edges of the topic for a while, she said — in a tone that suggested it was obvious, and she really shouldn’t have needed to spell it out — ‘It’s because I want it more than you do.’ She was talking about male attention, but she had loads of platonic friends too, and the principle is the same. She was honestly identifying the motivation that caused her to expend so much social energy: to stay upbeat and charismatic when a party was flagging, to take a lively and consistent interest in people, to be endlessly inventive in finding ways to make people laugh. All of this came at a cost to her, but it was a price worth paying to get the things she needed. Everywhere, all the time, people are doing costly things because they are sufficiently motivated by the outcomes.

As I’ve got older, and most particularly since I recognised my introversion, I’ve let myself off the hook about most of this stuff. I literally could not cope with a large friendship group, so it’s genuinely no skin off my nose that I don’t have one. And anyway, the absence of active friendship is not the same thing as hostility. After all, I’m not-friends with a lot of people towards whom I feel perfectly warm, people I’d happily give a lift to or buy a drink for. I’ve every reason to think they feel the same way about me. We just don’t proactively arrange to see each other, and that’s fine, because if we did I’d probably try to get out of it at the last minute, and then they would really start to hate me.

Letting yourself off the hook, making sense of difficult incidents, enabling a sense of chill: these are all good, constructive things that this kind of self-labelling can give you. What occurred to me over Christmas, when I was drawing attention to myself by being quiet and anxious, is that there’s also a raging egotism in introversion, an egotism that is both furtive and highly neurotic, and that I probably need to keep a check on.

I said above that I’m happy to give a speech but I’m not happy to network afterwards, and I said that this is because I need to get away and be on my own. That’s true; I really do need to get away and be on my own after an hour or so in a large gathering of people, and I have many strategies for doing so. (Show me an introvert and I’ll show you someone who knows where the toilets are.) But it’s also kind of convenient, isn’t it, that I’m happy with giving a speech — ie, the bit where I’m the centre of attention and I get to control what’s happening — and I’m unhappy with the bit I can’t control, the bit where I have to negotiate with the fleshy demands of other people’s wants and needs and interests and judgements; the bit where I come face-to-face with the concrete evidence that I am not at the centre of most people’s worlds.

There’s an undeniable correlation between situations in which introverts feel comfortable — intimate conversations, small groups of close friends — and situations in which the introvert gets to hold forth and be constantly affirmed. (Apparently lots of introverts like writing, which, again...) I don’t feel particularly bad about this; I rather like egotists. Some of my best friends, etc. But this egotism does explain why introverts, and all the other anxious neurotics who carry their personality types on a placard whenever they enter a room, have a tendency to expect everyone else but them to alter their behaviour.

This is where ‘they’re just not thinking about me, and that’s OK’ comes in useful. Maybe it’s because I spend a lot of time hanging around on internet forums (where neurotics and introverts tend to be over-represented), but I can’t help thinking that introverts everywhere need to recognise that socially adept people don’t owe us extraordinary consideration. Why didn’t the cluster of mums at the school gate break off from their conversation to say hello to you? Because they weren’t thinking about you! Why are you only finding out about your colleagues’ after-work socialising from the Facebook photos? Because they weren’t thinking about you! They haven’t ignored you, or left you out, or deliberately been unkind. They haven’t painstakingly constructed a ‘clique’ (or, as normal people call it, a friendship group) and barred you from it. They’re just not thinking about you at all, because they’re far too busy thinking about themselves. Just like you are.

Of course, good girls should be seen and not heard anyway.

We were raised by Puffins. With three TV channels and no internet, for long stretches of our lives reading was the best (and sometimes, the only) way to pass the time. Here we return to the books that made us and analyse what makes them great.

An unimaginably powerful object, possibly from another universe, has appeared in an obscure corner of the galaxy and is attracting the attention of interstellar civilisations including the cruel and colonial Affront and the hippie explorers the Zetetic Elench, and the great, star-faring meta-civilisation The Culture. The Culture is essentially a collection of continent-sized starships run by god-like artificial intelligences called Minds. These Minds are now scheming about how they might take advantage of this new alien artefact, which they term ‘The Excession’.

Preface

The ‘M’ in Iain M. Banks is significant. He had a parallel life as the un-emmed mainstream author Iain Banks, but adopted the middle initial to signify to readers when he was indulging in science fiction. His conventional novels were frequently magical realist, or tinged with science fictional ideas or gothically grand guignol; but once he donned the M he became properly space operatic, all lightspeed spaceships and alien races and silly names.

What’s significant was that he had to signify this separation at all: that it was considered useful to demark which of his novels were ‘mainstream’. That there are some fictions that are ‘genre’ and some that are, inexplicably, not. That science fiction needed to have that ‘M’ stuck on it like a warning label. For imMature audiences only.

Science fiction has a bad reputation, literarily speaking. This is largely because of its origin. The term first emerged as ‘scientifiction’, a label coined by Hugo Gernsback, the editor of Amazing Stories magazine, in 1926. Gernsback was also an electronics entrepreneur and stipulated that the genre should include ‘scientific fact and prophetic vision’.

This was fiction by and for engineers, men (so many men) gifted in maths and science but not necessarily in literary style. Men like Isaac Asimov or Arthur C. Clarke, who could conjure fascinating scientific possibilities but who couldn’t write believable dialogue. These were books of plot and concept, not psychology or character.

Gernsback was also, incidentally, the publisher of a magazine called Technocracy Review (1933) which championed the then-fashionable idea of ‘Technocracy’, a society designed and run by engineers. One prominent member of the Technocracy movement was Joshua Norman Haldeman, the maternal grandfather of Elon Musk. Musk, in turn, is a massive science fiction fan and has named several of his SpaceX vehicles after spaceships from Iain M. Banks’ books.

Sci-fi might have had its roots in scientific experimentation, but the genre grew. Writers like Ray Bradbury and Kurt Vonnegut attempted the previously unattempted experiment of writing well. The New Wave of the ‘60s brought writers like Michael Moorcock and J. G. Ballard who went for more formal, structural, literary experimentation. Meanwhile writers like Ursula K. LeGuin and Philip K. Dick (look at all these middle initials) seized on the genre as a way to conduct thought experiments in psychology.

This is precisely what Iain M. Banks did, too. Most of his science fiction books concerned The Culture, a pan-galactic meta-civilisation that has mostly abandoned conventional planets and solar systems to live on giant spaceships and artificial habitats. The Culture has also, more importantly, abandoned conventional politics and economics. This is a post-scarcity society in which anyone can have anything they want, whenever they want it. There is no work, no money, no hierarchy and very little class differentiation. The civilisation is almost entirely run by the Minds, immeasurably intelligent artificial beings who pander to everybody’s whims and still find time to run the galaxy.

What interests Banks is how this utopia might be flawed. Having created a perfect anarchy in which the only laws are individual morality and the bounds of social relationships, he questions how that might actually run and what it might mean for people living in it. This in turn throws up fascinating insights for our own contemporary, real world cultures.

Not that Banks is immune to a little ‘prophetic vision’. Rereading this thirty years later in 2026, his vision is a little too familiar. This is a world run by inscrutable and frequently incomprehensible artificial intelligences; a world in which the majority of people live happily in a haze of drugs and sex and interactive entertainments; a world in which artists are seen as exhibiting ‘a pitiably archaic form of insecurity and a rather childish desire to show off’. Sadly, we still have the capitalism, though.

Contents

The first three books set in the Culture skirt round the edges of it. They tell the stories of people and civilisations outside of it, observing it or being acted on by it. Excession was the first book to properly bring the reader within it, to consider its workings. In one core strand we are caught up in the machinations of the various Minds, trying to keep track of their cabals and connivings as well as their sardonic names (Serious Callers Only, Ethics Gradient, Not Invented Here, and the war ships Frank Exchange of Views, Attitude Adjuster and Killing Time). In one ‘prophetic vision’ the reader must pick through message threads between ships, like trying to catch up on email conversations after a long holiday.

The other main thread is the story of a handful of humans caught up in all these secret plans. Core to this is the tragic story of Byr Genar-Hofoen and Dajeil Gelian. Once lovers, Byr’s infidelity tipped Dajeil first into a murderous rage and then into isolation. She chooses to hide away on the ship Sleeper Service, remaining pregnant for 40 years rather than give birth to Byr’s baby. The main human plot of the book is the Sleeper Service trying to bring Byr and Dajeil back together, to try and convince Dajeil to finally have her baby and create a new life for herself.

Both these storylines concern themselves with misunderstandings and miscommunication, and with the relationship between individual self-definition and the social function. But they also, crucially, involve lots of cool spaceships, weird aliens and breathtaking outer space stuff.

Hugo Gernsback’s definition of scientifiction begins: ‘a charming romance intermingled with scientific fact and prophetic vision’. That romance -- often termed, slightly derisively, ‘sensawunda’ (sense of wonder) -- is another key part of science fiction. Part of the thrill of Excession, for a reader who was already a fan of Iain M. Banks’s science fiction, was finally getting to mingle with the Minds and to explore the ships that are their physical existences. The Sleeper Service is a cup of sea held floating in space by silvery force fields; in the middle of it there is an island that is the ship itself, a 50km slab, its great halls full of diorama of ancient wars featuring the bodies of passengers held in suspended animation.

Another thrill is to follow characters across the strange worlds of the Culture: asteroids hollowed out to create living space; ‘Orbitals’, giant rings of landscape flung into the heavens like glittering bracelets of life; artificial habitats like Tier, intricate interlocking levels of self-contained environments, all rotating round each other. All are peopled by extraordinary characters and aliens and artificial intelligences.

It is no mistake that part of the inspiration for Excession was the computer game Civilization. The titular Excession is what is termed in the novel an ‘Outside Context Problem’, which Banks describes in this way:

An Outside Context Problem was the sort of thing most civilizations encountered just once, and which they tended to encounter rather in the same way a sentence encountered a full stop. The usual example given… was imagining you were a tribe on a largish, fertile island; you’d tamed the land, invented the wheel or writing or whatever... when suddenly this bristling lump of iron appears sailless and trailing steam in the bay and these guys carrying long funny-looking sticks come ashore and announce you’ve just been discovered…

This is a situation straight out of Civilization, a game that Banks said he had to uninstall in order to make himself finish the book.

Science fiction is simply another form of game playing, of imaginative exercise. It allows the creative mind to run free, to invent for the enjoyment of invention and the enjoyment of the reader. But play has a purpose. It is a practice as much as a pleasure, a way of modelling reality and thinking about it. The Minds of the Culture spend a lot of time in play themselves, in a virtual world they call The Land of Infinite Fun; but they must always be aware of base reality, because that is where real things happen.

One of the lessons of Excession is that the ideal is all very well, but that reality has a habit of rendering it moot. Theory is admirable but practice is all that matters. It’s fun to wander in the wondrous spaces of science fiction, as long as you return to Earth now and then.

Afterword

A core theme in Excession is a sort of exploration of Popper’s paradox of intolerance: that a truly tolerant society should reserve the right to be intolerant of intolerance itself. Some of The Culture’s Minds want to use the appearance of the Excession as a way of forcing toleration on the hideously intolerant, warlike species The Affront; others argue that this goes against their own principles of toleration, particularly since the ruse involves tricking The Affront into a war with The Culture that they will definitely lose. A war to enforce peace; an act of punishment in the cause of toleration.

This is just one of many of these juxtapositions of theory and practise throughout the book. One significant theme is the dichotomy between the intellectual and the biological: the disembodied Minds struggle to understand the actions of their human counterparts, while human biology undermines their social ideals. Ulver Seich, a sort of space influencer, is a descendent of the founders of her home vessel, which gives her a sort of class distinction in defiance of The Culture’s flat social structure. Ulver’s emotional intelligence also helps her solve the relationship between Genar-Hofoen and Dajeil, a solution that eluded the super-intelligent Sleeper Service. (The book is full of these highly gendered characterisations: Ulver is highly emotional, whereas the hermit Gestra Ishmethit is the archetypal male nerd, hiding away on his lonely space station making model ships. Genar-Hofoen is a childish, shallow Lothario; Dajeil is an instinctively monogamous perpetual mother.)

But then, members of the Culture can change their biology as they please. When Genar-Hofoen commits the infidelity that causes Dajeil to attack him, she is a woman. The problem, Banks seems to be suggesting, is not aliens and humans or minds and bodies or men and women; it is people. Another person’s consciousness, their personality and intelligence, encountered from inside our own consciousness, is the ultimate Outside Context Problem. It is perhaps possible for us to encounter other people in much the same way as ‘a sentence encounter[s] a full stop’, but what matters, of course, is how we adapt our theories to that practice. How we can create a culture that embraces that diversity to make it a strength. If not to rule the galaxy, then at least to get through the day.

We’ve covered Iain Banks before, without his' ‘M’, with the book that earned him to right to get on with his science fiction: The Wasp Factory.

Here we are again

It’s that time of year again: carols on the playlist, Christmas movies on the box, annual round-ups in the inbox.

The Metropolitan year seems to be taking a predictable shape. Everything generally ticks over: new pieces go out and new subscribers come in, both at a predictable rate. Then Rowan writes something that goes viral and a whole bunch of new readers show up en masse. This year it was her piece ‘I’m not watching ‘Anora’’ that earned a few hundred fresh subscriptions. Fortunately, most of you seem to have stuck around, despite most of our content not being hot takes about porn. We’re now closing in on 1500 subscribers, which is really something (this time last year we were kvetching about not reaching 1,000). We’re delighted to have you all here.

Back in the normal world, the two things that drive regular weekly subscriptions are recommendations and Notes. We get a lot of new subscriptions from other Substacks that recommend us; thanks in particular, this year, to Sandy and Conal. But the real driver is, slightly to our surprise, Notes.

I was slightly suspicious when Substack introduced Notes, because it felt opposed to the core offer.Substack was supposed to be newsletters in your inbox, not in yet another ‘walled garden’ app. However, it has proved to be a crucial part of the community. We already had a fairly rigorous self-imposed social media calendar, putting out posts every day on Bluesky, Instagram and Facebook, so we just added posts on Notes to that regimen. The other platforms seem largely ineffectual, but the Notes posts seem to work. They seem to drive not just ‘follows’ but also subscriptions, bringing in a pleasantly steady stream of new readers.

Substack has something of a ‘reputation’, especially on platforms like BlueSky, but, frankly, we wouldn’t be getting new readers or finding our audience without their community tools and platform. Generally the advice on building a big audience for newsletters is ‘be famous somewhere else and bring your fans to Substack.’ We’re not famous (thank goodness) and have absolutely no audiences on any other platforms, so these kinds of features really help us reach new readers.

All of which is to say, please do share stuff on Notes if you use it — it really does make a difference for us.

Metropolitan Wrapped

The most popular stories this year were:

1. I’m not watching Anora

2. Are we… the baddies

3. Charlotte Raven

4. The Wire, but make it Keeley Hawes

5. Canon Fodder: Easy Rider

We only had one guest post this year, but it was, at least, a cracker, taking in gravitational waves, the sound of the Universe and sex:

The most popular playlist this year was June’s, which was a splendidly upbeat one.

In the interests of balance, the least popular piece this year was our piece on The Pink Panther, should you be looking for some viewing appropriate to a Bank Holiday in the next week:

Thank you

Thanks first of all to all of those readers who have liked and restacked and commented. It really does make a difference to hear from people who have enjoyed (or, in the case of ‘Easy Rider’, been enraged by) our pieces.

A by no means exhaustive list includes: Lou Tisley, Rosie Millard, Mapledurham, Oliver Johnson, Robert Machin, Kerstin Rodgers, L. E. Mullin, Richard Ashcroft, Victualis, Eliot Wilson, Whitney McKnight, Luke Honey, Dra, Chris Norris, Stroness, Hayley Dunlop, Promachos, and Sarah Ditum.

Then there’s the extended Metropolitan family: Annette Richardson, Chris Waywell, Finbar Hawkins, Lucy Thomas, Adam Goodfellow, Ross Sleight, Adam Frost, Kate Williams, Margaret Fiedler MacGinnis, Simon Stephens, Polly Heath and Emma Whitehead (apparently our most prolific recommender this year; thank you, your ladyship).

An extra special thank you to Herr Doktor Peter Wolf of the Paris Observatory for his splendid piece, but also for being an indefatiguable reader and commenter. Thanks, Pete.

And finally thank you to actual family, who read it all and say absolutely nothing: Morgan, Bella, Pippa, Jon and Caroline.

Happy New Year!

If you’re in need for something restfully seasonal to read/listen to now that all the fuss is over, can we suggest our sister Substack, Christmas Stories, and this year’s serial: The Wish List?

Christmas Stories

The Wish List - Item 1

‘The Wish List’ is the story of Alfie, who takes a seasonal job packing boxes at an e-commerce company, only to discover that the warehouse contain a good deal more than just presents…

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5 months ago · 1 like · Tobias Sturt

I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second morning after Christmas, with the intention of wishing him the compliments of the season. He was lounging upon the sofa in a purple dressing-gown, a pipe-rack within his reach upon the right, and a pile of crumpled morning papers, evidently newly studied, near at hand. Beside the couch was a wooden chair, and on the angle of the back hung a very seedy and disreputable hard-felt hat, much the worse for wear, and cracked in several places…

“I suppose,” I remarked, “that, homely as it looks, this thing has some deadly story linked on to it—that it is the clue which will guide you in the solution of some mystery and the punishment of some crime.”

“No, no. No crime,” said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. “Only one of those whimsical little incidents which will happen when you have four million human beings all jostling each other within the space of a few square miles.”

So begins Conan Doyle’s 1892 Sherlock Holmes story, The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle (1892). It opens with this apparently trivial mystery: who owns this hat, recovered in the aftermath of a street brawl. But this apparently meaningless thread turns out to be one end of a tangled skein which leads, finally, to the solution of a crime that has stunned all of London: the theft of the Duchess of Morcar’s ‘Blue Carbuncle’, a giant gemstone.

The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle is the only Sherlock Holmes story that is properly Christmassy. (As well as being set at Christmas, the story leads us through the guts of at least two geese, both of whom end up as seasonal dinners.) This is the last essay in our Sherlock Holmes season, and it’s nearly Christmas, so focusing on The Blue Carbuncle struck me as being a neat solution. But, like Holmes with his apparently innocuous hat, this choice has led me to solve a far greater mystery: the mystery of what makes a truly great Holmes adaptation.

Sherlock Holmes is, as we saw at the outset of this season, roughly coeval with cinema. This is not at all a coincidence; both were the products of a technological revolution, and the cultural and social revolutions that ensued from it. The Industrial Revolution led to massive demographic changes in Britain. By the latter half of the nineteenth century, over 50% of the population lived in cities. As this increasingly urbanised populace became more literate, it created a new mass market for print, as well as for new forms of media: the telegraph, radio, photography and cinema.

Sherlock Holmes was a creation of and for this new mass media: fundamentally democratic, available and comprehensible to all. And he was the perfect hero for the times: an urban bourgeois professional, distinguished by talent and training rather than birth. Such figures stand for the rule of law, not rule by aristocrats. They are fundamentally democratic, binding together and equalising the diversity of urban life.

And Conan Doyle positioned his characters perfectly for this new Imperial city. Part of his genius was to take the neurasthenic aesthetes of Edgar Allen Poe’s C. Auguste Dupin stories -- shut up in their dim, smoky boudoirs languidly turning the leaves of abstruse philosophies -- and turn them into approachable, bourgeois, British figures. Watson is a square-shouldered, rugby-playing ex-army doctor, bluff and approachable; Holmes is an egalitarian autodidact, so patriotic that he shoots the Queen’s initials into the wall of his sitting room. This makes Holmes the perfect detective for the newly mobile, ambitious and fervid Victorian London.

The detective story was structurally well suited to the new mass media, being easily comprehensible and endlessly reusable. The inherent touchpoints -- set up, development, resolution -- lend themselves to almost any theme, and can take all kinds of shapes. The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle, for example, gives us a series of strange vignettes: first the hat (which proves inconsequential), then the gemstone, then a goose, then a chance encounter, and finally a confession. At the end Holmes, in a fit of seasonal charity, lets the villain run free -- apart, that is, from his burden of guilt.

This episodic structure echoes Conan Doyle’s approach to the Holmes universe. The original stories are, for the most part, episodic; each is a self-contained story, and aside from recurring characters each is largely unrelated to the others. This makes them highly suited to adaptation into single, coherent movies, items of mass entertainment that can be picked up and put down as the audience requires, easily disposable and always on hand.

For the same reasons, the stories are well suited to television. There are three basic forms of fiction on television: the single play or TV movie; the endlessly evolving serialised drama; and the episodic show. As we have seen, Holmes can be fitted into all of these structures. Sherlock (2010) attempted to make Holmes the hero of a serialised drama; the 2002 TV movie Hound of the Baskervilles featured an excellent Watson from Ian Hart. Episodic drama, however, is Holmes’s natural home, partly because of its urban setting. It mimics the experience of everyday life in the city, relying as it does on encounters with a stream of starkly drawn strangers; unpredictable little stories that we come into long after they’ve begun, and leave long before they’re finished.

So as well as choosing Holmes’s most Christmassy story, I’m ending this series of essays with a look at my favourite Holmes adaptations: Granada TV’s ‘80s series, and the BBC Radio Four adaptations of the ‘90s. The Granada series was a serious undertaking. Not only did the producers build a whole Victorian street set in Manchester; they also adapted over forty of the original stories before the untimely death of the star, Jeremy Brett. The Radio Four series, meanwhile, is the only adaptation to have covered all of the stories using the same actors as Holmes and Watson (Clive Merrison and Michael Williams), and is a masterpiece of audio drama.

Both are faithful period adaptations, but both have to do a little work to squeeze Blue Carbuncle into the episodic structure. Conan Doyle could get away with his strange shaggy dog construction in print, using Watson’s narration to paper over the gaps, but broadcast drama needs something more predictable. Both adaptations have to rearrange it into a more conventional mystery shape: crime first, then detection. In the unerring hands of lead writer Bert Coules the Radio 4 version deftly introduces the core mystery and the main characters without giving away anything that might spoil the rest of the story.

Where the Granada TV version succeeds, however, is in casting. Jeremy Brett twinkles and dances, as befits a complicated piece of Christmas decoration. His Holmes manages to combine cerebral asperity with a larky sense of drama that perfectly matches the detective of the stories, as well as perfectly fitting the Christmas atmosphere; japes and jollity in the midwinter darkness.

But it’s in the cameo casting that the Granada version really shines. Rosalind Knight might overplay it as the Duchess of Morcar, but she is set off by that great Discordian of British theatre, Ken Campbell, who is utterly delightful as the capering, quavering villain Ryder.

The best performance, though, is a tiny little appearance by Frank Middlemass as the pitiful Henry Baker, the down-at-heel owner of the mysterious hat with which the story opens. Sat in the firelight of 221b Baker Street, trying to understand what’s happening to him, he delivers a perfect depiction of an educated but impecunious man who has, as Holmes puts it, ‘fallen on evil days’. He captures not just the spirit of the character but the spirit of the story, the way it manages to be both tragic and comic, criminal and trivial. He is, personified, ‘one of those whimsical little incidents’.

And this, it seems to me, is truly key to the successful adaptation of the Holmes stories. In themselves they are decent little plots: murder mysteries, cunning heists, locked-room puzzles. But the plots are not the true delight of the stories, and nor are the characters of Holmes and Watson. Indeed, you could argue that a great deal of the success of the stories is down to how sparingly Conan Doyle draws them, keeping them as iconic as possible.

Instead, what distinguishes Conan Doyle is his use of odd little details on which Holmes fixates. Sometimes these are key to the plot: the smearing of the Hound of the Baskervilles with phosphorous, the strange little drawings in The Adventure of the Dancing Men. Sometimes they’re frankly peculiar, and in the man who is forced to copy out the Encyclopaedia Britannica by hand in The Red-Headed League. And sometimes they’re intriguing, like finding an abandoned hat and a goose on Tottenham Court Road.

Any adaptation of Sherlock Holmes must find a way to maintain this weird, sinister, slightly comic note; the odd behaviour and unexpected actions that one discovers among ‘four million human beings all jostling each other within the space of a few square miles’. The life of a city, in all its venality, comedy and strangeness.

That, and Jeremy Brett in the lead role.

You can catch up with our all our pieces on Sherlock Holmes in our Seasons strand, starting here, right at the beginning. The beginning of the century, the beginning of cinema and the beginning of the Holmes myth entirely:

We were raised by Puffins. With three TV channels and no internet, for long stretches of our lives reading was the best (and sometimes, the only) way to pass the time. Here we return to the books that made us and analyse what makes them great.

It’s bloomin’ Christmas Eve again. Father Christmas wakes up in his terraced two-up-two-down, makes breakfast, goes to the loo, feeds the animals and loads up the sleigh. Then it’s ‘good bye cat’ and ‘good bye dog’, and he’s off into the bloomin’ weather to do his rounds. On through the night he slogs, squeezing down chimneys, stopping for a sandwich between chimney pots, and bumping into a milkman. Finally it’s all done and he can go home, make his Christmas lunch, open his presents (Cognac! Good old Fred) and go back to bed.

Down the chimney

Father Christmas isn’t Raymond Briggs’s best known Christmas book; thanks to the famous Channel 4/David Bowie (??) animated movie, that would be The Snowman (1978). But Father Christmas came first. (And anyway, Briggs himself always said that The Snowman wasn’t supposed to be particularly Christmassy.)

It inaugurated his great innovation: the use of comic book layouts in a picture book. This approach enabled Briggs to pack in more story. It also meant he could make full use of visual storytelling, building the narrative frame-by-frame where necessary. He does this so well that the text becomes additive rather than explanatory, a bravura technical achievement that culminated in the entirely wordless Snowman.

Not that Father Christmas has a dramatic story arc: it’s simply the events of one Christmas Eve told from Father Christmas’s point of view. And this isn’t the moral and mysterious Christmas Eve of A Christmas Carol (1843), or the wondrous and whizzy Christmas Eve of The Polar Express (2004). It is a realistic, hard-working night-in-the-life of a realistic and hard-working Father Christmas: one who swears at the rain, puzzles over how to get into a caravan, and nods off at the reins of his sleigh.

The simplicity and directness of this vision feels extraordinarily brave. To take something so straightforward and plotless and make it work required Briggs to place a great deal of trust in his own talent. He was, of course, entirely right to do so. He was a truly brilliant illustrator, marrying a cartoonist’s eye for character — all dynamism and economy — with exacting, accurate details in the backgrounds.

The specificity of the detail is where Briggs shows that as well as knowing and trusting his own talent, he also knows and trusts his audience. Small children live in a small world; small matters such as household brand logos — mysterious, impenetrable, laden with occult meanings — receive the full focus of their attention. The settings in Father Christmas are beautifully specific. The big man’s house is full of recognisable branded goods (a box of Corn Flakes for breakfast, an empty ‘Uxo’ tin for his sandwiches). When he flies over the Houses of Parliament and Buckingham Palace they are architecturally accurate, greebled about with inky crenellations. There is even, on one spread, a legible fingerpost that precisely places one house as being somewhere on Underhill Lane at the foot of Ditchling Beacon under the South Downs, not far from Raymond Briggs’s own house.

This is just one way in which Briggs uses familiar tools, forms and settings to reveal the enchantment of the everyday. He uses coloured pencils a lot — like those Caran d’Ache pencils you might get for Christmas — and they give the book a friendly beauty, full of bright colours and soft details. And he composes brilliant cut-throughs; houses are opened up to show Father Christmas worming his way down chimneys past stuffed attics and sleeping children, and emerging into sitting rooms lit by the soft light of Christmas trees.

The kind of pencils you might have at home; a comic layout like The Beano; a story set in recognisable homes. The everyday is exploded: hidden spaces are made visible, reality is reconfigured, and the secret workings of the world are revealed.

Among the gutters

As well as revealing the enchantment of the everyday Father Christmas also injects magic into the humdrum, capturing the way a child’s world is made (even more) mysterious and wonderful by the season.

Briggs’s comic book format uses very wide gutters (the white spaces between illustration panels). Gutters play an interesting role in comics. They serve to contain the imaginative space of the story, isolating the specific moments of the visuals from each other. They are also, however, a magical imaginative space, in which time and space become flexible, so that panels can be both sequential and singular. (In this way they are different from page turns, which are definite endings and reveals, and are the traditional locations of twists and cliff-hangers.)

Gutters are, literally, liminal spaces, defined by and outside the lines. What’s interesting is that Father Christmas constantly intrudes into them. Things — legs and arms, the sleigh, bits of scenery, speech bubbles — are forever poking out of the frames into the snowy white gutters. The story is escaping the confines of the book; the world of the imagination is irrupting into the world of the reader.

This is appropriate in a story about Father Christmas, an apparently fictional character who nevertheless manages to leave a delightfully tactile and splendidly real stocking on the end of your bed every Christmas morning. And it is appropriate to Christmas, the season in which we take ordinary trees, dull suburban cul-de-sacs and humdrum high streets and turn them into objects of wonder. We literalise friendship and love in the form of presents; we dramatise community and conviviality in feasting and celebration. We take the physical and make it mystical, take the emotional and make it physical.

Part of the joy of Christmas is that it suggests this enchantment is there all the time, just out of view. This is where Briggs’s specificity collides delightfully with the subject matter. By depicting a recognisable and familiar world, and making Father Christmas himself a recognisable and familiar grumpy old man, he is insisting on this most mysterious quotidian magic.

Across the rooftops

Apart from a few interludes (an igloo, a lighthouse), Father Christmas takes place in Britain. In southern Britain to be precise: in and around London and Sussex. Even Father Christmas’s house — which should be somewhere far away, judging by the flight times — is a recognisably British terraced house. This is because it was modelled on Briggs’s parents’ house; that’s his milkman father who bumps into Father Christmas in the early hours of Christmas morning. And that’s an electric milk float that his father is driving, a distinctly British vehicle.

And this book isn’t called Santa Claus; it’s called Father Christmas. Santa Claus is an invention of the Dutch heritage of New Amsterdam, and is more recent than Father Christmas (or, as Ben Jonson rather splendidly named him, ‘Captain Gregory Christmas’). This latter fellow was once associated with a more adult vision of Christmas, full of feasting and foolery. He was crowned with holly, as often dressed in green as in red, and brought beer and song rather than presents.

Raymond Briggs’s muse isn’t quite Captain Gregory Christmas, but he isn’t quite Santa Claus either. He’s a recognisably British character, and not just because he’s mostly landing on roofs in southeast England. The book is a little memento of a time when British and American culture wasn’t quite as intertwined as it is now; when Bonfire Night was more important than Halloween, and when none of us knew what a ‘Black Friday’ was.

This is not to make a tedious Facebook point. I’m not saying life was necessarily better and more pure back in the days of power cuts and Fingerbobs and open-access landfill sites. I’m just pointing out that there was a time in Britain, not that long ago, when ‘Santa Claus’ was not the biggest name in nocturnal present-delivery logistics. When I was a child in the ‘70s, it was Father Christmas we visited in Hamleys every year, Father Christmas to whom we wrote letters, and Father Christmas who left me a copy of Father Christmas when he visited my house on Christmas Eve, 1973. It had not been a cheerful year in Britain. As well as the Cod War and strikes and IRA bombings, the oil shock that followed the Yom Kippur War resulted in mandatory measures to conserve petrol and electricity.

Father Christmas, inspired by Briggs’s father’s own experiences as a milkman, is a fully recognisable British working man of the period, begrudging and swearing his way through the night shift. He’s every grumbling grandfather, and every dyspeptic uncle round the Christmas dinner table.

But, Father Christmas reassures the child reader, these gruff characters aren’t cross with us. Father Christmas may curse the rain, but he still struggles through it to bring the presents. He cares about doing his job properly, visiting every child in every domicile, from caravan to palace. And he still, for all the rain and drudgery and effort, leans out from the panel to personally wish us a ‘Happy Bloomin’ Christmas’ at the end.

Tobias is laid up in bed with the ‘flu and has unwisely left the formatting of this email to Rowan, which gives me an opportunity to commend to you one of his best Christmas Stories. ‘An All Too Magical Christmas’ is the tale of a middle-ranking government magician who takes the Christmas duty rota in the City of London hoping for a quiet bit of overtime but — like a social media intern left in charge of the corporate X account — becomes catastrophically overwhelmed by a chaotic eruption of malignant ancient Magick. Features trolls, geese, Puss in Boots, Herne’s Hunt on fixed-pedal bikes, an enchanted miniature toyshop, and some splendidly confused nutcracker soldiers.

Christmas Stories

An All Too Magical Christmas #1

When a magician (second class) chooses to do Christmas duty in the City of London, it's because he's hoping for a nice, quiet, seasonal time, not for ancient magic to break loose and the enchanted city to be filled with ghosts, monsters, wonder and danger. Not on his watch. Not when he's going to have to deal with it all on his own. That would be an all…

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2 years ago · 3 likes · Tobias Sturt