tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2400019128454781092024-03-17T17:45:16.419-07:00Finger-Steepling and SharksA Blog for Narrative loversRichard Cooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18114063496425319491noreply@blogger.comBlogger55125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240001912845478109.post-42899846769165915892024-02-09T12:21:00.000-08:002024-03-04T08:08:32.754-08:00 "No-one's blacker than me, son." The Gothic Taunting of Jed Mercurio's Line of Duty<p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><b><i><u>(This piece was originally begun shortly after series five of Line of Duty and, for reasons beyond my control kept having to be put on hiatus, and then resumed and expanded to cover all six series. Spoilers, obviously: also watch out for spoilers for Breaking Bad and Bodies</u></i></b></p><p style="text-align: justify;">IN order to assess whether Jed Mercurio's BBC series <i>Line Of Duty </i>leaves much of a legacy (three outstanding series, followed by three not so great), let's start by comparing it with a previous creation of his, the 2004-2006 BBC series <i>Bodies.</i> That had a magnificent first season, an erratic second one and a one-off finale that was largely a return to form. Four things went wrong with series two. Firstly there was sexism: the absurd way the character of Maya was reduced to a one-dimensional harpie out to get Roger, the equally absurd way Roger's wife was written in her brief but memorable appearance (the scene where he tells her he didn't have an affair with Maya and she responds with a preposterous collection of every Soapish "I don't believe you - for no reason - and even if you're telling the truth I'm still angry with you" cliche) and the series's lax attitude towards Tony's sexual harrassment of Polly, which it seems to be trying to sentimentalise by the end. Secondly, for all the complexity of Roger and Tony, there was its tendency towards making their employees pantomime villains. Thirdly, there was the unexpected appearance of some surprisingly dumb plot ideas (a top surgeon suspended due to not paying for a coffee from the hospital canteen, a man accused of indecent exposure by the police and his wife because he got caught urinating outdoors, oddly similar to an also-unconvincing scene in Jimmy McGovern's <i>The Street</i>). Fourthly, the scripts seemed to lose track of how vile a particular character was: as well as trying to pass off Tony's appalling treatment of Polly as genuine love, Mercurio - and Rob - seem to completely forget that Tony attempted to murder a patient by deliberately concealing evidence of her low platelet count in order to frame Roger, and was therefore just as dangerous as Roger.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">All four of these are similar to the reasons why the finale of the fifth season of <i>Line of Duty </i>was easily its worst episode. Instead of giving the excellent Anna Maxwell Martin a worthy role as antagonist Carmichael, she was given endless sarcastic lines: unlike Fleming, Arnott, Hastings, Denton or Huntley it's impossible to imagine her as a successful investigator, or a character with an outside life. She's there just to be mean. As with <i>Bodies</i>'s second season, it's a move into <i>EastEnders</i>-level characterisation, which is jarring precisely because we know Mercurio can do so much better Worse still is Gill Bigelow, played with no subtlety by Polly Walker (although it's unfair to blame an actor saddled with such a one-note, sexist role, having to deliver lines like "Poor woman... at her age" to Ted when his wife has just been assaulted and brutally tortured), who it is hinted turned against Ted because he wouldn't leave his wife for her. As for dumb ideas, there were two. The first was the astonishing resolution of the laptop mystery: Ted destroyed it because he was looking at porn. He, the head of an anti-corruption unit, took the laptop to a centre for erasing digital data which has outside both a security camera and a sign describing what the centre does. The second was the morse code idea. As Cotton lay mortally injured, he could no longer speak, but performed morse code with his fingers to indicate there are "four dots" (referring to his own nickname) within the police upper ranks. I remember the same sinking feeling during the last <i>Jonathan Creek</i> (not a show I ever liked, but another show by a once-great writer), in which David Renwick tried to convince us that a man darting glances between another man, a mobile phone and then a poster which included the letter E was trying to warn the others in the room that the second man was "phoney." As with Mercurio's morse idea, you could list all the reasons it doesn't work, but it's simpler just to point out that no-one could seriously argue it is acceptable. It's a sign of a writer people don't say "no" to anymore. Both the morse and the porn ideas should have been scrapped at first draft stage.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Finally, as with the attitude towards Tony in <i>Bodies</i>, the way the characters talk about Corbett is bizarre. "He didn't deserve that," says Steve on seeing his murdered body, even though Corbett was unrepentant to him about his brutal murder of Steve's colleague Maneet and other police officers and played Steve audio of his appallingly sadistic, slow torture of Steve's boss's wife. This is a series in which brutality towards women gets forgotten, and with no sense of irony. Kate and Steve seem more upset with Hastings for his overly harsh discipling of Maneet then with Corbett for having her throat cut. As with <i>Bodies</i>, Mercurio began the show with hugely convincing characters and then lost the art of persuasion as more and more melodrama was piled on.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Series 6 is at least more ambitious, especially if we assume the bizarre non-appearance of James Nesbitt despite the use of his image in photographs and the re-appearance of two characters already taken into custody a few episodes earlier was due to Covid restrictions ruling out Nesbitt and forcing the crew to fall back on actors they had already shot with. The series starts with two dull episodes (the jargon has taken over, the opening robbery setpiece is underinvolving and confusingly directed, Jo Davison is by far the least memorable of Mercurio's antagonists - bizarrely described in the press release as the most formidable one yet - and, as with Michael Farmer in series four, I remain unconvinced as to how Terry could possibly be framed for a gangland-style shooting given his mental and physical disabilities), then we get a run of three good ones, reminding us of Mercurio's strengths and the qualities he shares with Dickens: the sincerity and power of his anger, his mastery of the cliffhanger, his stylish gothic worldbuilding, a readiness to attack institutional injustice putting so many contemporary novelists to shame, unforgettable characters and a keen understanding of melodrama and how that can become art. Quite rightly, the series continues to address the murder of Jean Charles de Menzies, and this time the murder of Stephen Lawrence is justly added to the tapestry Mercurio is weaving. Owen Teale returns as Philip Osbourne, in charge of a bungled operation in series one that killed an innocent man, now promoted to Chief Constable. Hastings's powerful line "a barefaced liar elected to our highest office," makes it to the trailers as well. It makes us think of Cressida Dick, yet it also works as a Boris Johnson reference. This is gutsy, getting close to Dickens territory, and what I want Mercurio to be fucking doing. Come on man. You can pull this off. We then get two episodes with an odd<span face="-apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif"> series of fake-outs, some presumably intended as irony but toothless: no James Nesbitt, no Owen Teale, no Davidson, Buckells the nonentity as the Fourth Man, Gregory Piper's Ryan (the only interesting character this season apart from the regulars) killed offscreen, not interviewed and never meeting Arnott again (like Miraslav in series 5, or Corbett never meeting Hastings) and Fairbank still having no recollection of anything. Mercurio still just gives Carmichael silly noises to make. As for Davidson and her toe-curling and thoroughly undeserved "happy ending," here we have the same problem we had with Corbett in series 5: Mercurio loses track of just how unpleasant his creation really is.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span face="-apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif">But I get what he's going for </span>here. He's going for bathos. He's aiming to puncture the idea that there must be impressively evil villains behind institutional wickedness: instead there's only an endless array of Boris Johnsons. "Your corruption was mistaken for incompetence!" snarls Hastings at the odious Buckells. In the world of Boris Johnson and Cressida Dick, Mercurio seems to be saying, corruption and incompetence are barely worth distinguishing from one another. Some <i>Line of Duty</i> fans were quick to insist that yes, of course the finale was unsatisfying, THAT WAS THE POINT. Unfortunately, this confuses subject matter with execution. The sheer absurdity, frustration or tedium of something still has to be effectively dramatised. We have to feel that the frustration we suffer is the frustration of Mercurio's fictional world, not merely frustration at Mercurio's writing. Hearing Kelly MacDonald repeatedly say "No Comment" is no substitute for drama. Where Mercurio falls short is in not putting his characters in a room together and letting the emotions rip through, as has worked brilliantly in the first three series. Arnott's prison visit with Fairbank simply repeats his scene with Dale Roach in series 3. Curiously, the welcome return of Patrick Balardi's Jimmy Lakewell enlivens proceedings<u> </u>because Mercurio writes him with humour, a rarity for this show. But then he's killed off, and we're left with no-one interesting for the regulars to interact with. Carmichael gets her first decent line in the final scene, but, at least until series seven if there is one, it's her last line.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Was <i>Line of Duty</i> ever quite the masterpiece I took it for? A rewatch of all the previous series brought the answer: in many ways, yes. The first three series remain outstanding, matching the tension and visceral thrills for which the show has become renowned with terrific characterisation. The cliffhanger of the first episode of season one is one man trying to decide whether or not to click on a computer mouse. DCI Gates (Lennie James) knows that if he does so he becomes complicit in covering up a killing, and no longer an honest copper. Lennie James takes us right inside Gates's head, from every shift of his restless gaze to every movement of his hand across his face. A later terrific scene sees Gates come closer to arresting his mistress, the murderer in question. Jackie Laverty (an unsettling, entirely convincing performance from Gina McKee) tells Tony "You'll go to prison. What's that like, Tony, for a policeman? On the special wing, with all the psychos and the paedophiles. Your wife will know about us. Your daughters. What will they think of their daddy?" James's acting of Tony's enraged, tearful response - "Don't talk about my kids!" - is raw and moving, but he's just as painfully convincing in an earlier scene where he listens, not answering, to the following words from Jackie on his phone and recognises that the brutal sexuality she brings out in him is as much the real him as his love for his family:</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>I'm thinking about you now Tony. I'm thinking about what I let you do to me. Are you thinking about what I let you do? You know I'd do anything you asked. Anything. Nothing's off-limits for you and me, Tony. Nothing. I know what we do is wrong.</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;">This charged intimacy is Mercurio's greatest strength. One of the show's undeniable achievements is that it expanded the vocabulary of television by combining the visceral thrills of the cinematic with the intimate nature of the medium's theatrical roots. Riveting though its action setpieces are, the most thrilling moments in the show are people talking in a room. The interrogation in the penultimate episode of season 2 is one of the most powerful scenes in the history of TV drama, with terrific acting from Mark Bonnar, including an amazing moment where we see the colour actually drain from his face. Then there's Lindsey Denton, also introduced in series 2. Brilliantly played by Keeley Hawes, Denton is one of the great characters in contemporary fiction. Hawes gives as good a depiction of lying - Denton isn't quite good enough at it for it not to show - as I have ever seen onscreen. She's also particularly good on those little moments of rage, the little moments of spite when we glimpse a side of her that makes it all too easy for her to be discredited. These are balanced by intense yet moving scenes of suffering: even after the other prison inmates have put shit in her food, she retains her wit and righteous anger. She wards off a vision of self-sabotage and potential suicidal with a steely "No" to herself. Mercurio's writing here is equally attentive to the violence, abuse and murder attempts Denton faces and to the more steady drip of everyday misery in her life: she goes from struggling to play the piano because of loud neighbours to struggling to pay the piano because her hands have been mangled in prison. While still on the run after two killers hunting her have attacked her prison transport, and having just awesomely turned the tables on one of the bastards by ramming a car into him and recording his testimony, she then runs straight back to her dying mum because she doesn't want the last thing she told her to be a lie (well, yes, we find out later it's also where she hid the bribe money she accepted.) And who will feed her cat?</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Denton's single scene with poor young Carly Kirk - a grooming victim Denton has put everything into trying to save, and one of the few people to escape in <i>Line Of Duty</i> - in the flashback at the end of series two says so much:</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>CARLY: L</i><i>ike your necklace</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>DENTON: Th</i><i>ank you. My mum gave it to me.</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>CARLY: </i><i>Lucky you.</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>DENTON: I</i><i>t's nothing special. I think she only picked it up for a few pounds.</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>CARLY: </i><i>I meant that you've got a mum that gives you nice things.</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Any television writer should aspire towards pulling off a brief moment as simple yet crucial and affecting as that.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">As DS Nigel Morton, Gates's staunch friend, Neil Morrissey catches so well that kind of devotion and fervour that is as terrifying as it is sympathetic, and leads to brutal bullying as well as love and loyalty. His far dirtier, far more dangerous colleague DS Cottan - The Caddy - is also a splendid creation and Craig Parkinson and Morrissey are superb together: when they clash the screen is thick with menace. And then there's Tommy Hunter, the crime boss with leverage over Gates who thanks both to the writing and Brian McArdle's bravura performance is a terrifying Dickensian gargoyle who also somehow feels horribly real. For most of series one he's a voice on the phone taunting Gates. In the climax to that series, Lennie James and McArdle are in a car together, and these two terrific actors go for it: a profoundly horrible yet plausible villain and a hero who's made terrible mistakes yet someone for whom we are desperately rooting. In series two Tommy's role is briefer, but no less haunting: the Carly storyline is made more powerful by our prior knowledge of just what kind of creature Tommy is. We see him beating Carly from the distance as Denton observes them: we can't hear him but there's no mistaking that Quilp-like demon.<br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;">One flaw noticeable in series 2, is that Mercurio's writing of domestic situations can be unconvincing and clichéd, as with Roger's marital and extramarital problems in <i>Bodies</i>: Ted's wife Roisin ending a marriage that began when they were eighteen purely because he didn't consult her before making an investment (he wanted to surprise her) which then went wrong and deprived them of a large amount of money, never felt terribly convincing and Andrea Irvine is given little to work with to bring the character or the situation to life. There's an outright silly scene where Ted, seeing a promotion on the horizon, points out to Roisin that this means they might be able to go somewhere nice on holiday. He then discovers that he has to investigate the boss who would have given him the promotion. Roisin bustles in, telling him how much the holiday talk has cheered her up, a shameful Ted tells her about the setback, and Roisin immediately withdraws the possibility of her having a change of mind about the marriage ending and flounces out again. This might have worked with some humour, but when written in such a po-faced manner it reduces Rosin to a nagging, faintly sexist cliche of a character. Similarly lacking in texture is Kate's rocky marriage, and the idea that the police would side with the husband if he changed the locks and prevented the mother from entering her house and seeing her child is a cliche that doesn't survive the gender-swapping. These are brief scenes, though, and series two is strong enough to brush them aside.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Series three is a slam-dunk, beginning with an outstanding first episode built around Daniel Mays's performance as Danny Waldron. His playing of Waldron's different sides is astonishing acting. So much is expertly juggled here - the Sandsview abuses, Waldron's bullied team, Cottan, Denton - then that brilliant final episode. Poor PC Brickford's last scene is heartbreaking. Who could not cheer when Lindsay punches that corrupt abusive social worker in the balls? Hawes owns this role. Jonas Armstrong's performance as an abuse victim is not easily forgotten, and neither is Arnott confronting the vast but apparently insensible figure of Dale Roach (a name that clearly evokes Cyril Smith, the notorious MP for Rochdale), whose senility has allowed him to escape justice for his monstrous actions. By the time we reach the moment when AC12 confront former Chief Superintendant Patrick Fairbank (George Costigan) with a photograph of himself with Jimmy Savile, the show is doing what truly great drama should do: making the viewer think "no, stop, that's going too far" and then realise the writer's brazenness is justified. As with Jimmy McGovern's finest scripts for <i>Cracker</i> - especially his masterpiece "To Be a Somebody" - Troy Kennedy Martin's <i>Edge of Darkness </i>or Alan Bleasdale's <i>Boys from the Blackstuff,</i> the writer seems to be tearing open the country's stomach and showing us what's in its guts. One possible caveat is that this season moves the "will the Caddy be revealed?" arc to the foreground, and the series starts to spend too much time on shots of the Caddy in question, Cotton, glancing shiftily through blinds, excellent though Craig Parkinson is in the role. It climaxes in a riveting but crowdpleasing shootout/chase scene. The increase in more conventional excitement carries with it the faint threat of dilution.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">The show starts to fall off in series 4 (shifting at this point from BBC2 to BBC1), which gets a little too concerned about who Balaclava Man is. Thandiwe Newton is fine as Roz Huntley but is given a less complex character than the previous guest leads, as is Lee Ingleby as her husband. Paul Higgins's performance as Hilton is jarringly unsubtle. The amount of melodrama in the mix becomes far too much. <i>Line of Duty</i> was no work of realism before, but Ifield's behaviour after Roz is stunned is a twist too many for me - especially he, a forensic coordinator, not knowing she wasn't dead (the silliest plot point in the whole show up to this point, which bizarrely Mercurio has Hastings comment on). The same goes for the confusing Dickensian coincidence in relation to Ifield buying sexual services from Hanna, who unknown to him is also the attempted drive-by kidnap victim on his latest case. As mentioned earlier, it's hard to see how Michael Farmer could be plausibly framed for the crime in question: Roz's response to the massive barrier of his having no driving licence and not owning a car is ridiculous. Yet just as the show's quality is dropping, its exposure and word-of-mouth appeal (aided by the move to BBC One) reach saturation point. Hyping up Balaclava Man and "who is H and is it Hastings?" into watercooler talking points pays off. It gets the show talked about, it gets great ratings - who cares if it's now a less interesting show? Mercurio then writes <i>The Bodyguard </i>for BBC One. This too pays off for him, as does the dreary reprise of "Who is H / Is Ted guilty?" fanfare for <i>Line of Duty</i>'s fifth season. It got people talking, it was great for ratings and Radio Times covers. But this is a deal with the devil. A lot of commentators on contemporary television are very corporate-minded: try telling them that <i>The Bodyguard </i>was a horrific step down for Mercurio or that by pandering to "will we find out who H is in this episode" mentality <i>Line of Duty</i> has lost its way and they'll reply "Yeah, ten million viewers, what a disaster!" All that matters for media pundits is whether the writer has succeeded in boosting their public profile - and the BBC's - well beyond expectation. Artistic success and failure is a harder thing to get them to talk about, especially the notion that a show or writer can decline artistically at the same time as they become the stuff of watercooler chats, twitter enthusings and ratings charts. The point of selling out is that it comes with many personal benefits.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">As for my problems with <i>The Bodyguard</i>, we could talk about the pin-up dreariness of Richard Madden as a sub-James Bond lead, Keeley Hawes's equally nonexistant character, the way this characterlessness left the sex scenes feeling like nothing other than ratings-chasing softcore fantasy, and the whitewash of taking an obviously (not explicitly, but c'mon, let's not kid ourselves here) Tory Home Secretary, giving her a bodyguard who leaps into elaborately-staged action scenes, giving them sex scenes together, casting sexy actors as both, and avoiding giving her any scenes laced with real political commentary, subversion or satire. But I'm more interested in talking about <i>The Bodyguard</i>'s lowpoint, which comes in a disgraceful key scene in the finale. In the scene in question, a terrified Muslim wife who seemed to have been groomed into taking part in a foiled suicide-bombing with her husband turns out to be the mastermind behind it, and launches into a monologue about how foolish we all are to think of her as a victim. It's possible Mercurio thought he was making some kind of point about not seeing women as precious innocents but as human beings, but what he ended up writing was a poisonous warning not to let your compassion lead you astray. Give them an inch and they'll take advantage of it. Five months after this was broadcast, the Home Secretary announced that Shamina Begum's UK citizenship would be revoked: an unprecedented, brutal move. It's hard not to think about the role <i>The Bodyguard</i> played in this. The Tory Home Secretary at the time the show was being written, Amber Rudd, cited by Keeley Hawes as her main research point for her role, was a fan of the show, and was publicly <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/jed_mercurio/status/1033668580250996736" target="_blank">thanked</a> on Twitter by Mercurio for "an interesting and thought provoking article on #Bodyguard. Maybe she'll honour us with a cameo appearance if we get a second series!" Rudd replied "<a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/AmberRuddUK/status/1033718028813455360?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw%7Ctwcamp%5Etweetembed%7Ctwterm%5E1033718028813455360%7Ctwgr%5E%7Ctwcon%5Es1_&ref_url=https%3A%2F%2Fmetro.co.uk%2F2018%2F08%2F28%2Fbodyguard-series-2-already-in-the-works-and-former-home-secretary-amber-rudd-is-calling-for-a-starring-role-7888557%2F" target="_blank">Tempting</a>. But can I play a hard core Bodyguard?" No amount of ratings is worth a talented writer doing this to himself. (Theresa May was even asked her opinion of the show.) It's a long way from Mercurio's compassion for the woman whose husband was shot by police in the first scene of <i>Line of Duty</i>'s first series. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Perhaps I should have seen this coming. At times there is a rightwing tinge to <i>Line of Duty</i>, not as offensive as <i>The Bodyguard</i>, but there all the same. <i>The Bodyguard'</i>s twist is strikingly similar to Ryan Pilkington's arc in <i>Line of Duty</i>. At the end of series one, PC Simon Bannerjee drops Ryan off at his house, but despite his partner's lack of interest, insists on returning a moment later to give Ryan his phone number and says he will be there if Ryan needs help or someone to talk to. We don't see Ryan again until series 5, where he has returned to the same gang as an adult member and participates in several brutal murders and in rounding up victims for sex trafficking. At the end of the series he's been accepted into Police training college, cutting an informant's throat just before his interview, where he cites Bannerjee as an inspiration. The implicit warning is, once again, don't weaken, don't show them compassion, don't think they can change. If you do, they will exploit it. The use of a foul-mouthed, violent gangster child - not that different from the "feral children" that haunt the rightwing, tabloid imagination - brings to mind the character of Hob, the vicious and similarly foul-mouthed gangster child in <i>Robocop 2</i> (scripted by Frank Miller, who we'll come back to later). In both instances, the technique seems to be a kind of gothic taunting to the viewer: look how sadistic we can be, we can even make children as vicious as any of our adult villains, we can place the child actors in our most sadistic scenes (in series one, Ryan tortures Arnott with a boltcutter and, after being arrested, is warned by Fleming that they break your teeth in prison "so you give better blowjobs," leading to concerns about the use of a child actor for such a scene) and in case you think this is a case of the influence of the wrong crowd, see how adept this kid is at every level of gangster activity. There is a similar sadism behind the use of a character with Down Syndrome, Terry, in series 1 and 6, with closeups of his face as he is subjected to questioning about why his semen was found on newspaper clippings and photos of a murdered female journalist. It seems to say to the viewer, "look now far we are prepared to go."</p><p style="text-align: justify;">And then there's the theme of white men being brought down by unfair claims of racism and sexism, and of men being brought down because they crossed women. In series 2, Dryden had an affair with Denton and got her pregnant but refused to leave his wife for her, meaning that Denton had to have an abortion, which she describes as one of the worst things she ever did. It's a major factor in her feelings of protectiveness towards Carly Kirk. In series 4, Huntley uses her own gender and race, a moment of sexist language from Hastings and his previous investigations into Gates and Denton to weave a web of insinuations of sexism and racism to deflect AC12's inquiries. Denton does something similar, using her gender, her knowledge of Hastings's financial problems and Steve's private life to counter AC12 in series 2, and then in series 3 using a moment of weakness from Steve leading to an intimate moment between the two (which, given her use of a recording device, is hinted to be partly a setup) to accuse him of inappropriate conduct, which frees her from prison. As mentioned earlier, series 5 is dragged down by the absurdly catty way both Gill and Carmichael are written. Across her two episodes for that series, Anna Maxwell Martin as Carmichael is given only lines like this:</p><p style="text-align: justify;"> <i>I can’t bear shouting. You really ought to try and be more calm... </i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>Mmmm. There you see. We’re agreeing. This is much better, isn’t it?</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>I think it’s in your best interest to account for this otherwise my imagination might start running away with me...</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i> But let’s not fall out over this. I’m sure we can all work together nicely...</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>Oh, I see. Talk about a pressure situation. My heart goes out to you... </i></p><p style="text-align: justify;">This is dead language, which is not the same thing as an effective representation of dead language, just as Buckells in the series 6 finale is a dull character rather than an effective artistic representation of the kind of dull human being that lurks behind institutionalised corruption. Both Carmichael in series 5 and Huntley in series 4 also have ingratiating female sidekicks who feel designed to annoy tweeting-along viewers with their ambition and who comically get their comeuppance. Wouldn't it have been more interesting and compelling to make Carmichael as plausible a creation as Hastings? Instead she serves no purpose other than to make us think "poor Ted." </p><p style="text-align: justify;">As for poor Ted and the question of whether he deserves our sympathy... at the start of Gates's story in series one, Hastings's main reason for suspecting him of "laddering" his results (i.e. exaggerating the charges attached to his arrests) is that "nobody's that good". In a rare moment where the show really addresses race, Arnott points out:</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>He’s got where he is because he’s had to be twice as good as the next bloke.</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>HASTINGS: </i><i>And that means to be corrupt he’s got to be twice as bad?</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>ARNOTT: </i><i>No, sir, but victimisation of a black officer --</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>HASTINGS: </i><i>My best mate, we went through training together. First year out, they sent us on a job. The two Catholics. Drove straight over a pipe bomb. I was in intensive care for a month. Him, they buried. The Duty Log vanished; nobody would say a word. Don’t talk to me about victimisation. No one’s blacker than me, son.</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Hastings's words there are unconvincing and self-righteous, but believably so: the show isn't necessarily aligning itself with him at his point. The subsequent series of <i>Line of Duty </i>have overlooked this side of him. Neil Morrissey was eloquent on these earlier strengths of the show in a featurette on the series 2 DVD, pointing that what the show does at its best is to make us realise "wait a moment, *he's* a shit..no, wait, they're shits too. Or are they?" By focusing instead on "will he be mistaken for H?" (because the intention is clearly not to convince us that Hastings might be H but to frighten us with just how plausibly Hastings could be framed) Hastings being one of the good ones becomes the show's default position. A similar thing has happened with Arnott and Fleming. Vicky McClure and Martin Compston are, like Adrian Dunbar, superlative actors, able to show us two complex human beings we never trust or like entirely, and yet who also never lose our concern, but the show is beginning to squander this, and not giving the actors enough to do other than point guns. As you watch the final shots of them at the end of series 3 you can almost hear the <i>Dragnet</i> theme, and the subsequent two series haven't varied much from this (Sally Wainwright's <i>Happy Valley</i>, another superbly-written and acted series, faced the same quandary of where quality drama ends and copaganda begins, with its no-nonsense taser-weilding heroine being both a genuinely great, complex character and the kind of police officer that excites reactionary politicians, although it's not fair to blame the show for what Yvette Cooper <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2023/feb/15/labour-to-promise-more-neighbourhood-police-officers-like-catherine-cawood" target="_blank">took away</a> from it). Even the closing scenes of series 6, in which AC12 has been severely hobbled, emphasises the hope that Carmichael will "carry the fire" (something also stressed in the show's Twitter promotions). Racism and misogyny - such huge factors in what's rotten about the Police as an institution - are topics the show ultimately fails to confront. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Recently I've been watching <i>Callan</i>, the sometimes superb 1967-72 Cold War spy series starring Edward Woodward. Although Callan works for "The Section", a shadowy organisation which takes its orders from the British government and is connected to MI6, the show's excoriation of the violence underpinning nation-states - the kind of work Callan does, the kind of man he is, the kind of people Governments employ and the things nation-states do to gain power over their enemies - puts not merely the Bond franchise but serious dramas like <i>Line of Duty</i> (to say nothing of hateful drivel like <i>Homeland)</i> to shame. What's striking about <i>Callan</i> as a show is that it never chickens out by implying that we need things like the Section, that men like Callan are ultimately still preferable to their opposite numbers in the Soviet Union. Instead, it's honest about the moral blankness inseparable from imperialism and nation-states. <i>Line of Duty</i>, by contrast, has the same message as the Aaron Sorkin-scripted film <i>A Few Good Men</i>: yes there's institutional corruption, but there might be enough good people in this institution to defeat them, to carry the fire. Roland Barthes wrote of the "Operation Margarine" technique (named after the adverts that acknowledge people's misgivings over margarine only to nullify them, although nowadays Operation Marmite might be more appropriate), whereby you:</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>take the established value which you want to restore or develop, and first lavishly display its pettiness, the injustices which it produces, the vexations to which it gives rise, and plunge it into </i><i>its natural imperfection; then, at the last moment, save it in spite of, or rather by the heavy curse of its blemishes [...]</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>It is a kind of homeopathy: one cures doubts about the Church or the Army by the very ills of the Church and the Army. One inoculates the public with a contingent evil to prevent or cure an essential one. To rebel against the inhumanity of the Established Order and its values, according to this way of thinking, is an illness which is common, natural, forgivable; one must not collide with it head-on, but rather exorcize it like a possession: the patient is made to give a representation of his illness, he is made familiar with the very appearance of his revolt, and this revolt disappears all the more surely since, once at a distance and the object of a gaze, the Established Order is no longer anything but a Manichaean compound and therefore inevitable, one which wins on both counts, and is therefore beneficial. The immanent evil of enslavement is redeemed by the transcendent good of religion, fatherland, the Church, etc. A little 'confessed' evil saves one from acknowledging a lot of hidden evil</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Decades later Mark Fisher describes the same techniques in the film <i>WallE</i>: </p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>Wall-E's attack on consumerism is easily absorbed. The 'insult' that provoked Kyle Smith into disgust was its image of humans as obese, infantilised chairbound consumers supping pap from cups. Initially, it might seem subversive and ironic that a film made by a massive corporation should have such an anti-consumerist and anti-corporate message (it is made clear in the film that the mega corporation Buy N Large is chiefly responsible for the environmental depredation which has destroyed earth as a human environment). Yet it is capital which is the great ironist, easily able to metabolise anti-corporate rhetoric by selling it back to an audience as entertainment. Besides, on the level of content, Wall-E ends up serving capitalist realism, presenting what we might think of as the very fantasies of capital itself - that it can continue to expand infinitely;</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Totalitarianism fails because it lacks this escape valve: Capitalism and the institutions that depend on it endure because we can convince ourselves that we have dealt with the problems it inflicts upon us. Yes, there are corrupt cops. Yes, there is organised, institutionalised corruption within the police force, but if we force ourselves to endure the gritty torture scenes of fictions like <i>Line of Duty</i>, we deserve to be rewarded with the comfort of Arnott, Fleming and Hastings's decorated heroism, just as we can be comforted by Tom Cruise overcoming his despair at ever winning his case and reducing Jack Nicholson to impotent snarls as he is arrested and led away. Even Hastings's flaws have been diminished: he has some oddly conservative views on women and sex which Mercurio brings up rather artlessly in later series (it's odd that he should do something as self-destructive and damaging to his investigation as calling Huntley "darling" in front of her own officers, even though he hadn't used the word in the previous three series), he was tricked into investing badly and he appropriates some bribe money before it can be handed in as evidence in order to give it to the widow of a dead officer, but he's still become a Good Copper, a much less ambiguous figure than in the first two series. Arnott and Fleming were similarly much more complex in series 1 and 2, with their fascinatingly dubious treatment of Gates and Denton. By series 3, I can't help thinking that Arnott's taped moment of indiscretion is a watered-down version of the appalling sexual and emotional manipulation that undercover police officers are known to have been carrying out in real life.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">As China Mieville, drawing on the invaluable work of <a href="https://www.inquest.org.uk/deaths-in-police-custody" target="_blank">Inquest</a>, observes here,<a href="http://www.londonsoverthrow.org/london10.html" target="_blank"> "In Britain between 1998 and 2009, there were at least 333 deaths in police custody, 87 of them after restraint by officers. Not a single officer has ever been convicted for a single one." </a>This is the story <i>Line of Duty</i> - and before it <i>The Wire</i>, and before that Tony Garnett's BBC2 series <i>The Cops</i> - are not telling, for all their quality. Yes, the first series begins with a shooting reminiscent of the killing of Jean Charles De Menezies, just as the third series had that shattering moment involving a character's connection to Savile, but it has drifted away from that kind of integrity. Just as Western culture can produce a (genuinely brilliant and deservedly acclaimed) TV drama about <i>Chernobyl</i> but not one of equal quality and stature about the shameful cruelty of the handling of Katrina, Guantanamo Bay or the victims of the bombing and invasion of Iraq (just comparative duds like <i>Treme</i> and <i>Generation Kill</i>), the true nature of brutality and institutionalised racism within the Police - the story of Eric Garner, Michael Brown, Mark Duggan and so many others - is a story even feted writers prefer not to tell. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Indeed, as I was first writing a version of this piece, intended to be about my dissatisfaction with series 5, the murder of George Floyd happened. Thinking about Floyd, Michael Brown, Terence Crutcher, Tamir Rice, Philando Castile, Eric Garner and so many others, it isn't just liberal angst like Paul Haggis's initially admired but then much-mocked film <i>Crash</i> that seem inadequate. In <i>The Wire</i>, the only killing of a black man by police occurs when Prezbylewski, pursuing a suspect, fires at a man emerging from the shadows, only to discover he's killed a black police officer. In <i>Breaking Bad</i>, the only time Hank beats a suspect is when he beats up Jesse, who is white, during fairly unusual circumstances in which Walt has led him off Jesse's trail by phoning in fake information about Hank's wife being in hospital. He is prepared to accept any consequences. Prezbylewski insists upon resigning on the spot even when Daniels makes some move towards helping him - "No sir, I'm done." Compare that with the 52 police officers in Buffalo who resigned in protest, not at their two colleagues' brutality in knocking a 75 year old to the ground and then leaving him there bleeding, but at the fact they were suspended for it (not to mention the hideous footage of other cops standing there doing nothing, similar to the unforgettable footage in the UK of police officers looking impassively at Ian Tomlinson as he died after one of them hit him with a baton while he was walking home with his shopping.) A far cry from Hank or Prezbylewski's genuflection. We don't live in a world in which cops who brutalise suspects resign and take responsibility for their actions, nor one in which such brutality only occurs after cops are subjected to cruel and unusual provocation. This was what I wrote in my 2013 post on <i>Breaking Bad</i>:</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>Another time the show hurt me was the attempt on Hank's life in the third series. Hank - brilliantly played by Dean Norris with the intimidating cocksure amiability of a man as comfortable loading a Glock or gathering friends round a barbecue - seems, like Jesse, to be an archetype at first glance: rarely without his gun, raucously cheerful. We see the pressure mounting on this seemingly indomitable figure after he is involved in a traumatic shoot-out. After being posted to a dangerous new job in Mexico, he becomes increasingly uneasy, realising that outside his home turf he's less of an alpha male than he thought. When he loses it and beats up Jesse, he resigns. His wife urges him to put some spin on his version of events - to say Jesse attacked him first. Hank has no intention of doing so; he tells her he has failed to be the man he thought he was. We realise that Hank is everything Walt isn't: a man with the guts to act on his conscience, and to take responsibility for his mistakes. But, horribly, the script has already established that Hank's murder has been arranged. Hank hands over his gun and leaves his office, there's a deeply moving moment where Hank finally cries a little as his wife hugs him in the elevator. Excruciatingly, though, we still know that Tuco's cousins are coming to kill Hank to avenge Tuco's death. What happens when they corner him in the carpark is too exciting to paraphrase, but by the end of it, I had as close to an out-of-body experience as I've ever had during a work of fiction. "He's going to die!" my family and I wailed at each other as we watched, "he's actually going to die!" Only drama, rather than schlock or escapism, can hurt you like this.</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;"> Propaganda affects us all but it's always the show you least suspect. It is disturbing to realise how well that piece of propaganda worked on me. (It's unnerving to me, too, that my piece on <i>The Wire</i> singles out Prezbylewski as one of its greatest characters and specifically praises his arc). Perhaps there are similar reasons for why one of <i>Line of Duty'</i>s dramatic high points - the death of Denton, with her trumphant final line "BECAUSE I'M A POLICE OFFICER!" also moved me. To acknowledge the show's propagandistic qualities - and my own political objections to them - is not, of course, to deny or resist its artistic qualities. Hank, like Denton, is a brilliantly written and acted character, and one I will continue to enjoy on rewatching, just as I will continue to to be moved by rewatching <i>The Wire</i>, Prezbylewski included. Unlike <i>The Wire</i>, <i>Breaking Bad</i> is as uninterested in exposing the duplicity of the "War on Drugs" as Jane Austen was in the Napoleonic Wars. So magnificently directed, written and acted, it remains an unsurpassable depiction and condemnation of the moral bankruptcy of the masculine ego, of the sentimentality and self-righteousness that often lie behind violence, and of the ironic failure of perpetrators of violence to truly understand or empathise with the people they're "doing this for," but at times its view of Mexicans and Chicanos doesn't feel vastly different from Donald Trump's. <i>Better Call Saul</i>, the excellent-but-not-as-good-as-<i>Breaking-Bad</i>-whatever-people-say prequel series, finally gives us a more nuanced Chicano character in Nacho, brilliantly played by Michael Mando, but it's a little too late, and Nacho's father, like Andrea in <i>Breaking Bad</i>, doesn't get enough screen time. There is, in fact, a devastating subplot in season 1 of <i>Breaking Bad</i> about Hugo Archuleta, the kindly Mexican janitor who offers a vomiting Walt a spliff to ease his cancer suffering and then gets blamed for Walt's thefts from the lab and busted by Hank. It acts as a powerful corrective to Hank's personal charm for the viewer: his lack of compassion for what's going to happen to Hugo when Walt inquires about it is harrowing to listen to. So much about the injustice of the absurd War on Drugs is said right there. Subsequently, this point gets lost and Hank is seen more as a moral counterpart to Walt. My political reservations about <i>Line Of Duty</i> similarly don't affect my high regard for it (well...for those first three series...) as drama, but there's always the possibility that the increasing number of cracks on its surface will shatter and another <i>Bodyguard</i> will be unleashed.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span> </span>Then there's <i>Line of Duty</i>'s use of violence and action. The murder of Georgia Trotman (Jessica Raine) at the end of the first episode of series two always felt like fridging to me: kill off the young, likeable, attractive, feisty woman we've just met for maximum shock value, and increase the poignancy by hinting at a romantic connection between her and the male lead. There's even a gratuitous detail about her brains having to be spooned back into her skull. The poignancy and the brutality in such a juxtaposition become a kind of pornography. I think what ultimately determines whether the death of a particular female character is fridging or a legitimate moment of drama is how relevant the death is: is it strongly present throughout much of the drama, its human cost truly examined, as with the death of Denton in series 3, the death of Jackie in series 1 (even though the fridge is literal on that occasion) and the deaths of Jane and Andrea in <i>Breaking Bad</i>, or is it something the writer and the viewer forget about once it has done its job, like the deaths of the women cursed with the secondary role in so many of the James Bond films? Maneet's death in series 5 also ends up falling into the second category. Its human cost is explored to start with, with a powerful performance from Maya Sondhi, but, as mentioned earlier, Arnott's and Fleming's lack of anger at Corbett for this vile act and the equally vile and drawn-out torture of Hastings's wife feel ridiculous, and Arnott bonds with Corbett's widow in series 6 while Maneet's young children and husband are forgotten. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Mark Fisher observed "a kind of machismo of demythologization" in the work of Frank Miller and James Ellroy: </p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>They pose as unflinching observers who refuse to prettify the world so that it can be fitted into the supposedly simple ethical binaries of the superhero comic and the traditional crime novel. The 'realism' here is somehow underscored, rather than undercut, by their fixation on the luridly venal - even though the hyperbolic insistence on cruelty, betrayal and savagery in both writers quickly becomes pantomimic. 'In his pitch blackness' Mike Davis wrote of Ellroy in 1992, 'there is no light left to cast shadows and evil becomes a forensic banality. The result feels very much like the actual moral texture of the Reagan-Bush era: a supersaturation of corruption that fails any longer to outrage or even interest'. </i></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Fisher has elsewhere described Ellroy as "a Hobbesian Conservative who evinces a macho pragmatism that accepts violence, exploitation and betrayal as inevitable." Similarly, Alan Bennett, <a href="https://www.lrb.co.uk/the-paper/v32/n01/alan-bennett/diary" target="_blank">writing</a> about the 2009 Channel 4 TV adaptation of David Peace's Red Riding novels, suggested that:</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>though the police get away with extreme violence and even murder I find it hard to credit (if I understand the plot) that masked bobbies could shoot up a club or batter and rape a reporter on the Yorkshire Post without there being some sort of repercussions. [...] So while Red Riding seems like gritty realism it is in this respect quite romantic, as romantic and fanciful as the stories told at the other end of the social and geographical scale in Midsomer Murders. In Midsomer the murders average thee or four per episode but never seem to incur any comment in the press or ruffle the calm surface of the community. It takes more than the discovery of a mere body to stop the garden fete.</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"> In fact, it's striking how much respected writing in the 21st century takes violence to ludicrous levels. <i>Game of Thrones</i> is widely seen as an adult rather than an adolescent TV programme, and Adam Roberts has <a href="https://medium.com/adams-notebook/fantasy-and-violence-the-sadean-turn-b3811669ebd1" target="_blank">written</a> of the appeal of its gruesome blend of horrific violence and salacious sex, also seeing it as Hobbesian:</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>This solipsistic and eroticised quality is the logic of much of the grimdark and body-horror that plays such a prominent part of contemporary culture: Bret Easton Ellis's American Psycho (1991) or Tarantino's grisly set-pieces are Sadean exercises: apolitical and individualised, exercises in a reversionary solipsistic excess. So, despite its larger ensemble cast and pretentions towards realpolitik, is Game of Thrones: ‘Tits and Dragons’ as Ian McShane memorably called the show, after appearing on it (‘Peter Stringfellow's Lord of the Rings’ is Stewart Lee's pithy put-down). Here physical violence, lavishly illustrated on screen via distressingly lifelike special effects, combines wth a good deal of nudity and sexual activity to create a distinctly Sadean Fantasy flavour. [...]</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i>This, it seems to me, doesn't critique the contemporary political turn to the right so much as translate it into the representational logic of fantastika. The one thing that unites today's Brexit agitators, and Trumps, and Viktor Orbáns, the basic Brexitrumpbán premise, is that the world is dark and full of horrors, and that the polity must pull up the drawbridge and arm the cannons in the face of these things. Hobbes is very much back in fashion nowadays. And TV SFF, the Game of Thrones and Westworld and True Blood and Altered Carbon vibe (something also true of recent rape-and-sandals hit epics like Spartacus and Rome) embroiders a fundamentally Sadean-Hobbesian world: nasty, brutish and sure-to-include-female-nudity.</i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"> Dennis Kelly's sometimes-good 2013-14 drama for Channel 4, <i>Utopia</i>, piled on a grotesque cavalcade of offensive scenes such as a baby trained to become a killer by being subjected to experiments by his own father to destroy his empathy in which rabbits were killed in front of him, until the child ended up killing rabbits himself, and a hitman (that baby grown up, in fact) walking into a school and shooting schoolchildren and teachers dead in order to frame a child for the shooting. Russell T Davies's woeful "adult" spin-off of <i>Doctor Who</i>, <i>Torchwood</i>, experienced acclaim for the first time with its third season, "Children of Earth", which ended with the protagonist brutally and bloodily murdering his young grandson in order to save the world. In the case of British TV it seems like a curious offshoot of the desire to push back against the vicious fundamentalism of Mary Whitehouse and the rightwing press: the more violent and viscerally unpleasant you make your script, the more you must be doing something right.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Cormac McCarthy's <i>The Road</i> is an unforgettable, profoundly moving novel, horrifying and invigorating, and yet it takes a while after you've read it to realise just how absurdly unlikely the violent details are. Somehow, in this case heightened by McCarthy's artistry, it convinces us that it's just the opposite: a hyper-realistic, unflinchingly honest vision of the near future, just one crisis away. Do we really think that after sudden worldwide nuclear disaster there will soon be armed gangs marching with "catamites" displayed in chains, people locked in cellars so that limbs can be taken from them for successive meals and babies roasted on spits? If not, why does the book frighten us? It's worth considering in this light the scene in series two of <i>Line of Duty</i> where Denton returns to work after a murderous attack that left three of her fellow officers dead. Her neck is in a surgical collar. Everyone seems to be sympathetic at first, but when she visits the toilet cubicle several of her colleagues burst in, force her head down the toilet, and blame her for the deaths of their fellow officers, as she chose to respond to the call without additional backup: "We should be burying you, you stupid bitch." All of her other colleagues have followed her tormentors into the bathroom, and are silent spectators. Everything about this screams gritty realism, but is this gritty realism actually realistic? How many police officers could really shove the head of a female fellow officer in a surgical collar down the toilet? How many could watch? And even if they could, would they really bother to put on such a convincing act of sympathy at first, then sneak into the bathroom after her and arrange themselves outside the toilet door as if they were organising a surprise party? In series four, Ifield suspects Huntley, then after accidentally knocking her out it's oddly Ifield that goes nuts, then while Huntley is trying to survive the fallout from this her arm gets infected from their fight and has to be amputated. Series 3 opens with Danny Waldron, an armed response officer, being shown the photo ID of a suspect he and his team must race to stop before he carries out a gangland execution only for Danny to recognise him as one of the men who sexually abused him years ago. Perhaps <i>Line of Duty </i>is best understood as operating within the logic of a nightmare. Guest protagonists - Gates, Denton, Waldron, Huntley - are trapped in personal nightmares, in a Gothic version of our world. Often the unrelated horrors they face pile on top of each other in a way they obviously wouldn't in real life. It's similar in technique to Jimmy McGovern's magnificent series <i>Cracker</i>, which was profoundly in tune with the politics and undercurrents of its age in a way that put so many literary novels of the time - and since - to shame, yet somehow achieved this with a protagonist as impossible as Sherlock Holmes was and a world in which we meet four police officers who work together, two of whom get murdered, a third raped by the fourth and then the fourth commits a murder-suicide within 2 years (the first two murders and the rape occurring as a result of three unrelated cases). We've all heard the weak joke about the murder rate in Oxford according to <i>Inspector Morse</i>. Shows like <i>Line of Duty</i> and <i>Cracker</i> combine that approach with a more intelligent and unflinching engagement with the world's horrors, but in the later seasons it becomes harder to see what <i>Line of Duty</i> is trying to say.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"> And yet... in the age of Trump, Weinstein and Savile, the murder of George Floyd and the acquittal of Karl Rittenhouse and George Zimmerman, and so many other cases that we need to open our eyes to, I'm wary of the remaining traces of my own "surely that wouldn't happen" squeamishness. How could Savile have been given his own keys to a hospital? How could Edwina Currie, the minister responsible, remain so smugly unrepentant, insisting that if she'd known "I'd have said "the keys Jimmy." More recently she's appeared on our TV screens to defend the Government's handling of the covid19 crisis. How could Cressida Dick become Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Force after heading the operation responsible for shooting Jean Charles de Menezes dead? How is the former Director of Public Prosecutions who could find no grounds for action in the killing of <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2009/feb/13/police-no-charges-de-menezes-shooting" target="_blank">de Menezes</a> and <a href="https://amp.theguardian.com/uk/2010/jul/22/cps-statement-death-ian-tomlinson" target="_blank">Ian Tomlinson</a> when he was still in the job in <a href="https://www.dailyrecord.co.uk/news/uk-world-news/family-of-jean-charles-de-menezes-1009708" target="_blank">2009</a> and <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/uk/2010/jul/22/cps-statement-death-ian-tomlinson">2010</a> now the Knighted leader of the Labour Party? How could he have <a href="https://www.thenational.scot/news/18819175.keir-starmer-defends-labour-stance-spy-cops-bill-abstention/" target="_blank">whipped</a> the party to <a href="https://labourlist.org/2020/10/exclusive-starmer-says-labour-should-not-vote-down-spycops-bill-even-if-unamended/" target="_blank">abstain</a> a <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2021/feb/04/undercover-policing-inquiry-keir-starmer-urged-to-give-evidence" target="_blank">bill</a> that allows public bodies to authorise <a href="https://labourleft.org/model-motions/model-motion-on-the-spycops-bill/" target="_blank">rape, murder and torture</a>? How can Karl Rittenhouse be standing there behind the judge in those extraordinary photographs, and how can the judge request that the men he killed not be referred to as "victims" but could be referred to as "looters" and "arsonists"? How can police officers attack women protesting a vigil for a woman murdered by a police officer? When one reads about the women raped by undercover officers or sees the footage of police officers calmly chatting and exchanging misogynistic quips about Dr Konstancja Duff, the innocent woman they've just brutally stripsearched, or sees what the officers at the Sarah Everard vigil were prepared to do even in front of cameras, one wonders: is the real problem that I'm not allowing myself to face the fact that police officers would indeed shove the head of a woman in a surgical collar down the toilet? Perhaps life is as brutal as the "gritty" school of drama. There's a line in the <i>Cracker</i> story "Men Should Weep" in which a woman who has been raped is answering police forensic questions and her male questioner comments "so much easier when the victim is educated." First watching that some time ago, I honestly remember thinking that line was overdone. Surely no-one would be that crass? Covid 19 even has me wondering if that <i>Torchwood</i> story wasn't so far off the mark after all: we've seen both Tories and Labour prioritise putting children back in school over the deaths this will cause, which immediately brought to mind "Children of Earth"'s scenes of politicians calmly discussing which children could be sacrificed and how many of them. There is a need for writers to make us gasp and shudder, to make us think "surely not?", to take us past our comfort zone so that we start to realise that more horrible things are possible and already happening than we like to think about. I just think that, creatively, Mercurio, for all of the gruesomeness on display in is scripts, is just not always fucking pushing himself. His bad guys become no different to the baddies in <i>Dirty Harry</i> and <i>Robocop</i> films. As the UK gets uglier and uglier, Mercurio's work seems less an interrogation of it and more like a jaded capitulation to it. At its best - and three great seasons is a fine achievement, no matter what came next - it shows us what TV drama is capable of as an artform, and what a tough thriller can really do, up there with <i>Edge of Darkness</i>, <i>Cracker</i>, <i>Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy</i>, <i>Breaking Bad, Happy Valley</i> and <i>The Wire</i>. At its worst it feels like very violent Tory propaganda. Watch those kids on the estate. Don't trust the Muslim wives. Still...wonder if Hastings will turn out to be H after all, eh?</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p>Richard Cooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18114063496425319491noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240001912845478109.post-11871420372302325272017-07-28T18:04:00.003-07:002017-07-30T00:07:39.633-07:00Doctor Who: World Enough and Time \ The Doctor Falls<div style="text-align: justify;">
So, as was partly discussed <a href="http://richardhcooper.blogspot.co.uk/2011/11/how-steven-moffat-ruined-doctor-who.html">here</a> and <a href="http://richardhcooper.blogspot.co.uk/2013/05/steven-and-women-or-how-steven-moffat.html">here</a>, I'm not a fan of Moffat's first five seasons. I regard the Matt Smith era as a disaster, and while Capaldi is the finest Doctor ever cast, his first season was weak and his second patchy. Surprisingly, though, his final season was pretty good. <i>The</i> <i>Pilot</i> was the best season opener since <i>Rose</i>; <i>Thin</i> <i>Ice,</i> <i>Knock</i> <i>Knock</i> (despite some wonky plotting), <i>Oxygen</i> and <i>The Eaters of Light</i> were strong; and, remarkably, the final two-parter was the finest story not just of Moffat's <i>Who</i> but of Modern <i>Who</i>. How did that happen?</div>
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We start off with Moffat establishing an arc that is actually promising for the first time in his era. The Vault is neither irritating as Clara's identity, Amy's bizarre pregnancy and the Doctor's shooting were nor boring as the cracks in time, the "Promised Land" and the Hybrid were. The idea of the Doctor as a university lecturer, sworn never to abandon the Vault but prepared to do so for the sake of each week's excursion provided he arrives back at the immediate point in time after he left, doesn't restrict the format and yet puts an interesting spin on things, and Bill attending the Doctor's lectures reinvigorates the Doctor\companion dynamic.</div>
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Pearl Mackie is a major boon, too: certainly the best performance since Billie Piper in the 2005 season (a performance that Piper herself wasn't able to recapture in subsequent seasons), and possibly better. She has that same luminous quality: an ability to convey emotion and empathy so directly that both children and adult viewers can identify with her, and to really sell her character's natural empathy with or interrogation of those around her in whatever situation into which the Doctor plunges her.</div>
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There are three weak stories. With <i>Smile</i>, Frank Cottrell Boyce delivers another dud, in which the Doctor and Bill wander about while not very much happens, and what little does happen happens for not very coherent or consistent reasons, culminating in a literal reset switch climax as the Doctor saves the day by Turning It Off and On Again, <i>IT</i> <i>Crowd</i>-style (the script's making this into an actual joke doesn't make this any less insulting), and Ralf Little appears only to be given the most absurdly underwritten role for a guest star ever in <i>Doctor</i> <i>Who</i>. The monk three-parter is awful, beginning with <i>Extremis</i>, which is irritating in the way so many Moffat episodes are: confusing without being stimulating, indulging in pontification instead of actual storytelling, and relying on a reset-button ending. <i>The</i> <i>Pyramid</i> <i>at</i> <i>the</i> <i>End</i> <i>of</i> <i>the</i> <i>World</i> by Moffat and Peter Harness is slightly better: while the premise is still based on flawed logic, it does at least build to a decent cliffhanger. Then Toby Whithouse drops the ball spectacularly with <i>The Lie of the</i> <i>Land</i>, which is both a dreadful piece of storytelling in its own right and a conclusion that fails to make good on every single setup from its two predecessors. The trilogy also fails at selling us Missy's move towards redemption: the scene where she starts crying comes out of nowhere. Bill, too, is badly served by this story: the laughable scenes of her mother "going viral" at the end mean we lose connection with that part of her past (a shame given how wonderful the scene in which she finally discovers pictures of her in <i>The</i> <i>Pilot</i> is) and emotional makeup, and the decision not to feature her stepmother again is puzzling (as is the decision to make Bill too nervous to come out to her, a cliche which the season never justifies). As for <i>The Empress of Mars...</i>letting Gatiss do another Ice Warrior episode is not what the Licence Fee is for. Let Big Finish handle that sort of thing. I struggle to say more than that. One thing <i>Doctor</i> <i>Who</i> should never do is a story where you know exactly what you're in for. Gatiss's effort felt like a <i>Doctor</i> <i>Who</i> story for Ian Levine.</div>
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The<i> World Enough and Time \ The Doctor Falls</i> 2-parter, though, might be this generation's <i>The Caves of Androzani</i>. It's the most moving story in the whole of modern <i>Who</i> so far, and indeed its only rival in terms of emotional power in the entire history of the series is <i>Androzani.</i> Just as that story saw Robert Holmes taking ideas from two of his weaker stories - <i>The</i> <i>Space</i> <i>Pirates</i> and <i>The</i> <i>Power</i> <i>of</i> <i>Kroll</i> - and making them work, this story sees Moffat redo ideas (Oswin's fate in <i>Asylum</i> <i>of</i> <i>the</i> <i>Daleks</i> and that of Danny in <i>Death in Heaven</i>, Clara's exit in <i>Hell Bent</i>, the Doctor protecting a community in <i>The Time of the Doctor</i>) and this time managing to make them work brilliantly.</div>
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<i>The Parting of The Ways</i>, until now the the benchmark for finale episodes, was not really about Daleks, and the inhabitants of the Gamestation, other than Lynda, were its weakest aspect. This didn't matter, because it was a story about the Doctor, Rose, Jack, Mickey and Jackie, (the latter two appearing briefly but crucially) and how they react when put in this situation. The Daleks are merely a dramatic tool, a way of getting our heroes to face odds that impress the audience as insurmountable, as only the Daleks do. There are similar parameters here: as a study of the Cybermen, the story doesn't score highly. Both the nurse and the surgeon in the first episode are sketchily drawn and we don't really meet any other Mondasians, and so while we're told what drove them to convert we don't really feel it. Similarly, the inhabitants of the solar farm in the next episode could just as well be from present day Earth: there's no sense of what life onboard a giant spaceship struggling to escape Cybermen has made of them. So unlike most other outstanding Doctor Who stories (<i>Androzani</i>, <i>Ghost</i> <i>Light</i>, <i>Kinda</i>, <i>Carnival</i> <i>Of</i> <i>Monsters</i>, <i>Talons</i> <i>of</i> <i>Weng</i> <i>Chiang</i>, <i>Ark</i> <i>in</i> <i>Space</i>, <i>The</i> <i>Ribos</i> <i>Operation</i>), this story gives us neither a richly drawn world nor a richly drawn set of one-off characters.</div>
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But that doesn't matter because that isn't what it's trying to do. What it sets out to do is place the Doctor, Bill, Missy, the Master and Nardole in fertile soil for great drama, and on this level it succeeds magnificently. This is the first time since 2006's <i>Army</i> <i>of</i> <i>Ghosts </i>\ <i>Doomsday</i> that all the principals assembled, whether regular or recurring, are convincing characters played by well-cast actors. Matt Smith simply didn't have the dramatic weight that Capaldi invests his scenes with (he couldn't even shout convincingly). Clara never recovered from the disastrous Impossible Girl arc, nor from the jarring about turn in which her Mary Poppins-esque job - along with the two children in her care - was forgotten and she was suddenly an English teacher. Coleman's winsome performance is also clearly surpassed by Mackie's refreshing naturalism. Let's not even get started on Danny, Kate Lethbridge-Stewart, Martha's underwritten family, Catherine Tate, Osgood, the dull Timelords of <i>Hell</i> <i>Bent</i> and the hideous experience of watching Chris Addison say "SQUEEEEE!" You might have enjoyed some of the above, of course, but they surely pale compared to Capaldi, Mackie, Gomez and Simm's powerhouse turns here.</div>
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Michelle Gomez is ideal casting for precisely the reasons Alex Kingston wasn't: she radiates charisma, an unnerving Tom Baker-esque use of disarming, energetic humour and an otherworldly quality. While Kingston is excellent in straight roles she doesn't have this energy (Consider how Gomez sells the "Doctor Who" scene at the start of the story in a way Kingston really couldn't have done), and tending when the stakes are raised in her scenes as River Song to stray towards melodrama, as in her unintentionally comical declaration of love for the Doctor at the climax of <i>The</i> <i>Wedding of River Song</i>. Missy also works as a character because Moffat is not blind to her moral failings, in contrast to his lack of awareness of the gun-toting River's, which harmed the integrity of the series.</div>
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Simm is perfect in his return as the Master. While the Master has rarely worked well, the basic mythology has always remained compelling. Two friends at the Time Lord Academy, who found each other's company so much more exciting than anyone else, become the Ying and Yang of the universe. It's an idea that comes across effectively in <i>The</i> <i>Sea</i> <i>Devils</i> - helped by Roger Delgado's charm - but which got lost when Anthony Ainley took over. In his two Russell T Davies stories, Simm's Master struggles to truly resonate, but here, like Ainley's surprisingly effective final appearance in <i>Survival</i>, he makes sense. The pairing of Gomez and Simm is smart because they resemble the two sides of the Master we've previously seen: Gomez is the Delgado side, who, as she said in <i>Death in Heaven, </i>wants her friend back, while Simm is the Ainley side who has left that behind him. Science Fiction or fantasy often works at its neatest when a relatable idea - here an awkward friendship - is given a conceptual twist: here two versions of one of the friends at different points in time with different attitudes towards the other friend are present. This results in the Doctor's final speech to them both, in which Capaldi delivers what might be the finest piece of acting in the series's history and Moffat manages to pull off one of the show's finest dramatic moments. The Master's ultimate fate - shooting him\herself in the back - is so perfect that one hopes we never see the Master again in subsequent showrunner's takes on the show, as he\she will never be done as well as this. It's long been said that Barry Letts and Robert Sloman planned a story in which the Master died saving the Doctor's life (and let's face it, they didn't have the writing chops to pull that off) but what happens here is vastly more moving: she decides to stand with the Doctor, but her centuries of malevolence catch up with her, and so the Doctor never knows.</div>
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Simm's performance as Mr Razor in the first episode of this story is also a triumph, coming at us from left-field. He makes him genuinely engaging and funny, which for viewers who see through the disguise (and Moffat cleverly writes these scenes with the expectation that many will) works as a new take on the bizarre way that warmth and malevolence exist side by side in the Master. He's someone that we accept Bill would feel comfortable watching <i>Doctor Who</i> with, as they sit watching the security camera footage of the ship's slower end. This makes his taunting of Bill in the next episode all the more devastating: the Master has never been more loathsome than at that moment.</div>
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The understated loyalty and gentle humour of Matt Lucas's Nardole has been effective all through this season. His instructions to honour River's wishes and kick the Doctor's arse if he steps out of line make him a companion different to any we've seen before while also providing a strong spine for this particular season's arc. Offscreen, River Song finally becomes a character that works. Nardole is also pleasingly unobtrusive, getting on with things in the background rather than dominating so much that the show falls prey, as it did with River and Clara, to CS Lewis's dictum that to tell us how odd things struck odd people is an oddity too many. His final scene is as effective an exit as a companion has ever had in <i>Doctor</i> <i>Who</i>. He agrees to spend the rest of his life protecting a group of people, a good deed with no reward. As with the Doctor's final speech to the Masters, the emphasis is on helping others because they need it, not in order to be lauded as a hero. This is a much-needed shift after the tendency of UNIT and other characters to hero-worship the Doctor in modern <i>Who</i>, culminating in the absurdity of the Doctor as President of Earth ("Without hope. Without witness. Without reward" is a major ethical improvement). The scenes between Nardole and Hazran are delightful: she's not his ideal choice of partner, he's not even the same species, but in the face of the challenges before them they will need each other's company, and he will probably be too kind not to reciprocate her affection.</div>
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Mackie makes Bill's ordeal genuinely wrenching. Just as Gomez sells her scenes more powerfully than Kingston, so does Mackie achieve something more affecting than Jenna Coleman would have managed. Her work is complemented by Rachel Talalay's superb direction, which brings us some of the most haunting images ever seen in the programme: the incredible opening shot giving us a sense of the immense scale of the colony ship, the bandaged patients, the scarecrows<i>. Doctor</i> <i>Who</i> has never been more visually rich. </div>
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Particularly wonderful in terms of imagery is the use of tears. In <i>The Pilot </i>we have the marvellous exchange between Nardole and Bill after Bill's farewell to Heather - "That's the Doctor for you. Never notices the tears." "I don't think they're mine." - which turns a former menace (helped by superb special effects: we totally buy the idea that the Dalek was no match for that creature) into a vivid depiction of love. Here, after the Doctor has noticed Cyber-Bill's tears (which resemble the tear-marks from the Cyber-design from <i>The</i> <i>Wheel</i> <i>in</i> <i>Space</i> onwards), he's says "Well, I'll tell you what else isn't possible. A Cyberman crying. Where there's tears, there's hope." The latter line is a callback to the Pertwee Doctor's final line before regenerating: "A tear, Sarah-Jane? No, don't cry. While there's life, there's..." Ultimately, Heather comes to Bill's rescue because "I left you my tears, remember? I know when you're crying them." This is some of the most masterful use of imagery ever seen in the series, managing to link so much together - hope, the body horror of the Cybermen, the Doctor's farewell and the love between Bill and Heather. Fantasy stories are often at their best when they enclose characters in nightmares that seem inescapable and irredeemable; when all seems lost and the characters' limits are pushed to the edge; when it seems there can't possibly be a happy ending. As Terry Pratchett observed, the darker and scarier the hero's encounters in the forest, the more thrilling is the moment when the hero emerges from the forest. A key text here is Richard Matheson's magnificent The Shrinking Man - one of the most harrowing novels ever written, culminating in one of the most joyful endings in all of fiction. With the tear\Cybermen idea, Moffat achieves something similarly powerful: a way of taking Bill right to Hell, to a trauma from which she and the audience surely can't escape, only to provide salvation that doesn't feel like a cop-out.</div>
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This story is also about progression. The Doctor is someone who learned to become brave, who learned to put others before himself, who learned how to make a stand. The Master is someone who swears he never will, Missy is someone who just might. Overlapping this is the need for the show itself to embrace change of a kind of it has previously not embarked upon. Before Bill, the main companions were heterosexual, and all of the Doctors have been male. Both of these points are present in the script. We begin with a lovely exchange between Bill and the Doctor:</div>
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<i>Doctor: She was my man crush.</i></div>
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<i>Bill: I'm sorry? </i></div>
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<i>Doctor: Yeah, I think she was a man back then. I'm fairly sure that I was, too. It was a long time ago, though.</i></div>
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<i>Bill: So, the Time Lords, bit flexible on the whole man-woman thing, then, yeah? </i></div>
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<i>Doctor: We're the most civilised civilisation in the universe. We're billions of years beyond your petty human obsession with gender and its associated stereotypes</i>.</div>
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It's not just an ingenious reworking of the show's mythology: It's also playful, fun, transgressive and character-building in its own right. We get an equally wonderful exchange between the Doctor and the Master: "Is the future going to be all girl?" the Master sneers. "We can only hope," the Doctor replies. </div>
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Then there's the final exchange between Bill and the Doctor: </div>
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<i>Bill: But, hey er, you know how I'm usually all about women and kind of... people my own age? </i></div>
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<i>Doctor: Yeah? </i></div>
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<i>Bill: Glad you knew that. </i></div>
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This is a splendid, epoch-changing moment, especially considering Moffat's problematic attitude towards Amy and Clara. The Doctor understands the importance of Bill's sexuality and so does the show: unlike her two predecessors, she is not in any way defined by the scriptwriter's male gaze. Russell T Davies achieved something groundbreaking when he put Captain Jack on our screens: as Paul Cornell put it at the time, children in playgrounds were playing at being Jack because he was a cool action hero, and it made no difference to them that he kissed boys as well as girls. However, a gay main companion was the step still to be taken. When Heather rescues Bill it is, fabulously, gay love that saves the day, and a gay kiss that literally means the difference between life and death. Then, as the Doctor starts regenerating, he must face change himself, finally declaring that he will never undergo this trauma again, and coming face to face with the First Doctor as he makes the same vow while being faced with the prospect of changing for the first time. And as we know now, the change the Doctor will undergo in the Christmas special will be the most significant change in the show's history.</div>
Richard Cooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18114063496425319491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240001912845478109.post-48811569108740171772017-05-07T01:09:00.003-07:002022-06-12T13:33:25.761-07:00On the Dark Knight trilogy<div style="text-align: justify;">
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Commentary on Christopher Nolan's Dark Knight trilogy generally falls into two camps: disparaging the movies because of their dodgy politics, or attempting to argue that the movies' politics are not dodgy. Andrew Ellard <a href="https://medium.com/@ellardent/tweetnotes-the-dark-knight-rises-56b1ac98dad9">twice</a> <a href="http://noisetosignal.org/2008/07/the-dark-knight-dozen-twelve-reasons-you-are-wrong.html">suggests</a> that the films "allow for both left and right readings," but I'm not sure I'm convinced by that argument. If there's room for a right-wing reading as well as a left-wing one, the latter is not going to amount to much more than paying lip service to things that allow liberal movie-goers to watch it with an untroubled conscience. It's not entirely clear what Slavoj Zizek was trying to say about <i>The Dark Knight Rises</i> in his <a href="http://www.newstatesman.com/culture/culture/2012/08/slavoj-%C5%BEi%C5%BEek-politics-batman">piece</a> for the New Statesman, but his suggestion that "we should approach the film in the way one has to interpret a Chinese political poem" brought to mind Pauline Kael's comments in her 1969 essay <a href="http://www.paulrossen.com/paulinekael/trashartandthemovies.html">Trash, Art and the Movies:</a></div>
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<i>One of the excruciating comedies of our time is attending the new classes in cinema at the high schools where the students may quite shrewdly and accurately interpret the plot developments in a mediocre movie in terms of manipulation for a desired response while the teacher tries to explain everything in terms of the creative artist working out his theme—as if the conditions under which a movie is made and the market for which it is designed were irrelevant, as if the latest product from Warners or Universal should be analyzed like a lyric poem.</i></div>
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Kael's view is the more convincing. We cannot find a sophisticated or coherent political stance in these movies not just because blockbusters are never auteured but because a Batman movie in particular is dependent on so many brash, expensive demands in place before the director and the screenwriters are even chosen: it's got to be centered around glorification of lone vigilante violence, it's got to have awesome tank-cars, planes or bikes in it, the vigilante most also be fabulously wealthy, the city most be overrun by crime, there must be lavish action sequences. With all these stipulations in place, it's inevitable not only that the film will have a right-wing tinge, but that any more liberal sentiments the director and screenwriters bring to the mix will clash with it.</div>
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It's more sensible to acknowledge that these are three terrific movies with dodgy politics. These films are right-wing because Batman is a fundamentally right-wing character. Even before Frank Miller - who admired Ayn Rand and Mickey Spillane just as those two admired each other - reinvented him, Batman was violence personified. Transferred to screen, the visceral thrill comes from watching a single dynamic person's will being unleashed, with a plot so dramatic and tense and the actor playing the character so compelling that we come to share that will. Batman roaring "SWEAR TO ME!" at a weaselly corrupt cop, his smashing the Joker into a mirror, their awesome "you know how I got these scars?" \ "No - but I know how you got these" exchange and Batman finally getting to give Bane a damn good kicking while using his own "you have my permission to die" line back on him (is there any cinematic device more viscerally satisfying than using a bad guy's line against him at the climax?) are primal cinema: memorable, quotable, exciting and allowing us to feel vicariously righteous. The same thing was true of <i>Dirty Harry</i>: aesthetically brilliant, morally repugnant. </div>
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Then there's the visceral nature of the trilogy's imagery: the Tumbler, the Batpod and the Bat. These are something increasingly rare in modern film and television SF: memorable designs. It's a bugbear of mine, and examples of the decline in design I've mentioned elsewhere include how much more memorable Krypton looked in 1978 than in 2013, modern <i>Doctor Who</i>'s reliance on monsters from the 1960s and 1970s, and how much less impressive the RoboCop suit in the reboot was compared to the original. Here, however, are three fearsome creations that lodge in the visual cortex. Who wouldn't want to drive, ride or fly one? They are brilliantly cinematic precisely because of the nasty little impulses they harness in all of us. Firstly, like Batman himself they are a gorgeous depiction of the human will to fight. Secondly, they are the ultimate depiction of wealth fantasy: what better toys could our inner child imagine playing with? The casting of Morgan Freeman is ingenious here. He's essentially playing Q, who himself works because he's a composite of two powerful archetypes: the God bestowing mighty powers on the epic hero, and Father Christmas. Just as in the Q scenes in Bond films the joy comes as much from the toys on display in the background of his lab as from the presents he gives Bond, the Dark Knight trilogy fetishizes the vast filled warehouses of which Fox is the sole custodian as much as the equipment Batman uses. If Q's workshop is Santa's grotto, than Fox's storeroom is Toys R Us. There's a striking line when Fox waives Bruce's attempts to explain why he wants access to this stuff: "As far as I'm concerned, this stuff's yours anyway." It's only his by accident of birth, and Fox doesn't know he's planning to fight crime at this point. For a moment we're reminded that Batman's powers are granted by birth rather than moral necessity, and the film trades on the thrill of privilege. </div>
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To be fair to Nolan and his co-writers, Bruce Wayne's wealth is both a long-established aspect of the character (though I would love to see an interpretation of Batman without it) and a necessity because all those cool turbine planes and Batpods won't pay for themselves, but <i>Batman Begins </i>goes further and enforces a sense of status quo by portraying Bruce's parents as characters like the mythical "Kind Rich Man" that Orwell wrote of in his essay on Dickens. We're even told that one of Bruce's ancestors used to rescue slaves through the underground rail road. "The legacy of the Waynes is more than bricks and mortar, sir" says Alfred after the Manor has been burnt down. As China Mieville has <a href="http://www.english.ufl.edu/imagetext/archives/v2_2/fisher/">argued</a>, Bruce's deliberate destruction of his father's train in <i>Batman Begins</i> at a moment when the inhabitants of the Narrows are "lost" thanks to the Scarecrow's gas and and moments after they were savagely attacking him feels like a call for an end to charity and benevolent gestures across the class chasm. Indeed, one of the most disturbing aspects of the film is that immediately afterwards Bruce vows to spend money rebuilding Wayne Manor - where only he and Alfred live - brick by brick, yet no-one mentions rebuilding the train - which was intended to help Gotham's poor - for the rest of the trilogy. Was that <i>really</i> the best use of his time and money? At least the Manor is put to decent use as a children's home at the end of the trilogy, but for eight years it's put to no use at all, except as a symbol of Bruce's status and the Wayne family's legacy of having a big house. Yes, it's definitely time for a Marxist Batman, who burns down Wayne Manor as a matter of honour. Sadly, it'll be a long wait.</div>
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One of the most sinister things about the trilogy is that in <i>Batman Begins</i>, we're twice told Batman isn't a vigilante. Why not exactly? What makes him more than a vigilante, other than the fact that he himself knows he's good at this? This conveys the vague sense of Batman as a godlike figure, entitled to be the arbiter of justice. "What gives you the right - what makes you any different to me?" asks one of the wannabe Batmen in <i>The Dark Knight</i>, and the trilogy never really answers his question (the answer Batman gives - "I'm not wearing hockey pads" - brings it back to him having more money). The films also see dedicating oneself to actions regardless of condemnation as a kind of martyrdom. "Endure, Master Wayne. Take it .... They'll hate you for it. But that's the point of Batman, he can be the outcast. He can make the choice that no one else can make, the right choice. You can be the outcast," says Alfred in <i>The Dark Knight</i> when Bruce wants to quit because his actions have caused deaths. The words are echoed at the end of<i> </i>the film, with Batman choosing to take the blame for Dent's murders because he is able to cope with the condemnation and elude anyone who tries to bring him to justice. "He can take it," says Gordon. The more criticised you are, the more heroic that makes you. This removes morality, as well as democracy, from the equation, and it's not surprising that right-wingers responded well to this aspect of the movie, with Andrew Klavan speaking for many right-wing commentators when he <span id="goog_477080724"></span>wrote<span id="goog_477080725"></span> in The Wall Street Journal: "There seems to me no question that the Batman film "The Dark Knight," currently breaking every box office record in history, is at some level a paean of praise to the fortitude and moral courage that has been shown by George W. Bush in this time of terror and war." One can imagine Tony Blair would appreciate <i>The Dark Knight</i>'s message as well, and identify with Batman: it doesn't matter how many people condemn me, I will keep doing what I feel I must and nothing will persuade me otherwise; I will accept condemnation as my holy burden.<br />
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As a concept Batman also relies on seeing the people he protects as having little agency. If you've ever indulged in a superhero fantasy as a child, you've probably only imagined other people as awe-struck onlookers to your heroics. The superhero myth has little room for democracy. This remains true in Nolan's trilogy. In <i>The Dark Knight</i>, after people begin making their own costumes and attempting vigilante action themselves, Bruce remarks that "when I said I wanted to inspire people, this wasn't what I had in mind", but this raises the question, what did he have in mind? He said in <i>Batman Begins</i> that people needed examples to shake them out of lethargy, but how exactly did he expect people to follow his example, when all he's done is fight crime, but by fighting crime themselves? The films conflate fighting crime with political and economic revolution, evoking the latter two while shirking from considering the questions they raise. In <i>The Dark Knight Rises </i>Selina talks of people like Bruce enjoying great wealth while the rest of Gotham's citizens have so little, but Bruce shows no interest in the matter. Was it not worth spending the past eight years - in which fighting the mob has been unnecessary due to the Dent Act - doing something to rectify this situation? Aren't there villains other than those that use guns, even those that can wreck lives while staying inside the law? These are the questions the films avoid.</div>
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The actual citizens Batman protects have surprisingly little presence throughout the trilogy. All the significant characters are either part of Gotham's rich class, the criminal world or the law enforcement world. Otherwise, we get only brief appearances of frightened or grateful citizens, usually without names: the tramp Batman congratulates on his coat, the child Batman throws the telescope to, the two wannabe Batmen, the people on the two boats, the child Blake befriends. "You don't owe these people any more. You've given them everything," Selina tells Bruce, but we're never shown this, or told it from their point of view.</div>
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As Slavoj Zizek observed in <i>The Pervert's Guide to Ideology</i>, what's most disturbing about <i>The Dark Knight</i> is the emphasis it places on the need to deceive Gotham's citizens about Harvey's crimes, because they cannot be trusted to know the truth, and the lie that a great man has died will have the same effect as the death of Bruce's parents, which according to Ras Al Ghul in <i>Batman Begins</i> 'galvanised the city into saving itself" (given the amount of murder and deprivation Gotham's poor have suffered, the idea that they pulled themselves together because of the death of one disgustingly rich couple who live in a disgustingly big house is particularly insulting). This continues in <i>The Dark Knight Rises</i>, in which Dent's death has hilariously led to eight years of practically no crime (even the Adam West series wasn't that simplistic), by providing the incentive for the Harvey Dent Act which locks up mobsters without trial (the only objection the films raise to this is that it was done upon the basis of a lie). At the end of the trilogy, a new lie and a new fake martyr is put in place: the people of Gotham are told Batman sacrificed himself when towing the bomb away, when in fact he was able to survive due to an autopilot system. The people cannot be trusted to know the truth. This is no way to build a healthy society: it's a view of human beings, as China Mieville <a href="http://www.infinityplus.co.uk/nonfiction/intchina.htm">observed</a> of Frank Miller's The Dark Knight Returns, as "sheep, who need strong shepherds."<br />
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Indeed, real life frequently demonstrates that tragic deaths do not help to move society out of its slump. The most poisonous thing about Brexit was that it was unmuted by the violent murder of a female MP: right-wing journalists spent their time on Twitter recommending each other's pieces about why no-one should allow this death to interfere with their advocacy of Brexit, Farage openly complained that no-one would have made any fuss about his poster if it hadn't been for the murder and even made a pointed reference when he boasted that Brexit had been achieved "without a shot fired", and the mood among the right-wing on the day of victory was one of jubilation, with frightening levels of racist attacks and abuse. Similarly, I remember being naive enough to hope that after the image of the drowned Syrian toddler Aylan Kurdi was published, attitudes towards refugees would change, but again Farage brazenly complained about how the picture had obstructed the issue, clickbait columnists in the business of referring to refugees as "cockroaches" to be mown down by gunboats simply moved on to claiming the photo was staged without losing their columns or their Twitter accounts and it took David Cameron just four months to go from claiming to be deeply moved by the photograph to sneering at the leader of the opposition for spending time in Calais with what he called "a bunch of migrants." In America, toddlers can be shot dead and the Gun Lobby doesn't flinch.</div>
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Selina, appealingly, embodies an Occupy Wall Street spirit (and Anne Hathaway is fabulous in the role: formidable, streetwise, sexy, vulnerable and funny), and the film never suggests her approach isn't preferable, but the revelation that Bane is merely exploiting desire for revolution and is actually planning to destroy the city still allows the film to "tame" her. The "clean slate" Bruce gives her implies that she will now keep to the straight and narrow, and that in turn suggests she won't threaten the status quo again. (This takes on a queasily homophobic dimension when we consider that Juno Temple as Selina's possible lover is forgotten about when Selina and Bruce elope: like Pussy Galore in Fleming's Goldfinger, Selina is kept on the straight and narrow in more ways than one.) The disappointment of <i>The Dark Knight Rises</i> is that even though it appropriates the imagery and feeling behind Occupy Wall Street, no real revolution takes place: it is sidestepped in favour of a nuclear bomb plot. Not only is Occupy Gotham given to the bad guys (which delighted Andrew Klavan), but they turn out not to be real revolutionaries after all but an opportunistic death cult, and the only hope at the end comes from Joseph Gordon-Levitt's John Blake as the next Batman. Once again it all comes down to one unelected man using violence and anonymity, attacking crime rather the causes, presumably continuing not to attack the various ways the rich in Gotham keep others poor which are not actually illegal and again not working to empower the citizens themselves.</div>
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Harvey Dent, despite being described as Gotham's "White Knight" as opposed to Batman's Dark one, and being seen by some commentators as representing Barack Obama to Batman's George W Bush and the Joker's Osama Bin Laden, is as dubious and problematically presented as Batman. <i>The Dark Knight </i>presents Dent, the District Attorney, as a politician, yet he still sees saving Gotham as coming down to one unelected heroic tough guy being allowed to use violence. He points out that "when their enemies were at the gates, the Romans would suspend democracy and appoint one man to protect the city. It wasn't considered an honor, it was considered a public service." In reply, he's warned that "the last man that they appointed to protect the Republic was named Caesar, and he never gave up his power." Harvey replies with the creaky signpost of a line "OK, fine. You either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain." Not long afterwards, he's prepared to murder someone in cold blood (again, Batman's response is simply that the people can not be allowed to find out about this). The entire hopes of Gotham are waged upon the standard action movie gamble: whether one tough guy can put his ego to good use. The other problem with this is that there is so little detail about how Harvey is cleaning things up to counter the dubious politics of someone in favour of suspending democracy. Bruce assures us that Harvey has made it possible to retire the Batman, and the campaign slogan "I believe in Harvey Dent" runs throughout the film, but what does it really mean? It encourages us to think about personalities (not that Harvey really has one), but not about actions or policies, nor about how a dystopia might become a utopia, or how corruption might actually be fought. Like the lives of Gotham's citizens, this is kept absent from the films so that we can focus on the heroic ego, which is an invention of pulp fiction.</div>
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Dent also admits that he will take over this mantle of protector of the Republic from Batman "if I'm up to it", defending Batman by pointing out that he doesn't intend to do this permanently and later on insisting that Batman will ultimately answer for his crimes. This is one of the trilogy's main elisions in the moral questions raised by Batman's actions. For one thing, Batman never does answer for his crimes. For another, Batman passing the baton on to another does not dissolve his culpability, and however many Batmen there are, their actions remain as dubious as if they were performed by one person. Passing on the mantle is part of the same pretence that Batman is something other than a vigilante: denying human agency in order to try and pass his actions off as something greater and beyond reproach. </div>
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But did these films need Dent anyway? Katie Holmes is excellent in <i>Batman Begins</i>, yet her performance met with a great deal of condescension, which seems to be based on the fact that she was in <i>Dawson's Creek </i>and that she was at the time married to Tom Cruise. The second film suffers from her absence: the normally reliable Maggie Gyllenhaal is given too little to do, stuck with the unenviable task of playing a role written as a continuation rather than a different version. Dramatic as her death is, it would have been even more powerful had it featured the same actress we had got to know from the previous film, and its effect on Bruce would have packed more emotional punch. As well as the loss of Holmes, the film suffers from the insistence on bringing in Harvey Dent, even though Rachel was a strong enough character to have fulfilled his role. There's a touch of sexism in the way that once Harvey appears on the scene, Gotham's gangsters are running scared of him, Batman declares himself obsolete and the Joker (who thinks of Rachel only as Harvey's girlfriend) targets Harvey because, as Batman puts it, he is "the best of us", even though in the previous film Rachel already had criminals running scared seven years before Harvey arrived on the scene (and when Bruce was clueless). Why doesn't she get any of the credit? Surely she's the best of them? It's not dissimilar from the one niggle raised by the excellent <i>Mad Max: Fury Road </i>- why couldn't Charlie Theron have been the lead? - and it's part of the same reason why it was heartening to see an all-female remake of Ghostbusters: mainstream action cinema demonstrates a timidity about handing over key roles to women. While our investment in Rachel from <i>Batman Begins </i>would have helped to sell the idea that she could save Gotham in the second film, and made her transformation into Two-Face more affecting, Aaron Eckhart as Dent has the thankless task of being introduced, set up as Gotham's "White Knight", and then converted to Two-Face within a single film. Eckhart is the only actor in the trilogy who isn't cast slightly against type, and while his performance is inoffensive, it's a role that required more memorable casting in order to make the character more than blandly heroic. </div>
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Despite these flaws, the trilogy works because the three scripts are consistently good at conjuring up dramatic scenarios. The "two boats, two detonaters" idea works because it builds to a simple but affecting moral: maybe we aren't all wicked deep down, and maybe wickedness is a choice. It's similar to the moral of Alan Moore's The Killing Joke, but works just as well here, especially as this version doesn't use a gratuitous sexual assault to make its point. A particular favourite setpiece of mine is Bruce escaping from the prison in the third film. I find it very moving, I think because it works on such a primal level of storytelling. The idea that only the fear of death can keep us fighting, that only by accepting death can we conquer it, and that only by facing up to absolute despair can we find hope is so neatly expressed by the rope story that it works as an Aesop-style fable, and there's a real thrill in finding ways of bringing out the heroism in the protagonist other than the action sequence (although even this has a right-wing implication, as is argued <a href="https://stavvers.wordpress.com/2012/07/24/in-which-i-write-the-obligatory-review-for-the-dark-knight-rises/w">here</a>). This is the kick that the less reputable kind of genre fiction - action, superhero fantasy - provides that other fiction doesn't: it puts us in touch with pure narrative. As James Ellroy said of the climax to the film adaptation of his novel La Confidential, It may be bullshit but it's inspired bullshit.</div>
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It's because none of these scenarios (the death of Bruce's parents and Falcone's role in it, Bruce's training, Batman helping the cops and Rachel gain leverage over Falcone, Crane's toxin and the antidote, Ras Al Ghul's plan, the Joker's demands that Batman take off his mask, Dent taking Batman's place, the Rachel\Harvey bombs, the Joker's hospital ultimatum, the two boats scenario, the abduction of Dr Pavel, Selina's use of the senator as an escape plan, Bane's robbery, Batman's return, his fight with Bane, Bane's revelation of the Dent deception, Bruce's escape from the prison, Bane's scheme with the bomb, the finale) are dull or overlong, and because they are frequently surprising, always inventive, always end memorably and are all skillfuly connected that we can accept the trilogy's use of comic-book logic. For example, in <i>Batman Begins</i>, the League of Shadows trains Bruce without once asking him if he is okay with their policy of capital punishment and their plot to destroy Gotham, and Bruce trains under them without once asking them what their actual plans are or whether they actually kill the criminals they fight (and they drop a pretty ominous hint about the latter at one point). It's not until the training is completed that Bruce realises he's been trained by a terrorist organisation, and they realise he doesn't share their terrorist beliefs. It was nearly ten years before the absurdity of this hit me: all that time together and no-one discussed politics? Crucially, it doesn't hit you while you're watching the movie. The story has been so engrossingly constructed (the intrigue of where Bruce is now, the surprising entrance of Ducard, the intrigue of the League of Shadows and how they know about Bruce, the strong screen presence of Christian Bale and Liam Neeson, the flashback rich in character detail and motivation, the increasing excitement of the training, the surprise when the League show their true colours, the excitement of Bruce asserting his moral values, the thrill of the resultant fight and escape) and fast-paced that its entertainment value holds the credibility in check. </div>
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<i>The Dark Knight Rises </i>has some similarly unintentionally amusing concepts: the idea you can utterly cure a broken vertebrae by snapping it back in and leaving the patient to hang by a rope for a while, Bane managing to have a man with a broken back transported to a foreign land without killing or paralysing him and my personal favourite: the whole of Gotham's police force entering the tunnels together so that Bane can render the city police-free with one explosion. One has to approach this in the right spirit. We accept when watching musicals that people will sing even though they wouldn't in real life, and we should similarly accept that we are in a world where capes can instantly become gliders, snapped vertebrae heal better than you'd think and a city sends its entire police force into one tunnel at once. Yes, that turbine-plane thing wouldn't fly, but doesn't it look magnificent? Doesn't it just breathe cinema, just as the Batpod looks truly like the bike the Devil would ride, the ride every bike dreams of being- all the more because, as with the Tumbler and the Batpod, Nolan eschews CGI and uses full-scale models for that satisfyingly thick, blocky, tactile look. We know that someone taking a safety rope off would probably fall to their deaths, but what we lose in realism we gain in higher excitement: we are in the realms of our imagination and primal desires, and there is something liberating in throwing off real life to pay attention to what we find stirringly heroic on an instinctual level.</div>
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The trilogy is also well structured. The flanking volumes are epics, which explore Bruce's growth from child to superhero, and how the worldly and centuries-old League of Shadows come to target Gotham. The middle volume creates a different rhythm, tone and aesthetic. There's no mention of the League of Shadows or of Bruce's childhood. The focus is entirely on the escalating tension within Gotham, and Hans Zimmer's music plays a crucial role. His Joker theme is notably different from the more classical sweep of the themes throughout the trilogy, conveying the sense of wires about to snap, and creating a much more intimate sense of tension. A recurring motif throughout is the sudden jolt: the body of the wannabe Batman on a noose hitting the window (which makes me jump every time I see the film), the Joker leaning across the lorry driver to shoot at the cops, his appearing without makeup and shooting at Gordon, Batman appearing behind the Joker in the interrogation room, the nurse turning out to be the Joker. The Dent deception works because it comes right after the film's optimistic swell as the boat hostages don't kill each other. This is why <i>The Dark Knight</i> has an odd way of swatting aside objections despite the dodgy politics, a few flat action sequences (the Hong Kong sequence is odd, and both the opening fight and the one in Bruce's Penthouse could have been longer) and occasionally confusing points (what was that about "five people dead, three of them cops" at the end?). It creates a rhythm all of its own, which is extremely hard for sequels to do, and places it in the company of such achievements as <i>Terminator</i> 2,<i> Godfather Part 2</i>, <i>The Road Warrior</i>, <i>Aliens</i> and <i>The Bourne Supremacy </i>(although it's equal to none of them). </div>
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John Blake's story is as satisfying emotively as it is disappointing politically. Nolan is particularly effective at boiling characters from the Batman comics down to their essential memorable, mythic elements, and here he reduces Robin to the name of Batman's heir. Joseph Gordon-Levitt has the screen presence to really sell this: compare it with the awkward moment in the last Indiana Jones movie where Shia Leboeuf tries on Indy's hat. It was clear the filmmakers had no intention of doing a Indy Jr movie just as here there's no question of a Blake-Batman movie, but the idea of Blake becoming Batman within the story-world is evocative, while the idea of Shia cracking a whip and running from boulders frankly isn't. The scene between Bruce and Blake sets up the orphan parallel nicely, and the scene where Blake roars at the police officer for putting his orders above saving the lives of children gets us rooting for Blake to take on Batman's mantle.</div>
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Christian Bale and Michael Caine are essential to the trilogy's success. Something Bale sells particularly well is the way that the warmth and humour of that relationship puts him back in touch with his humanity, preventing him from sinking into pontification and heroic self-importance. Michael Caine brings the requisite dry humour to the role, but also wears his heart on his sleeve, playing Alfred as someone who has invested so heavily in Bruce and the crumbling legacy of Thomas Wayne that he is on the verge of having nothing to live for. The scene in the third film where Alfred reveals he would often visit a cafe during Bruce's sojourn outside Gotham and daydream that he would see Bruce with a family and know he was no longer needed is genuinely touching, setting up Bruce's subsequent survival as something with real emotional kick rather than a cop-out, and the scene where Alfred tells Bruce about Rachel's letter is beautifully played by both actors.</div>
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So that's why I love these films. And that's why I don't trust anyone who doesn't dislike their politics</div>
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Richard Cooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18114063496425319491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240001912845478109.post-1102930313700309262017-02-10T01:16:00.001-08:002017-02-10T01:46:59.404-08:00Review: Slipping by Lauren Beukes<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b><i><u>(I've avoided crude spoilers, but this review does discuss the stories in some detail. I do discuss the end of some of the stories, but I don't actually reveal what happens.)</u></i></b><br />
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After four novels, Lauren Beukes has established herself as one of the most exciting voices in contemporary SF, as well as one of the most relevant of contemporary novelists. <i>Moxyland</i> (2008) was one of the most satisfying dystopias of recent years; <i>Zoo City</i> (2010) was among the most emotionally engrossing fantasy novels to appear since Philip Pullman's <i>His Dark Materials</i>; <i>The Shining Girls </i>(2013) was a thriller about a time travelling serial killer that left the reader engrossed in the lives of ordinary women and their various struggles to challenge patriarchy; <i>Broken</i> <i>Monsters</i> (2014) juxtaposed another supernatural serial killer with modern Detroit, and the result was not only a tale of fast-paced horror thrills but a remarkably sure account of people living under economic deprivation. </div>
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The stories collected here display many of the talents that have made her novels so compelling. Some are funny, some are terrifying, some are intimate, all are convincing: never overly twee, never predictable in their SF speculations, and all with characters whose voices ring with authenticity rather than come across as literary. Beukes's journalistic background is an obvious asset, allowing her to sketch a South Africa so terrifying in its moves towards dystopia and so rich in its history, culture and patois that the reader becomes used to a familiar experience reading the opening sentences of these brief stories: wondering and attempting to deduce whether they are set in the future or the present. One of the most worrying stories, "Riding with the Dream Patrol", is set just one year in the future. Beukes even lends her own name to the reporter in this story, and so authentic is her journalistic style that the distance between reality and fiction becomes worryingly small. Beukes's namesake interviews the head of the Mongooses:</div>
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<i>Whereas apartheid’s Special Branch would have had to embed undercover agents to spy on union meetings, for the Mongooses, total transparency, at least for private citizens, is only one click away. A glance at Facebook events, your Flickr set, your Twitter feed, or your Mxit friends list provides information on your known associates, recent whereabouts, political, social and sexual proclivities. But the combination of RICA, which makes every SIM card traceable down to its GPS coordinates, the Protection of Information Act and the Corporate Responsibility Act of 2013 (CRA), which legally obliges corporations to cooperate with government demands such as shutting down cellphonecoverage in a riot zone, for example, makes their job a whole lot easier. The Mongooses can not only monitor open networks but private ones too, including phone calls, emails and your Internet history. They can even track your current location using your cellphone’s GPS -- and they can shut down anything they don’t like.</i></div>
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Particularly impressive here is the story's understatement: Beukes is content to let the report stand for itself rather than add a coda developing it into a more story-like structure. It stays in the reader's memory more like a disturbing journalistic account we once read. Perhaps this was how listeners to Orson Welles's <i>War of the Worlds</i> broadcast felt.</div>
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A second reason for the sheer niftiness of Beukes's near-future world building is her strong ear for young people: how they talk, how they reference culture, how technology shapes their lives. Many novelists have found this impossible to pull off, and have ended up sounding merely old-fogeyish. One thinks of Martin Amis seizing on the literary potential of texting in <i>Yellow Dog</i> only to confuse texting with emailing, and his novel <i>Lionel Asbo, </i>named after a Blairite initiative which had already ended by the time the book was published. One also thinks with a shudder of Ian McEwan's recent novel <i>Nutshell</i>, in which an unborn fetus narrating the book mocks Young People Today and their safe spaces, trigger warnings and other things McEwan has received a one-sided account of from reactionary sources. Beukes's writing is both too empathetic and too in tune with the rhythms of different speech and writing -- emails, texts, tweets, posters, slang -- to make these kind of blunders. </div>
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The excellent, very brief story "Confirm\Ignore" manages to capture, in just a few paragraphs, an entire zeitgeist of young people and social media: a world of anonymity, deletion, failure and trying again. She manages the impossible task of understanding the culture of celebrity worship and social media with some degree of affection without becoming indulgent towards to it. "Pop Tarts" captures this idiom nicely, evoking a South African nightlife in which "everyone and their domestic worker has public access broadcast rights and a private channel to call their own". We follow Jude (real name Koketla), "South Africa's official Most Desirable", who hits the town on a tour of the VIP rooms accompanied by her friends, her camera man and Dirk, "the coldest, savviest, most flamboyantly evil bastard of a marketing pimp you ever could meet". While getting into their limo, they are hijacked by "Joshua-X. Joburg’s number one white-boy hijacker, whose daring criminal exploits go out 24-7 on 136 channels around the world, not including subscriber Internet." It's paced fast enough so that these characters don't become tiresome, with their language and surroundings deftly rendered -- they're broadcasting on a five-minute delay, "something all the live TV producers cottoned onto after that whole thing with Janet Jackson’s boob" -- until the story ends on a shocking note when drastic action is taken to boost ratings. The ingenious "Easy Touch", a variation of which appeared in <i>Zoo City</i>, tells the story of a scam emailer prepared to fleece a couple who need money for their disabled son. The story gains much power from the way Beukes regularly punctuates it with the emails themselves, exposed in all their banal glory, from pleas from Robert Mugabe's wife to congratulations on winning a Nokia promotion. The story takes a different path to the <i>Zoo City</i> version, ending with a hugely satisfying twist.</div>
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It is all too easy to go down the <i>Black Mirror</i> road and write predictable now-technology-owns-YOU stories, or short stories about someone being stopped as they try to leave a store with a crashingly predictable twist-ending in which, of course, they are stopped for *not* taking anything, because, you know, capitalism. Beukes never goes down that trite path. "Exhibitionist", an earlier take on a scene that appeared in <i>Moxyland</i>, is the most Ballardian of these stories. It focuses on an exhibition of various works of art including this installation:</div>
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<i>The thing is goredeluxe, red and meaty, like something dead turned inside out and mangled, half-collapsed in on itself with spines and ridges and fleshy strings and some kind of built-in speakers, which makes the name even more disturbing --Woof & Tweet. I don’t understand how it works, but it’s to do with reverb and built-in resonator-speakers. It’s culling sounds from around us, remixing ambient audio, conversation, footsteps, glasses clinking, rustling clothing, through the systems of its body, disjointed parts of it inflating, like it’s breathing. </i></div>
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As with several Ballard stories, particularly those collected in <i>Vermilion Sands</i>, the reader finishes the story with sounds ringing in his or her ears. The story's effectiveness lies in its willingness to forgo trite twists and moralising and instead let us "fondle the details", to use a phrase of Nabokov's. The same is true of "Branded", another embryo version of <i>Moxyland</i>, featuring some of the same characters and ideas. Its idea, crucial to <i>Moxyland</i>, that everyone's mobile phone is fitted with a "defuser",which administers an electric shock to keep you unconscious until the police arrive, is one of the most effective fictional extrapolations of 21st century capitalism that contemporary fiction has produced. Also memorable is the logo "just be it" visible through the skin of its character Kendra, a "sponsor baby" for a brand of cola named Ghost, who is fitted with nanotech that makes it her drink of choice and necessity: </div>
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<i>Brain reacting like she was on some fine-ass bliss, drowning her in endorphins and serotonin, the drink binding with aminos and the tiny bio-machines humming in her veins. Voluntary addiction with benefits. Make her faster, stronger, more coordinated. Ninja-slick reflexes. Course, if she’d sold her soul to Big Red Cola instead, she’d be sharper, wittier. Big Red nano-lubes the transmitters. Neurons firing faster, smarter, more productive. All depends on the brand, on your lifestyle of choice, and it’s all free if you qualify.</i></div>
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It's an ingenious conceit: simple, yet as perfect a fictional embodiment of Naomi Klein's <i>No Logo </i>as could be imagined. It's cool, it's horrible, it's intensely visual and it's creepily sensuous: Beukes literally gets under the skin.</div>
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There is impressive range here. As well as SF, there are intimate portraits of everyday lives. "Algebra" skillfully rattles through the stages of a relationship through the structure of an alphabet, a conceit of the kind often used by Ballard but here used to convey almost the opposite of his preferred subject matter of apocalypse and psychosis: everyday life. "Dear Mariana" is told from the point of view of a woman writing a letter to her ex-girlfriend on a typewriter in the latter's flat while she is away. The notion of the narrator's typing ability on the unfamiliar device fluctuating with her mood is put to witty effect, allowing Beukes to bring a distinctive, subtly embittered voice to life. In "Dial Tone", a woman spends her time ringing numbers from the phone book and silently listening to the replies, never ringing the same number twice. "My Insect Skin" is an almost unbearable account of a woman suffering a miscarriage while encountering sexist harassment. It's a story that simply has to be experienced: it is so raw that quoting from it would not do it justice. "Parking" tells the story of a parking attendant who admires a regular parker from afar, and upon finally getting the chance to give her a ticket, nervously says he'll waive it if she has coffee with him. The story is effective in taking the premise of a romcom and playing it with realistic consequences -- showing the painful reality behind entitled fantasies -- and is given added piquancy by the details of the protagonist's job and its political implications: </div>
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<i>Part of his job is to chase away the informal car guards and the street people and the barefoot children who sleep in doorways. His job is to keep the city safe, especially for the visitors, to chase away the rubbish. It is a respectable job, and they say that this is how they sorted out the crime situation in New York. That by stopping the small crimes, you can stop the big ones. But this is the work he tries to avoid, when he can. Emmanuel says he is soft, that he would not last in the Congo, if he can’t even handle children.</i></div>
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Beukes manages to take those who are part of the everyday machinery of South Africa, and show the humanity behind the bureaucracy.</div>
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Unabashed entertainment is offered in the form of "Unathi Battles the Hairballs", which begins quite brilliantly. Unathi, a member of the Saiko Squadron -- "the most elite Mecha Squadron on Earth" -- is on shore leave in a karaoke bar about to sing along to a new Britney Spears cover of the Spice Girls' Wannabe when a giant tentacle comes smashing through the wall and dismembers several of Unathi's fellow squadron members:</div>
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<i>The karaoke jukebox clicked over to the duet. Looking in your eyes, there’s reflected paradise. And that might have been true if Ryu still had eyes, or, for that matter, a head. His body stood swaying for a moment, like an indecisive drunk. And then a bright, hot jet of blood fountained from the stump of his neck, spraying Unathi in the face like some vampire bukkake video. She managed to suck in enough air to scream. She’d had an inkling of his crush. It was in the way he showed all his teeth and scratched the back of his head whenever she gave him a direct order. The cheesy eighties duet cemented it. And now he was dead. Excepting herself, the whole of Saiko Squadron was dead. And, worse, there was blood and spilt sake on her white patent-whale-penis-leather boots.</i></div>
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<i>“Someone is going to fucking pay!” Unathi growled.</i></div>
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The combination of the comic details, the verisimilitude, the fast pace and the kickass heroine is quite irresistible. It ultimately goes down a one-joke metafictional avenue (complete with Haruki Murakami guest-starring as himself), but remains impossible to dislike.</div>
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Beukes's charm is also on full display in "Princess", an Angela Carteresque reworking of the Princess and the Pea written for an erotic anthology, in which the Princess is a modern rich kid in a similar vein to Jude from "Pop Tarts" -- her duties as Princess include "making the cover of Heat and People and US Weekly, dabbling in music or fashion or reality TV, looking hot at all times, dancing on tables and, most importantly, Being Seen" -- and the pea her clitoris. She faces the glare of the paparazzi with the aid of her handmaid, an economic refugee from Ecuador "who deeply loved the princess in a manner not entirely appropriate or approved, despite what you may have seen on those Spring Break reality TV specials". The tone here nicely marries the contemporary with the fairy-tale, bringing verisimilitude to potentially twee characters and not outstaying its welcome. "Ghost Girl" is a more quietly engaging story, in which the title character -- the mysterious ghost of a young girl who claims to have committed suicide -- befriends a male architectural student. It achieves its effects through the chemistry between the two characters, weaving a nice parable about creativity and social responsibility --is it enough for architects to unleash their imaginations, or should they concentrate on homeless shelters?</div>
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This more fanciful side of Beukes's imagination can also be unsettling, and can continue to disturb the reader for some time afterwards. Perhaps the most harrowing story here is "Unaccounted", which tells of a prison previously run by aliens which falls under human occupation following a conflict between the two species. The story opens thus: </div>
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<i>The ittaca is wedged into the uneven corner of cell 81C, as if it is trying to osmose right through the walls and out of here. It is starting to desiccate around the edges, the plump sulphur-colored frills of its membrane turning shriveled and grey. Maybe it’s over, Staff Sergeant Chip Holloway thinks, looking in through the organic lattice of the viewing grate. The thought clenches in his gut.</i></div>
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Things get worse, and Holloway starts to hear the word "maggot" used as abuse. Guantanamo and Abu Ghraib are present here on every page. Beukes is too sophisticated to make the comparison explicit: as China Mieville has often pointed out, SF's strength lies in is ability to allow its metaphors to be things in their own right as well as metaphors. The story is powerful because the ittica is just that: the ittica. It isn't a clumsy metaphor for Muslims or for Al Qaeda, as <i>Doctor Who</i> and <i>Battlestar Galactica</i> have respectively blundered into: instead the situation has the integrity of something that gets more horribly real as we read on, so that we can smell the urine in the trashed cell and hear the snarls of "maggot!" Guantanamo and Abu Ghraib are not tritely and predictably reassembled in metaphorical form: instead they are present as a whisper. The nightmarish drives that caused them and the implications they raise as 21st century history progresses animate this story and they linger in the mind as the reader finishes it, but so does the power of Beukes's story itself.</div>
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"The Green" and the title story are also riveting excursions into full-on SF. In "Slipping", Pearl Nit-seeko, a fourteen-year-old girl from Cape Town who lost both legs while trying to race a train, arrives in Pakistan to compete in the "+ Games". She can run thanks to cybernetic legs, and her fellow competitors are a girl who runs in an exo-suit, a girl with a sculpted tail, a girl with robotics wet-wired into her nerves and a brain-dead girl remote-controlled by a quadriplegic in a hospital bed. With such a fascinating line-up, it all builds up to a moment of great exhilation on the racetrack. Pearl's augmented body leads to some great moments of unsettling but fascinating body horror -- or rather, body weirdness:</div>
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<i>She feels along the rigid seam that runs in a J-hook down the side of her stomach, parallel with her hysterectomy scar, and tears open the velcroskin.</i></div>
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<i>“Let me,” Tomislav says, kneeling between her legs. She holds her flesh open while he reaches one hand up inside her abdomen. It doesn’t hurt, not anymore. The velcro releases a local anesthetic when it opens, but she can feel an uncomfortable tugging inside, like cramps. Tomislav twists off the valves on either side, unplugs her stomach and eases it out of her. He sets it in a sterile biobox and connects it to a blood flow. By the time he turns back, she is already spooling up the accordion twist of artificial intestine, like a magician pulling ribbons from his palm. It smells of lab-mod bacteria, with the faintest whiff of feces. She hands it to Tomislav and he wrinkles his nose. </i></div>
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<i>"Just goes to show,” he says, folding up the crinkled plastic tubing and packing it away. “You can take the meat out of the human, but they’re still full of shit!"</i></div>
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"The Green" is narrated by Coco Yenko, part of a corporate bio-tech team put out to work in armoured suits harvesting the flora of an alien planet. One of the main results of their discoveries are: </div>
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<i>self-organizing cellular amoebites that ooze around on their own until one of them finds a very recently dead thing to grow on. Then it lays down signals, chemical or hormonal or some other system we don’t understand yet, and all the other amoebites congeal together to form a colony that sets down deep roots like a wart into whatever's left of the nervous system of the animal . . . and then take it over.</i></div>
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Consequently, zombies of deceased crewmembers -- aka Organically Preserved Personnel -- lurch around, including Rousseau, Coco's former boyfriend. The description of the accident that led to Rousseau's death, after his suit is compromised due to the carelessness of another crewmember, is particularly harrowing:</div>
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<i>We had to sit in the cafeteria, the only communal space, listening to Rousseau die, pretending not to. It should have been easy. The loud drone of the air conditioner and the filters and the sterilizer systems all fighting The Green is the first thing you acclimatize to here. But Ro’s voice somehow broke through, a shrill shriek between clenched teeth. We hadn’t known anyone who’d ever died from the stingstrings. The labtechs must have been thrilled. [...] </i></div>
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<i>The other crews were making bets on what would kill him. Marking up the odds on the back of a cigarette packet. Black humor and wise-cracking is just how you deal. We’d have been doing the same if it wasn’t one of ours. Yellow Choke 3:1. Threadworms 12:7. The Tars 15:4. New & Horrible: 1:2.</i></div>
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<i>Ro’s voice changed in pitch, from scream-your-throat-raw to a low groaning—the kind that comes from your intestines plasticinating. The spores must have got in to the rip in his gut through the tear in his armor.</i></div>
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This story fuses SF details with grim realism to great effect, often in a single paragraph:<br />
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<i>Which was the same line my mom spun me when she took me to the sterilization clinic in Caxton, mainly for the incentive kickback the government provided, but also to make sure I didn’t end up like her, pregnant and homeless at fourteen, working double shifts at the seam factory--which is what she did after I was born, to keep the pair of us alive. That only makes me feel more guilty--all the sacrifices she made so I could get out of Caxton.</i><br />
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This is a story as memorable for details such as Coco's childhood memories of working with her mother --"I am scampering over the factory floor, back when she still had the job, dodging the electric looms to collect scraps of fabric that she will sew into dishcloths and dolls and maybe a dress, to sell to the neighbors, illegally" -- as for the descriptions of the zombified crewmembers, their tongues coated with a "seething furry growth". It builds to an ending in which the sublime fear of the unknown is all the more convincing because of the believable details of the SF setup.</div>
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As I mentioned earlier, one of the most compelling features of this collection is the process at the start of each story where we wonder if this fascinating world evoked is futuristic or contemporary. This is why the present tense is often essential to her style. The present tense is a form that can be a natural companion to estrangement: it is more likely to eschew explanations of the environment in which the story takes place and take us straight to the experience of the protagonist. "Smileys", one of the collection's finest stories, tells of Thozama, an elderly woman who sells the titular foodstuff -- an intact sheep's head cooked over a fire until its lips pull back in a grin -- at the market. Thozama is on her train to work, when a man tries to strike up a conversation. He's a former member of the Azanian People's Liberation Army who, after the fighting ended, tried to join the police but didn't have the qualifications ("We were lions fighting that apartheid struggle, lions defending our communities, but what happens when you bring the lions into the kraal, among the sheep?"), and so instead he put his talents to use starting the Anti-Crime Association, a vigilante group, the mention of which reminds Thozama of "the man stripped naked and beaten in the streets, on the word of another man and a R150 'transport fee', of the man found hanging behind the taxi rank, his eyes blindfolded". "Soldier" offers to escort Thozama to and from her place of work, reminding her that there are things the ACA can do that the police would not dare, and that all they would need is the occasional donation, perhaps of food. As he continues to harass her as they get off the train, Thozama's life flashes before her: </div>
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<i>Her husband working in Germiston as a petrol attendant, both of them bringing in money, building their home, a family from two different cities over a thousand kilometers apart, when he died in the fighting between the Zulus and the ANC in 1993. She thinks about her twenty-six-year-old daughter who drinks up her government grant, drinks to drown the anger and the shame of her diagnosis, and forgets to give her baby, Thozama’s grandson, his anti-retroviral medicine. </i></div>
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<i>She thinks about her best wishes: to live with her kids (all grown up, the customs done, her son has already been to the bush), for her business to grow and her kids to take over, so she can relax, stop riding the train to the butcher, stop shaving the heads, boiling the heads, selling the heads.</i></div>
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It's a great story because it captures the combination of estrangement and attention to lived experience that makes Beukes's stories so distinctive. The sheeps' heads are an eerie image, but they also represent Thozama's livelihood, and the image beautifully complements the story's theme of sheep and lions. Like most short stories at their best, it works by emphasising a single moment, where a novel would have to move on. Our understanding of the kind of life that Thozama has lived comes at the same moment as a cathartic moment of violence. In this snapshot the reader has the taste of something weird, yet we are put in tune with South Africa's history and psychological landscape.</div>
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The latter, briefer part of the book consists of several pieces of non-fiction which demonstrate both how journalism has allowed Beukes to see and evoke South Africa, and the importance of feminism to her mission as a writer. We see glimpses that have clearly been crucial to her fiction such as the intimidating vigilante group Penisula Anti-Crime Association (PEACA), the refugees from Mugabe's Zimbabwe who have found their experience in South Africa to be so dire that they are consider returning home, the people condemned by Government TV campaigns as "iz’nyoka"(snakes) who climb up poles to break power cables and steal the copper intestine and the security guard at a tenement block who remembers the time he felt bad because "I had to evict this old black guy who hadn’t paid his rent. And I had to hit him with the baton to get him to move because he wouldn’t go. And it made me feel swak, like he must think of old times, like apartheid, this young white oke beating him, but it’s my job, what am I supposed to do?" There is a memorable portrait of the courageous Justice Unity Dow, a High Court judge and one of Botswana's leading novelists, and a curious coincidence in which a young dishevelled woman appears at her house appealing for help during Beukes's visit. We see Beukes convey anger in prose of great brio and economy when referring to a blog that blames urban decay on the black population:</div>
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<i>Always the blacks. As if apartheid’s (white) secret police, the ironically named Civil Cooperation Bureau, didn’t meet at the Quirinale Hotel on Kotze Street in Hillbrow to orchestrate atrocities, assassinations and political unrest in their efforts to derail democracy. As if a hundred years before that, Cecil John Rhodes and the (white) mining magnate Rand Lords didn’t scheme in the library of the gentlemen’s club downtown to bring the colonial empire snaking into the interior on railway tracks and the corpses of countless dead.</i></div>
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There is also an excellent, spirited piece about the writing of<i> The Shining Girls </i>condemning the tendency of modern fiction and media to eroticise female victims of serial killers which brings to mind the debate around the BBC's increasingly dubious drama series <i>The Fall.</i><br />
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The book ends with a moving letter to Beukes's five-year-old daughter, reminiscent of Philip Larkin's poem "Born Yesterday". She tries to move her away from "Barbie and the Dreamhouse or Monsters High because they’re all about clothes and boyfriends and popularity, like the Kardashians for kids, and I try to nudge you to My Little Pony and She-Ra and The Powerpuff Girls and even Winx Club, where they have cool outfits and go on adventures. Where it’s about more than being beautiful." This seems as delightful and appropriate a note to end the book on as could be imagined: the importance of life is not to accept bullshit from the patriarchy, not to accept clichés of beauty and femininity, but to have adventures, and there is no more scintillating adventurer in modern fiction than Lauren Beukes.</div>
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Richard Cooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18114063496425319491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240001912845478109.post-33665660024742586532016-09-21T00:43:00.000-07:002017-03-08T11:53:30.892-08:00Stranger ThingsMy review of the NetFlix series Stranger Things is now up on Strange Horizons: <a href="http://strangehorizons.com/non-fiction/reviews/stranger-things/">http://strangehorizons.com/non-fiction/reviews/stranger-things/</a><br />
<br />Richard Cooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18114063496425319491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240001912845478109.post-28894992567693097052015-12-08T21:28:00.003-08:002015-12-09T03:55:39.945-08:00Jessica Jones<div style="text-align: justify;">
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So why does this work so well? Partly it's due to Kristen Ritter's screen presence. She was superb in <i>Breaking Bad</i>, and here her lanky toughness perfectly matches a character forever walking down dark cold streets, drinking to forget and taking photographs of people screwing in alleyways. One of the first shots we see of her is after a client has just been punched through her office's glass door. "And then there's the matter of your bill," she says over his stunned body. It's a frame straight out of the original comic book, but Ritter really sells it.</div>
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Secondly, it's due to its genuinely horrific villain. David Tennant as Kilgrave is the personification of male entitlement and delusion. This is a guy who insists on two kidneys from a donor instead of one because he wants to feel whole. The sheer inadequacy as well as the arrogance of toxoc masculinity is caught so well by Tennant and the scripts. Anyone who's dared look at the "Gamergate" hashtag, or read tweets by the sort of men who complain "when is International Men's Day?", can recognize it. Ultimately this is a show about rape which is unflinchingly honest yet never salacious or graphic. We don't actually see the rape scenes, yet we feel the rape in all its horror and stark injustice, and see how utterly ludicrous is the stalker's belief that he is entitled to be his prey's lover. On one hand, the show is strong enough to be openly non-metaphorical: as Jessica says, what Kilgrave did was rape, pure and simple. Yet on the other hand, by that one fantastical twist, we see it in an original yet horribly familiar and true light. This is what all good fantasy does: as GK Chesterton observed, it takes the commonplace and simply adjusts the angle at which we see it. What this show makes us feel so profoundly is that men are not entitled to women, and a man can never understand a woman if she doesn't love him, however much he may convince himself otherwise. However much harm Kilgrave causes Jessica, he can never possess her, or know who she is.</div>
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The metaphor works so well because it is kept simple: unlike the villains in <i>Heroes</i>, Kilgrave has just one superpower, yet by selecting this and following it down the line, this show makes us realise that a man always getting his own way would be the most frightening superpower of all. The various moments in which this power manifests itself - as characters are forced to cut each other 99 times, detonate suicide bombs, cut their own heart out, shoot their parents, throw hot coffee in their own faces, impale themselves upon garden shears - are all the more frightening as a result: part of a single, relentlessly approaching foe.</div>
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Perhaps the crucial factor in why this show works is its feminism, which permeates it at all levels. There are deftly gender-swapped takes on the usual stereotypes - Hogarth, the tough lawyer trying to get a divorce and start a new life with a younger woman is played by the steely Carrie-Anne Moss - and the obnoxiousness of patriarchy is seen in its more everyday as well as diabolical manifestations, such as the odious guy who tries to chat up Jessica and Trish in a bar. The sex scenes tend to show the female characters in control, and it's the female gaze rather than the male gaze that's catered to, with Mike Colter being the only person to strip and male-on-female oral sex is depicted rather than vice versa as is more common on television.<br />
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Just when it looks like <i>Jessica Jones</i> is going to suffer the same brief lapse as <i>Daredevil</i> and bring torture and rendition into the Overton window - mentioned as part of the techniques Simpson acquired in his military background - it interrogates them more successfully than in <i>Daredevil</i> because Simpson is no hero, but a portrayal of the inadequacy of the patriarchal military mindset. Jessica's capture of Kilgrave, use of an electrified cell and her killing of him at the end never really becomes offensive because the show wisely avoids allegory: the threat posed by Kilgrave is never compared to a war on terrorism, and Simpsons's attempts to approach it in that way are rejected: this is purely about Kilgrave and Jessica, and she tackles him the only way she can.</div>
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This show, like <i>Daredevil</i>, has picked up a valuable technique from a <i>Breaking</i> <i>Bad</i>: keep changing the stakes. We think that Hogarth will settle into a familiar role: providing legal backup and plenty of letter-of-the-law vs Jessica's Way sparks, but then she releases Kilgrave to suit her own ends, leading to the death of her estranged wife and the arrest of her lover. We think Simpson will either be a well-meaning dunce or will die heroically, but he turns murderous. The writers make it impossible for themselves to fall back on clichés: after what unfolds in each episode, they can only move forward. Another aspect it may owe to <i>Breaking</i> <i>Bad</i> - again used to similarly great effect in <i>Daredevil</i> - is that while the stakes change, the antagonist remains the same over the season, which makes the show almost unbearably taut as we start to despair of the protagonist ever gaining the advantage over him, and by avoiding overcomplicating the narrative allows the writers to explore the effect the conflict has on the protagonist's sanity, sense of morality and on those around her.</div>
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<i>Jessica Jones</i> is also a show in which the supporting characters are as memorable and three-dimensional as the main players. Eka Darville as Malcolm goes on a remarkable arc: first he's the heroine addict whose role seems to be just to wander confused into Jessica's apartment without realising it isn't his, and who we assume will serve no other purpose in the narrative, like Jessica herself when she rather callously exploits the way people see Malcolm and uses him as a decoy when robbing the hospital. Then, when it's revealed he's another one of Kilgrave's pawns, we expect he'll go the way of the rest of them. When he's forced to go cold turkey, however, he turns out to be stronger than anyone thought. He does his best to help Jessica during a crisis when Reuben's body is planted in her flat, then puts his energy into the Kilgrave Survivors Group. He finally starts to lose patience with this, and starts to wonder if his degree in social care is being put to any real use, but ultimately decides that superheroes like Jessica need friends to pick up the pieces. The closing scene of the series, in which Jessica arrives back at her apartment to find Malcolm there cooking, and when she ignores the phone and deletes messages he unexpectedly picks it up and says "Alias Investigations: how may we help you?" is a wonderfully touching, funny moment: a character finds a path for him himself which is unexpected and yet makes perfect sense. Robyn, marvellously played by Colby Minifie, is another masterclass in how to write and play a supporting character. Her characterisation never goes down the conventional path: she never loses her temper or her tendency to say the wrong thing, yet we feel her pain at losing her beloved twin brother Reuben - her confession that she is lost without Reuben because he was the one everyone liked is a wonderfully moving moment - and see she is capable of her own skewed version of warmth and empathy when forgiving Malcolm.</div>
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Trish is less interesting. Rachael Taylor is the only weak piece of casting, lacking the distinctive presence of Ritter, Mike Colter (so strong here as Luke Cage, and enjoying some explosive chemistry with Ritter, that I look forward to covering the upcoming Cage series) or Moss and the quirkiness of Darville and Minifie, and the character is somewhat rote: a former child star turned successful radio talk show host (the host of a show no-one likes would have been more interesting). She performs her role adequately, but it remains a challenge for later seasons to make her as compelling as Jessica, Hogarth and Luke. Rosario Dawson as Claire, despite not appearing until the final episode, demonstrates more chemistry with Jessica than Trish does in the whole season (in fact, her appearance might be the most successful example of a crossover I've ever seen, adding character depth and increasing our emotional connection to the idea of a shared world, rather than a reference for the sake of referencing.)</div>
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So that's <i>Jessica</i> <i>Jones</i>: the kind of show everyone always says <i>Buffy the Vampire Slayer</i> and <i>Veronica Mars </i>are, a piece of pop culture that actually reflects the concerns of a generation instead of other pieces of pop culture, and reminds us that superpowers are no barrier to quality drama. It's the best show out there.</div>
Richard Cooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18114063496425319491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240001912845478109.post-17220876844769929342015-12-01T08:16:00.004-08:002015-12-01T08:16:43.725-08:00New Blog! All the Bonds In Random Order<span style="font-family: inherit;">New blog <a href="http://allthebonds.blogspot.co.uk/">here</a>, in which I examine all the Bond films in random order. <span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 24px;">I'll be unsparing about the films' more dubious aspects, while at the same time exploring how other aspects make for fantastic cinema.</span></span><br />
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Richard Cooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18114063496425319491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240001912845478109.post-33856959272274717772015-11-22T14:17:00.002-08:002016-12-14T08:49:11.241-08:00Daredevil (Netflix)<div style="text-align: justify;">
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First of all this, this series works despite being built upon a shaky concept: the preposterousness of Matt's abilities. Matt can recognise someone from the ticking of his wristwatch, detects (,using God knows which sense) that the room he's in contains a box of nails and has superhearing which varies from scene to scene. Then again, all superpowers are preposterous, as was <i>Breaking</i> <i>Bad</i>'s concept of a Nobel-winnng scientist reduced to teaching in a high school and working in a car wash. It's acceptable providing the events and characters into which this outrageous concept is unleashed remaining plausible, and in <i>Daredevil</i>, as in <i>Breaking</i> <i>Bad</i>, they do.</div>
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There's a nasty descent into <i>24</i>-esque stupidity in the second episode, when we are asked to believe that a nurse - who is clearly of normal moral character - witnessing Matt interrogate someone would start suggesting what nerves in his body Matt should attack and how he can access them. I don't think that scenes in which superheroes punch villains while demanding answers normalise torture any more than car chases normalise dangerous driving and action in general (fight scenes, shoot-outs) normalises violence - in all those cases the context is too far from reality to do so. What's offensive about this scene, as with <i>24</i>, is the way it fetishes medical terminology. The most sinister apologists for torture are not its passionate advocates, but those who style themselves as liberals but see torture as part of the Overton window, as something controversial rather than something no decent person could defend. With this scene <i>Daredevil</i> has contributed to the idea that torture is something to be debated. I'm also not keen on the distinction the show draws between killing someone and throwing them off a roof into a skip and into a coma. Every time Matt draws this ridiculous line, there's little sense that the writers disagree. This is a long way from the beady eye <i>Breaking Bad</i>'s writers keep on Walter White's justifications. I also don't like the gratuitous use of paedophilia as a justification for one brutal scene: like terrorism, this seems to be an excuse to let the mask of liberalism slip so that we can indulge in our most atavistic desires for violence. We're watching this show because we enjoy watching a masked superhero beat the shit out of no-good punks, so it's obviously not going to do as distressing and real a horror as paedophilia justice. At moments like this, you end up with something too unpleasant to be entertaining but too flippant to be anything else. The same goes for the sight of young Fisk beating his father's brains out with a hammer. I'm always reminded of Adam Mars Jones's distinction when critiquing the <i>Watchman</i> movie: "I get sordid. I get escapism. I don't like them mixed."</div>
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However, <i>Daredevil</i> has many strengths. Unlike <i>Gotham</i>, this is a show that raises the stakes. The end of episode 8, where Wilson decides to go public rather than let Matt and friends spend several seasons tying to expose him, shocks because it changes the entire dramatic impetus. <i>Gotham</i>, by contrast, had an episode where Jim and Harvey arrest Falcone, but the show backed down and pretty much reimposed the stays quo. Daredevil, on the other hand, allows five things to happen in its first season that other shows would have saved for much later (Wesley's death, Ben's death, Wilson going public, Wilson getting exposed, Foggy finding out about Matt's alter ego), preventing the characterisation from becoming repetitive, forcing the writers to address new situations with each episode. A particular triumph comes at the end of episode 11. Both Toby Leonard Moore's performance and the deft characterisation have given Wesley real staying power, so it comes as an enormous shock to see him killed off, and the situation this plunges Karen into is not the arc we were expecting for that character: along with the surprise of Foggy finding out about Matt in the first season, it breaks up what seemed to be a cozy Buffy\Xander\Willow or Harry\Ron\Hermione setup. Similarly, we can imagine Ben staying for the next season as both a useful aide to Matt and part of a "downtrodden disbelieved reporter gets vindicated" arc, but we don't even get to see him publish his expose of Fisk before his startling death. In this show death interrupts and destroys; it results in a shift of power and an escalation of tension. It seems to be a trick <i>Daredevil</i> picked up from <i>Breaking</i> <i>Bad</i>, as with the often terrific precredits sequences which establish something similar to that show's distinctive opening post-traumatic aesthetic. Watching this, you realise how much killing off Fish or the Penguin would improve <i>Gotham</i>, let alone how much more bearable <i>Doctor</i> <i>Who</i> would be if after being killed off its characters stayed dead.</div>
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The scenes involving the criminal element never become monotonous as <i>Gotham</i>'s do: there aren't too many characters, the scenes are snappy and surprising, and the exchanges are to-the-point, rather than the kind of theatrical flourishes and monologues that Fish, the Penguin and Falcone were allowed to indulge in. <i>Daredevil</i> leaves you intrigued by these people. We see that Wesley and Fisk's relationship has an emotional aspect to it, but only from tantalising lines and glimpses. There's always a danger of banality in the revelation that the villain was treated cruelly as a child, but Vincent D'onofrio's performance, with its unusual inflections and odd combination of a wounded look on his face and a growling voice, is interesting and commanding enough to sell it.</div>
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In fact, this show's take on Fisk stands as one of the most credible, interesting and potent villains in years. Like Sanchez in <i>Licence</i> <i>to</i> <i>Kill</i> (and unlike Silva in <i>Skyfall</i> or Oberhauser in <i>Spectre</i>), he has values, motivations and thought processes, has a way of justifying his actions to himself, and exists as a person in his own right rather than to annoy the hero and drive the action scenes. Villains in recent superhero narratives disappoint because they are kept politically neutral, either belonging to an already-demonised ideological system (the Nazi-like agenda of Lord Voldemort, <i>Star</i> <i>Trek</i> <i>Into</i> <i>Darkness</i>'s Khan and the Daleks; the Al Qaeida-like League of Shadows in <i>Batman</i> <i>Begins</i> and <i>The</i> <i>Dark</i> <i>Knight</i> <i>Rises, </i>the Russian bad guy in <i>Mission</i> <i>Impossible:</i> <i>Ghost</i> <i>Protocol</i>) , strictly in it for the money (the <i>Die</i> <i>Hard</i> model), personal vengeance (<i>Skyfall</i> and <i>Spectre</i> again) or unrealistic conspiracy theories (<i>Star Trek</i>: <i>Into</i> <i>Darkness</i>'s Admiral Marcus, The film of <i>V</i> <i>for</i> <i>Vendetta</i>, <i>Mission</i> <i>Impossible Rogue </i><i>Nation</i>). What we get all too rarely is a villian whose terrible actions feel like like they are part of our own problems, including ones which have not been made illegal. This is the <i>Edge of Darkness </i>approach to villains (which <i>Tomorrow Never Dies </i>attempted but couldn't quite pull off with Elliott Carver, and which both <i>Spectre</i> and the "His Last Vow" episode of <i>Sherlock</i> flirted with via the characters of Denbeigh and Magnussen respectively), and it's something I want to see a lot more of: villains that resemble Rupert Murdoch, David Cameron and Fox News. I also want to see villains who are all the more dangerous because, as in real life, they don't realise they are villains. When Fisk says he wants to make the city a better place, he seems to genuinely believe this, which makes the battle to overthrow him all the more compelling. Satisfyingly, this is a show in which the enemy is gentrification. The show neatly builds on the destruction seen in <i>The Avengers</i>, with Leland even pointing out that superheroes are pretty good for their business, as every time they punch someone through a wall there's a wrecked property for them to buy up. Matt, refreshingly, is from a genuinely working class background.</div>
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The show also makes effective use of the beleaguered but unbowed reporter trope. Vonda Curtis-Hall's final scene is all the more poignant because instead of a newspaper article, he's about to embark upon a blog to expose Fisk. It's unusual to hear a comic-book villain refer to internet pictures of cats, yet that is the entirely relevant debate he and Ben have. It's something that neither the Superman nor the Spiderman movies have come to terms with, with <i>Man of Steel</i> portraying bloggers as untrustworthy weasels.</div>
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But let's be honest: this is still a show that speaks to the adolescent in all of us. We watch it because the fight scenes are cool (and they are remarkably well-done). Even so, it's a pleasure to get one's visceral thrills from something containing moments of genuine drama.</div>
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Richard Cooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18114063496425319491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240001912845478109.post-39918647724696262252015-07-25T18:16:00.001-07:002015-08-09T20:50:13.695-07:00Why Terminator Genisys didn't work (and why Terminator 3 was grossly underrated)<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>Terminator Genisys </i>is the kind of film that people wrongly said the third film was. I should say that I'm a lot more tolerant of the <i>Terminator</i> franchise than a lot of people have been since James Cameron moved on. I loved the first two films, but I also loved the third film and the TV series. I was particularly annoyed when Mark Kermode described <i>Genisys</i> as "marginally better" than T3. I'll get on to the reasons why I feel <i>Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines </i>was a worthy sequel and a fine film throughout this piece. The TV series <i>The Sarah Connor Chronicles</i> obviously doesn't have the compact cinematic structure of the first three films, but was sometimes able to produce a strange poetry from the concepts. The fourth film was until now the series's only dud, but thanks to <i>Genisys</i> I have to concede its future looks bleak.</div>
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To my mind, T3 had only one weakness, which the series is still struggling with: how do you top the Terminator and the T1000 as creations? Adam Roberts has <a href="http://www.thevalve.org/go/valve/article/terminator_salvation/">pointed out</a> that they are both excellent metaphors for death as pursuer:</div>
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<i>What is the Terminator? The Terminator is death; his grinning titanium skull the latest incarnation of an ancient western tradition of iconic momento mori. The first film dramatised, straightforwardly and therefore effectively, life’s struggles and attempted flight from the implacable pursuit of death. The simplicity of the narrative served the story perfectly, because our own mortality is, on one level, wholly linear and perfectly simple: it will come; it will come straight, it will come straight for you; it will not stop. Without exception, that’s the fate of everybody in the world. This unsettling existential truth is at the heart of the original movie’s enduring resonance. In a nutshell, the first Terminator movie said: death is singular, implacable and after you. That’s true. (What I mean when I say this is that although we know, intellectually, that death is general, not singular--that although we die individually others live on--nevertheless that’s not how it feels. Our impending deaths, as the end of our world, feel like the end of the world).</i></div>
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<i>Terminator 2: Judgment Day (1991) told the same story with one wrinkle. It was a text that said: death is still singular, still coming for you personally, still implacable. But it is also protean. That still works, as a core metaphor; and the chase-narrative line of that film was as linear as the first, which is good.</i></div>
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The Terminator is hardness personified: heavy metal beneath the flesh of a bodybuilder, implacable, unfeeling, remorseless, not held back by fire, bullets or explosives. The T1000 was softness personified: malleability, mimeticism, unpredictability, polymorphousness, adaptability. T3 couldn't follow this, so its antagonist, the TX, is just a combination of both (and Kristanna Loken, while adequate, is also too conventional a piece of casting, lacking the uncanny, inhuman screen presence that Schwarzenegger, Robert Patrick and the underappreciated trio of Summer Glau, Garret Dillahunt and Shirley Manson from <i>The Sarah Connor Chronicles </i>had in spades). <i>Genisys</i> begins by producing another T1000 (although I've no idea how he ended up in the first film's timeline), then replaces him with an antagonist who isn't significantly different in visual terms, but merely another variation on the death-as-protean metaphor Roberts described.</div>
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The fourth film, 2009's <i>Terminator Salvation</i>, was actually the first one to let the side down. Roberts wrote of <i>Salvation </i>in the same piece:</div>
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<i>Terminator: Salvation ditches the eloquence of its own core metaphor. It can’t resist the opportunity to throw all manner of ingenious terminator-types at the screen: robot jets, giant robots, robot motorcycles (which are also the giant robot’s knees), robot half-men-half-biscuits, robot mini flying saucers, robot 1984-vintage Schwarzeneggers, robot conga eels, robot Helena Bonham Carter hologrammatic heads, robot gun emplacements and robot concentration camps. A lot of these realisations are ingenious, and fun to watch, but they mean that the film is, at its heart, saying: death is a whole bunch of stuff, and the notable thing about death is that it is cool. It is saying: death is a futuristic obstacle course. </i></div>
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The same criticism can be applied to <i>Genisys</i>. The <i>Terminator</i> films are about movement. The Terminator is coming for you. And when you shoot, burn or blow him up, he still keeps coming for you. The first three films are in two senses chase narratives: running away from the Terminator, and running away from humanity's fate. As the chase progresses, we learn more about the future. Just as the Terminator is not merely a cool cyborg but a metaphor for the Reaper, so Skynet is not merely a warning against artificial intelligence and Cold War automated Mutually Assured Destruction - both of which are dated concerns - but a metaphor for Fate, hence Judgement Day. These three narratives are honed, sharpened, thinned: not too much scenes set in the future; a sense of intrigue as to how these characters will clash before the first cathartic chase (Who is Kyle? Is the Terminator human? What do they want with Sarah? Has the Terminator been reprogrammed? What is the T1000? What does the TX want with Kate?); the first battle - which combines action, mystery and exposition - and a solid three-act structure to the setpieces.</div>
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The action in <i>Genisys</i>, by contrast, gets off to a jarring start. The scene where the Terminator returns to his first scene from the first film to fight his younger self - interrupting him before he can murder three loitering punks - has been promoted as if it were the film's biggest selling point, yet this curiously redundant, dramatically inert scene is a striking example of how the script fails to understand the patterns, shapes and rhythms that drive the central metaphors behind the <i>Terminator</i> series. We aren't rooting for the three thugs the younger Terminator approaches - who are sinister and potentially murderous figures - and we know they won't appear in any other scenes and are of no importance to the plot. Consequently, the older Schwarzenegger's entrance carries no sense of relief, and does nothing for the narrative. It doesn't even begin to compare with the excitement of the Terminator saving John in T2's first setpiece, or Kyle saving Sarah in the first film. Someone has simply said "wouldn't it be cool if Arnold fought himself?" and the FX team indulge him. An elaborate action sequence with school buses twirling through the air and then dangling over the edge of the Golden Gate bridge isn't built up to, but is sandwiched between equally elaborate FX-fests only a few minutes before or after in which cyborgs smash into each other and vehicles are hurled at the screen. The amount of time <i>Terminator 2</i> was prepared to spend between its second and third setpieces, allowing the tension to build up and giving us breathing space to get to know these characters and make the climax a far more emotional experience, seems unthinkable in the age of thunk thunk THUNK movies like <i>Genisys</i> and <i>Man of Steel</i>.</div>
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The beauty of the first three films' time travel narratives (vivid but short glimpses of the future, taut narratives set in the present) has been replaced with a much less potent narrative involving alternative timelines, time-travelling from the 1980s to the near present, and an overly long-winded beginning set in the future. It took days for me to realise why Judgement Day is postponed from 1997 to 2017: I think it's because the remains of the 1984 Terminator no longer get left in that factory seen at the end of the first film for Cyberdyne to find and subsequently use to invent Skynet: a point totally unexplained onscreen. Yet while this is often hard to follow, it brings nothing new to the Terminator mythos. The Genisys (how peculiarly irritating to spell it wrong for no reason) storyline is a rehash of bland science fiction from <i>Stormbreaker</i> to <i>Rise of the Cybermen</i>, and while T3 had the slow realisation that the virus Skynet was on the verge of being unleashed to tackle was actually Skynet itself, and T2 had the strong presence of Joe Morton as Miles Dyson, here Genisys is created purely so that we can be told it is Skynet from its first mention (reminiscent of the crap disguises adopted by 60s Batman villains). JK Simmons's character seems to appear purely in order to be kept alive for the sequel, and Matt Smith has no more gravitas playing the personification of Skynet itself than he did as Doctor Who.</div>
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T3 was much more interesting because it had a nasty shock for its audience: despite what T2 had led us to believe, Judgement Day is not preventable. The idea that humanity's ultimate task will not be to prevent Judgement Day but to survive it is a genuinely different take on the story, putting the previous 2 films in a different light, which is precisely what <i>Genisys</i> doesn't have. And notice how this horrifying climax sees all the narrative strands - John and Kate's awkwardness at the idea of their predestined relationship, only to find unexpected strength together, John's realisation at what the Terminator was trying to tell them all along and his realisation that his task as leader will be a lot less triumphant but no less crucial - come together. This is drama.</div>
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Another criticism that might well be offered of <i>Terminator Genisys </i>is that it sentimentalises the Terminator himself, but to be fair, that was hardly less true of the second film. T3, on the other hand, did something cleverer, building on the twist that T2 brought to the character. At first, it seems to be a reprise of the T2 relationship, with John even acknowledging that the Terminator is the only father figure he has ever had. Then we get the immensely powerful moment in which the Terminator reveals that before the resistance captured him, reprogrammed him and sent him through time, he terminated John. Similarly, the Terminator isn't here to save humanity from Judgement Day: he's here to help us prepare for it. Here he is something less cutesy than in T2 or <i>Genisys</i>: he is the friendly face of the Grim Reaper, something not dissimilar to Terry Pratchett's Death. There is a marvellous moment when John and Kate manage to share a joke together, and the Terminator comments "Your levity is good, it relieves tension and the fear of death." It's poignant, it's funny, it's a nice character moment for all three, and it's slightly creepy.</div>
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Those kind of moments are missing from <i>Genisys</i> due to the convoluted nature of the rebooted versions of Sarah, Kyle and John. Compare the famous line in the first film: "for the few hours we were together we loved a lifetimes worth." That line has a good, simple emotional kick to it. In the first three films, first Sarah than John than John and Kate are ordinary people told that they will become humanity's only hope. This too is a good, simple idea to run with. In <i>Genisys</i> by contrast we have a Sarah and Kyle who haven't time to become lovers, yet know that they will become lovers and parents of the saviour of humanity, a Sarah who already knows about Skynet and who has been raised by the Terminator (offscreen, in contrast to T2's Sarah who has become a warrior in response to events the audience got to see in the first film) from childhood, and a John that Sarah meets before she has conceived him only to find out he is now a Terminator set upon the destruction of humanity. It's hard to identify with such characters, and this means the frenetic action isn't countered by emotion as it was in the first three films. As CS Lewis put it, to tell how odd things struck odd people is an oddity too many.</div>
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Then there's the problem of the male leads. Michael Biehn, as Kyle Reese in the first film, looked liked someone who had spent his entire life in pain, in the run, and underground. Nick Stahl - present-day John Connor in T3 - looked like someone who actually had spent the last few years "off the grid", breaking into a vet's when he needed painkillers, and who couldn't understand how a mess like him could be mankind's saviour. Jai Courtney, by contrast, is a deeply bland Kyle Reese, a generic, vaguely hunky bore. Jason Clarke is an even more absurd casting choice: called upon to play first the leader of humanity and then the film's antagonist, he turns in such a charisma-free performance that in the first role one wonders if anyone in the future would have listened to him, and in the second role one gets irritated rather than frightened every time he turns up. </div>
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This was why I found it galling that James Cameron should record an endorsement for <i>Genisys</i> in which he said "it feels to me like the third film...I feel like the franchise has been reinvigorated...it feels like a renaissance", although this is less stunning when you remember Cameron presumably also thinks <i>True Lies,</i> <i>Titanic</i> and <i>Avatar</i> are good films. Rather than a renaissance, <i>Genisys</i> may deal the series a deathblow. Unlike the blandness of <i>Salvation</i>, it will be hard for the franchise to ignore. The presence of Schwarzenegger and the way the film makes audiences fed up with convoluted time travel make it unfeasible that yet another sequel ignoring it in turn could be released. What we had here was a modern myth, using the language of modern pop culture to address apocalyptic fears: fate, destiny, love, death and hope. Now we've got something that may be as dead as <i>RoboCop</i>.</div>
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So, why don't we all watch the third film again?</div>
Richard Cooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18114063496425319491noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240001912845478109.post-63542719910805429512015-03-27T20:37:00.000-07:002017-09-03T11:34:31.525-07:00Terry Pratchett Remembered<div style="text-align: justify;">
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Terry Pratchett had a way of crafting a sentence that was his own. This is what makes him a great writer full-stop, not just a great popular writer. By the time of books like <i>Small Gods, Jingo, Nation, Monstrous Regiment,</i> and <i>The Amazing Maurice and his Educated Rodents</i> he was a writer incapable of writing a routine sentence. This unique style used the second person. A few examples:</div>
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<i>You never said to your parents, "Hey, I really need a computer because that way I can play Megasteroids."</i></div>
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<i> No, you said,"I really need a computer because of school."</i></div>
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<i> It's educational.</i></div>
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<i> Anyway, there had to be a good side to the Trying Times everyone was going through in this house. If you hung around in your room and generally kept your head down, stuff like computers sort of happened. It made everyone feel better.</i></div>
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<i>(Only You Can Save Mankind)</i></div>
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<i>And of course, very people *do* know how Tradition is supposed to go. There's a certain mysterious ridiculousness about it by its very nature. Once there was a reason why you had to carry a posy of primroses on Soul Cake Tuesday, but now you did it because...that's what was Done. Besides, the intelligence of that creature known as a crowd is the square root of the number of people in it.</i></div>
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<i>(Jingo)</i></div>
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<i>It was so much easier to blame it on Them. It was bleakly depressing to think that They were Us. If it was Them, then nothing was anyone's fault. If it was Us, what did that make Me? After all, I'm one of Us. I must be. I've certainly never thought of myself as one of Them. No one ever thinks of themselves as one of Them. We're always one of Us. It's Them that do the bad things.</i></div>
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<i>(Jingo)</i></div>
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<i>People on the side of The People always ended up disappointed, in any case. They found that The People tended not to be grateful or appreciative or forward-thinking or obedient. The People tended to be small-minded and conservative and not very clever and were even distrustful of cleverness. And so the children of the revolution were faced with the age-old problem: it wasn't that you had the wrong kind of government, which was obvious, but that you had the wrong kind of people.</i></div>
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<i>As soon as you saw people as things to be measured, they didn't measure up. What would run through the streets soon enough wouldn't be a revolution or a riot. It'd be people who were frightened and panicking. It was what happened when the machinery of city life faltered, the wheels stopped turning and all the little rules broke down. And when that happened, humans were worse than sheep. Sheep just ran; they didn't try to bite the sheep next to them.</i></div>
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<i>(Night Watch)</i></div>
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<i> A witch didn't do things because they seemed a good idea at the time! That was practically cackling. You had to deal every day with people who were foolish and lazy and untruthful and downright unpleasant, and you could certainly end up thinking that the world would be considerably improved if you gave them a slap. But you didn't because, as Miss Tick had once explained:</i></div>
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<i>a) it would make the world a better place for only a very short time;</i></div>
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<i>b) it would then make the world a slightly worse place; and</i></div>
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<i>c) you're not supposed to be as stupid as they are.” </i></div>
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<i>(Wintersmith)</i></div>
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<i>The stories never said why she was wicked. It was enough to be an old woman, enough to be all alone, enough to look strange because you have no teeth. It was enough to be called a witch. If it came to that, the book never gave you the evidence of anything. It talked about "a handsome prince"... was he really, or was it just because he was a prince that people called handsome? As for "a girl who was as beautiful as the day was long"... well, which day? In midwinter it hardly ever got light! The stories don't want you to think, they just wanted you to believe what you were told.</i></div>
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<i>(The Wee Free Men)</i></div>
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<i>I'll never be like this again . . . I'll never again feel as tall as the sky and as old as the hills and as strong as the sea. I've been given something for a while, and the price of it is that I have to give it back. </i></div>
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<i> And the reward is giving it back, too. No human could live like this. You could spend a day looking at a flower to see how wonderful it is, and that wouldn't get the milking done. No wonder we dream our way through our lives. To be awake, and see it all as it really is...no one could stand that for long.</i></div>
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<i>(The Wee Free Men)</i></div>
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<i>People have believed for hundreds of years that newts in a well mean that the water's fresh and drinkable, and in all that time never asked themselves whether the newts got out to go to the lavatory.</i></div>
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<i>(Reaper Man)</i></div>
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<i>And, while it was regarded as pretty good evidence of criminality to be living in a slum, for some reason owning a whole street of them merely got you invited to the very best social occasions.</i></div>
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<i>(Feet of Clay)</i></div>
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<i>[...] with the expression of one who knows that the light at the end of the tunnel is an oncoming train.</i></div>
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<i>(Interesting Times)</i></div>
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<i>Sergeant Colon had had a broad education. He'd been to the School of What My Dad Always Said, the College of It Stands to Reason, and was now a postgraduate student at the University of What Some Bloke in the Pub Told Me.</i></div>
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It was a wry, knowing, sceptical style, constantly challenging received wisdom, and exploring how that received wisdom - sometimes merely stupid, sometimes toxic - affected everything from the psychological makeup of his protagonists, to the behaviour of people in crowds, to the behaviour of whole societies. Granny Weatherwax, Johnny Maxwell and Sam Vimes are characters forged from the hammer and anvil collision of what a society expects from its witches, children or police and what it actually needs; between what stories have led us to expect witches, children and police to be capable of and what happens when they affect the lives of real human beings.</div>
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The complaint that writers of genre fiction are treated less seriously than mainstream "literary" writers can sometimes be a waste of time. Ursula Le Guin has just won the National Book Award's Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters, JG Ballard was seen as our greatest living novelist by those outside as well as inside SF circles, and it can hardly be said that, say, China Mieville's novels are reviewed in less depth or with less respect than Anita Brookner's or Graham Swift's. There are six reasons why on this occasion the complaint actually has substance to it and Pratchett's work genuinely is underestimated. </div>
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Firstly, unlike Ballard, Vonnegut, William Gibson or Philip Pullman, Pratchett never made his books poachable by those disdainful of SF. Ballard and Vonnegut lost interest in Science Fiction, Pullman claimed he didn't write fantasy but "stark realism", Gibson and Ballard moved in later novels to exploring their concerns from a less overtly SF setup. Pratchett continued to write fantasy, which shouldn't distract from the extraordinary maturation of his work. As George Orwell wrote of Charles Dickens, he is one of those writers who are well worth stealing. <i>Nation, Monstrous Regiment, Going Postal, Hogfather, Wintersmith, Night Watch </i>and<i> The Amazing Maurice </i>are better written, richer books than the early ones, fun though those are. It seemed natural at the start of the series that the characters would have names like Rincewind and Twoflower and no second names. Pratchett comes from fandom. He didn't merely use fantasy because it was the best medium for what he wanted to say, nor did he lose interest in it. He was the kid hooked on <i>The Lord of the Rings</i> who corresponded with Tolkien, was thrilled to meet Michael Moorcock and Arthur C Clarke at conventions and who wrote <i>The Colour of Magic</i> because there was so much bad Tolkien-lite around he decided it was time for some fantasy with a little wit. He continued to be a fan of astronomy, <i>Aliens</i> and <i>Red Dwarf</i>, and came damn close to making a knighthood cool when he responded by smelting his own sword out of meteorite ore.</div>
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Secondly, his work won him a fandom of his own: his novels appeared alongside maps and guidebooks of the Discworld, he interacted with his fans from the earliest days of the internet, and the Discworld had much appeal for convention-goers, gamers and costume enthusiasts. No writer could have expressed more care and affection for such a fan base, and it's what got my teenage self hooked, but serious attention should be paid to Pratchett's art, as many of these novels are more important than anything by many of Britain's supposedly "literary" novelists. From<i> Small Gods</i> onwards Pratchett began writing more ethically complex novels of ideas. The fandom didn't decrease, and while Pullman and Rowling's books were published in alternative "non-genre" covers from the start, it took some years before the Discworld books were available in this way. Along with another distinction that Pratchett earned - everything he ever wrote remained in print - this meant that his oevre tended to take up a distinctive section in any bookshop, and made it easier for snobs or skimmers to categorise his books. It also probably created the false impression you needed to have read each book's predecessors or be an aficionado of the genre to appreciate it.</div>
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Thirdly, he was popular. I don't think anyone in history has ever written so well while selling such vast copies. His work was adored by children and teenagers and, as the legend goes, he was even the UK's most shoplifted author. It was the sales figures that made Tom Paulin sneer ("selling thousands of copies - a complete amateur - doesn't even write in chapters") in an ignoble performance in which he discussed Pratchett on BBC2's <i>Late Review</i>. Some critics find it hard to stomach the uncomfortable truth: a popular artist brought wisdom and the numinous to the masses. (I'm assuming only Paulin was kept away by the excruciatingly stupid chapter complaint.) If Pratchett's books aren't literature, nothing is. </div>
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Fourthly, he was prolific. Joyce Carol Oates and Anthony Burgess have also received grief for this. Pratchett published, by my count, 55 novels in his lifetime, and had already submitted the 56th, 57th and 58th to his publishers by the time of his death. It remains important to convince people that this astonishing rate of production was not due to a preference for speed over craft, attention and depth. Pratchett was, as Neil Gaiman has pointed out, rare among writers in the pleasure he took in the act of writing itself.</div>
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Fifthly, so many of his books are set on the same world, a highly misleading detail exacerbated by the phrase "A Discworld Novel" always appearing on the cover. The forty-one Discworld novels are not installments in a single series. The Discworld series consists of six different series plus stand-alone novels. Yes, the world is a disc resting on four giant elephants on the back of a giant turtle, but many of the books don't mention this just as Henry James's <i>The Portrait of a Lady</i> doesn't mention the Earth's crust.<i>The Light Fantastic</i> and <i>Going Postal</i> have about as much in common - and show the same range and maturation - as <i>The Pickwick Papers</i> and <i>Bleak House</i>, two books also by the same author and set on the same planet.</div>
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Sixthly, his writing embraced comedy in all its forms. Comedy tends to be underestimated anyway, but Pratchett's went beyond the supposedly literary. Like Douglas Adams, Sue Townsend and Tom Sharpe, he was part of a generation raised not just on literature but on radio, TV and film and on the newer forms of purely comic writing: Monty Python, the Goons and the Marx Brothers, along with unashamedly comic writers such as Wodehouse, Grossmith, Wilde, Waugh, Amis and Jerome, and in Pratchett's case bound copies of Punch magazine from the Victorian era to the 1960s. He used satire, and character humour, but also puns, setpieces and slapstick. Splendid creations like Bloody Stupid Johnson, the mad Bursar and Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler come from the world of sketches and sitcoms as much as from literature, and that's no bad thing. Some of the gags, like the more straightforward fantasy tropes, get dropped as his novels grew more sophisticated.</div>
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AS Byatt's description of Pratchett having the "real energy of the primary storyteller" remains the best description of him as an artist. His daughter Rhianna once described herself as having worked as a narrative paramedic, and we can see where that came from: a strong instinct for what works and doesn't work in narrative runs through Pratchett's novels. However, this is never used for mere postmodern smugness. Discworld is powered by narrativium, as Pratchett put it in <i>The Science of Discworld</i>. His description of the new version of Doctor Who - "making too much use of the msgic element makeitupasyougoalongium" is treasurable because it encapsulates the point that such an element is required, even though its overuse can be dangerous. Pullman favours a Rushdie-esque "stories will defeat theocracy" message which is conveyed rather crudely in <i>The Amber Spyglass,</i> but Pratchett believed that fantasy was like alcohol: too much is bad, but a little can make the world a better place. His books explore how we use stories, but also how they get out of hand. As Byatt points out, he is "more important" than Pullman because he never lets didactic "designs on his readers" get in the way of his art.</div>
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No male novelist ever wrote better female characters. In the series spanning from <i>Equal Rites </i>- in which a dying wizard hands on his staff to a baby, not realising it is female, and the child grows up, with the help of the village witch Granny Weatherwax, determined not to let the wizard patriarchy hold her back - to the Tiffany Aching books - in which a nine-year-old becomes a witch and learns everything from defeating the Queen of the fairies to cheesemaking to puberty - he constructed a brilliant feminist panorama, in which complex evils have to be fought while a community has to be maintained. The evils that Granny and Tiffany face are not just there to keep the narrative moving, but to challenge the protagonists' beliefs, and challenge them to reaffirm their ideals. The same challenge is faced by Vimes, Johnny Maxwell and Mau from <i>Nation</i>, and by heartbreaking coincidence Pratchett himself would face it in real life after being diagnosed with PCA in 2007. In these novels, monsters are there to remind you why you need to be a hero. Tiffany and Granny face challanges on a smaller scale, too. <i>Carpe Jugulum</i> features an affecting scene in which Granny saves the live of a pregnant woman kicked by her cow but is unable to save the baby. Her last action is to make sure the husband doesn't kill the cow, as the couple will need it. <i>I Shall Wear Midnight</i> has a beautifully drawn scene in which Tiffany discovers that Amber, a young village girl, has been beaten unconscious by her father upon his discovery of her pregnancy, resulting in a miscarriage, and must work hard not only to prevent him from harming his wife and daughter, but to prevent a lynch mob mentality breaking out amongst the villagers:</div>
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<i>The rough music was never organised. It seemed to occur to everybody at once. It played when a village thought that a man had beaten his wife too hard, or his dog too savagely, or if a married man and a married woman forgot that they were married to somebody else. There were other, darker crimes against the music too, but they weren't talked about openly.</i></div>
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In person Pratchett was as awesome as you'd expect him to be, every speech full of the wit, grace and love of language that reflected Pratchett's love of Chesterton, Twain and Wodehouse. The fight he put up against PCA was as inspiring as one of Tiffany Aching's battles,and he displayed the same poignant determination to bring warmth and humour to darkness. The only occasion I saw him in the flesh - at an appearance at London's Drury Lane Theatre in 2011 - will remain a magical memory for me. He was on great form, and his assistant Rob Wilkins was - as was clear from the two excellent documentaries - part of a marvellous double act, and as good a friend as any one could wish for, which is why on hearing the bad news one thinks of Rob just as one thinks of Terry's wife and daughter.</div>
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We have lost a great man, but what he has left us is staggering.</div>
Richard Cooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18114063496425319491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240001912845478109.post-54084627029596104742014-03-30T11:51:00.000-07:002018-10-23T14:44:38.773-07:00How Phil "TARDIS Eruditorum" Sandifer and Jack "Shabogan Graffiti" Graham read my essay, wrote a *very* similar piece that refused to mentioned mine, and then trashed mine <b><br /></b>
<b>(23rd October 2018 update: obviously this was written and posted years before Elizabeth Sandifer transitioned. I haven't changed the name in the piece itself, as I am unsure of her preferences regarding old pieces that use that name, and am hardly in a position to ask as this piece makes clear. As happened when I wrote a piece criticising Linehan, scummy rightwingers - this time including transphobes - who clearly haven't read this blog carefully occasionally assume this piece is on their side and post links to it on twitter, but they can fuck off forever.)</b><br />
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This piece is a summary of some not particularly pleasant treatment I've had from Phil Sandifer and Jack Graham lately.<br />
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Here's a comment I left on <a href="http://www.philipsandifer.com/blog/guest-post-steven-moffat-a-case-for-the-prosecution/">Jack Graham's guestpost on Phil Sandifer's blog:</a><br />
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<i><b>This piece makes very similar points to a blog post of mine posted online on the 18th May 2013 (a sequel to one posted on 18 November 2011)</b></i><br />
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<i><b> http://richardhcooper.blogspot.co.uk/2013/05/steven-and-women-or-how-steven-moffat.html </b></i><br />
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<i><b>which both Phil and Jack have read. Here is a tweet Phil Sandifer sent me on 21 May last year indicating that he's read my blog post on Moffat and sexism:</b></i><br />
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<i><b><a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/PhilSandifer/status/336901436522786816?screen_name=PhilSandifer">https://mobile.twitter.com/PhilSandifer/status/336901436522786816?screen_name=PhilSandifer</a></b></i><br />
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<i><b>[Contents of that tweet: "Right up until I get to the topic of sexism in Moffat's who and violently disagree with @RichardHCooper :)"</b></i><br />
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<i><b>It remains the only time he has contacted me or mentioned my blog in any way. (He did go on to write the piece he mentions in that tweet, but it contains no reference to my stuff)</b></i><br />
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<i><b>Here's Jack's blogpost praising mine, on the 21st May 2013:</b></i><br />
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<i><b>http://shabogangraffiti.blogspot.co.uk/2013/05/maybe-some-of-us-belong-in-fields.html</b></i><br />
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<i><b>If this newer piece had appeared on Jack's blog, I would have no problem with it, but Phil's site contains no mention of me or my blog, and no links to it. Here's an email I sent Jack when I read the guestpost:</b></i><br />
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<i><b>Hi Jack. </b></i><br />
<i><b>Could you edit your guestpost on Phil's site to add a link to my posts on Moffat? This isn't a dig at you: I ask purely because whilst your own site has been such a good supporter of my work, Phil's makes no mention of me or my blog at all, even though I know from the one tweet he sent me that he's also read my Moffat sexism piece. Also, Phil has considerably more influence and readers than I do. Acknowledging me would mean that no-one reading my blogpost without checking the date would think I had read your guestpost on Phil's and derived from it witbout acknowledgement.</b></i><br />
<i><b>All the best,</b></i><br />
<i><b>Richard</b></i><br />
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<i><b>This was Jack's reply: </b></i><br />
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<i><b>Dear Richard,</b></i><br />
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<i><b>I've messaged Phil about this, and we've decided that we don't think a link to your essay is called for. I'd hate anyone to come across your own excellent post and wrongly assume that you'd derived anything from me, so I'll add something to my own post at Shabgraff about the guest post, linking to your essay and acknowledging that you 'got there' before me. </b></i><br />
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<i><b>I did consult your Moffat essays when I was outlining my own guest post for Phil, but (with respect) there was nothing in them that I wanted to adapt which I hadn't already noticed on my own. </b></i><br />
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<i><b>I hope this does the trick.</b></i><br />
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<i><b>Sincerely</b></i><br />
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<i><b>Jack</b></i><br />
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<i><b>None of this is egregious, just bad manners: for example Lawrence Miles's blog and SOTCAA are clearly influences on my blog, the difference is that I talk about and link to them on the blog and Phil Sandifer seems determined to do neither regarding me. As I said in the email, he has a larger following and more influence than I do (this piece has attracted more comments in less than 24 hours than my 2011 piece on Moffat has in two and and a half years). An abiding point here is RBC's comment: "I think Jack hits on a more incisive line of argument when he writes that "Fetishizing ‘power’ in women characters... isn’t the same as writing them as human beings."" Here's a line from my blogpost: "Unfortunately, a fetish for powerful, sexy women who like cheating people is no substitute for an interest in human beings."</b></i><br />
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<i><b>Just to stress, all I would have liked was a brief mention or link. If you don't want to, Phil and Jack, I can't force you, but the next time you "consult" my stuff while you're outlining a piece for a bigger platform than mine, maybe show some courtesy, or kindness to a struggling blogger, particularly if you think it's "excellent". </b></i><br />
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This was Phil's reply to my comment:<br />
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<i><b>I would suggest that perhaps complaining about manners and courtesy while trying to bully people into linking to your blog is ill advised. I don't link to you in my Moffat and Feminism post because I have not read or thought about you since that tweet nearly a year ago. This is because, to be perfectly frank, I found your essay unimpressive. It stimulated no thoughts whatsoever, and I had totally forgotten about it and you until Jack messaged me today. Looking at your piece again, I find it facile and fond of making cheap jokes to cover up the places where you have no actual argument. Though at least it's better than your 2011 post, which is absolutely abominable. </b></i><br />
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<i><b>Similarly, I take Jack at his word that although he read your piece he was not in fact influenced by it, and that he had come to the same conclusions you did on his own. This is because, quite frankly, you do not actually say anything that hasn't been said by dozens of other critics within the extremely large body of work that has been written on Moffat and feminism, a body of which your single essay is a very, very small part.</b></i><br />
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This was Jack's reply:<br />
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<i><b>Richard, if you want to accuse me of plagiarism, don't be coy. Come right out and say it. Don't pretend to be complaining about bad manners.</b></i><br />
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<i><b>The bit you cite sounds similar, no doubt. Shall I spend 5 minutes on tumblr finding 50 people who said pretty much the same thing, in pretty much the same words, ages before either of us?</b></i><br />
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<i><b>I acknowledged two people from whom I took specific points that wouldn't have been in the essay if they hadn't mentioned them to me. I didn't mention you because... well, you've already reproduced the text of the email I sent you in which I explain that.</b></i><br />
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<i><b>People who have read both our essays will know that there's loads in mine that is nowhere to be found in yours (I don't recall you mentioning neoliberalism anywhere) and, likewise, loads in yours that is nowhere to be found in mine. There are points of similarity where we both go through some matters that are now pretty much 'common currency' on the internet.</b></i><br />
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<i><b>I enjoyed your essay at the time and said so publically. As you mention, I devoted an entire post on my own blog to saying how much I liked it, quoting from it approvingly, and linking to it.</b></i><br />
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<i><b>And, unlike you, I've never written for Salon. </b></i><br />
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Phil subsequently sent me this tweet:<br />
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<b><i><a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/PhilSandifer/status/447879735260229632?screen_name=PhilSandifer">I'm not sure there's a polite way to falsely accuse someone of plagiarism.</a></i></b><br />
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Before I respond to these points, here's a breakdown of the similarities:<br />
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From Mine: <b><i>There's much emphasis on who she is, how often she's met the Doctor, what role she will play in his future, but is there really a character there?[ ...] there a single reason to care about her? What has she done except shoot people, flirt in a way that Moffat seems to think evokes Lauren Bacall but comes across like someone's drunken aunt at a wedding, and occasionally claim to be an archaeologist? (2011)</i></b><br />
<b><i>She's got poisonous lipstick, her all-time fantasy is a threesome with two Doctors, her last words before regenerating are "I'm concentrating on a dress size" , she promises that she's "a screamer - now there is a spoiler for you!" and her reaction to meeting the Doctor for the first time (from her point of view) is "you never said he was hot!" The "bickering" between the Doctor and River is excruciating because it's little more than the stage directions "they bicker" and "they flirt" [...]</i></b><br />
<b><i>This isn't a character, but a soulless collection of gender and TV reference points </i></b>(2013)<br />
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From Jack's:<br />
<b><i>Who the hell is River? She is an assemblage of gender essentialist tropes and wisecracks. When does she ever – beyond, arguably, her first appearance – behave like an academic or a scientist? When does she ever display anything resembling erudition or intellectual curiosity? When does she ever do or say anything to show or engender love? Admittedly, the Doctor seems to be sexually aroused by the way she shoots people… which is just charming. In ‘Let’s Kill Hitler’, she is incarnated as Mels, a character we’ve never seen or heard of before, and plonked unceremoniously into the story out of sheer, brazen convenience. She stalks Amy and Rory (her unwitting mother and father) for years, pretending to be their friend, all because of her pre-programmed monomaniacal desire to get to the Doctor. She regenerates while “concentrating on a dress size”. She spends the rest of the episode obsessing over her hair, clothes, shoes and weight. River’s instability is finally conquered by the love of a good man. This seems intensely hostile and patronising. If that isn’t what was aimed at, then somebody is a very bad shot. </i></b><br />
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From mine:<br />
<b> In the extraordinary two-part Comic Relief special Space/Time - surely the most masturbatory piece of Doctor Who ever broadcast - we hear that she only passed her driving test because she wore a short skirt, and then the combination of that same skirt and a glass floor causes Rory, working at the controls below, to crash the TARDIS. As a result, we end up with multiple Amy Ponds. Instantly, we have a gag about Rory hoping for a threesome, the revelation that Amy finds herself attractive, and its accompanying punchline that Rory finds this exciting</b><br />
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From Jack's:<br />
<b><i>There’s even a ‘comedy’ episode in which Amy is said to have used her sexuality to pass her driving test (tsch, these women drivers!), is split into two people and literally fancies herself, thus providing lesbian fantasy fodder for the men around her. [...] The rest of the ostensible laughs come from Rory staring up Amy’s skirt… because it’s hilarious to violate her privacy without consent!</i></b><br />
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From mine<br />
<b><i>The characters [used to serve] as proxies for the younger viewers. It's difficult to see how Amy can do this in moments where she's asking the Doctor to "sort her out" in the bedroom scene at the end of Flesh and Stone, let alone how Jenny can do the same in the scene in The Crimson Horror where she strips off her coat to begin kung-fu and as the camera leeringly pans along her leather catsuit in slow motion, Matt Smith does an erection gag with his sonic screwdriver.</i></b><br />
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From Jack's:<br />
<b><i> It is a mark of how little genuine respect is shown these characters that her unveiling as a ninja in ‘The Crimson Horror’ is just that: an unveiling, with the camera panning up her legs, clad in tight leather for the benefit of the male gaze. Oh look, we’re back at the sexism.</i></b><br />
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From mine: <b><i>There is no aspect of Amy's character that is not defined by that male construction we call femininity. The five threats she faces are pregnancy, the abduction of her baby, the loss of either of the men she loves, infertility, and the idea that it's presumable that the man she loves will reject her for that infertility. Controlling these subplots are the same prejudices that lie behind soap operas - Am I still a woman if I can't have children anymore? Will the man I love reject me for it? Is it my fault? My Baby - don't let them take my baby!</i></b><br />
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From Jack's<br />
<b><i>The show repeatedly reduces Amy to the roles by which patriarchy constructs femininity: girlfriend, fiancée, wife, mother, ex… [...]</i></b><br />
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<b><i>In Moffat’s show, women are overwhelmingly defined by their traditional gender roles or bodily functions. </i></b><br />
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From mine: <b><i>the first Doctor Who story with an all black guest cast (Journey to the Centre of the TARDIS) portrays them as an unscrupulous bunch of thieves</i></b><br />
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From Jack's:<br />
<b><i>There’s the sheer privilege-blindness involved in making the first all black guest cast in Doctor Who play a bunch of fools who need to be captured and threatened into moral behaviour by the Doctor,</i></b><br />
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From mine (2011)<br />
<b><i>The very first episode of Moffat's reign, The Eleventh Hour, ended with the Doctor defeating alien opponents by reminding them who he was, a bizarre moment of creative hubris Moffat previously succumbed to in Forest of the Dead, his last episode for Davies's version.</i></b><br />
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From Jack's:<br />
<b><i>There’s the hubris of having the Doctor frighten away enemies by touting his reputation. </i></b><br />
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Mine: <b><i>Moffat's sense of what goes on in the head of a young woman and any ability with logical characterisation he may have had left take a nosedive in Let's Kill Hitler. Amy and Rory's baby has been kidnapped, but it's revealed that they've already known her all their life in the guise of their best friend Mels, who now regenerates into an adult, which Moffat genuinely seems to think resolves that particular "missing baby" cliffhanger. There's no point shouting "where's the baby - isn't someone going to try and rescue the baby?" at your TV screen as I did - Amy and Rory have let that go now, as have actors Karen Gillan and Arthur Darvill (as I've said before, the fact that the version of Amy left alone for 36 years in The Girl Who Waited never mentions it makes a mockery of anyone still claiming this is a show with any sense of emotional consequences or human resonance. (2013) </i></b><br />
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<b><i>Even Amy's loss of the baby, abducted not long after birth, turns out to carry no emotional weight. Amy and her husband Rory go through whole episodes barely mentioning it, including the episode The Girl Who Waited where we meet a future Amy abandoned for 36 years: clearly post-natal depression isn't a factor in Moffat's universe. That this is supposedly because they've met River as a grown-up and know she'll survive is an extraordinary indictment of just how little interest in character motivation Moffat has, making a nonsense of the recent defence by one of his writers, Gareth Roberts, that the show was only a challenge for viewers to follow because of its "emotional complexity". (2011)</i></b><br />
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Jack's: <b><i>Yes, it might be an admirable thing to show a woman who, having been violated with an unwanted pregnancy and birth, only to have her baby stolen from her, were shown as living past such trauma and refusing to allow it to define her… if we were ever given any real sense that the experience had been traumatic for her. It might be objected that this complaint amounts to asking for more concentration on the rape and the trauma. But I didn’t want to see SF rape on Doctor Who again at all! Even so, given that Steven Moffat made the unforced artistic/business choice to put SF rape in there, I’d have much preferred to see some indication that the victim found it more than slightly and briefly unpleasant. </i></b><br />
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Both mine and Jack's pieces also bemoan the Doctor's "tight skirt" line about Clara in <i>Nightmare in Silver,</i> point out that the Doctor's reactions to River shooting the Silents seems like "arousal" and make the point that sexist views of women are not made better just because they are presented with admiration.<br />
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First of all, to respond to Jack's claim, I'm never coy. If I thought I'd been plagiarised I'd say so and I'd use that word. When I said "None of this is egregious, just bad manners" I meant exactly that : it was thoughtless of someone who had read and admired my stuff to post a piece making so many of the same points on a website with considerably more influence and readers with no reference to me or my site, just as it was mean of Phil to refuse to put in a reference. There's no law against it. It's just shoddy behaviour which people who have yet to find support for their writing are hugely vulnerable to. Both Phil and Jack seem to feel pre-emptive action is needed, desperate to use the word plagiarism before I do and to counter criticism of their actions with accusations (in this case that I make "false accusations of plagiarism" and "bully people" into linking to my blog)<br />
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To stress another point I thought I'd emphasised in the email and the comment, I would have had no problem with this piece whatsoever if it had appeared on Jack's site - I wouldn't have expected a mention, given that he had already linked to my sexism piece elsewhere on his site, and that he links to my site on his "blogs I follow" list. I was puzzled that he responded to my email by adding a third link to my blog on his own: firstly, what's the point when you've already got two online links to it up and running, and secondly, why not put the link on your piece on Phil's site? (Surely the fact that Jack has no problem with linking to it from his own site proves there's no reason not to link from his guestpost on Phil's? To repeat, Phil's site has more influence and readers than either of ours <b>[DECEMBER 2015 UPDATE: Jack's blog, including all of his old blog posts such as the ones linking to mine, has now been incorporated into Phil's, which is something I guess]</b>). All I can do is write this blogpost pointing out it isn't cricket.<br />
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Phil and Jack's claim that the similarities can't be anything other than coincidental because even though they read the piece before hand they personally know it had no influence upon them, Jack's reminder that not everything in his piece is covered by mine and vice versa and Phil's rather desperate claim that after sending the tweet he'd totally forgotten the piece until my email and then, upon reading it, found it to be wholly without merit are textbook examples of responses to allegations of similarity, plagiarism or refusal of acknowledgement which have traditionally fooled no-one. It doesn't matter what you thought of the piece, whether it contains parts you didn't use, how much you added of your own or that you personally can vouch for yourself in not being influenced by it: if you read the piece and publicly acknowledged it at the time, refusing to make a single reference to that piece while posting your own on a blog with more readers is, frankly, below the belt.<br />
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What I hate most about this is not Phil and Jack's taking points I'd made and regurgitating them to a wider audience without so much as a nod, and the loutish way Phil has responded by sneering at my work (although if "absolutely abominable" and other example- free scattergun insults are the best he can do I clearly don't need to fear him as a future critical opponent) but the way Phil and Jack have tried to put the onus on me instead to either make a formal accusation of plagiarism or back down.<br />
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Anyone reading Jack's piece and mine can reach their own conclusions about how the latter did or did not influence it (something which wouldn't have been necessary if Phil and Jack had included a single casual reference to my site, but which would have been impossible if I hadn't blogged about this and I hadn't left a comment on Phil's site), just as people can judge for themselves whether someone who's read a piece can deny that it had any influence on a subsequently-written piece of their own that makes many of the same points.<br />
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Anyone can also judge for themselves whether the briefest mention of my blog post ("I didn't think much of this piece by Richard Cooper" would have been fine, just something to let people know the thing exists) would have harmed the integrity of Sandifer's site, and indeed whether acknowledgement is essential to any community, even that of Doctor Who bloggers which Phil and I, however much he wishes otherwise, share membership.<br />
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<b>(Update, Dec</b><b>ember 2015 - I've since noticed that in February 2015, Phil Sandifer <a href="http://philsandifer.tumblr.com/post/110271504451/hi-im-much-better-but-one-thing-still-troubles">posted</a> the following exchange on his Tumblr account:</b><br />
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<b style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); border: 0px; font-family: 'helvetica neue', helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 25.6px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>Anonymous asked: [..] did you actually steal Richard Cooper's essay, or was that just a coincidence? - </i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 25.6px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">[Sandifer's reply] </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 25.6px;">I like to think that if either Jack or I were to for some reason start plagiarizing, we’d steal from something better than Richard Cooper’s essay. </span></i></b><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 25.6px;"><b>Jack <a href="http://shabogangraffiti.tumblr.com/post/110272831202/hi-im-much-better-but-one-thing-still-troubles">reblogged</a> this on his own tumblr, which is especially hypocritical given his earlier claim to have liked my essay.)</b></span><br />
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Richard Cooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18114063496425319491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240001912845478109.post-32332133219392538162014-02-24T18:04:00.001-08:002014-04-02T18:40:38.666-07:00From One White Salon Writer to Another: An Open Letter To Michelle Goldberg From Across the Pond<div dir="ltr" id="yui_3_13_0_ym1_1_1391747696747_3157" style="text-align: justify;">
Dear Michelle Goldberg</div>
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With <a href="http://www.thenation.com/article/178140/feminisms-toxic-twitter-wars#" target="_blank">this piece</a>, you've made a lot of white people feel vindicated. There are a lot of white media bigshots on Twitter, here in Britain as much as in America, with loyal coteries of friends and sycophants (mostly white, mostly in the media), and they are not happy that so many female, gay, black or transgender voices won't shut up and just accept that they - the former - are leftist, feminist and non-privileged no matter what anyone says to the contrary. (I've written about them <a href="http://richardhcooper.blogspot.co.uk/2013/09/speaking-for-those-who-already-have.html" target="_blank">here</a>) They've got their own ideas about feminism - not tweeting for a single day as a stand against misogyny, getting Russell Brand onboard, getting more women on banknotes, banning page 3 but not the rest of The Sun, complaining about the misogyny on Celebrity Big Brother - and they're not happy that so many feminist tweeters and bloggers, many of them not white and not cis-gendered, simply won't shut up.</div>
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Several of your supporters are making absurd claims that your piece is "balanced" and "thoughtful". To you and them I simply ask how you can say that about a piece in which minority voices are reduced to figures in a "perpetual psychodrama" and demonised as guilty of "slashing righteousness" and a "Maoist hazing", which says that Mikki Kendall "sounds warm over the phone" but also "obsessed", and which uses a line as spectacularly clueless as "now, it's true white people need to make an effort not to be racist, but...". When you feel the need to remind yourself of something as vital as that halfway through the article as if it were an afterthought, and then move on to something you consider more pressing before you've even finished the sentence, then it might be time to consider your priorities. Here's another point at which you describe a problem vastly more important and destructive than the one you have chosen to dedicate an article to: "Clearly, there’s some truth here: privileged white people dominate feminism, just as they do most other sectors of American life." That actually sounds like a hell of a lot of truth to me, and a grim truth at that, but once again you can't let that stand, and quickly follow it with a caveat: "That doesn’t mean, though, that social media’s climate of perpetual outrage and hair-trigger offence is constructive." Perhaps the biggest lesson we can take from this is to make sure whatever occupies the sentence before the "but" "nevertheless" or "however" cuts in is not more important than your preferred subject. "I'm not racist but..." is very popular among racists.</div>
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As for your argument that radical feminist discourse can sometimes be ludicrous: that seems to be the same false equivalence so often used to denounce "political correctness" over the past few decades, here in Britain as much as in the USA. The latter worked by pointing to someone using a daft phrase like "dimensionally challenged" as proof that political correctness had gone mad, the former works by pointing to someone claiming that a phrase like "night of a thousand vaginas" is exclusive as proof that feminism has gone toxic. The latter movement, for all its mistakes, fails to qualify as bad enough to suggest a return to the days of (to take my country as an example) "NO COLOUREDS" signs in lodging-house windows, the mocking of black children by teachers and slogans like the one the Conservative Party used for the 1964 Smethwick General Election campaign - "if you want a nigger for a neighbour vote Labour" - to say nothing of the hideous days of segregation in your own country. Similarly, the catalogue you offer is hardly bad enough - let alone "toxic" - to suggest a return to the days when black, gay and transgender people were denied public voices would be preferable. You yourself point out "women of color, trans women and other people who feel silenced can amplify one another’s voices, talking back to people with power in an unparallelled way," but then of course we reach the "that doesn't mean" part, and you turn your back on that important point.</div>
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Those voices are still being shouted down by those with power - those with with a fanbase, or a media career. Just look at what's happening around you. Your article appeared at the same time as this appalling tweet from Amanda Palmer:</div>
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<strong><em><a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/amandapalmer/status/428300950390857728?screen_name=amandapalmer" target="_blank"><span style="color: black;">12 Years a Slave drove the point home. the privileged (whites/straights/menfolk) MUST be allowed to fight for change. not just the oppressed"</span></a></em></strong></div>
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As ever, this was then followed by Palmer describing critics of this tweet as "haters". Meanwhile, Cathy Brennan, a transphobic bigot who outs transgender people to their families, has been conducting a hate <a href="https://twitter.com/sophiaphotos/status/429386261757845504/photo/1" target="_blank">campaign </a>against Sophia Banks, attacking her business with fake reviews, misgendering her and using sock puppet twitter, <a href="http://genderidentitywatch.com/">blog</a> and <a href="http://storify.com/FeministRoar/daryl-s-24-hours-a-day-obsession">Storify</a> accounts such as <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/NameTheProblem"> @NameTheProblem</a>, <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/Name_Problem">@Name_Problem</a> and <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/FeministRoar">@FeministRoar</a> to post online abuse, as a result of which she has been facing the prospect of homelessness. Transphobia is not even recognised as a major concern by many prominent media-friendly white feminists, with virulent transphobes such as Julie Bindel, Suzanne Moore (who posted <a href="https://twitter.com/suzanne_moore/statuses/288641685662097409" target="_blank">these</a> tweets of <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/suzanne_moore/status/288648393532768256?p=v" target="_blank">filthy</a> <a href="http://i%20admire%20some%20trans%20people.%20i%20admire%20foucault.%20i%20dislike%20former%20men%20telling%20me%20how%20to%20be%20feminist%20ok/?" target="_blank">bigotry</a> and still <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/suzanne_moore/status/435950982409621504" target="_blank">refuses</a> to apologise for them) and Germaine Greer unchallenged and allowed prestige as cultural commentators in a way that would clearly not happen if they felt the same animosity towards other minorities.</div>
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The delusion they all seem to buy into is that these blasted feminists, blacks, and gays will shut up if they shout them down. What exactly is your article trying to say? That black people should be less "obsessed," as you describe Mikki Kendall? That they need to put more effort into creating a welcoming atmosphere for white people? Sometimes I wonder if Martin Luther King were alive today, would he face a generation eager to remind him he'd catch more flies with honey? Would James Baldwin face demands to be "more constructive"?<br />
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Also, if you don't want to come across as a bully, then for God's sake stop skulking in Mikki Kendall's <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/michelleinbklyn/status/430732786480058370?screen_name=michelleinbklyn" target="_blank">Twitter timeline</a>. If you must withdraw from debate and stay silent for days on end rather than face up to what you've written, then suddenly popping out of nowhere to <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/michelleinbklyn/status/428588193844178944?screen_name=michelleinbklyn" target="_blank">post</a> a tweet accusing Mikki Kendall of bullying complete with incriminating snapshot and vanishing into the fog again is not classy behaviour. Hit-and-run tweets suggest you don't have the courage of your convictions.</div>
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But your piece will continue to be adored by white people with media clout and their white supporters. Many of them are the same people that thought not tweeting for a single day would be a good way to take a stand against the online abuse of women, and were then outraged when a bunch of damned insolent feminists, women of colour, gays and transgender people thought this fatuous and self-serving and dared to say so. "#Twittersilence" as it was called was devised by Caitlin Moran, also quick to retweet approval of your piece, who suggested that asking whether there should be women of colour in Lena Dunham's <em>Girls</em> was <a href="http://www.salon.com/2012/10/16/caitlin_moran_and_bitch/" target="_blank">"as dumb as asking ABBA "why aren't one of you black?".</a> In that same interview she explained her responsibility towards representation of women of colour in TV shows thus:<br />
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<strong><em>If a woman of color was allowed to make show as funny and honest and daring as Dunham’s — wandering around slightly overweight, naked, spreckled with acne, and talking about abortion, I’d be pitching a fucking massive feature on that to the Times, too. And I wouldn’t ask that writer why there were no white characters in it, just like I didn’t ask Dunham why there were no people of color in ‘Girls.’</em></strong><br />
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The kind of journalist who can refer to our occupying a world in which women of colour are not "allowed" to make high-quality TV shows (and who makes the classic racist's mistake of thinking white and black are interchangeable terms) without wondering whether that is what she should be investigating or writing about rather than what Lena Dunham has achieved in the representation of "slightly overweight" naked white people with acne talking about abortion is the kind your piece has empowered. It is my fear that this will become the voice of a generation, and it our responsibility to prevent this (incidentally, no prizes for guessing what Caitlin Moran's TV comedy series <em>Raised by Wolves - </em>just commissioned following the broadcast of a pilot - is about). <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/356703097495625729?p=v" target="_blank">This</a> was her astonishing response to the George Zimmerman verdict. Is it so hard for you to imagine how it might feel to read that if you were black?<br />
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Other people who have retweeted your piece include Moran's friend and ferocious defender, the lauded TV writer Graham Linehan - who suggested those wanting to see women of colour in <em>Girls</em> should "make<a href="https://twitter.com/Glinner/status/255263934892883968" target="_blank"> that show - let Lena write hers</a>", speaking for many who consider themselves on the Left but don't want to go to any pains. Helen Lewis, formerly a subeditor and sometime features commissioner on the UK's right-wing <em>Daily Mail</em> and now deputy editor of UK's left-wing <em>New Statesman</em>, retweeted your piece, and has just <a href="http://www.newstatesman.com/helen-lewis/2014/02/uses-and-abuses-intersectionality">reu</a><u>sed y</u>our hideous term "toxic" as an umbrella word for feminists who won't play ball. Her own patronising attitude towards commissioning writers of colour can <u>be</u> seen in this selection of her tweets:<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Georgia, Palatino, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 25px; text-align: left;"><a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/helenlewis/status/285357442009792512?screen_name=helenlewis"><b><i>Thanks Sam, I read that yday. Horrific case. I've commissioned an Indian writer on it for the NS.</i></b></a></span><br />
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<b><i><span style="color: black;"> </span><a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/helenlewis/status/409754989129506816?screen_name=helenlewis" target="_blank"><span style="color: black;">Blimey. My crime against feminism today is to have commissioned an Indian woman to write on the Delhi gang rape, not a British one. Huh?</span></a></i></b><br />
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<em><strong><span style="color: black;"> </span><a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/helenlewis/status/427928320697987072?p=p#" target="_blank"><span style="color: black;">"Why is this piece only about what it's about, not about EVERYTHING?"</span></a></strong></em><br />
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<em><strong> <a href="https://twitter.com/giagia/status/427437947982708736" target="_blank"><span style="color: black;">Find me one male commissioning ed who commissions as diverse a range of feminist voices as me.</span></a></strong></em><br />
<b><i><a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/helenlewis/status/428182018589868033?screen_name=helenlewis" target="_blank"><br /></a><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Georgia, Palatino, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 25px; text-align: left;"><a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/helenlewis/status/428182018589868033?screen_name=helenlewis" target="_blank">Reassured to know that if I fall under a bus, there are a dozen people on Twitter who seem sure they know how to do my job better than I do.</a></span></i></b><br />
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<em><strong><a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/helenlewis/status/428182509298257920?screen_name=helenlewis" target="_blank">In fact, it's very selfish of me to keep it when if they had it, the whole world would be a perfectly equal wonderland of rainbows.</a></strong></em><br />
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<b><i>[after being asked why she can't "cover a broader range of topics with a broader range of writers" after publishing a piece by the contributing editor about her own hairstyle] <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/helenlewis/status/427937482760785920?p=p" target="_blank">Cool. Can you give me a million pounds to spend?</a></i></b><br />
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<strong><em><span style="color: black;"><a href="https://twitter.com/helenlewis/status/427950621887856640" target="_blank">Suggest you point critics to our Wellcome Trust Scholarship, too - set up specifically to encourage emerging BME writers</a></span></em></strong><br />
<b><i><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Palatino, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 25px; text-align: left;"> <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/helenlewis/status/427931193192239105?screen_name=helenlewis" target="_blank">If any WOC wants to write about the politics of their choices re: hair, am on Helen @ newstatesman co uk</a></span></i></b><br />
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<a href="https://twitter.com/helenlewis/status/427950008324096001" target="_blank"><strong><em><span style="color: black;">Are people criticising it? Argh. Was a genuinely meant offer. Want to do everything I can to increase media diversity.</span></em></strong></a><br />
<a href="https://twitter.com/helenlewis/status/427951795240189952" target="_blank"><strong><em><span style="color: black;">Think some of my critics feel that I should be perfect. Clearly, I'm not & never going to be.</span></em></strong></a><br />
<a href="https://twitter.com/helenlewis/status/427947679378079744" target="_blank"><strong><em><span style="color: black;">It's a lot easier to understand once you grasp that I am Satan himself.</span></em></strong></a><br />
<a href="https://twitter.com/helenlewis/status/428146415114547201" target="_blank"><strong><em><span style="color: black;">It just keeps...getting...worse. Only thing that'd improve it is a mushroom cloud in the background at the end</span></em></strong></a><br />
<a href="https://twitter.com/helenlewis/status/428144772746711040" target="_blank"><strong><em><span style="color: black;">One of those days where you think, "why do I even bother?". Please send gifs of animals and badly written poetry.</span></em></strong></a><br />
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I think this tweeter put it best:<br />
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<strong><em><a href="https://twitter.com/judeinlondon/status/427935432090087424" target="_blank">Can Helen Lewis ever just once commission women of colour without sounding like Mrs Slaveowner? Don't answer that</a></em></strong><br />
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Lewis is not averse to kicking down: a few months back she tweeted a link to an inoffensive blogpost while saying it "<a href="https://twitter.com/helenlewis/status/370224912557813760" target="_blank">represents everything that is wrong with a certain strand of feminist blogging</a>" and she's also twice Storified an argument with a woman of colour, which is tremendously useful in gathering other white media personalities to ridicule a black blogger for her damned insolence. She worries that people don't realise "<a href="https://twitter.com/helenlewis/status/285485455649173504" target="_blank">what having 300k followers must be like</a>." She falls hungrily on <a href="https://twitter.com/helenlewis/status/428099284568125440" target="_blank">whatever insulting name</a> for those uppity women of colour, feminists or trans-women anyone can think up. Which brings us to another retweeter of your blog who was just waiting for it to come along: Glosswitch, another <em>New Statesman</em> contributor, who <a href="https://twitter.com/Glosswitch/status/409409151694274560" target="_blank">delights</a> in thinking up new names - <a href="http://stavvers.wordpress.com/2013/12/08/smugsexual-and-the-closet-two-faces-of-feminist-biphobia/" target="_blank">smugsexual</a>, <a href="http://glosswatch.com/2014/01/27/scolds-bridle/" target="_blank">misogofeminist</a> - with which to <a href="https://twitter.com/Glosswitch/status/409408074223742976" target="_blank">label</a> her critics (Gia Milinovitch is <a href="https://twitter.com/giagia/status/427437947982708736" target="_blank">adept</a> at this too - she prefers "pygmy"), and has now reached the stage of siding with vicious trolls (here she is <a href="https://twitter.com/glosswitch/status/428290303813255168" target="_blank">conversing</a> with one of Cathy Brennan's sock puppets). Then there's Caroline Criado-Perez, a <em>Guardian </em>writer<em> </em>popular with many of the aforementioned for her campaign to get more women on banknotes, who explains her views on why feminism can't quite stretch to transgender experience and activism thus:<br />
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<strong><em><a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/CCriadoPerez/status/412197762197753856?p=v" target="_blank">don't think I can sign up to that tbh. Not while women are oppressed for being women. Absolutely we should</a> not deliberately hurt trans women, but <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/CCriadoPerez/status/412197869836189696?p=v" target="_blank">we have to be able</a> to share our experiences - that shouldn't in itself be <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/CCriadoPerez/status/412197869836189696?p=v" target="_blank">hurtful, and the process is an extremely important one for solidarity-forming.</a> [...] do you <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/CCriadoPerez/status/412199165486067712?p=p" target="_blank">think we shouldn't do anything on behalf of women if it upsets some trans women?</a></em></strong><br />
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Isn't it nice that she remembers to acknowledge "we should not deliberately hurt trans women", before getting to the "but" of the kind your piece relied on. She thought your piece <a href="https://twitter.com/CCriadoPerez/status/428624058683363329" target="_blank">was</a> "<a href="https://twitter.com/CCriadoPerez/status/428620965635821568" target="_blank">nail on head</a>."<br />
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Other people eager to circulate your piece include Ross Wolfe, who can be <a href="https://twitter.com/rosswolfe/status/431547477913645056" target="_blank">seen</a> revelling <a href="https://twitter.com/rosswolfe/status/432285035400400896" target="_blank">in</a> his ability to annoy women of colour <a href="https://twitter.com/rosswolfe/status/431668202318221312" target="_blank">here </a>, and it's only a matter of time before it's found by Gia Milinovitch, who similarly has been <a href="http://www.giagia.co.uk/2014/02/13/i-heart-you/" target="_blank">trying</a> hard to <u>lay do</u>wn the <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/giagia/status/436506965309935616?screen_name=giagia">law</a> about the <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/giagia/status/436439530716282880?screen_name=giagia">nature</a> of <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/giagia/status/435717825114959872?screen_name=giagia">sex</a> and <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/giagia/status/435707188943011840?screen_name=giagia">gender</a> to <a href="http://storify.com/giagia/here-is-what-i-actually-said/">transgender</a> people, who to her <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/giagia/status/435562573296308224?screen_name=giagia">rage</a> won't <a href="https://www.blogger.com/"><span id="goog_1199657558"></span>shut<span id="goog_1199657559"></span></a> up and agree with her, even though she's repeatedly pointed out it's indisputable scientific fact and, <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/giagia/status/434237278731636736?screen_name=giagia">most hilariously</a>, that it earned a Richard Dawkins retweet, so <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/giagia/status/434038708590112768?screen_name=giagia">why dispute it</a>?. Rebecca Reilly-Cooper, who Lewis recently commissioned to write a piece on misogyny in <i>Celebrity Big Brother</i> as her <i>New Statesman </i>debut, and whose idea of debate is to <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/boodleoops/status/430247134794104832?screen_name=boodleoops">link</a> to an intersectionalist-baiting article by Wolfe and then post a request to be "<a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/boodleoops/status/431470717939752962">unhooked</a>" from any discussion, will probably love it too (other low points include this extraordinary, borderline transphobic <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/Glosswitch/status/435095831889575936?screen_name=Glosswitch"><span id="goog_322054475"></span>conversation<span id="goog_322054476"></span></a> with Glosswitch, and this <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/boodleoops/status/435183818472177665?screen_name=boodleoops">tweet</a> which actually pays homage to <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/254256927956148224?screen_name=caitlinmoran">this</a> notorious moment of white blinkeredness. ) They'll love your piece. Hell, the thing was even retweeted by Hugo Schwyzer.<br />
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Oh. As I was finishing this letter, I just noticed you retweeted Glosswitch. Meanwhile another <i>New Statesman </i>contributor, Sarah Ditum, has with great enthusiasm (is it me or is there a real thrill-of-the-chase about all this? A desire to humiliate these cocky little bloggers in front of as many influential people with media platforms as possible?) hosted <u><a href="http://sarahditum.com/2014/02/23/bad-faith-justice-ethics-of-the-call-out/">this</a> </u>piece by <i>Guardian</i> writer Jane Clare Jones which argues that attacking an individual rather than a structure is never justified (the nadir comes when she quotes someone being rude to Piers Morgan with the expectation that we would sympathise with Morgan). This <a href="http://t.co/tHSK9USkry">pi</a><u>ece </u>by Meghan Murphy - focusing its ire on a single blogpost in which the author had dared to lose her temper and say she hated a bunch of white people in the media - moves a step on from terms such as misogofeminists, smugsexuals, pygmies and toxic twitter feminists by branding women she finds rude "misogynists", and I fear this will catch on. Both pieces use yours as a touchstone. The former Tory MP and all-round right -wing nightmare Louise Mensch has tweeted the following to Helen Lewis's critics:<br />
<b><i><br /></i></b><b><i><a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/LouiseMensch/status/437420389787250688"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Palatino, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 25px; text-align: left;">you are not only misogynists, you are losers. </span><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; color: #2477b3; direction: ltr; font-family: Georgia, Palatino, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 25px; opacity: 0.6; text-align: left; unicode-bidi: embed;">@</span><span style="color: #2477b3; font-family: Georgia, Palatino, Helvetica Neue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; line-height: 25px; text-align: left; unicode-bidi: embed;">helenlewis</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Palatino, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 25px; text-align: left;"> is sixty times more feminist and woman than you</span></a></i></b><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Palatino, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 20px; line-height: 25px; text-align: left;"><br /></span>
We are both white, but you don't seem to see that as something that carries a responsibility with it. I could never write one of those "racism is bad but" sentences you seem proficient in. You have broken a vital rule not just of journalism, but of being a citizen in an world of injustice and inequality: you kicked down instead of up. For this you'll get much praise. Please consider whether it is worth it.<br />
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Richard Cooper<br />
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<b><i>(Michelle Goldberg's only response:</i></b><br />
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<b><i><a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/michelleinbklyn/status/438442929640579074?screen_name=michelleinbklynmichelleinbklyn">https://mobile.twitter.com/michelleinbklyn/status/438442929640579074?screen_name=michelleinbklynmichelleinbklyn</a>)</i></b></div>
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Richard Cooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18114063496425319491noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240001912845478109.post-44025315963700574342013-12-22T20:43:00.000-08:002016-09-13T17:32:00.117-07:00Bullying and Fandom: Why Caitlin Moran must publicly apologise for her treatment of Mildred Bobbin, and why anyone who cares about fandom must hold her to account.<div style="text-align: justify;">
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I've seen something none too pleasant in the attitude of those in power towards fandom over the past seven days. To recap, at the BFI premiere of the new series of BBC One's <em>Sherlock</em> on December 15, Caitlin Moran humiliated a <em>Sherlock</em> fanfic writer - who writes under the name Mildred Bobbin - by plucking her "slashfic" story off the internet (without permission) and forcing stars Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman to read it out while writers Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss, producer Sue Vertue and director Jeremy Lovering looked on (a video of part of it is <a href="http://johnlockedness.tumblr.com/post/70112561550/diifinity-multiple-cumbergasms-this-is" target="_blank">here</a>, an account is <a href="http://www.london-reviews.co.uk/2013/12/15/sherlock-season-3-preview-bfi-empty-hearse/" target="_blank">here</a>, and Mildred Bobbin's admirable response is <a href="http://mildredandbobbin.tumblr.com/post/70156524860/if-you-could-one-thing-to-say-to-caitlin-or-benedict" target="_blank">here</a>) Now, I wouldn't watch <em>Sherlock</em> in a million years (I think I'd prefer<em> Basil The Great Mouse Detective</em> or that version of <em>Hound of the Baskervilles</em> Cook and Moore did everyone hates), and fanfic isn't something I'm interested in. But you know what's really harmful about people writing fanfic? What's contemptible about people writing fanfic? Because I don't. It seems as pointless a reason to ridicule someone as if they enjoyed knitting, collecting toy soldiers, breakdancing or Origami. It's a harmless activity people do for fun. Why should people who practice it be humiliated, and how is singling them out for such public humiliation kicking upwards?</div>
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Let's also not forget an important point here: Mildred Bobbin's blogpost makes it quite clear that piece was written for her own amusement and that of her friends: this is not a debate about the literary merits of fanfiction (I'd be the first to admit it's only recreational). She's horrified the cast were made to read it and, touchingly, begins her piece by focusing on the embarrassment that she thinks it caused Freeman and Cumberbatch.</div>
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Caitlin Moran's books come adorned with blurbs from Lauren Laverne, Jonathan Ross and Nigella Lawson telling us how "cool" she is. Now she's taken her role as the kid at school surrounded by adoring sycophants telling you you could hang out with them if you didn't wear your hair like that, and what are you reading that for, that's saaaaad. Look at <a href="http://www.ganymede.tv/2006/01/caitlin-moran-idiot/" target="_blank">this piece</a> by her sneering at <em>Red Dwarf</em> in 2006. It's not just the flatness of its prose, the blank witlessness of the insults directed at the show's writers, cast and fans and the lack of any argument, but the way the piece acts as a rallying cry to all those who are anxious to declare they're not sad, not obsessive and not virgins.</div>
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Paul Cornell once rightly pointed out that part of the magic of the Sylvester McCoy era of<em> Doctor Who</em> was that it was a bullied era: to this day the mention of it is interrupted by the endless jeers of people who've never seen an episode from that period (which includes some of the finest<em> Doctor Who</em> stories to date), who are terrified of any interests that aren't shared by a majority, and instead find great sustenance in buzz-words (low-budget, embarrassing, sad, Kandyman, Vision-on, umbrella, hat). To them, the world is a circle with the words "received opinions" inside, and terrifyingly nerdy wastelands outside (do you really think it's a coincidence they've been so keen to pretend science fiction is a cult? As this excellent SOTCAA <a href="http://sotcaa.org/comment/analpreventive.html" target="_blank">piece </a> puts it, people sneering at "anoraks" "virgins" "trainspotters" "nerds" and "obsessives" are simultaneously finding safety-in-numbers by declaring themselves part of a fun-loving majority, not too interested in anything, not taking anything too seriously, not unusual in any way, only annoyed or passionate about things if they know the majority is too, never watching or reading anything unfashionable. When Richard Bacon tweeted, following the broadcast of a Matt Smith <em>Doctor Who</em> story, "what must Sylvester McCoy think when he's watching that?", when Jonathan Ross roared with derision on his chatshow when Billie Piper spiritedly defended <em>Doctor Who Magazine</em>, and the <em>Radio Times</em> editorial launching the 2010 series promised us that we need not worry because Matt Smith was "no Sylvester McCoy", both were doing nothing other than reasserting their "coolness", their conformity, their lack of anything suspicious. They shelter behind the bigger kids in the class, and let the majority choose their preferences for them, rather than have to think about things. </div>
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At the same time as he was studiously avoiding any allusions to the Moran incident, Cornell himself <a href="https://twitter.com/Paul_Cornell/status/412861470834057216" target="_blank">tweeted</a>: "Oh, so it's bad when Shia LaBeouf steals someone else's work, internet, but not when you illegally download something. Fine", and argued yet again with fans about piracy and how it hurts SF writers. He's talked in the past about his dislike for the tendency of bigger fandoms to look down on others, such as when they sneer at <em>Twilight </em>fans. He's also defended fanfic <a href="http://www.paulcornell.com/2010/11/fan-fiction-wanted.html" target="_blank">here</a>. He's a keen viewer of <em>Sherlock</em> and follower of debates within fandom so he knows about the BFI incident. Until he comments on what Moran did, Cornell can no longer claim to be interested in fandom and bullying.</div>
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I blundered into a disagreement over Moran with a published <em>Doctor Who</em> author, Mags L Halliday, after she tweeted this:<br />
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<em><a href="https://twitter.com/magslhalliday/status/412863781593952256" target="_blank">Oh, @caitlinmoran I know you weren't out for the Sherlock fanficcers. Sometimes fans forget [what] they don't actually own </a>[heart shape] cf Dr Who</em></div>
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She insisted to me that fanfic writers had to accept that:</div>
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<em><a href="https://twitter.com/magslhalliday/status/412861673528373248" target="_blank">If you write fanfic you have no, NO, right to complain about someone using you work: you used someone else's first.</a>[...] I<a href="https://twitter.com/magslhalliday/status/412934761922179073" target="_blank"> think, if ficcers claim their work is fair use of copyrighted ideas then @caitlinmoran can claim fair use of fanfic.</a></em><br />
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Where's the empathy? Is it really that hard to understand that there may be a difference between having your book reviewed and having something written for the amusement of yourself and an online circle mocked onstage at the BFI? Does Halliday really deny the existence of context? How jaded do you have to be to not find Mildred Bobbin's account of her humiliation, and the attack on the simple pleasure writing fanfic brought her, sincere?</div>
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Then James Cooray Smith, another author of <em>Doctor Who</em> books and another familiar part of the <em>Who </em>online community, crashed into this conversation with <a href="https://twitter.com/thejimsmith/status/412937684525789184" target="_blank">this</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/thejimsmith/status/412937873206562816" target="_blank">revolting</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/thejimsmith/status/412938164412907521" target="_blank">series</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/thejimsmith/status/412938332432531456" target="_blank">of</a> misogynistic <a href="https://twitter.com/thejimsmith/status/412946374544867328" target="_blank">tweets</a>:</div>
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<em>Someone puts their work out there, they accept the responses it generates. That's the deal. That includes ridicule. It's interesting from a pathological POV that those who scream loudest about their own rights as fanficcers being above reproach are often the first to SCREAM at someone else's work. Fantitled children.</em></div>
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<em><a href="https://twitter.com/thejimsmith/status/412938900588728320" target="_blank">It particularly goes for those who've confused creativity with public onanism they want praising.</a></em></div>
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<em><a href="https://twitter.com/thejimsmith/status/412941441737183232" target="_blank">Indeed, they want all the rights & none of the responsibilities of writing. Pure Fantitlement</a></em></div>
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<em>She put it on the Internet. Everyone is her audience. She must accept that.</em></div>
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<em><a href="https://twitter.com/thejimsmith/status/412947333748645888" target="_blank">The idea we must respect the wankficcer & condemn mocking it risible, yes, Fantitlement.</a> [...]</em></div>
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<em><a href="https://twitter.com/thejimsmith/status/412988297019789312" target="_blank">Will no one think of the fanchildren manchildren?</a></em><br />
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After I challenged him on the ghastly terms he was using he responded:<br />
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<em><a href="https://twitter.com/thejimsmith/status/412948244428509184" target="_blank">Fantitlement is a thing. The perverse belief that you morally own something because you like it.</a></em></div>
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<em><a href="https://twitter.com/thejimsmith/status/412948916716716032" target="_blank">"wankficcer" admittedly I only just came up with now, but it does the job in reduced characters.</a></em></div>
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(He also <a href="https://twitter.com/thejimsmith/status/412987707858489344" target="_blank">thinks </a>I'm being <a href="https://twitter.com/thejimsmith/status/412995011127414784" target="_blank">hubristic</a>, so either I'm in for a tragic fall at some point in the future due to my own pride, or he doesn't know what hubris means. We won't really know until the Ides of March). Smith finds real comfort in reducing Mildred Bobbin and anyone else who dares to write fanfiction to those nasty little terms of his (don't you just love his pride in them in that last quote?). After all, what would bullying be without the names and buzz-words it relies on? Whether it's wankficcer, fantitlement, spaz, mong, trainspotter, virgin, live-with-your-parents, anorak or Comic-Book-Guy-from-<em>The-Simpsons</em>, they provide such delicious reaffirmation: who the saaad people are and who they are not. Smith kicks down. He spends his days tweeting sycophancy to those higher up in the <em>Doctor Who</em> echelon than him, and sneers at fanfic writers because they're a level below him. Halliday quietly <a href="https://twitter.com/magslhalliday/status/412940709801775104" target="_blank">distanced</a> herself (much as so many have done with Moran), asking me not to <a href="https://twitter.com/magslhalliday/status/412946070613012480" target="_blank">conflate </a>their views, although offering no more of her own to date.</div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">Moran has spent the past seven days on her Twitter </span>timeline neither apologising nor giving any acknowledgement of Mildred Bobbin's blogpost about her experience (<a href="http://mildredandbobbin.tumblr.com/post/70447432550/a-response" target="_blank">away from</a> Twitter, all we know is that she has contacted her privately.) However, she has spent it <a href="https://twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/414323121521704960" target="_blank">thanking</a> people for telling her <a href="https://twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/413051440547262464" target="_blank">how</a> much they're <a href="https://twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/414410137106149376" target="_blank">enjoying </a> her book . She's also spent it tweeting about <a href="https://twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/413002105449119744" target="_blank">Chicken Tikka Pies</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/413708616043343873" target="_blank">singing My Sharona</a>. She's ignored tweets calling for her to apologise like <a href="https://twitter.com/RichardHCooper/status/413354204443725824" target="_blank">this one</a> sent by me. Any possibility this might be due to embarrassment is shot down by her <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/412657061357690880?p=v" target="_blank">speedy</a> tweeting (just 20 minutes after it hit the web) of her <a href="https://twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/412658266670645248" target="_blank">annoyance</a> at Brooke Magnanti after she wrote <a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/women/womens-life/10521131/Sherlock-Benedict-Cumberbatch-and-fanfic-dont-mess-with-these-women-and-men.html" target="_blank">this</a> reasonable, inoffensive piece suggesting that there was no need for Moran to mock fanfiction and no shame in writing it. She's <a href="https://twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/413381266533531649" target="_blank">also</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/414028016701177856" target="_blank">promoting</a> her latest product: her <a href="https://twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/414317778544623616" target="_blank">Times column</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/414028781024972800" target="_blank">a sitcom pilot</a> based on her childhood. Why apologise - or even mention the problem - when you've got a deadline (as she was<a href="https://twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/413999497090727936" target="_blank"> keen</a> to <a href="https://twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/414007276543176704" target="_blank">remind</a> us) and a show about to start (it's broadcast today.)</div>
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Now, we know it isn't Owen Jones's style to suggest a friend of his did something wrong, and Helen Lewis went for her usual "<a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/helenlewis/status/412365163028037632?p=v" target="_blank">mumble mumble</a> can understand why some were offended mumble mumble don't think it was <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/helenlewis/status/412365395774164992?p=v" target="_blank">really homophobic</a> though <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/helenlewis/status/412366794687774720?p=v" target="_blank">mumble mumble</a>" fence-sitting. Lauren Laverne's <a href="https://twitter.com/laurenlaverne/status/413013049776545793" target="_blank">response</a> combined name-avoiding, non-committal gutlessness with a suggestion that fanfic writers were the problem I'm dreading Zoe Williams's and Ben Goldacre's defence, and Graham Linehan's inevitable anti-fanfic-writer rampage. They all know fully well Moran fucked up, and that arguing that Mildred Bobbin deserved such humiliation or that her account of its effect upon her is not a dignified and upsetting one would be difficult, but even if they can't quite defend her as much as they normally prefer to, they're sure as hell not going to criticise her. But if middle-class media honchos with thousands of sycophants eager to help them fight their own battles can look out for their own, why can't the world of SF? We mustn't allow the lazy, barely literate, poisonous, misogynistic sneers of James Cooray Smith to speak for a whole subculture. As they point out themselves, Paul Cornell and Mags L Halliday started off their careers writing fanfiction, and so did many who have a stake in the <em>Doctor Who</em> universe. If they are really and truly going to let a Murdoch-sponsored bully ignore the distress she's caused to an individual with a fraction of her supporters and influence , and say nothing while she surfs her way out of it over wave after wave of "awww, thank-yous", quotes from Norm from <em>Cheers</em>, <a href="https://twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/412913379997925376" target="_blank">and</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/412925127777849344" target="_blank">all</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/414409553732972544" target="_blank">the</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/412926564532510720" target="_blank">other</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/412721272326733824" target="_blank">things</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/412926564532510720" target="_blank">you</a> see if you stare directly into Caitlin Moran's timeline, then it appears that <em>Doctor Who's</em> representatives don't share the values of its hero. And if Caitlin Moran has any decency, she must publicly apologise for her treatment of Mildred Bobbin and acknowledge that she's read her blogpost. Some things are more important than deadlines.<br />
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For feedback tweet me here: <a href="https://twitter.com/RichardHCooper">https://twitter.com/RichardHCooper</a></div>
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Richard Cooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18114063496425319491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240001912845478109.post-46888142100833807542013-09-28T15:01:00.002-07:002015-03-06T00:23:30.522-08:00Speaking for those who already have a voice: why the Twitter Elite cannot speak for minorities.<div style="text-align: justify;">
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I didn't intend to write a follow-up to <a href="http://richardhcooper.blogspot.com/2012/05/look-at-conduct-of-graham-linehan-and.html" target="_blank">this</a> piece but #twittersilence strikes me as the biggest comedy to have emerged around this little subculture of journalists and media personalities, even though the tedium of wading through all of it delayed this piece by months. Rather than kick off another Linehan debate, I'd like to address a more interesting question the "silence", its backfiring and the way those responsible have reacted to the backfiring have raised: can these people ever really speak up for those of a different race, gender or sexuality as sincerely as they speak up for themselves?</div>
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To recap, Caitlin Moran tweeted <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/361064750395826177" target="_blank">this</a>. During the "silence", many brought up <a href="https://twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/254256927956148224" target="_blank">this</a>, <a href="http://storify.com/BethanyBlack/caitlin-moran-champion-of-women-if-you-re-white-ab?awesm=sfy.co_cNgt&utm_campaign=&utm_content=storify-pingback&utm_source=t.co&utm_medium=sfy.co-twitter" target="_blank">this</a> and <a href="http://storify.com/eurovicious/some-tweets-by-caitlin-moran?utm_content=storify-pingback&utm_medium=sfy.co-twitter&awesm=sfy.co_gPBO&utm_source=t.co&utm_campaign=" target="_blank">this</a>, and ridiculed the boycott. Linehan - who didn't himself observe it - tweeted this and things escalated from there, <a href="https://twitter.com/Glinner/status/365144186573430785" target="_blank">resulting</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/Glinner/status/365142724275478528" target="_blank">in</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/Glinner/status/365143562582630400" target="_blank">this</a>.</div>
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We could talk about the absurdity of the idea that not tweeting for 24 hours - commonly caused by headaches, sickness, power cuts, work demands, family visits, social engagements and not being on Twitter in the first place - could honestly count as a boycott, could honestly be seen as a stand against anything. We could talk about the hilarious idea that tweeting the word "#twittersilence" doesn't count as tweeting, making the whole affair a farce of a kind unseen since Alan Partridge's <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8nr-EXbBJbU" target="_blank">minute of silence</a> for Lord Morgan of Glossop ("I'll have to speak periodically to show we're still broadcasting...This is Radio 4").</div>
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We could talk about how the boycott drew attention to the columnists and TV personalities leading it rather than the victims of rape threats in general, (many of whom pointed out that silence is the last thing they want to use against those who want to silence women) culminating in the ludicrous spectacle of what happened when Caitlin Moran came back, thanking TV's Robert Webb and TV's Dara O'Briain after they congratulated her, receiving a tweet from TV's Sue Perkins consisting of "<a href="https://twitter.com/sueperkins/status/364372445458726915" target="_blank">xx</a>" and replying with "<a href="https://twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/364372530976796672" target="_blank">darling, thank you xxx</a>" a gracious martyr because she hadn't used a smartphone function for a single day.</div>
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We could talk about how feminist, disabled or transgender voices were blocked, insulted and shouted down because they were mean about a Times Columnist. One of the most striking instances here was a mysterious Storify account set up by <em>New Statesman</em> Deputy Editor Helen Lewis, another boycotter. The Storify account consisted of an argument between Lewis and a tweeter about how the<em> Statesman</em> could allow the latter's side of the story to be told. Both Lewis, in the Storify, and Linehan, in his reactions to it, were bemused that someone asked on Twitter to pitch a <em>New Statesman</em> article about her dissatisfaction would say no and say Lewis should commission it rather than have her pitch it: "I''m not your field-nigger, Helen", she had said. Boycotter Owen Jones (<b><i>see below this piece for a note on how I underestimated Jones)</i></b> entered the debate at this point, unhappy with her use of the phrase "field-nigger" which he said he felt was still a legitimate criticism from a white man about a black woman because he was agreeing with a <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/OwenJones84/status/365173626124771328?p=v" target="_blank">black friend who thought so too</a>. This Storify was quickly deleted, apparently because Helen Lewis relented when people pointed out that this invited bullying of the tweeter (or because she was "sick of the grief" and victim rather than bully, as others put it.) The former point-of-view was <a href="https://twitter.com/Glinner/status/365147381714522113" target="_blank">not shared</a> by Linehan, who had fallen upon it <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/Glinner/status/365147170921390080?p=v" target="_blank">hungrily</a> - and was so <a href="https://twitter.com/Glinner/status/365384062849916928" target="_blank">irritated </a>when it was deleted that he ended up tweeting a link to a duplicate by "Elevatorgate", a distinctly dodgy Tweeter who stalks women's Twitter accounts and sets up Storify accounts in order to provoke them. Even Linehan <a href="https://twitter.com/Glinner/status/365802626362769408" target="_blank">had</a> to <a href="https://twitter.com/Glinner/status/365802932966395904" target="_blank">admit</a> this was a <a href="https://twitter.com/Glinner/status/365803082669494272" target="_blank">mistake</a>. I have a horrible suspicion that in response to this piece I'm going to get tweets from other white people arguing that it was indeed rather rude of the black lady not to pitch to the <em>New Statesman</em> deputy editor. </div>
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We could talk about Linehan <strong><u>(1)</u></strong>, once a funny, smart and likeable man, now beside himself with rage that anyone could criticise Caitlin Moran, braying like an ape defending its leader, comforting himself by <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/Glinner/status/364727123409252353?p=v" target="_blank">chortling</a> at how angry he can make those with less power. Once before Glinner's fetishisation of the block button and loathing of those he uses it on led to a <a href="https://twitter.com/Glinner/status/244213456646062081" target="_blank">bizarre </a>fantasy about a school shooting.This violent impulse came up again <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/Glinner/status/365186061342752768" target="_blank">this time</a>. When belligerence reduces someone to <a href="https://twitter.com/Glinner/status/364109327759458304" target="_blank">straight-faced</a> <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/bengoldacre/status/364420723495809024?p=v" target="_blank">version</a>s of Lee and Herring's old "you can prove anything with facts" routine, is there much point left in arguing with them? (and presumably it would be similarly pedantic to bring up another boycotter, TV's Sarah Millican, making jokes about the hairiness of Susan Boyle on <em>Mock the Week</em>: the important thing is she's taking a stand against the bullying of women, by not using Twitter for one day.)</div>
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We could talk about that sort-of <a href="http://www.twitlonger.com/show/n_1rlojgc" target="_blank">apology</a> of Moran's,<span style="color: blue;"> </span>with its cowardly shunting between claiming to speak up for the abused and the excuse of just being a TV critic who's off to review Frank Skinner's new quiz show, and its Gervasian technique of apologising if anyone misunderstood: ("Well, look, this is just boring for most people, so - soz. Seriously. If you possible can, run away and feed the ducks in the park.") It didn't help that the same day Moran tweeted <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/364485049674387456?p=v" target="_blank">this</a> to Zoe Williams and Deborah Orr (Yes, I know it's a joke. The Gervasian smirk shines through).</div>
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We could talk about how the pack-animal mentality means they just can't dissent from one another - when one of them clearly drops the ball, they never have the guts to admit it. The "silence" was unfortunately immediately preceded by <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/indiaknight/status/363790754625236994" target="_blank">these</a> two <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/indiaknight/status/363764854370205696" target="_blank">tweets</a> from boycotter India Knight. Moran, of course, had <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/RichardHCooper/status/364176182713266176?p=v" target="_blank">nothing</a> to say about either of these absurdities. Similarly, Moran's 'apology' was severely undermined by Ben Goldacre linking to it with <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/bengoldacre/status/364347662406914048?p=p" target="_blank">this</a><strong><em>. (2)</em></strong> Linehan (who earlier had described himself as "<a href="https://twitter.com/Glinner/status/364813886676930560" target="_blank">under siege from the Worst since I defended C.Moran</a>") replied "<a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/Glinner/status/364348696193806337?p=v" target="_blank">Good man. Good woman</a>". Moran replied to both of them with "<a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/364349989822398464?p=v" target="_blank">thank you, both. so much xxxx</a>" and then dropped out of this conversation, to leave others to debate (She also later defended her friend with <a href="https://twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/364464318643183616" target="_blank">this </a>blatant lie, similar to India Knight's ludicrous <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/indiaknight/status/370577184446251008?p=v" target="_blank">claim</a> about her own sneer at blogs.</div>
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We could talk about Murdoch, and his role in elevating the bilge Moran and Knight write, the only thing that distinguishes them from blogs, or indeed dust. After all, Knight was keen to remind us of this in those two tweets.</div>
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We could talk about the awesome stupidity, not to mention slur, of saying that disliking the work or tweets of a columnist makes you no better than those who send rape or death threats (<a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/Glinner/status/364036880095916033?p=p" target="_blank">according to Linehan</a> it makes you a member of the "Twaliban") and that if you dislike a columnist who says rape and murder are bad, than you are on the side of rapists and murderers (not "<a href="https://twitter.com/daraobriain/status/364374347643092992" target="_blank">on the side of the angels</a>", as TV's Dara O'Briain put it to Moran). "Yay, good for you,"' tweeted Linehan. "<a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/Glinner/status/364795452392087553?p=v" target="_blank">Keep the focus on celebrities rather than the men threatening to rape them. You guys rule</a>!" One tweeter pointed out that she found "<a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/Sarah_Woolley/status/364801592052027392?p=p" target="_blank">rape *and* writers who say "spaz" and "tranny" a lot worrying</a>." Linehan's reply was "<a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/Glinner/status/364806416520843264?p=p" target="_blank">Wow, so the two are equivalent? WOW</a>." Hitler and Murdoch are not equivalent, and neither are Saddam Hussein and Louise Mensch. This hardly stops one despising the latter in each case.<br />
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This "either-you-are-with-Caitlin-or-you-are-with-those-who-threaten-her" <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/Glinner/status/364804660877459457?p=p" target="_blank">stance</a> is dangerous nonsense. Fox News presenters receive death threats, as does Tony Blair. In no way does this diminish one's contempt for those people, and this contempt does not indicate a lack of abhorrence of the threats. If you have the appalling experience of receiving death or rape threats the fact that you deserve sympathy does not mean you deserve immunity from criticism. You can find hideous racism, misogyny, homophobia and violent threats on any almost any lengthy YouTube comment thread. It proves nothing about the person they refer to. After boycotter Amanda Palmer's horrifically bad poem about the Boston bombings, her response on Twitter was:</div>
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<a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/amandapalmer/status/326146321633390592?p=v" target="_blank"><em><strong>ahhh, it's been a long time on since internet trolls yelled at me that i was a slut, a talentless whore and a hippy!!! welcome, friends!!""</strong></em></a> </div>
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Her husband Neil Gaiman's response was:</div>
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<a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/neilhimself/status/326148807731589122?p=v" target="_blank"><em><strong>also a long time since I've seen incoherent obscene tweets telling me how evil my slut wife is. It makes me feel young again</strong></em></a><em><strong>.</strong></em></div>
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Another boycotter, <em>The Guardian</em>'s Suzanne Moore, admitting that she should have apologised for her "Brazilian transsexuals" remark (which we'll come to later), said in her own <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2013/jan/17/supporting-freedom-makes-me-opponent-equality" target="_blank">defence </a>"No one has apologised to me for saying that I should be decapitated", and in between tweeting guarded apologies, <a href="http://www.pinknews.co.uk/2013/01/14/guardian-columnist-suzanne-moore-apologises-for-brazilian-transsexual-remark/" target="_blank">suggested</a> "If anyone cares to Storify the abuse against me please do." Linehan has a similar technique: after any heated discussion, he picks a ludicrous <a href="https://twitter.com/Glinner/status/364119545373818881" target="_blank">trolling</a> <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/Glinner/status/365137074023710720?p=v" target="_blank">tweet</a>, sent in by another tweeter, and <a href="https://twitter.com/Glinner/status/364121000411004929" target="_blank">retweets</a> it with "this is the kind of thing I have to deal with" at the start, resulting in TV's Dara O'Briain, TV's Emma Kennedy and journalists like Deborah Orr offering sympathy and excoriating everyone who disagreed with him. A tweeter <strong><em>(3)</em></strong> put an excellent point to Orr:</div>
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<a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/MarkSedd0n/status/364830486637445122?p=p" target="_blank"><em><strong>What concerns me</strong></em></a><em><strong> </strong></em><a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/MarkSedd0n/status/364830654040522752?p=p" target="_blank"><em><strong>is that legitimate criticisms of Moran and others have been brushed aside as anyone with a dissenting view is labelled as a troll, hater, abuser or cunt</strong></em></a> </div>
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Orr dismissed it with:</div>
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<a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/DeborahJaneOrr/status/364830847611846657?p=v" target="_blank"><em><strong>Oh, I was mainly thinking of the guy who told me I was too ugly to be raped</strong></em></a><em><strong> [...] </strong></em><a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/DeborahJaneOrr/status/364831008664719360?p=v" target="_blank"><em><strong>people with dissenting views. Got you</strong></em></a><em><strong>.</strong></em> </div>
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Many have pointed out the similarity with wanting to police Twitter on the grounds that there are rape and death threats on it to David Cameron's desire to impose "opt-in" filters on the Internet on the grounds that there's child pornography on it. Certainly, responding to any criticism of a person by pointing out that the same person has received threats and abuse is no more an argument than trying to put critics of Reagan's administration on a footing with John Hinkley.</div>
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We could talk about how insulting is the idea of Caitlin Moran and India Knight, after writing insular, apolitical dross for years, announcing that maybe rape threats are really bad, and how the aim of things like the #twittersilence campaign is to elevate these column-fillers into writers with minor political status. Moran, in her tweetlonger post, seemed bemused that so many should dislike her when there are rapists out there:</div>
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<em>People who are approaching women, anonymously, on Twitter, and threatening them with rape and death are breaking the law. They are committing prosecutable acts. I find it a bit weird that a debate about this is being repeatedly derailed into conversations about what the Times TV critic said to a friend on Twitter in 2010.</em> </div>
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Did we really need Caitlin Moran to tell us this? And did so many need to be rebuked by white cis-gendered journalists and TV personalities with thousands of followers eager to put the boot in to them, regardless of what minority the dissenters belonged to, and how much experience they might have had of death and rape threats?</div>
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The most preposterous defences of Moran came from <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/DeborahJaneOrr/status/364482646984122368?p=v" target="_blank">Orr</a> and Zoe <a href="https://twitter.com/zoesqwilliams/status/364502966373318656" target="_blank">Williams</a>:</div>
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<em><strong>Think part of the Hate Caitlin mentality is: "We can't get near the people who really fuck up the world, so let's piss on her. She's handy."</strong></em></div>
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<em><strong>my overriding impression [i]s of a hatred of female success, from exactly the ppl who claim to object the most that women aren't allowed to be successful. They hate her bc she disproves their point</strong></em></div>
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Sometimes conspiracy theories are more palatable than the idea that people might actually not like your friend's stuff. It is remarkably insular - and clear from the "exactly the people" line that angry feminists are Williams's target: we're only a step away from Linehan's unashamed outburst about the "sanctimonious Left".</div>
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The very idea of disliking what Moran writes is being denied: the only thing that exists is people frightened of successful women (note also how the idea of Moran's "success" is taken by Williams as a given - she has a column and sells a lot of books, and that's that: very materialistic, very India Knight) an argument that never seemed impressive when used to defend Margaret Thatcher and Sarah Palin and doesn't seem so now.</div>
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A potentially valuable <a href="https://twitter.com/helenlewis/status/361570196684673026" target="_blank">exchange</a> with Helen <a href="https://twitter.com/Adam_M_Ali/status/361572315470905346" target="_blank">Lewis</a> was <a href="https://twitter.com/helenlewis/status/361577869790547968" target="_blank">closed off</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/OwenJones84/status/361572689334378496" target="_blank">shifted</a> back to the <a href="https://twitter.com/Glinner/status/361582245825363970" target="_blank">Status Quo</a>. Another tweet - gratefully retweeted by Glinner - expressed lament for Grace Dent, Suzanne Moore and Helen Lewis protecting their tweets or leaving Twitter: "<a href="https://twitter.com/MissEllieMae/status/366184045421400066" target="_blank">what a victory for feminism that is</a>" (incidentally they were back on unlocked accounts within days). Is this what feminism is? Making sure these three white privileged middle-class journalists feel happy using a particular piece of technology?</div>
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Always prominent in the memory during these moments is Caitlin Moran's response when challenged during an argument about the lack of black women in the TV drama <em>Girls</em> when she was about to interview the show's writer Lena Dunham: "Nope. <a href="https://twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/254256927956148224" target="_blank">I literally couldn't give a shit</a> aboutit [sic]", her language as dead as her empathy. <a href="https://twitter.com/Glinner/status/255239008211304448" target="_blank">This</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/Glinner/status/255261740860858369" target="_blank">equally</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/Glinner/status/255262715713552385" target="_blank">irritable</a> <a href="https://twitter.com/Glinner/status/255263934892883968" target="_blank">reaction</a> came from Linehan, striking for its sense of territory. "Let Lena write hers" is heartfelt: the plaintive cry of a generation of white writers who want to enjoy their DVD boxsets in peace, and think it's up to the minorities to represent themselves rather than expecting them to pause <em>Game of Thrones</em> and do it for them. As she says, once they've done that, Moran will be <a href="http://www.salon.com/2012/10/16/caitlin_moran_and_bitch/" target="_blank">only too happy</a> to write a feature on them.</div>
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So far, we see what media personalities are good at doing on Twitter (standing up for each other) and what they're not so good at doing (standing up for minorities). What's been truly horrible about the #twittersilence farce, though, has been when the two things meet: when questions of racism, misogyny, transphobia and threats have been raised and are swept aside in order to defend white cis-gendered newspaper columnists.</div>
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During the debate about whether Twitter celebs could really take a stand against abuse, a tweeter who <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/SamAmbreen/status/365095508223598593/photo/1#" target="_blank">had just been called a "vile paki cis cunt</a>" asked "<a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/SamAmbreen/status/364909302927994880?screen_name=SamAmbreen" target="_blank">So what you gonna do, Twitter</a>?" and sent the same question to Linehan. He <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/Glinner/status/365021800058466305?p=v" target="_blank">replied</a>: "I know! Somehow blame Caitlin Moran!" and defended this with the <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/Glinner/status/365126803175636993?p=v" target="_blank">astonishingly</a> <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/Glinner/status/365132556296921089?p=v" target="_blank">feeble</a> "she spat the fact out at me in an accusing way," and "she "@" 'ed me in an accusatory and rude fashion because I defended Caitlin Moran". Well, she certainly did (again, I have a horrible suspicion white people will be telling me the black lady should have been more polite in telling the famous white media personality about the racist abuse she'd received) but if that's his idea of the point where a dialogue becomes impossible maybe Linehan would be better off sticking to thanking people for praising his sitcom. </div>
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For Graham Linehan and others, <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/Glinner/status/364509367171047424?p=v" target="_blank">Moran</a> seems to be what the #twittersilence was all <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/Glinner/status/365145187112067073?p=v" target="_blank">about</a>. This has form. India Knight published <a href="http://www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/comment/columns/indiaknight/article1141748.ece" target="_blank">this</a> appalling column (available free only <a href="http://www.alastaircampbell.org/blog/2012/10/09/india-knight-so-wrong-to-say-no-stigma-to-depression-and-everybody-gets-depressed-time-to-change/" target="_blank">here</a>) about <a href="http://thequietus.com/articles/10313-world-mental-health-day-depression-suicide-india-knight-tony-parsons" target="_blank">depression</a> within a week of the 20th World Mental Health Day. Caitlin Moran later complained that the mental health charity MindCharity was "trolling a broadsheet journalist". Knight, <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/255437258285518849?p=v" target="_blank">Caitlin Moran</a>, <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/laurenlaverne/status/255437121425395712?p=v" target="_blank">Lauren Laverne</a> TV's Clare Balding and <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/DeborahJaneOrr/status/256770034943262720?p=v" target="_blank">Deborah Orr</a> had all been <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/indiaknight/status/255277657363722241?p=v" target="_blank">more annoyed</a> at the <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/indiaknight/status/255274616749187073?p=v" target="_blank">treatment</a> a <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/indiaknight/status/255426079530041344?p=v" target="_blank">Times columnist</a> had been <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/laurenlaverne/status/255440551409762304?p=p" target="_blank">getting </a>over her <a href="http://theworldofmentalists.com/2012/10/09/the-indiaknight-vs-mindcharity-twitterstorm-a-response/" target="_blank">article</a> than the effect the article might have had upon those with the condition, (<a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/indiaknight/status/255274734437142528?p=v" target="_blank">this </a>was the nadir) leading to Knight thanking others for their sympathy tweets, and <a href="https://twitter.com/indiaknight/status/255342136319422464" target="_blank">guardedly</a> accepting an<a href="https://twitter.com/MindCharity/status/255348333894320130" target="_blank"> apology</a> from a charity after <a href="https://twitter.com/indiaknight/status/255345843383717888" target="_blank">threatening</a> them. <strong><em>(4)</em></strong> The Coren business involved overlooking a tweet of vile misogynistic abuse ("go fuck yourself you barren old hag") because the person on the receiving end had been mean about the latest piece by a Times columnist (a Murdoch restaurant critic). Here, there was a sense of outrage that minorities were picking on Caitlin Moran.</div>
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Anyone offended by Moran's <a href="http://storify.com/BethanyBlack/caitlin-moran-champion-of-women-if-you-re-white-ab?awesm=sfy.co_cNgt&utm_campaign=&utm_content=storify-pingback&utm_source=t.co&utm_medium=sfy.co-twitter" target="_blank">references</a> on twitter to "benders" "trannies" "retards" and <a href="http://storify.com/eurovicious/some-tweets-by-caitlin-moran?utm_content=storify-pingback&utm_medium=sfy.co-twitter&awesm=sfy.co_gPBO&utm_source=t.co&utm_campaign=" target="_blank">AIDS</a> got short shrift. Excuses offered include the idea that Moran jokes about AIDS in order to confront her fear of death and disease (as Deborah Orr <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/DeborahJaneOrr/status/364359243551346688?p=v" target="_blank">put it</a> through the medium of sarcasm - something these professional writers relied on rather desperately throughout the row, but then who'd expect wit? - in a tweet to Moran and TV's Dara O' Briain) but the tweets themselves read like someone not so much making a conscious dark joke as not thinking about what she's saying. Another defence offered in her twitlonger post was: </div>
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<strong><em>I spent ten years on a message board that was pretty much 50/50 straight/gay, and included a gay man in a drag act, and we always used the word "Tranny" to mean "transvestite." I had never thought it meant anything else.</em></strong></div>
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This tweeter <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/judeinlondon/status/364358838402940928?p=v" target="_blank">put it</a> best. As with the Owen Jones comment quoted earlier, the "this isn't just my opinion: I ran it past a member of that minority" defence has been invoked. It brings to mind Linehan's inadvertently hilarious reason why Giles Coren couldn't be a misogynist: "I'm sure his sister and wife will be surprised to hear that he HATES WOMEN."</div>
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Suzanne Moore, as mentioned, wrote a piece in <em>The New Statesman</em> back in January (a reprint of an older piece) arguing that the shape women are expected to have today is "<a href="http://www.newstatesman.com/politics/2013/01/seeing-red-power-female-anger" target="_blank">that of a Brazilian transsexual</a>."' She never really understood why so many on Twitter told her they found this offensive. When called out on it, she replied:</div>
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<a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/suzanne_moore/status/288640428746629120?p=v" target="_blank"><em><strong>don't demand of me. Transphobia is your term. I have issues with trans everything actually</strong></em></a><em><strong>.</strong></em></div>
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<a href="https://twitter.com/suzanne_moore/statuses/288641685662097409" target="_blank"><em><strong>I don't priortise [sic] the Fucking lopping off bits of your body over all else that is happening to women</strong></em></a><em><strong>.</strong></em></div>
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<a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/suzanne_moore/status/288648393532768256?p=v" target="_blank"><em><strong>People can just fuck off really. Cut their dicks off and be more feminist than me. Good for them</strong></em></a><em><strong>.</strong></em></div>
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<a href="http://i%20admire%20some%20trans%20people.%20i%20admire%20foucault.%20i%20dislike%20former%20men%20telling%20me%20how%20to%20be%20feminist%20ok/?" target="_blank"><em><strong>I admire some Trans people. I admire Foucault. I dislike former men telling me how to be feminist OK?</strong></em></a></div>
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The attacks on the very physicality of a minority would have ended Moore's career if they had been racist or homophobic, but it seems this kind of visceral hatred is allowable if only transgender people are the targets. Moore's subsequent apologies were even less sincere than Moran's, repeating the bigotry from her tweets without the swearing:</div>
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<em><strong>I</strong></em><a href="http://www.pinknews.co.uk/2013/01/14/guardian-columnist-suzanne-moore-apologises-for-brazilian-transsexual-remark/" target="_blank"><em><strong>['m] less concerned with peoples genital arrangements than the breakdown of the social contract. Which hurts</strong></em></a></div>
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She took the same line in her Guardian piece, which was not so much an apology as a lament that so many had misunderstood her: "<a href="http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2013/jan/17/supporting-freedom-makes-me-opponent-equality" target="_blank">I don't really care what people do with their bodies</a>." ("<a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/gracedent/status/289464256703889410?p=p" target="_blank">I loved the piece X</a>" tweeted Grace Dent) It's no more convincing than Jon Gaunt's denial that he had any problem with gay police officers - "I don't care what they do with their truncheons in their spare time" - and Garry Bushell's response to the suggestion he was homophobic "if you're gay, good, means more birds for the rest of us." Racist or homophobic remarks have long been coded in the form of revealing snarls of denial - <em>what you do in your private life is no business of mine; They're welcome to their mosques; I don't go to their country and intrude on their culture, so why should they intrude on mine?</em> Here we see transphobia relies on the the same unconcealed contempt and physical revulsion. Only the jaded could think it a counter to allegations of bigotry, rather than a confirmation.</div>
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At the time, Linehan responded to criticisms of Moore with the clumsy piece of sarcasm "<a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/Glinner/status/365816292541874176?p=v" target="_blank">Do you think she might be *whispers* Hitler?</a>"</div>
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and <a href="https://twitter.com/Glinner/status/289756183609344001" target="_blank">suggested</a> a new <a href="https://twitter.com/Glinner/status/289770727329132545" target="_blank">logo</a> for twitter: an image of Millie Tant, the spoof feminist from Viz. Ben Goldacre dismissed those objecting to Moore's remarks as "<a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/bengoldacre/status/289789891351568384?p=p" target="_blank">disproportionate single-issue screamers</a>". Moran tweeted <a href="https://twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/289789612321300480" target="_blank">this</a>. Stella Duffy defended Moore with this <a href="http://stelladuffy.wordpress.com/2013/01/11/headparapet/" target="_blank">blogpost</a>. After <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/OwenJones84/status/289830820607299585?p=v" target="_blank">recommending</a> Duffy's post, Owen Jones insisted Moore <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/OwenJones84/status/289791504061435904?p=p" target="_blank">hadn't</a> been talking about transexuals <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/OwenJones84/status/289793405683396608?p=p" target="_blank">at all</a>. Jon Ronson's contributions were telling: "<a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/jonronson/status/289464535839014913?p=p" target="_blank">[to Moore] I'm on your side. What did you do</a>?" and "<a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/jonronson/status/289484975953301506?p=p" target="_blank">I haven't a transphobic bone in my body! Didn't even know the word existed until 30 secs ago</a>" </div>
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<a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/bindelj/status/291936517037912065?p=p" target="_blank">This</a> exchange<a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/suzanne_moore/status/291936743140257792?p=v" target="_blank"> took</a> place <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/suzanne_moore/status/291938357724979201?p=p" target="_blank">between </a>Moore and the virulently transphobic Julie Bindel. Can anyone honestly imagine Bindel's phrase "trans cabal" being tolerated by supposedly left-wing journalists if the word "trans" had been replaced by any other minority? "A cabal of blacks"? "A cabal of Jews"? Would that last tweet of Moore's have been forgotten if the word race or sexuality had been said instead of gender?</div>
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Things got worse when Julie Burchill leapt to her friend Moore's defence with a full-on anti-transgender article so atrocious - referring to "screaming mimis", "bed-wetters in bad wigs" and "dicks in chicks' clothing" - the Observer editor <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2013/jan/18/julie-burchill-and-the-observer" target="_blank">rightly apologised</a> for having published the thing. Moore responded in The <em>Guardian</em>:</div>
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<a href="http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2013/jan/17/supporting-freedom-makes-me-opponent-equality" target="_blank"><em><strong>The wrath of the transgender community has been insane. [...] Do you actually want to be governed by humourless, authoritarian morons? [...] You don't commission someone like Julie Burchill to launch an Exocet missile and then say: 'Oh dear, we only really wanted a sparkler</strong></em></a><em><strong>.'</strong></em></div>
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"That piece is barking" was Caitlin Moran's own single <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/290424493153865728?screen_name=caitlinmoran" target="_blank">brief</a> response to the matter (note how carefully it avoids any words that might suggest anger, disgust or censure: anything that might offend Julie) before discussing how "<a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/300568477180231680?p=v" target="_blank">good</a>" she <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/300569040097771520?p=v" target="_blank">was </a>on <em>Desert Island Discs</em> a week later, and how <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/325173682509070337?p=v" target="_blank">amused</a> she was that Burchill had blurbed herself on her own book (even tweeting a merry little picture of herself holding up the cover of Burchill's book to show us). Linehan's response was similarly cautious, offering agreement with those that said the Burchill piece was awful, but careful to stay away from the questions it raised about Suzanne Moore's attitude to transgender people. Deborah Orr published a <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2013/jan/19/feminism-trans-women-female-enough" target="_blank">piece</a> lamenting that feminism should be used as a veil for transphobia, but carefully avoiding mentioning Moore by name.</div>
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There's a clear hierarchy here: those with hideous prejudices like Bindel and Burchill, those with a spiteful right-wing streak that takes over under pressure like Linehan and Moore, those who don't think about what they're saying like Moran and Knight, and those who should know better but can't tolerate criticism of their friends like Goldacre, Williams, Jones, Lewis and Orr. Some people have defended this cliquish tendency to me, pointing out that this is a case of people sticking up for their friends, but this seems to me the most middle-class, self-centred and trivial excuse imaginable: <strong><em>(5)</em></strong>social inconvenience taking precedence over principles.</div>
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This, I venture, is why so many have been contemptuous of the idea of #twittersilence. How can these pundits speak for them? If their attitude towards black characters in TV shows is: <a href="http://www.salon.com/2012/10/16/caitlin_moran_and_bitch/" target="_blank"><em>go and write</em></a><em> and leave us to enjoy our all-white shows</em>, if they respond to challenges with rage and profanity, if they fall back on sarcasm when asked thoughtful questions, if they reply with references to "the fucking lopping off of bits of your body" and "<a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/suzanne_moore/status/288788213139636224?p=p" target="_blank">calm down dears</a>", and if they roar "someone just sent me gold" when they think they've found ammunition in arguments about race, how receptive does that make them towards problems of prejudice and bigotry, and how aware of their own privilege are they? What kind of attitude does it express when their response upon being called out on it - aside from calling you a troll - is to invite you to pitch an article and then storify with bemusement if you don't want to? And then go ooh, that's racist if a black person gets outspoken enough to say "I'm not your field-nigger" (I'm still struggling to make sense of that part of the proceedings, but I still don't see exactly why we should automatically assume anyone must want to pitch to the <em>New Statesman</em>: is it unheard of not to want to do so, like not using Twitter for 24 hours? Apparently it's "<a href="https://twitter.com/Glinner/status/365147552380747779" target="_blank">a-mazing</a>".) It raises the question of whether people like Suzanne Moore, Helen Lewis, Owen Jones, Graham Linehan and Caitlin Moran can speak for you if you are not white, not cis-gendered and not one of their friends. Even the commitment to drawing attention to rape threats was compromised when TV's Robert Webb tweeted <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/arobertwebb/status/363768019782082560?p=v" target="_blank">this</a> to Moran and Lewis. Moran <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/caitlinmoran/status/363768431381708801?p=p" target="_blank">replied</a>, Lewis said nothing. A tweeter raising the point that this hardly sat well with Moran's "apology" found herself <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/NCAFCWomen/status/364367471014182912?p=p" target="_blank">talking</a> <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/arobertwebb/status/364368805411028992?p=p" target="_blank">only</a> to <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/NCAFCWomen/status/364370074989101056?p=p" target="_blank">Webb</a> - who pointed out that Moran was probably "busy" before dropping out himself - just as Moore had been happy to answer tweets on her own controversy from TV's Frankie Boyle, but left the conversation rather than answer this dignified, pertinent and respectful <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/Sarah_Woolley/status/288654846091988992?p=p" target="_blank">point </a>from someone who wasn't famous.</div>
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Yes, we could talk about all these things. And God, it's hard not to talk about this at the moment. I got a tiny taste of what it must feel like to be told not to make such a song-and-dance about things you find offensive because of your race, disability, gender or sexuality, after the quack from Channel 4's <em>Embarrassing Bodies/Illnesses</em> barged his way into a conversation - (no-one had "@"-d him) - after searching his name (or being told about it by a friend, if you believe his story). He subsequently became another of the curious sources that Linehan <a href="https://twitter.com/Glinner/status/365532067695558657" target="_blank">fell upon</a>, so desperate for ammunition against the uppity, that he could <a href="https://twitter.com/Glinner/status/365535704001953793" target="_blank">no longer choose</a> the company he kept. After I'd said that I had Asperger's Syndrome and didn't appreciate the condition appearing on a programme as an "embarrassing illness", I instantly received these tweets from supporters of the good Doctor:</div>
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<em><strong>Do you not understand the purpose/concept of the show?</strong></em><br />
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<em><strong>if you can't understand that I question your Intelligence</strong></em><br />
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<em><strong>you're very dramatic</strong></em><br />
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<strong><em>Oh please don't play that card. You just want to be outraged. I've got bipolar.</em> (6)<em> </em><em>I don't jump down throats.</em></strong><br />
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<em><strong>The way you are going on is dramatic. Get over yourself.</strong></em><br />
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<em><strong>Wow, talk about dramatic, If you were that offended you could have changed channels."</strong></em></div>
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But this is just the tiniest sliver of what people who are transgender, black or disabled - especially women - had to face following the #twittersilence fallout, (compare the tone <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/bengoldacre/status/364375185052286977?p=p" target="_blank">to</a> <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/bengoldacre/status/364369219195908096?p=p" target="_blank">these</a> <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/bengoldacre/status/364366057814757377?p=p" target="_blank">tweets</a> <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/bengoldacre/status/364367483014090754?p=p" target="_blank">by</a> <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/bengoldacre/status/364428375080714240?p=v" target="_blank">Goldacre</a> <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/bengoldacre/status/364494085437919233?p=v" target="_blank">on</a> ableist language) and I'm sure have to face on a regular basis: people telling them not to be such drama queens, to get over themselves, not to play the racist/sexist/ableist/homophobic/transphobic "card", not to make such a big deal of it all, that of course tweets will seem offensive if you go trawling through them and start quoting them accurately.</div>
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All I can say is that if your response when asked about someone being called a "paki cunt" is to complain about the criticism a white newspaper columnist is getting, maybe you'd be better off sticking to conversations with that columnist, and <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/suzanne_moore/status/291678911937515520?p=v" target="_blank">if your response when a transwoman is murdered</a> <strong><em>(7)</em></strong> is to legally threaten the news source for mentioning you within the same piece, and then call them "<a href="https://twitter.com/suzanne_moore/status/291844783637397504" target="_blank">cuntards</a>" for not realising the threat was a "joke", maybe sticking up for threatened minorities should be higher on your priorities.</div>
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For the record, I don't personally think Moran aims to upset black people, transgender people or people with AIDS, and I don't think those "retard/tranny" tweets are evidence of bigotry. I think as her writing is essentially mindless, she doesn't think about its implications, or its nature as the work of a privileged white middle-class cis-gendered journalist, and isn't capable of thinking about it enough to offer a well-argued or thoughtful apology, just as she doesn't have enough grasp of language to see that "self-proclaimed pleasant people" is a phrase so problematic it borders on oxymoronic: no-one who proclaims themselves pleasant should be trusted.</div>
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She also clearly lacks the guts to speak out against those who do have unpleasant views about a minority, like Suzanne Moore. In her "apology" Moran offers her comments on Germaine Greer's transphobia (Greer's vile <a href="http://ai.eecs.umich.edu/people/conway/TSsuccesses/RachaelPadman.html" target="_blank">treatment</a> of Dr <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/society/2004/aug/14/health.socialcare" target="_blank">Rachael Padman</a> has been disgracefully overlooked by the British media <strong><em>(8)</em></strong>) in her book <em>How To be A Woman</em> as an example of how she does abhor that prejudice (Helen Lewis also used it a few months back as a defence against the idea Moran has any trans prejudice, describing it as a "<a href="http://helenlewiswrites.tumblr.com/private/39164543605/tumblr_mftd1spuUT1rpijql" target="_blank">repudiation</a>"). Moran doesn't offer much in the way of quotes, but this is what she actually said in the book (The bit I've underlined continues from where Lewis's quote trailed off):</div>
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<em><strong>In later years I would grow Greer-ish enough to disagree with Greer on things that she said: she went off sex in the eighties, opposed the election of a female lecturer at Newnham Ladies' College, got a bee in her bonnet about transgender male-to-females<u>, and, most importantly, had a go at Guardian columnist Suzanne Moore's backcombed hair ("birds-nest hair and fuck-me-shoes") which saddened me: I love a bouff</u></strong></em></div>
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Now, she couldn't have known what Moore would subsequently write about transsexuals. What is striking, though, is the way the issue of bigotry is swept aside to talk about haircuts, and people criticising her fellow columnists - there's nothing to suggest that that chilling use of "most importantly" is ironic. She would genuinely rather talk about hairstyles than Germaine Greer's victimisation of Rachael Padman, the transgender lecturer Moran doesn't bother to name, just as she genuinely thinks sorting out what clothes to wear and how one's pubic hair should be trimmed is a genuine manifesto for feminism. </div>
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As for the idea that saying someone has "a bee in her bonnet" about a minority when they campaign to prevent a member of that minority getting a job, that she's "nuts in her views" on that minority <strong><em>(9) </em></strong>and that someone who writes a hatepiece on a minority is "barking", it's an interesting new phenomenon: casual calling-out: disassociate yourself without offending the person or getting yourself dragged into the row. Remember Larry David's line from <em>Curb Your Enthusiasm</em>: "Hitler didn't care for Jews: he thought they were a bit much." Indeed, she doesn't mention in that twitlonger reference that Greer's praise is quoted on the book's blurb. Greer would probably resent being called a vicious bigot, but the suggestion she has a "bee in her bonnet" probably didn't spoil her lunch, especially as Moran fondly noted that it was "Greerish" of her to notice the bee in the first place.</div>
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Linehan's main objection is he wants to be left alone: he doesn't want to criticise his successful friend, he doesn't want her criticised by anyone else, he doesn't want to debate issues of gender, race, bigotry or the way the language of those who are white and privileged can impact on those who aren't, and the things that the perspective of the White middle-class cis-gendered person with a job in the media can miss - he just wants to be left alone to promote his West End shows and TV programmes, receive praise from those who liked them, and exchange pleasantries with those of similar media stature and press the RT button on important causes. "Let Lena write hers."</div>
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So let's cut to the solution... </div>
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Let them praise each other. Let them see their own timelines as crystal balls ("My timeline suggests this is now a thing"). Let Moran grow more incoherent ("Writing the fuck out of shit since 1992" says her twitter bio, "it <a href="https://twitter.com/zoesqwilliams/status/364484623272644608" target="_blank">fucks me off so much</a>" was Zoe Williams's defence of her friend from criticism. Does India Knight really think I'm envious of these people?). Let Suzanne Moore sound more and more like Jan Moir (the <a href="http://www.google.co.uk/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&frm=1&source=web&cd=1&cad=rja&ved=0CC0QFjAA&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.dailymail.co.uk%2Fdebate%2Farticle-1222246%2FThe-truth-views-tragic-death-Stephen-Gately.html&ei=NsI3UrnXFNCRhQe354HIAw&usg=AFQjCNF9-qgMkoLxjrDQNK9mP4E_vPiEyw&sig2=GHCyJ4aPZthwjp8kqGU8JA" target="_blank">previous</a> master of the "I'm sorry you foolishly misunderstood me" apology. Let the world see how ludicrous the idea that these people could ever speak up for the disadvantaged is. Let their claims to be left-wing be reduced to pressing the retweet button on more important tweets and arguing with climate-change deniers (put on this earth to make them look good) every now and then. Let them degenerate. </div>
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Now, we know the Chieftains have no problem with praise. So anyone who isn't interested in saying anything else can join TwitterElite with them. And a moderated guestbook can be set up for anyone on LowTwitter (or "Cunt Fest", to use Deborah Orr's <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/DeborahJaneOrr/status/364814733901176833?p=v" target="_blank">phrase</a>) who wants to pass on a fan message. Otherwise, LowTwitter's relation to TwitterElite will be read-only, for those useful things the latter retweets and links to. We don't need to talk to them.</div>
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Moran wants Twitter to be "like Cheers." It would actually be more like the icy blackness of Evelyn Waugh's early novels, with their giggling, dancing, drunken callous fools, who don't care who they hurt. It would also resemble the world evoked in Chris Morris and Robert Katz's series of monologues for Morris's Blue Jam radio series, where journalists are encouraged to commit suicide because it would make great copy, playwrights hit people under the adoring gaze of sycophants, TV executives trepann themselves to get the cocaine straight into their brain and conceptual artists exhibit one another in cages.</div>
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And to return to the tweet we opened with, what do we mean by nice? Quiet? Gentle? Apolitical? Vacant? Materialistic? People who watch the TV programme or read the column or book you've produced? A bunch of people so vapid most of them are too nervous to say they don't like Julie Burchill? Is that nice? One of the most disgraceful cultural attempts in Britain to silence a dissenting female voice in recent years was the treatment by the media - and then the Prime Minister and the Leader of the Opposition - of Hilary Mantel over her brilliant essay on the Royal Family and its treatment of women. Lauren Laverne's response - snapped up by the Daily Mail - was "<a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/laurenlaverne/status/303637260061003776?screen_name=laurenlaverne" target="_blank">I mean, I know she won that Booker and everything but if you can't say anything nice.</a>...". That's what #bepolite means: anti-intellectual, apolitical, barely literate ("that Booker and everything" - from a Culture Show presenter...) and gutless, a bromide to keep us all tweeting DIY comedy, promoting their products (<em>this new piece by Grace Dent is good</em>) and maintaining their image (<em>this new thing is typical Stephen Fry, honestly that is such a Julie Burchill thing to do</em>), abandoned whenever someone speaks out of turn, and the standard Linehan use of "Cunt" "Prick" "Twat" "fuck off" and "blocked for stupidity" kicks in. It's a beautiful little model of capitalism: some are selling a product, some are buying a product, no-one's questioning it.</div>
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Over on LowTwitter, we'll handle such problems as racism, sexism, misogyny, homophobia and transphobia, which can be a <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/suzanne_moore/status/288736560269115392?p=p" target="_blank">pointless nusiance</a> for TwitterElite. We won't devise anything as cackhanded as #twittersilence, because we know that not using a smartphone for a day is not a boycott. TwitterElite can be left to matters like whether someone "spat the fact out at me in an accusing way."' On TwitterElite, Linehan won't have to worry about people using words like mansplaining to <a href="https://twitter.com/Glinner/status/365462049226104832" target="_blank">silence</a> the <a href="https://twitter.com/Glinner/status/253901910023733249" target="_blank">voice</a> of the white male: on Twitter Elite the white, the male, the famous and the wealthy won't be shouted down by uppity minorities. People with columns will be able to tweet things which even they themselves consider "<a href="http://www.twitlonger.com/show/n_1rlojgc" target="_blank">a bit rancid</a>" without the plebs calling them out on it. Any of the latter will quickly be told "<a href="https://twitter.com/Glinner/status/365144186573430785" target="_blank">how to talk to people</a>", in Linehan's phrase. India Knight won't have to talk to people with 4 followers, bloggers or those without columns. Helen Lewis's rule on her blogpost that "<a href="http://helenlewiswrites.tumblr.com/private/58502625445/tumblr_mroc4dJb0j1rpijql" target="_blank">too many subtweets make a subtwat. FACT</a>" (again, note that the language is as barren as the view it expresses) will be obeyed, and she won't have to remind any more people to "<a href="http://helenlewiswrites.tumblr.com/private/58502625445/tumblr_mroc4dJb0j1rpijql" target="_blank">take being blocked with dignity</a>". Owen Jones won't have to worry about "<a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/OwenJones84/status/289793291988381696?p=p#" target="_blank">macho people who dress up hatred and misanthropy as politics</a>." Linehan won't have to keep repeating his "If you got half of what he/she got" <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/Glinner/status/364109177410420737?p=v" target="_blank">argument</a>. Responses like <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/Glinner/status/280063390519529472?p=v" target="_blank">this </a>will be seen as the norm, not embarrassing displays of temper-loss, but they'll hopefully have to be deployed less frequently. after all, it must be tiring having to call so many people <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/suzanne_moore/status/288789230518431746?p=p" target="_blank">thick</a>, cunts,"cuntards" twats and <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/Glinner/status/363234455978119168?screen_name=Glinner" target="_blank">pricks</a>, telling them to fuck off, telling them how stupid they are, <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/suzanne_moore/status/291680247592652800?p=p" target="_blank">threatening Pink News</a> and MindCharity, and then reminding people who criticise things their friends have said that the friends are not Hitler, bombers or rapists, or even on the<a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/DeborahJaneOrr/status/364494004131749888?p=v" target="_blank"> top 10 </a>. </div>
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On TwitterElite the voice of the unsilent majority will be heard. Zoe Williams and Owen Jones <a href="https://twitter.com/zoesqwilliams/status/364484623272644608" target="_blank">won't</a> have to <a href="https://twitter.com/OwenJones84/status/289790488687558656" target="_blank">worry</a> about this. Williams won't have to keep reminding people Moran "<a href="https://twitter.com/zoesqwilliams/status/364509577858916352" target="_blank"><em>isn't</em> middle class, surely you've got this?"</a> On TwitterElite, they can speak up for those who already have an influential voice to their heart's content. As Helen Lewis pointed out to Linehan (through irony), they've <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/helenlewis/status/361584487928303617?p=p" target="_blank">earned</a> it. Until TwitterElite is set up - and it <a href="http://mobile.theverge.com/2013/9/13/4725916/twitter-verified-user-filter" target="_blank">needn't be long</a>, TV's Emma Kennedy is already setting up the <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/Glinner/status/365224393279930370?p=v" target="_blank">barricades</a> - what should be done about the... well, what do we call them? Blue ticks? People who literally couldn't give a shit? People <em>with</em> class? The enemies of the Twaliban, the Millie Tants, the <a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/Glinner/status/364813886676930560?p=v" target="_blank">ThinknotBots</a> and CuntFest? <a href="https://twitter.com/Pawelmorski/status/365159458306928641" target="_blank">The Reason Patriarchal Plutocracy SHOULD fear the Left</a>? The "B" Ark? Moran names many of them in the acknowledgement at the end of her book as the "women and honorary women of Twitter" but with all these uppity women answering back about racism and transphobia and sexism, perhaps that really won't do. If We're THE WORST, does that make them THE BEST? The important thing is, they're not Hitler.</div>
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Until then, we've got the unfollow button. Let's use it. </div>
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<em>(feedback: <a href="https://twitter.com/RichardHCooper">https://twitter.com/RichardHCooper</a> or the comments page on </em><em>the earlier </em><em>piece: </em><em><a href="http://richardhcooper.blogspot.co.uk/2012/05/look-at-conduct-of-graham-linehan-and.html">http://richardhcooper.blogspot.co.uk/2012/05/look-at-conduct-of-graham-linehan-and.html</a></em><br />
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Update March 2015: Owen Jones spoke out against the New Statesman's disgraceful transphobia in this fine <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2015/feb/18/stonewall-trans-issues-neglected-progressives">piece</a>, and on twitter continued to defend trans women while receiving a barrage of bigotry from transphobes. I wish more people writing for mainstream publications would display this kind of integrity.<br />
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<strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Notes</span></em></strong><br />
<strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">1): </span></em><a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/Glinner/status/365121225787314178?p=v" target="_blank"><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">This</span></em></strong></a><strong><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><em>, in particular, on feminists that irritate him, in reference to an episode of</em> Father Ted<em>, is too painful to discuss. If you have to destroy your legacy, Graham, do it, but please don't drag the immortal brilliance of</em> Father Ted <em>into it.</em></span></strong></strong></div>
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<strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">2): He later posted a follow-up in the comments sections of </span><a href="http://bethanyblack.blogspot.co.uk/2013/08/you-cant-silence-voice-of-voiceless.html" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">this</span></a><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> blogpost which can hardly be called an apology, graciously acknowledging the blogger was not the "Worst" but otherwise reiterating his defence of Moran. The twitter Elite have made the apology-that-isn't-an-apology an artform.</span></em></strong><br />
<strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">3): The same tweeter </span><a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/MarkSedd0n/status/365156206387527681?p=p#" target="_blank"><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">put</span></em></strong></a><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> </span></em></strong><a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/MarkSedd0n/status/365139443918716928?p=p" target="_blank"><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">these</span></em></strong></a><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> </span></em></strong><a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/MarkSedd0n/status/365139645748613121?p=p" target="_blank"><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">points</span></em></strong></a><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> - </span></em></strong><a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/MarkSedd0n/status/365139853010141184?p=p" target="_blank"><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">again</span></em></strong></a><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> </span></em></strong><a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/MarkSedd0n/status/365155692606275584?p=p" target="_blank"><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">intelligently</span></em></strong></a><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> and politely - to Glinner and his defenders, but again these fell on deaf ears. See also this entirely </span><a href="http://www.twitlonger.com/show/jj10l2" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">polite</span></a><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> and </span><a href="http://www.twitlonger.com/show/jj11nc" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">reasonable </span></a><span style="font-size: xx-small;">attempt to raise an issue with Knight and Laverne, and the frosty (and only) </span><a href="https://twitter.com/laurenlaverne/status/255450916801617920" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">response</span></a><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> it got. </span></em></strong></em></strong><br />
<strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">4): It seems they'd tweeted "Today we ask #whatisstigma in response to @indiaknight and her distasteful article on depression being money spinning 'misery lit' Join us!" in a </span></em></strong><a href="http://rosietrousers.blogspot.co.uk/2012/10/charity-depression-when-social-media.html" target="_blank"><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">moment of unguardedness</span></em></strong></a><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">. Here's more </span></em></strong><a href="https://twitter.com/michael_taggart/status/255297172235489280" target="_blank"><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">repentence</span></em></strong></a><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">. Personally, I think they got it right first time. </span></em></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><em>5): Like a certain</em> Doctor Who <em>writer who took part in #twittersilence who decreed that people </em></span><a href="https://twitter.com/JohnNor/status/343412327955197954" target="_blank"><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">not in favour</span></em></strong></a><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> of a </span></em></strong><a href="https://twitter.com/Paul_Cornell/status/343412567634505729" target="_blank"><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">female Doctor</span></em></strong></a><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> Who<strong><em> - a view he pronounced "</em></strong></span><a href="https://twitter.com/Paul_Cornell/status/343398355491246080" target="_blank"><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">horrible</span></em></strong></a><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">" and opposed out of his commitment to "</span></em></strong><a href="https://twitter.com/Paul_Cornell/status/343416047375904768" target="_blank"><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">help [ing] other people</span></em></strong></a><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">" - were </span></em></strong><a href="https://twitter.com/Paul_Cornell/status/343398878588063744" target="_blank"><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">comparable</span></em></strong></a><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> to </span></em></strong><a href="https://twitter.com/Paul_Cornell/status/343411380659056640" target="_blank"><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">people</span></em></strong></a><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> </span></em></strong><a href="https://twitter.com/Paul_Cornell/status/343412077324554242" target="_blank"><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">who</span></em></strong></a><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> opposed gay marriage, but then instantly</span></em></strong><a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/RichardHCooper/status/343403230174257154?p=v#" target="_blank"><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> blocked</span></em></strong></a><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> me when I asked if that meant he would be criticising Steven Moffat if he actually chose a male Doctor, because Moffat is a friend of his. He took part in "a Sexism in Doctor Who" panel recently, but hasn't commented on Moffat's choice of a 12th male Doctor or Moffat's odd "time for the Queen to be played by a man" joke. As I said, social niceties over principles: something the same man took to near-parodic extremes</span></em></strong><a href="http://www.paulcornell.com/2013/09/the-hugo-awards-apology.html" target="_blank"><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> here</span></em></strong></a><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">. ("I go on about 'Tories', but I really shouldn't, not in general, when I have friends on the right as well as on the left")</span></em></strong></strong><br />
<strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">6:) This is the desperate, contemptuous "nice try pretending to be offended but I'm part of your club too" technique. It's employed by India Knight </span><a href="https://twitter.com/indiaknight/status/255345078086811650" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">here</span></a><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> and</span><a href="https://twitter.com/indiaknight/status/255279054327013376" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> here</span></a><span style="font-size: xx-small;">, (countered by </span><a href="https://twitter.com/trialia/status/255712284972810241" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">these</span></a><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> </span><a href="https://twitter.com/trialia/status/255712536832389120" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">excellent</span></a><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> </span><a href="https://twitter.com/trialia/status/255712683268141056" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">responses</span></a><span style="font-size: xx-small;">) to say nothing of the attempts by Zoe Williams to remind us Caitlin Moran "</span><a href="https://twitter.com/zoesqwilliams/status/364506736247308292" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">doesn't come from a priviledged background</span></a><span style="font-size: xx-small;">." </span></em></strong><br />
<strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">7): One might have expected some humility from Moore about her "Brazilian transsexual" reference at that moment at least because the victim was shot dead in Brazil, and </span><a href="https://mobile.twitter.com/LymanSays/status/288785617658191872?p=p" target="_blank"><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">this tweet</span></em></strong></a><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> had been sent to her days earlier . </span></em></strong></em></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><em>8) A piece in the </em>Guardian<em> on 25 June 1997 by Clare Longrigg called "A Sister with No Fellow Feeling" investigating the matter mysteriously </em></span></strong><a href="http://web.archive.org/web/19981201212018/http://www.pfc.org.uk/news/1997/gfolly02.htm" target="_blank"><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">vanished</span></em></strong></a><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> from its website. </span></em></strong><a href="http://www.listener.co.nz/commentary/germaine-greer-glitter-bomb-neither-here-nor-there/" target="_blank"><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">This unrepentant piece</span></em></strong></a><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> by Greer (which is paywalled, so only freely available </span></em></strong><a href="http://davinasquirrel.wordpress.com/2012/03/26/greer-on-being-glitterbombed/" target="_blank"><strong><em><span style="font-size: xx-small;">on this blog</span></em></strong></a><strong><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><em> posted by someone who takes Greer's side and disgracefully calls Rachael Padman "he" throughout) - reveals why: "I had no option but to resign my fellowship and train as a lawyer, so that I could afford to bring a suit against the</em> Guardian<em>, which took a year to cave in and pay up". Again, it appears this kind of thuggery and revisionism is allowed when transgender people are the minority concerned (imagine if Martin Amis had done this to a Muslim teacher at the University of Manchester. would the Guardian have "caved in" so easily?)</em></span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><em>9) A quote from</em> How to be A Woman <em>which Moran urges us to remind ourselves of in the Twitlonger piece.</em></span></strong></div>
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Richard Cooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18114063496425319491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240001912845478109.post-20698183245796862982013-05-18T17:52:00.000-07:002017-05-08T11:29:20.130-07:00Steven and the Women: the Dubious Gender Politics of Steven Moffat's Doctor Who (or, How Steven Moffat Ruined Doctor Who 2: The Smell of Fear)<div style="text-align: justify;">
<em>(my previous <a href="http://richardhcooper.blogspot.co.uk/2011/11/how-steven-moffat-ruined-doctor-who.html" target="_blank">piece</a>)</em></div>
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In the debate about whether Steven Moffat's writing is misogynistic, mistakes have been made on both sides. Moffat himself <a href="http://www.walesonline.co.uk/news/local-news/sherlock-writer-steven-moffat-furious-2037235" target="_blank">responded</a> to a <a href="http://m.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2012/jan/03/sherlock-sexist-steven-moffat" target="_blank">piece</a> in <em>The Guardian</em> by Jane Clare Jones thus:</div>
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<strong><em>I think it’s one thing to criticise a programme and another thing to invent motives out of amateur psychology for the writer and then accuse him of having those feelings,[...] I think that was beyond the pale and strayed from criticism to a defamation act. I’m certainly not a sexist, a misogynist and it was wrong.</em></strong></div>
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The misconception he's working on here is similar to that sometimes made by those that attack him: the idea that a writer whose use of female characters is problematic and a man who hates women are the same thing. Moffat pointing out he's a nice guy with a wife simply doesn't counter any criticism of sexism in his work, however much he thinks it does. Conversely, the temptation when talking about sexism in Moffat's scripts seems to be toward saying things like "God, he must really hate women." but whether he does or not doesn't make a difference: nice people are as likely to write scripts which endorse rather than challenge stereotypes as nasty people. Older <em>Who</em> fans (or at least those with extensive DVD collections) might recall the surviving episode of the much-loved Troughton story <em>The Web of Fear</em> opens with an anti-Semitic stereotype, a "covetous Jew" who foolishly refuses to relinquish his valuable Yeti ("I see: you vant to rob me! Nobody makes a fool of Julius Silverstein! Take him avay!"). He is then punished for this covetousness when the Yeti comes to life and kills him. The crucial point here is that writers Mervyn Haisman and Henry Lincoln and script editor Derrick Sherwin may well have been - or still are in the case of the surviving latter two - delightful people with no anti-Semitic tendencies at all. We have no right to accuse them of anything as people based on this script, what we do have a right to point out is that they have inherited a socially and culturally constructed prejudice (as we all do) and failed to challenge, interrogate or subvert it (as we all should). If they had been asked about it after the broadcast and responded by pointing out that they weren't anti-Semitic, it wouldn't in any way work as a defence against the criticism that that scene enforces an anti-Semitic stereotype. It's also entirely possible to pass on unpleasant or bigoted tropes by mistake: <em>The Unquiet Dead</em>'s plot, in which a bunch of war refugees trick the Doctor by taking advantage of his pity and then turn nasty once they've been granted asylum, was clearly intended by Mark Gatiss as "vintage-style" <em>Doctor Who</em> rather than an Enoch Powell-style warning, and it's obviously unlikely that the fact that the first <em>Doctor Who</em> story with an all black guest cast (<em>Journey</em> <em>to the Centre of the TARDIS</em>) portrays them as an unscrupulous bunch of thieves was out of a desire by Steve Thompson to insult black viewers. Both episodes are the result of writers failing to consider the implications of how things can turn out on screen. The idea that the author insisting that they don't have those prejudices can be used as a defence of the work is an aspect of the Intentional Fallacy: the belief that what the author says he meant is the final judgement on a text. The successes and failures of a text stand by themselves, they're not the author's any more, and Steven Moffat cannot shrug off criticism of his work by pointing out he's a nice guy.<br />
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The problem with Amy Pond isn't that she's constructed as a "sexy" character. The problem is that this supposed "sexiness" intrudes in the way reality is constructed around her. The only job she can get is as a kissogram girl, then, when things are going better, as a famous model (right down to a gruesome shot of her face on a perfume advert that could have come straight out of one of the Mary-Jane scenes in the <em>Spider-Man</em> movies). In her penultimate episode we find she now "writes travel articles for magazines." Remember Moffat's idea of "one of the most accomplished woman who ever lived" is an aristocrat (and therefore a parasite) like Madame de Pompadour. In the extraordinary two-part Comic Relief special <em>Space/Time</em> - surely the most masturbatory piece of <em>Doctor Who</em> ever broadcast - we hear that she only passed her driving test because she wore a short skirt, and then the combination of that same skirt and a glass floor causes Rory, working at the controls below, to crash the TARDIS. As a result, we end up with multiple Amy Ponds. Instantly, we have a gag about Rory hoping for a threesome, the revelation that Amy finds herself attractive, and its accompanying punchline that Rory finds this exciting. In the runup to its broadcast Moffat promised viewers in <em>Doctor Who Magazine</em> "there’s a moment with two Amy Ponds in it. If you’re a red-blooded male surely that’s enough! You’ve got Amy Pond flirting with herself." His tweet immediately after the special promised the viewers three Amy Ponds next time, but he evidently decided that was one piece of drooling fanfiction that could be left to the net.<br />
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John Nathan-Turner's "you're there for the dads" policy towards his actresses was certainly the least tolerable thing about his tenure, but in his case it extended only to the characters' wardrobes, and the tendency for monsters to desire Peri in one season. The characters still served as proxies for the younger viewers. It's difficult to see how Amy can do this in moments where she's asking the Doctor to "sort her out" in the bedroom scene at the end of <em>Flesh and Stone</em>, let alone how Jenny can do the same in the scene in <em>The Crimson Horror</em> where she strips off her coat to begin kung-fu and as the camera learingly pans along her leather catsuit in slow motion, Matt Smith does an erection gag with his sonic screwdriver, or how children could identify with Clara after the Doctor's extraordinarily misjudged line about her "tight skirt" at the end of <em>Nightmare in Silver</em> (which we'll come to later).<br />
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There is no aspect of Amy's character that is not defined by that male construction we call femininity. The five threats she faces are pregnancy, the abduction of her baby, the loss of either of the men she loves, infertility, and the idea that it's presumable that the man she loves will reject her for that infertility. Controlling these subplots are the same prejudices that lie behind soap operas - <em>Am I still a woman if I can't have children anymore? Will the man I love reject me for it? Is it my fault? My Baby - don't let them take my baby! </em>Even as children, Moffat's heroines are there to be entranced by the Doctor. The setup from <em>The Girl in the Fireplace</em>, recycled like so much else in <em>The Eleventh Hour</em>, is disturbing in the way it allows the Doctor to gain access to Young Amy/Young Reinette's imaginations - giving him considerable power over them - and then moves forward in time in one moment so that we can bring in the older sexy actress. By the time we reach the Doctor stalking Clara as a child from afar while he reads <em>The Beano</em>, things are getting distinctly creepy (the very first shot of Karen Gillan, coming soon after the Doctor's scenes with the younger Amy Pond sees the camera panning up her thighs to reveal her policewoman kissogram costume. There's a horrible sense here that we're about to hear Maurice Chevalier singing "thank heavens for little girls - they grow up in the most delightful way" on the soundtrack).<br />
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Moffat's sense of what goes on in the head of a young woman and any ability with logical characterisation he may have had left take a nosedive in <em>Let's Kill Hitler</em>. Amy and Rory's baby has been kidnapped, but it's revealed that they've already known her all their life in the guise of their best friend Mels, who now regenerates into an adult, which Moffat genuinely seems to think resolves that particular "missing baby" cliffhanger. There's no point shouting "where's the baby - isn't someone going to try and rescue the baby?" at your TV screen as I did - Amy and Rory have let that go now, as have actors Karen Gillan and Arthur Darvill (as I've said before, the fact that the version of Amy left alone for 36 years in <em>The Girl Who Waited</em> never mentions it makes a mockery of anyone still claiming this is a show with any sense of emotional consequences or human resonance. Did Gillan ever ask Moffat or his writers "what's my motivation here?")<br />
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Chillingly, Moffat sees no problem in describing the pre-<em>Doctor Who</em> work of <em>Men Behaving Badly</em> creator Simon Nye, who contributed a predictable dud of an episode to series 5, as "beautifully observed" on <em>Doctor Who Confidential</em>. Nye's clearly a huge influence on him and not just through the family connection (Moffat's mother-in-law was the producer on Nye's <em>Men Behaving Badly</em>). His sitcom <em>Coupling</em> often featured similar storylines to <em>Men Behaving Badly</em>, such as a "girlfriend finds out about boyfriend's porn collection" plot which climaxed in a horrific monologue from the central character on how all men are obsessed with naked women - "halfway out of the birth canal we're already enjoying the view", and an interminable monologue about how men need locks on the bathroom door and women don't because "we are men! Throughout history, we have always needed, in times of difficulty, to retreat to our caves. [...] The toilet for us is the last bastion, the final refuge, the last few last square feet of man space left to us [OK, you get the idea]". Both scenes are presented in the binary "she thinks/he thinks" style, starting with Sarah Alexander ridiculing this male nonsense, then moving to Jack Davenport's angry defence of what men need, then Alexander takes this on board and she and Davenport are reconciled, now that the inescapable difference between the genders has been affirmed. <em>Friends </em>is the other obvious influence here. What all three shows - along with the current manifestation of this kind of television, <em>The Big Bang Theory</em> - share is an assumption that men are from Mars (the planet where they leave the toilet seat up) and women are from Venus (the planet where they eat Ben and Jerry) and a conviction that this is all there is: this is what men and women are like and it's futile to pretend otherwise. The choice between <em>Seinfeld </em>and <em>Friends</em> is not just a choice between good and evil ("I love <em>Friends</em>, but I never got into <em>Seinfeld</em>" - David Cameron) but a choice between comedy with a sense of its own ridiculousness and comedy that assumes This Is The Way The World is; between comedy that sees a whole universe of lunacy out there and comedy that sees nothing but two demographic groups to place on separate sofas for alternate scenes.<br />
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Elaborating on gender differences, Moffat once remarked on Twitter:<br />
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<strong><em>I AM sexist: women are cleverer, nicer, kinder and better at stuff. Don't let on or they'll keep us in fields. FIELDS!!!</em></strong><br />
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This is the "how is that racist - isn't it good to have rhythm?"' fallacy: the idea that gender-essentialism and stereotyping is less of a problem if it is benevolent. It's disastrous for a writer, as it leaves him incapable of writing human beings. Moffat-written or Moffat-commissioned scripts don't so much fail the Bechdel test (which proposes that at least two female characters should talk about something other than a man) as fail to show up at the exam room. <em>Hide </em>was a lowpoint here: Clara is left alone to suss out Emma the female guest character (it's the Doctor's job to suss out the male one) and after both women have grimaced over the "disgusting" whiskey and agreed to move to tea, she gets the conversation going with "so you and Professor Palmer - have you ever - y'know?" and after Clara asks why not - "you do know how he feels about you, don't you?" - Emma changes the subject to how Clara feels about the Doctor. A universe with Weeping Angels and Daleks may be easy enough to conjure up, but a universe in which women drink whiskey is beyond imagining for Moffat and his team.<br />
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Virginia Woolf foolishly called Conan Doyle's Watson "a sack filled with straw" (and she didn't have the excuse of having seen Martin Freeman). It's merciful she was never introduced to River Song, the most misjudged and cynically constructed fictional character in history (well, at least until Clara came along). The only aspects of her not defined by a male scriptwriter's standbys of femininity are the signs round her neck that read "Spoilers!" and "watch the finale because something more exciting will happen there", usually replaced in the finale with "next series, all will be revealed." She's got poisonous lipstick, her all-time fantasy is a threesome with two Doctors, her last words before regenerating are "I'm concentrating on a dress size" , she promises that she's "a screamer - now there is a spoiler for you!" and her reaction to meeting the Doctor for the first time (from her point of view) is "you never said he was hot!" The "bickering" between the Doctor and River is excruciating because it's little more than the stage directions "they bicker" and "they flirt". One yearns for some genuine tension: what if River had a an unpleasant manner about her, or a manner that riled the Doctor in a way that unnerved the viewer, changing the status quo from "Doctor and his friends" and adding tension by making the dynamic less cozy? Sexual tension is rendered impossible by the Doctor's celibacy. Instead, their conversations are indistinguishable from Moffat, Smith and Kingston delivering their oral press releases for it on <em>Doctor Who Confidential</em>. River delivers cute domestic soundbites - "Hello sweetie", "I'm going shopping", "it's called marriage, honey." "You wouldn't answer your phone" - while the Doctor performs anaemic comedy "grrr! That woman will be the death of me" responses (Curiously, <em>The Name of the Doctor</em> spared us the gruesome River line promised in <em>Doctor Who Magazine</em>'s preview - "Oh, I do like to watch a man think: it’s like watching a whale knit" - a line recycled from <em>Coupling</em>). Her revelation that the TARDIS only makes that noise because "YOU leave the brakes on"' is really just an upscale equivalent of the moment in <em>Batman and Robin</em> when Batman produces a credit card with a Batman logo on it, or <em>Batman Forever</em>'s line "it's the car, right? Chicks love the car", all three showing the same contempt for the narrative, and provoking a jaded laugh that doesn't survive a second viewing. It's sadly not the only resemblance between Steven Moffat's <em>Doctor Who</em> and Joel Schumacher's Batman movies, the only question being whether the former is headed for the same notoriety. "Well, she is a woman," says the Doctor when Amy and Rory puzzle over her murderous behaviour. River's other two ways of speaking are to spout trailerspeak - "this will be the Doctor's darkest hour - he'll raise higher than ever before and fall so much further" "you're going to find out very soon, now, Doctor, and I'm sorry, but that's when everything changes" - and hymns to the Doctor's near-Godliness: "You've decided that the universe is better off without you, but the universe doesn't agree", "To the people of the Gamma Forests, the word Doctor means mighty warrior. How far you've come. [...] And all this, my love, in fear of you".</div>
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This isn't a character, but a soulless collection of gender and TV reference points, and the increasing lack of conviction in Kingston's performance - every smiling expression over-played to the point of simpering, every line over-enunciated in such a fey tone it becomes hard to hear her, and the strangely weak pitch in her delivery whenever she has to be frightened, tough or upset, as if she can't make the shift to proper acting (Eve Myles syndrome, as it's known), makes River as unsuccessful an attempt by a male writer to evoke someone from the opposite sex as anything by Benny Hill.<br />
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<em>The Day of the Moon</em> saw River Song betray the show's very ethos. Gareth Roberts, back in the days before he wrote for this version of the series, quite rightly <a href="http://nzdwfc.tetrap.com/archive/tsv38/garethroberts.html" target="_blank">said</a> that the problem with the <em>New Adventures</em> version of Ace is that he instinctively felt the Doctor wouldn't invite anyone with a gun on board the TARDIS. How much more apposite this is when applied to River Song. Another <em>Who</em> writer who offered interesting opinions on this show in the 1990s, Paul Cornell, rightly observed that mid-80s<em> Doctor Who</em>, with Eric Saward as script editor, relied far too much on characters with guns, but even the truly wretched Saward never suggested that Lytton was cool and rather fun, or that Orcini would be fit to travel in the TARDIS. Compare the scenes of Lytton's bogus policemen shooting fleeing prisoners dead in <em>Resurrection of the Daleks</em> with River shooting the Silents in <em>Day of the Moon</em>. One portrays a shooting as cruel, frightening and psychotic, while the latter presents it as cool and sexy, right down to the moment when River does a Western/<em>Robocop</em> style twirl with her gun as she holsters it. The days of risking your life to stop the Brigadier from blowing up the Silurians and agonising other whether one has the right to blow up the Dalek incubation room have never seemed so far away. <br />
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Consider the soul crushing dialogue from that scene, a curious mixture of the witless and the pernicious:</div>
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<strong><em>Doctor: This is my friend River. Nice hair, clever, has own gun, and unlike me she really doesn't mind shooting people. I shouldn't like that, kinda do a bit.</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>River: Thank you sweetie</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>Doctor: I know you're team players and everything but she'll definitely kill the first three of you</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>River: (pressing her back against the doctor's while pointing her gun) oh, the first seven, easily.</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>Doctor: Seven, really?</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>River: Oh, eight for you, honey.</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>Doctor: (grinning) Stop it...</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>River: (grinning, attempting a "breathily sexy" tone) Make me...</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>Doctor: (giggling, sounding aroused) maybe I will...</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>Amy: Is this important flirting? [...]</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>Doctor Sorry. As I was saying, my naughty friend is going to kill the first three of you to attack...</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>[...]</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>(the Doctor and River are back to back, as River opens fire</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>River: what are you doing?</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>The Doctor: Helping!</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>River: You've got a screwdriver, go and build a cabinet!</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>The Doctor: That's really rude!</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>River: Shut up and drive!</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>(Doctor dashes into the TARDIS. River kills all the Silents, twirling and shooting in slow motion to heroic music)</em></strong></div>
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It ends with a return to domestic sitcom talk, after River performs the gun-twirl: "my old fella didn't see that, did he? He gets ever so cross." Unlike with Ace, we're not being encouraged to think there's something wrong with this person: it's the show itself that comes across as jaded and withdrawn from empathy and decency to a psychopathic extent (and what a charming ethical copout to have the Doctor leave before he can witness the rest of the killing). Again, we have the depressingly widespread idea that a woman acting violently is empowering and a corrective to sexism and misogyny. When questioned about his ability with female characters during a <a href="http://m.guardian.co.uk/tv-and-radio/2012/jan/20/steven-moffat-sherlock-doctor-who" target="_blank">Guardian interview</a> Moffat replied:</div>
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<strong><em>River Song? Amy Pond? Hardly weak women. It's the exact opposite. You could accuse me of having a fetish for powerful, sexy women who like cheating people. That would be fair.</em></strong></div>
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It would indeed. Unfortunately, a fetish for powerful, sexy women who like cheating people is no substitute for an interest in human beings.<br />
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For an example of how to write a sexy female character, look at Anne Hathaway's wonderful new version of Catwoman in <em>The Dark Knight Rises</em>. The narrative surrounding her - her hopes for the "clean slate" McGuffin, her fear of Bane, her redeeming compassion towards others in her territory - have nothing to do with her sexuality or her gender. That's why she's credible rather than camp when fighting bad guys, and why her love interest with Bruce has some emotional punch.<br />
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Clara, amazingly, is a new low. In my previous piece, I argued that Moffat was a cynic rather than an incompetent, and feared that we may be stuck with his version of <em>Doctor Who</em> for a very long time. Instead, there has been a slight nudge from cynicism towards incompetence. The individual scripts seem more in need of rewrites than the previous two seasons (which couldn't have been helped by any rewrites). The contrast between Neil Gaiman's episode for the last season, <em>The Doctor's Wife,</em> which irksomely but accurately deduced the kind of story that makes fans go "awwww" and "now THAT's what <em>Doctor Who</em> should be doing", and <em>Nightmare in Silver</em>, which began by making audiences go "WHAT ARE THOSE ANNOYING KIDS DOING THERE?" and ended by leaving them saying "WHAT did he just say about Clara's tight skirt? That's a bit off..." (and in-between, making them wonder what had happened to one of the episode's two guest stars, as the director has no idea how to convey the sense that someone has just been shot dead) being a case in point. The season's arc, similarly, is just as idiotic as the River Song/Melody Pond rubbish, but more likely to rub mass audiences and fanbases up the wrong way (a problem when this show is certainly no longer made for any one else). While River Song accurately capitalised on the kind of "what will happen at the end of <em>Lost</em> / will Bella and Edward end up together?" casual SF viewer (a new demographic, incidentally, strikingly different from the narrower "cult TV/SF fan" niche audience that shows from <em>Star Trek: The Next Generation</em> and<em> Babylon 5</em> right up to <em>Smallville</em> aimed at: out of the frying pan into the other frying pan, it seems), this season's River Mark 2 is a much odder construction more likely to alienate its audience. Moffat assumes that revealing three versions of the same character in separate timezones is enough to get an arc going, but as he forgets to have the arc affect the Doctor by causing jeopardy (as even the inept "crack-in-time" and "who-is-River?" arcs of the previous two series did), and overlooks the fact that by <em>Doctor Who</em> standards three people who look and sound the same and use the same phrase at one point is not that exciting (compare with the Doctor casually noticing the resemblance between the two Gwens in <em>Journey's End</em>), the Doctor comes across as a stalker. "She's not POSSIBLE!" is a perfect example of telling rather than showing. Having the two earlier versions of Clara killed off means the character is reset twice, and then when the Doctor finally tells her about the other Claras, a literal reset button is pressed in <em>Journey to the Centre of the TARDIS.</em><br />
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Things reach their nadir in the Doctor's inexplicable line "A mystery wrapped in an enigma squeezed into a skirt that's just a little bit too tight"' at the end of <em>Nightmare in Silver,</em> a line which Gaiman himself seemed <a href="http://neil-gaiman.tumblr.com/post/50290346173/re-nightmare-in-silver-how-did-you-mesh-in-continuity" target="_blank">keen</a> to reveal he probably hadn't written shortly after broadcast. Clara is now stalked in all senses: by a production team keen to exploit the attractiveness of the actress that plays her, by a writing team more interested in using her as a lure to get the ratings going for the next episode - why create a character for her when you can keep a "who is she?" arc going - and by a Doctor who's never been more poorly defined, tracking her for no reason other than morbid curiosity and who doesn't respect her enough to tell her the truth: like her creator and consequently the audience, he doesn't see her as a person but as an arc in flesh, and even he of all people seems keen to point out how shapely that flesh is.</div>
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With his third series Moffat has delivered something just as soulless, but with enough creaks to suggest a more limited shelf-life. Who'd have thought we'd ever get a Doctor who carries out executions (<em>Dinosaurs on a Spaceship</em>), commits genocide without considering "giving them a chance" as the Tennant Doctor would (<em>Nightmare in Silver</em>) or trapping three salvage-men inside his ship and threatening to blow them up if they don't risk their lives helping him find his friend (<em>Journey to the Centre of the TARDIS</em>), or that the 50th Anniversary would be celebrated by a special featuring only one of the past Doctors ("you don't want to turn it into too much of a fanfest," says Moffat, the man who's just given us a season with a Dalek story, a Cybermen story, an Ice Warrior story, a Weeping Angels story and three Great Intelligence stories). As we reach the point where the Doctor leers at a non-existent character, reducing her to an arc in a tight skirt, there seems to be a sense that <em>Doctor Who</em> is now not merely stupid but quite unpleasant (how long before those like Paul Cornell have the guts to speak about this, rather than posting "whew - wasn't that great?" tweets. I'm sure he could make some kind of argument that Moffat isn't misogynistic or sexist other than "he's my mate and you're not", but let's hear it. Cue sound of blogger throwing down a gauntlet). So as we await the point at which the writers of <em>Doctor Who</em> have so little understanding of female characters that we end up with an episode in which a lonely Amy and Clara order a pizza and the Doctor delivers it, and they ask him if he can can fix something for them with that big sonic screwdriver of his....Happy 50th anniversary, everyone. </div>
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(for feedback <a href="https://twitter.com/RichardHCooper" target="_blank">@richardhcooper</a> )</div>
Richard Cooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18114063496425319491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240001912845478109.post-72281778939840174462013-03-07T18:39:00.000-08:002013-03-07T18:44:18.247-08:00Don't make literature your religion: a reader's plea<br />
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The stupidest thing ever said by man or woman was not said by George W Bush or Sarah Palin but by Joseph Brodsky in his <a href="http://www.nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/1987/brodsky-lecture.html" target="_blank">Nobel lecture</a>:<br />
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<strong><em>I'll just say that I believe - not empirically, alas, but only theoretically - that, for someone who has read a lot of Dickens, to shoot his like in the name of some idea is more problematic than for someone who has read no Dickens. And I am speaking precisely about reading Dickens, Sterne, Stendhal, Dostoevsky, Flaubert, Balzac, Melville, Proust, Musil, and so forth; that is, about literature, not literacy or education. A literate, educated person, to be sure, is fully capable, after reading this or that political treatise or tract, of killing his like, and even of experiencing, in so doing, a rapture of conviction. Lenin was literate, Stalin was literate, so was Hitler; as for Mao Zedong, he even wrote verse. What all these men had in common, though, was that their hit list was longer than their reading list.</em></strong><br />
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Good to know that so as long as we check the length of the lists we'll be alright. It's hard to see how Brodsky could have more greatly slandered those who don't read novels (which include so many of anyone's friends and relatives), but views like Brodsky's are widespread among the literary world, and always have been. As Terry Eagleton demonstrated in <em>Literary Theory: An Introduction</em>, the beginnings of literature as a field of study and literary criticism as a way of life were as a kind of replacement for religion, the rise of one coinciding with the decline in the other caused by scientific discovery and social change over the course of the nineteenth century and continuing into the early twentieth. Eagleton quotes from the inaugural lecture of George Gordon, an early Professor of English Literature at Oxford:<br />
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<strong><em>England is sick, and [...] English literature must save it. The churches (as I understand) having failed, and social remedies being slow, English literature has now a triple function: still, I suppose, to delight and instruct us, but also, and above all, to save our souls and heal the state.</em></strong><br />
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The link between religion and literature is rapture, or ecstasy. When you immerse yourself in a piece of art you adore, it creates the illusion that there is nothing else: how could anyone not feel the same way about this work? How could they not feel moved? The only explanation is that they are not fully human: there's something missing, something hollow about their lives; they can't be truly happy, even if they think they are. Kenneth Tynan famously wrote: "I doubt if I could love anyone who did not wish to see <em>Look Back in Anger</em>." Even Kingsley Amis, scourge of the highbrows and normally a good bullshit-detector, suffered a lapse when he wrote that "to say or imply that [Shakespeare] is not our greatest writer marks a second-rate person at best" (His son Martin Amis wrote "I agree", which is less surprising). It might make that person a second-rate literary critic, but that's it. Was Tolstoy - who wrote a famously ridiculous essay on the worthlessness of Shakespeare - really a second-rate human being? Or was he just wrong about Shakespeare?<br />
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The supreme irony of this is that it reveals art as something which makes people smaller, and diminishes their empathy, even though boosting both our imagination and our understanding of human beings is the very advantage the same people claim it has given them over non-readers.<br />
John Carey's books <em>The Intellectuals and the Masses</em> and <em>What Good are the Arts </em>have done sterling work exploring the history of this fallacy. He observes the obsession of literary intellectuals with the masses'<br />
diet and pallor - even George Orwell couldn't come to terms with tinned food - their fear of the spread of mass literacy and the corrupting and too easily-gratifying effects of popular entertainment and their unshakable believe that, as they felt they had been improved by art, then the masses must be too. He points to the ghastly piousness of those in the nineteenth century who believed their favourite works of art could "improve" the working classes, such as Charles Kingsley:<br />
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<strong><em>Pictures raise blessed thoughts in me - why not in you, my brother? Believe it, toil-worn worker, in spite of thy foul alley, thy crowded lodging, thy ill-fed children, thy thin, pale wife, believe it, thou too, and thine, will one day have </em>your<em> share of beauty. God makes you love beautiful things only because He intends hereafter to give you His fill of them. That pictured face on the wall is lovely - but lovelier still may the wife of thy bosom be when she meets thee on the resurrection morn! Those baby cherubs in the old Italian painting - how gracefully they flutter and sport among the soft clouds, full of rich young life and baby joy! - Yes, beautiful indeed, but just such a one is that pining, deformed child of thine, over whose death-cradle thou wast weeping a month ago; now a child-angel, whom thou shalt meet again, never to part.</em></strong><br />
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Fr and QD Leavis were probably the most prominent advocates for this position - applied to literature - in the post-war period. Carey - in a discussion of QD Leavis's <em>Fiction and the Reading Public</em> collected in his earlier book <em>Original Copy</em> - offers an excellent case study of how this led to an almost psychotic inability to comprehend their fellow human beings. He recounts how QD Leavis suggests:<br />
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<strong><em>if we wish to see what a mind warped by bestsellers us like, we shall find an "invaluable reference point" in the Gerty McDowell episode in Ulysses. "Such a life is not only crude, impoverished, and narrow, it is dangerous." It is, she declares, because such minds as Gerty's are among us that society is not "efficiently equipped for the business of living." This is certainly a remarkable procedure for a critic so opposed to escapism and to the substitution of literature for life. It is hardly what we should expect, either, when we take into account Mrs Leavis's constant warnings that literature ought to shock and disturb us rather than merely confirming our prejudices. Finding that the fictional Gerty McDowell accords gratifyingly with her own ideas about the mass audience, Mrs Leavis awards her the status of reality, and preaches about the danger to society Gerty represents, forgetting that Gerty is only a figment of a cultured imagination: an imagination, that is, representing the same educated minority as she belongs to herself.</em></strong><br />
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It's not for nothing that Clive James wrote of her husband's influence "Leavis was our brush with totalitarianism: we caught it as a mild fever instead of the full attack of meningitis" and that Carey in the piece cited describes her own voice as that of "a cultural dictator - and in that sense recognisably and ominously a voice of the thirties."<br />
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As for more recent examples I'd like to suggest a further case study for Professor Carey: <a href="http://blogs.sfu.ca/courses/spring2012/engl387/wp-content/uploads/2012/02/Why-are-Americans-Afraid-of-Dragons.docx">Ursula Le Guin's curiously detestable essay "Why Are Americans Afraid of Dragons</a>?" . It has that sickly evangelical tone present in the bookchat of everyone from the Leavises to Jeanette Winterson. Le Guin's words resembles Charles Kingsley's in their condescension and weary compassion towards those poor deluded people who don't appreciate the things she does:<br />
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<strong><em>"What's the good of it all,' he says. "dragons and hobbits and little green men - what's the use of it?"</em></strong><br />
<strong><em><br id="yui_3_7_2_17_1362569737254_88" /> The truest answer, unfortunately, he won't even listen to. He won't hear it. The truest answer is, "The use of it is to give you pleasure and delight."<br />
<br id="yui_3_7_2_17_1362569737254_90" /> I haven't got the time," he snaps, swallowing a Maalox pill for his ulcer and rushing off to the golf course.<br />
<br id="yui_3_7_2_17_1362569737254_92" />So we try the next-to-truest answer. It probably won't go down much better, but it must be said: "The use of imaginative fiction is to deepen your understanding of your world, and your fellow men, and your own feelings, and your destiny."<br />
<br id="yui_3_7_2_17_1362569737254_94" /> To which I fear he will retort, "Look, I got a raise last year, and I'm giving my family the best of everything, we've got two cars and a Color tv. I understand enough of this world!"<br />
<br id="yui_3_7_2_17_1362569737254_96" /> And he is right, unanswerably right, if that is what he wants, and all he wants.</em></strong><strong><em>The kind of thing you learn from reading about the problems of a hobbit who is trying to drop a magic ring into an imaginary volcano has very little to do with your social status, or material status, or income. Indeed, if there is any relationship, it is a negative one. There is an inverse correlation between fantasy and money. That is a law, known to economists as Le Guin's law. If you want a striking example of Le Guin's law, just give a lift to one of those people along the roads who own nothing but a backpack, a guitar, a fine head of hair, a smile, and a thumb. Time and again, you will find that these waifs have read</em> The Lord of the Rings<em> - some of them can practically recite it. But now take Aristotle Onassis, or J.Paul Getty: could you believe that these men ever had anything to do, at any stage, under any circumstances, with a hobbit?<br id="yui_3_7_2_17_1362569737254_100" />But, to carry my example a little further, and out of the realm of economics, did you ever notice how very gloomy Mr Onassis and Mr Getty and all</em></strong> <strong><em>those billionaires look in their photographs? They have this strange, pinched look, as if they were hungry. As If they were hungry for something, as if they had lost something and were trying to think where it could be, or perhaps what it could be, what it was they've lost.<br id="yui_3_7_2_17_1362569737254_102" />Could it be their childhood?</em></strong><br />
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The tone here is one of ecclesiastical regret - he's not going to like this but I fear I must tell him - with no awareness of the lunacy of the idea she knows more about someone's happiness than he does. When Ursula Le Guin is trying to get you to buy a subscription to <em>The Watchtower</em>, or at least a copy of <em>The Dispossessed</em>, I think you'd be wise to play Golf. It's not so different from Carey's example in <em>What Are The Arts</em>? of the words of Lord Justice Coleridge in 1857, who argued that the lower classes needed art "to purify their tastes and wean them from polluting and debasing habits."' Le Guin talks about the importance of understanding her fellow men yet can't imagine that someone who doesn't read fantasy would be happy. She assumes he will be aggressive and ulcered (that obsession with the masses' physical deterioration remains). The all-encompassing rapture leads to only one possibility: they're not happy even if they think they are. You can't get more religious than that.<br />
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Then there's the hatred of the furniture of ordinary people's lives, and of their working for a living (those withering references to Maalox, mortgages, <span style="background-color: yellow;">TV</span> and golf). Le Guin reminds us that:<br />
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<strong><em>In the old, truly Puritan days, the only permitted reading was the Bible. Nowadays, with our secular Puritanism, the man who refuses to read novels because it's unmanly to do so, or because they aren't true, will most likely end up watching bloody detective thrillers on the television, or reading hack Westerns or sports stories, or going in for pornography, from Playboy on down.</em></strong><br />
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There's a touch of wistfulness there in the reference to the past : certainly Le Guin shows far more disgust at the freedom to watch "bloody detective thrillers" than the earlier lack of freedom to read anything other than a single religious tract.<br />
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At one point Le Guin says "Now what about our man's wife?". Our man doesn't have a wife because he doesn't exist: he's a phantom conjured up by Le Guin's own contempt for those that don't admire the things she does, her sense of superiority and her zealous defensiveness towards her own work. This is an argument with an empty chair. Nevertheless, Le Guin continues:<br />
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<strong><em>She probably wasn't required to squelch her private imagination in order to play her expected role in life, but she hasn't been trained to discipline it, either. She is allowed to read novels, and even fantasies. But, lacking training and encouragement, her fancy is likely to glom on to very sickly fodder, such things as soap operas, and "true romances," and nursy novels, and historico-sentimental novels, and all the rest of the baloney ground out to replace genuine imaginative works by the artistic sweatshops of a society that is profoundly distrustful of the uses of the imagination.</em></strong><br />
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There's a nasty little touch of snobbery in the assumption that in non-writerly households like these the husband will be the one who "allows" her to read novels. As for the sweatshop comment, one almost admires Le Guin's audacity in turning people who like her stuff and indeed buy her product into heroes protecting the imagination, and those who don't buy her books into enemies of that noble cause.The irony of Le Guin's essay is just how out of touch she is with her fellow human beings: fantasy has made her contemptuous rather than empathetic, complacent rather than thoughtful, and certain that he she knows the little there is to know about these wretched non-readers rather than curious about them.<br />
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Roald Dahl's children's novel <em>Matilda</em> dramatises this view (with scenes so snobbish the late Puffin editor Kaye Webb was reportedly reduced to tears at having to publish it). The wickedness of Mr and Mrs Wormwood, Matilda's demonised parents, is explicitly and repeatedly put down to their lack of interest in reading. "All the reading she had done had given her a view of life that they had never seen. If only they would read a little Dickens or Kipling they would soon discover there was more to life than cheating people and watching television," thinks Matilda. We saw in Le Guin's essay how the newspapers that terrified the 30s generation and the cinema that horrified DH Lawrence and Leavis had been replaced with television (which, as Le Guin reminded us, is now a substitute for the Bible). Here, the tinned food that horrified Orwell and Eliot is replaced with TV dinners, and where Le Guin has Golf, Dahl has bingo. Dahl's sneering at Mrs Wormwood's addiction to soap operas is strikingly similar to "our man's wife" in Le Guin's piece. To hate a soap opera is the sign of a good critic, but to hate someone for watching one is the sign of a bigot. This tension peaks when Mr Wormwood returns home after a taxing day selling second-hand cars (filled with sawdust and with rigged speedometers, naturally) and stares with hatred at Matilda reading a book. He tries to stop this by putting on the television, and when she ignores it he grabs her book and rips it to pieces:<br />
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<strong><em>She kept right on reading, and for some reason this infuriated her father. Perhaps his anger was intensified because he saw her getting pleasure from something that was beyond his reach. [...] There seemed little doubt that the man felt some kind of jealousy. How dare she, he seemed to be saying with each rip of a page, how dare she enjoy reading books when he couldn't? How dare she?</em></strong><br />
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As with Le Guin's comments about how unhappy Onassis and Getty look, we see the book-zealot's view that those who don't like books must be very unhappy, even if they think they aren't. The rapture reading fills them with makes the possibility of happiness existing anywhere else impossible for them to consider.<br />
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When Matilda's beloved teacher Miss Honey visits the Wormwoods, Dahl descends into full-on class hatred. The belief that the working class are frightened of education is dominant here, as is the Wormwoods' physical repulsiveness, their addiction to the TV and their hatred of books. Dahl is unashamed in making Miss Honey address them as their educator, too: <br />
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<strong><em>"University?" Mr Wormwood shouted, bouncing up in his chair. "Who wants to go to university for heaven's sake! All they learn there is bad habits!"<br id="yui_3_7_2_17_1362569737254_137" />That is not true," Miss Honey said. "If you had a heart attack this minute and had to call a doctor, that doctor would be a university graduate. If you got sued for selling someone a rotten second-hand car, you'd have to get a lawyer and he'd be a university graduate, too. Do not despise clever people, Mr Wormwood. But I can see we're not going to agree.</em></strong><br />
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Miss Honey, like Le Guin trying to grab Our Man's attention before he disappears to play golf, is a weary pilgrim, trying to convert them to the church of literature.<br />
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Unlike Le Guin, though, I don't think Dahl's more reactionary books will temporarily shape their child readers into something resembling the author. <a href="http://archive.hbook.com/magazine/letters/apr73.asp" target="_blank">In a letter to <em>The Horn Book</em></a> regarding <em>Charlie and the Chocolate Factory</em>, Le Guin recounts how her young daughter went from "amiable" to "quite nasty" as she read the book. Quite a high - if simplistic - claim for the power of literature to change people, but an ungenerous view of readers. The critic of Roald Dahl must always balance - as <a href="http://www.lrb.co.uk/v16/n08/jenny-diski/stinker" target="_blank">Jenny Diski</a> and <a href="http://www.lrb.co.uk/v03/n18/michael-irwin/sweet-porn" target="_blank">Michael Irwin</a> do more skillfully - the dislike of the adult reader with the enjoyment of the child reader, as Dahl's work is a particularly striking example of a reading experience that changes drastically as one grows out of one stage into the next (the Narnia books, too, are harmless when you're young, but obnoxious as one ages: it's funny how some books get more right-wing when you get older). Today, I find <em>Matilda</em> a dislikeable and compromised book, but as a child I would frequently reread it. Child readers can be left to reach these conclusions for themselves as both they and their reading experiences grow<br />
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We can still see the attitudes that produced the Wormwoods and "our man" in Phillip Hensher's execrable claim that "<a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/culture/2012/mar/30/philip-hensher-life-in-writing" target="_blank">I think you can tell, when you meet someone, whether they read novels or not. There is some little hollowness if they don't</a>", in Harold Bloom's views on children who read Harry Potter (which are even less researched than <em>Fiction and the Reading Public</em> - "<a href="http://www.eurozine.com/articles/2005-10-07-bloom-en.html" target="_blank">Their eyes simply scan the page. Then they turn to the next page. Their minds are deadened by cliches</a>" ), and in almost everything Howard Jacobson says. This, as anyone familiar with this blog will know, is not to say I don't believe that one's dislike of a particular book should be vociferously expressed, merely that is has nothing to do with whether someone else chooses to read it. Despite what Jacobson and Bloom tell you, harsh literary criticism is not a disagreement with anyone who enjoyed reading that particular book. I'd argue strenuously with anyone who claimed there was any literary merit in Mills and Boon (let alone Tony Parsons or Jodi Picoult) but anyone who directly sneers at someone for reading one is a despicable human being. I wholeheartedly endorse Adam Mars Jones's <a href="http://m.guardian.co.uk/books/2006/oct/22/stephenking.sciencefictionfantasyandhorror" target="_blank">superb takedown</a> of Stephen King just as I admire <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2003/07/07/opinion/harry-potter-and-the-childish-adult.html" target="_blank">AS Byatt's piece</a> pointing out that JK Rowling does not write the true heady wine of fantasy, but my views on King and Rowling's limitations do not put me at odds with anyone who enjoys their books. A typically <a href="http://www.thejc.com/arts/arts-interviews/interview-howard-jacobson" target="_blank">odious anecdote from Howard Jacobson</a> sees him describe having dinner with a Rabbi, who tells him that he took the family to see Chitty Chitty Bang Bang: "I wanted to kill him! It's the one thing I can't forgive Jews for - philistinism." He elaborates on this anecdote in <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/jason-holmes/howard-jacobson-a-serious_b_950090.html" target="_blank">another interview</a>: <br />
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<strong><em>I just couldn't sit still.</em> Chitty Chitty Bang Bang<em>? It's total crap! Then I looked at his shelves and saw all these holy books and at the end, a Harry Potter! I said "You're a Jewish scholar! Where's the Saul Bellow? Where's the Philip Roth? Where's the Me?" We as Jews are people of the Book! So Rabbi! Read a book!'</em></strong><br />
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I loathe this piece of sociopathic behaviour, and I say this as someone who would probably loathe<em> Chitty Chitty Bang Bang</em> almost as much if he saw it (Note also how the author's own work becomes a holy text proffered <em>Watchtower</em> style: even Le Guin didn't directly suggest that <em>A Wizard of Earthsea</em> was the kind of fantasy "our man" should be reading. And let's not get started on the idiocy of Jacobson placing himself in Roth and Bellow's league). A literary opinion is where you put forth your own response to a work. What's chilling about Jacobson and Bloom is that they wish their responses to replace all others: they're not putting forward an argument, they expect others to already have it. Again, one can't ignore the supreme irony here: that someone who can't even imagine the point of view of someone enjoying <em>Chitty Chitty Bang Bang</em> should write novels set in the inside of other people's heads, and believe that literature has enriched their imagination (Jacobson also has his <a href="http://m.guardian.co.uk/books/2012/oct/05/howard-jacobson-bad-boys-books" target="_blank">own variation</a> of Brodsky's idiotic thesis: "When were you last mugged on the Underground by someone carrying Middlemarch in his pocket?"). Jacobson is an unashamed Leavisite who studied under the man himself at Cambridge, and his latest novel, <em>Zoo Time</em>, dramatises these prejudices (that is, crudely hammers them into the shape of fiction rather than right-wing columns for the <em>Independent</em>, just as his last novel <em>The Finkler Question </em>did.) When he appeared on Radio 3's <em>Night Waves</em> to discuss the book, the excellent interviewer Philip Dodd compared <em>Zoo Time</em> to the other Leavis's aforementioned <em>Fiction and the Reading Public</em>, but I would disagree with Jacobson's response - "You could not have paid me a greater compliment." One thing the books have in common is a lack of interest in their target, a failure to know their enemy. Carey points out in <em>Original Copy</em> that:<br />
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<em><strong>Mrs Leavis did send out her questionnaires to authors, but her ideas about readers are not derived from any corresponding sampling or survey. There is no realistic enquiry into the conditions of life and leisure, into the mental and emotional habits, of the mass audience upon which she pronounces with such confidence. So far as we can see, she never, in the course of her investigations, spoke to a member of the reading public.</strong></em><br />
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Jacobson falls back on obsolete references like Richard and Judy, and predictable targets like "woman's reading groups", plus buzz-words like "3-for-2" or "the graphic novel" which are apparently bad in some half-assed "less is more" sense. Just as Mrs Leavis looked back to an "organic" pre-mass media community of readers which never existed, so Jacobson looks back to a time when books like <em>Ulysses</em> were taken more seriously, even though as Edmund Gordon <a href="http://m.guardian.co.uk/books/2012/sep/30/howard-jacobson-zoo-time-review" target="_blank">pointed out</a> in a review for <em>The Observer</em>:<br />
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<strong><em>It's unclear quite when the golden age of reading that [Jacobson's protagonist Guy] Ableman pines for is meant to have occurred, but judging from his frequent allusions to Joseph Conrad, Henry James, James Joyce and Henry Miller, he'd situate it at least partially during the modernist period. Those were certainly great years for literature, but were they really so different in terms of literature's reception? Conrad's Nostromo and James's The Golden Bowl were both published in 1904, and it's true that they found contemporary readers, but Marie Corelli published two schlock bestsellers the same year, and these were incomparably more popular. Joyce's Ulysses and Miller's Tropic of Cancer, meanwhile, far from securing for their authors the kind of universal esteem denied to Jacobson and his contemporaries, were banned for several years after they were written. So much for the good old days.<br id="yui_3_7_2_17_1362569737254_176" />The same goes for Ableman's horror of recent technological innovations such as ebooks and Twitter. In the past hundred years, the advent of mass-market paperbacks, radio, film and television have all been viewed as dooming the novel. For as long as literary culture has existed, there have been warnings of its imminent demise. It's a deeply reactionary attitude. </em></strong><br />
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Indeed, Jacobson's beloved teacher Leavis was once warned by police after referring to <em>Ulysses</em> in his lectures. Jacobson lives in an age where a copy can be found in any shop, and far more pieces are written in defence of modernist or avant-garde fiction in the literary supplements than were thinkable in the days of Jacobson's novelistic heroes. Radio 4 recently marked Bloomsday with a series of programmes including a full-length dramatisation of <em>Ulysses</em>. By contrast, when Joyce died, at the height of what Orwell called "the hunting of the highbrow"', the <em>Times</em> wouldn't even print TS Eliot's letter of protest at their stingy obituary. Had Jacobson been alive in Henry James's day, he would have been exasperated by the attention paid to Henry James's friend George Du Maurier's <em>Trillby</em> - which achieved popular success James only dreamt of - and no doubt bemoaned the public's preference for Bennett and Wells to James and Lawrence, while struggling to smuggle contraband copies of Henry Miller books into the country.<br />
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In <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/theobserver/2012/sep/09/howard-jacobson-zoo-time-interview" target="_blank">another interview</a> discussing the book, Jacobson offered the following opinion, identical to Ableman's in the book:<br />
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<strong><em>I was sitting in the American Embassy a while back, trying to get a visa, and every woman in the room was reading the vampire series – you know, the one with the black cover and the bit of blood. Now people are reading soft porn! What happened to the fun of reading a good book? There are people who, when they say they prefer Henry James to Fifty Shades of Grey, they do actually mean that...</em></strong><br />
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This reminds me of the the Sally Ann test for autism, which is to show a child two dolls, Sally and Anne, with a basket and a box. Sally puts a marble in the basket and leaves, and Anne removes it and places it in the box. Sally returns, and the question put to the child is this: where will Sally look for the marble? The idea is that the child with autism will simply say the box because of their failure of empathy: he or she acts on what they know rather than seeing it from Sally's point of view. The limited empathy of Howard Jacobson in the above passage, or when he mutters "you should be ashamed" when he spots someone reading Harry Potter on a train leads him to the same brick wall: he doesn't like reading those books, so how could anyone else? As Carey writes of QD Leavis: "she assumes that the literary works she prefers are simply superior, and to support this shows that they possess the qualities she likes. The argument is circular."<br />
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Jacobson and Bloom have both argued that reading Rowling or Tolkien doesn't lead a child to read anything else, but the list of readers whose experiences refute this is infinite. We could list EM Forster starting with the Swiss Family Robinson, Clive James starting with Erle Stanley Gardner and ending up learning Russian because he "could no longer bear not to know something about how Pushkin sounded” and any number of readers who go from Fleming to Le Carre, from Le Carre to Graham Greene and from Graham Greene to Joseph Conrad. Starting with garbage and ending up with Proust is the experience of most literary intellectuals, but the rapture of literature can close minds to this self-evident fact.The possibility of someone else reading this and getting something from it does not exist, just as the possibility of someone reading Dickens and Kipling without it changing their worldview, of someone reading Dickens and not finding it less problematic to shoot people, of someone who doesn't read fantasy not becoming dull or bad-tempered, of someone watching soap operas or "bloody detective thrillers" and not becoming corrupted, of people reading <em>Middlemarch</em> and mugging someone or of an intelligent man not owning any copies of Howard Jacobson novels on his shelves can not possibly exist. The rapture is all.<br />
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Ian McEwan's musings on this are more subtly irksome, representing the next stage in the evolution of this phobia. "It seemed almost blasphemous to write about someone who doesn't think <em>Anna Karenina</em> is much cop," ruminated McEwan in an interview on the writing of <em>Saturday</em>, a novel about a neurosurgeon. It should be taken for granted, and not just by novelists. On <em>The South Bank Show</em> around the same time McEwan graciously acknowledged that he now realised that people like his parents who didn't read literature were "not asleep" after all, as if this were a rites of passage rather than an admission of immense stupidity and snobbery. Henry Perowne, the protagonist of <em>Saturday</em>, is a demonstration of this "people who don't read are not inferior"' thesis, and while his creator's intentions may be more benevolent than Dahl's towards the Wormwoods, Le Guin's towards "our man" or Mrs Leavis's towards her interpretation of Gerty, he's just as bogus a figure. Le <span style="background-color: yellow;">Guin </span>sneers at her test subject for his drinking, taking pills and golfing, McEwan congratulate his on his ability to make a fish stew and play squash, but both are phantom lab rats, fictional characters created to prove delusional or condescending hypotheses. <br />
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Having discussed what will happen to you if you don't read novels, we should consider the other side of the writers-as-saints argument: what can happen if you do read and write them, specifically the belief that literature has power, and that those who wield it are helping to improve the world. No-one who has read a word of George Orwell or James Baldwin could deny that literature has political power, of course, but fetishising "storytelling" is a more dubious prospect, as Oscar Wilde knew when he warned "all art is quite useless." Two refreshing counter-opinions to the idea of the storyteller as political hero are worth considering here.<br />
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One is from the writer Tim Parks in a review of Salman Rushdie's <em>The Ground Beneath Her Feet</em>, collected in his book <em>Hell and Back:</em><br />
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<strong><em>In</em> Haroun [and the Sea of Stories], <em>Rushdie posits a world where all the stories there are flow together in beautiful harmony in one great ocean. An evil 'cultmaster' wishes to destroy this ocean. Novelist and critic Hilary Mantel glosses the idea appreciatively thus: "this tyrant hates stories because he aims to rule the world, and fiction creates an alternative world, a multiplicity of worlds he can never command." In this view of things - almost a critical orthodoxy these days - storytelling is seen as inherently liberal in so far as it offers alternatives to some outside-the-story reality. The story is thus understood as of its nature a hybrid on the factual world we know, its alternatives affording imaginative escape from that world's political powers.<br id="yui_3_7_2_17_1362569737254_203" /> But is this the case? Do stories flow together in tolerant harmony distinct from our "factual" world? Aren't they rather, with their rival visions, in urgent conflict with each other to establish what the nature of our world is, what the "facts" really are? Aren't evil "cultmasters" themselves supported by elaborate stories within the terms of which they do not consider themselves evil at all? Far from objecting to stories in general (usually they will be content to have people read innocuous tales that have nothing to do with anything), don't they rather object to those particular stories that undermine their own?<br id="yui_3_7_2_17_1362569737254_205" />[...] Perhaps if one begins to feel that it is enough to write fiction to be engaged on the right side of some global moral battle and indeed to "end up telling the truth", then there is a risk of growing careless.</em></strong><br />
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He returns to this argument in <a href="http://www.nybooks.com/blogs/nyrblog/2012/mar/26/do-we-need-stories/" target="_blank">a piece</a> for <em>The New York Review of Books</em> -<br />
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<strong><em>Far from flowing together in a harmonious ecology, stories tend to be in constant competition with each other. Far from imposing silence, cults, religions, and ideologies of all kinds have their own noisy stories to tell. Christian fundamentalism with its virgin birth, miracles, exorcisms, and angels boasts a rich narrative flora; if we toss into the mix the Catholic saints and their colorful martyrdoms we can hardly complain that the censorship and repression of the Inquisition resulted in story-less silence.</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>Rather the problem is that preacher and polemicist want us to accept just one, mutually exclusive set of stories, one vision, which we must believe is true. And many people are happy to do this. Once they’ve signed up to a Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, or even liberal pluralist narrative it’s unlikely they’ll go out of their way to research competing accounts of the world. People tend to use stories of whatever kind to bolster their beliefs, not to question them.</em></strong><br />
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The <a href="http://m.guardian.co.uk/world/2002/mar/17/september11.terrorism" target="_blank">second viewpoint</a> worth citing here is presumably from Chris Morris (it's from a piece co-authored by Morris and Arnando Ianuuci, but its anger suggests Morris). The subject is the aftermath of 9/11:<br />
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<strong><em>Hosting the film Baftas, Stephen Fry delivers an unspeakably trite and fucked-up heap of shit urging film makers to 'keep telling stories' in the face of world events - as if films make any fucking difference to anything, least of all the advancement of peace, as if in fact they don't more often promote, through piss like Black Hawk Down, the very surfeit of self-regarding superiority that makes the American West so unpopular in the first place. Naturally the audience of actors and industry luvvies spontaneously applaud like the blinkered, solipsistic, self-congratulating cunts they are.</em></strong><br />
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Both raise the point that not only is the idea that by writing and reading stories we are helping in the fight against evil (which Ray Bradbury's <em>Fahrenheit 451</em>, a book particularly vulnerable to Parks's argument with its deeply unconvincing totalitarian state that bans books in general but doesn't produce any written propaganda of its own, must take a lot of the blame for), hubristic and insularly self-congratulatory, but that one could make as strong an argument for the negative political repercussions of stories as for the positive ones. More recently, Pankaj Mishra <a href="http://m.guardian.co.uk/books/2012/sep/18/joseph-anton-salman-rushdie-review" target="_blank">has quoted</a> Parks's argument in a sharp review of Rushdie's memoir <em>Joseph Anton</em> for <em>The Guardian</em>:<br />
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<strong><em>Certainly, Rushdie's neat oppositions between the secular and the religious, the light and the dark, and rational literary elites and irrational masses do not clarify the great disorder of the contemporary world. They belong to an intellectually simpler time, when non-western societies, politically insignificant and little-known, could be judged solely by their success or failure in following the great example of the secular-humanist west; and writing literary fiction could seem enough to make one feel, as Tim Parks wrote in a review of Rushdie's novel The Ground Beneath Her Feet, "engaged on the right side of some global moral and political battle".<br id="yui_3_7_2_17_1362569737254_233" />Indeed, such complacencies of imperial intellectual cultures were what Rushdie had bravely attacked in his brilliant early phase. "Works of art, even works of entertainment," he had pointed out in 1984, "do not come into being in a social and political vacuum; and … the way they operate in a society cannot be separated from politics, from history. For every text, a context." </em></strong><br />
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What Parks, Morris and Mishra point to is the importance of not allowing our love of western storytelling to make us feel superior to other cultures, in the same way that Le Guin and Dahl feel that those who don't read are spiritually undernourished (those who have allowed their imaginations to degenerate into "wild and weedy shapes," to use Le Guin's Gissingesque phrase).<br />
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Where the whiff of this peculiar strain of fundamentalist zeal regarding literature has been most detectable has been in the troubling attitude of Rushdie and Christopher Hitchens towards the implications of the murder of Rushdie's Japanese translator Hitoshi Igarashi and the attempts on the lives of his Italian translator Ettore Capriolo, Norwegian publisher William Nygaard and Turkish translator Aziz Nesin (which resulted in the Sivas massacre) due to the fatwa upon Rushdie for <em>The Satanic Verses</em>. In 1997 (after all of these events), in an exchange of letters with Rushdie and Hitchens in <em>The Guardian</em>, John Le Carre <a href="http://www.rjgeib.com/thoughts/burning/le-carre-vs-rushdie.html" target="_blank">wrote</a> that:<br />
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<strong><em>when it came to the further exploitation of Rushdie's work in paperback form, I was more concerned about the girl at Penguin books who might get her hands blown off in the mailroom than I was about Rushdie's royalties. Anyone who had wished to read the book by then had ample access to it.</em></strong><br />
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Rushdie and Hitchens's answers to this were unsatisfactory. Rushdie replied:<br />
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<strong><em>But it is precisely these people, my novel's publishers in some thirty countries, together with the staff of bookshops, who have most passionately supported and defended my right to publish. It is ignoble of le Carré to use them as an argument for censorship when they have so courageously stood up for freedom.</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
Hitchens wrote:<br />
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<strong><em>May we take it, then, that he would have had no objection if The Satanic Verses had been written and published for free and distributed gratis from unattended stalls? This might have at least satisfied those who appear to believe that the defense of free expression should be free of cost and free of risk.<br id="yui_3_7_2_17_1362569737254_256" /> As it happens, no mailroom girls have been injured in the course of eight years' defiance of the fatwah. And when the nervous book chains of North America briefly did withdraw The Satanic Verses on dubious grounds of "security," it was their staff unions who protested and who volunteered to stand next to plate-glass windows in upholding the reader's right to buy and peruse any book. In le Carré's eyes, their brave decision was taken in "safety" and was moreover blasphemous towards a great religion!</em></strong><br />
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Neither of these replies answers Le Carre's point, which is: should we put those people's lives at risk? To do so is to turn literature into fundamentalism.<br />
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Zoe Heller, in <a href="http://www.nybooks.com/articles/archives/2012/dec/20/salman-rushdie-case/?pagination=false" target="_blank">her review</a> of Rushdie's memoir Joseph Anton, took up this neglected point:<br />
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<strong><em>Peter Mayer, head of Penguin, and Sonny Mehta, at Knopf, published the hardback editions of The Satanic Verses, but equivocated over and finally backed out from publishing the paperback. That both of them had responsibility for the safety of large staffs—men and women who were included in the terms of the fatwa, but who did not have the benefit of around-the-clock police protection—does not strike Rushdie as a sufficient justification for their decisions and he has much comic sport with what he regards as their “spineless” conduct.<br id="yui_3_7_2_17_1362569737254_269" /><br id="yui_3_7_2_17_1362569737254_270" />Robert Gottlieb, the former editor in chief at Knopf, with whom Rushdie published Midnight’s Children, is also chastised for having once suggested that Rushdie would not have written his book if he had known it was “going to kill people.” Rushdie was so disgusted by this comment, he tells us, that he never spoke to Gottlieb again.<br id="yui_3_7_2_17_1362569737254_272" /><br id="yui_3_7_2_17_1362569737254_273" />Readers will differ in their opinions of whether the free speech represented by The Satanic Verses paperback was worth upholding at any cost. But even those who take Rushdie’s side on this will be hard pressed to match his scorn for the opposing point of view. By the time the Rushdie Affair was over, it had resulted in the deaths of more than fifty people. The questions that Mayer and Mehta and Gottlieb raised about the wisdom and the morality of continuing to publish in such circumstances seemed then, and seem now, perfectly reasonable and humane.</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
It is troubling that this point has been seldom made. The belief in freedom of artistic expression has, in Rushdie and Hitchens's words, a dangerous zeal, which seems to be privileged over lives. Indeed, since the Rushdie affair, the lines of the battle have been blurred by a move towards the very Muslim-baiting that Rushdie was unfairly accused of. To make a distinction here, it's important to remember that <em>The Satanic Verses</em>, <em>The Life of Brian</em>, the film version of <em>Brick Lane</em>, <em>Jerry Springer The Opera</em> and the play <em>Behzti</em> were - regardless of their high or low quality - artistic works that were automatically misinterpreted and attacked by fundamentalists: to say that they are offensive is to side with those bigots, which is why Shirley Williams's <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RcQ2XXfw_Mw&feature=youtube_gdata_player" target="_blank">assumption</a> on <em>Question Time</em> that Rushdie had "deeply offended Muslims in a very powerful way" was disgraceful, sweeping aside all Muslims that have defended the book in favour of the fundamentalists, and why I was rather glad that Hitchens was there at the time, admirably demolishing Williams in his very best tradition. The cartoons in the Danish newspaper <em>Jyllands Posten</em> and the film <em>The Innocence of Muslims</em>, however, are very different propositions, no better than the moronic pastor Terry Jones's determination to burn the Quran. It's no more a restriction on "free speech" to censor these than it is to censor anti-semitic pamphlets or images of golliwog-style figures (which we rightly do). The audacity of the writer, satirist or filmmaker must be fought for in the face of intolerant monotheisim, but it must still be remembered that whoever produces a creative work is not automatically right. Literature doesn't by itself put us on the side of the just.<br />
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Next time you are moved by your favourite work of literature, try to imagine someone who doesn't like it (because millions exist.) If you can imagine someone who's happy, free of ulcers, remembers their childhood, has no hollowness in their voice and is not second-rate, than perhaps literature has made you wiser after all. <br />
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<br />Richard Cooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18114063496425319491noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240001912845478109.post-55110268779492982192013-02-01T18:44:00.004-08:002014-05-22T08:47:09.302-07:00Breaking Bad: a post-traumatic masterpiece<br />
<strong><em><u>(THIS CONTAINS MAJOR SPOILERS FOR ALL FOUR SEASONS OF BREAKING BAD, AND SOME FOR SEASON FOUR OF THE WIRE, SEASON SIX OF THE SOPRANOS AND SEASON THREE OF TORCHWOOD)</u></em></strong><br />
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<em>Breaking Bad</em> is a show that will put you through hell, but you'll never want to stop watching it. Though of us who loved Bryan Cranston in<em> Malcolm in the Middle</em> and as Tim Whately in <em>Seinfeld</em> are delighted that he's not only found a vehicle that demonstrates his claim to be one of the best actors in the world, but that such a vehicle should be the greatest drama series ever made. Anyone else should just be stunned that after someone achieved the impossible and made a TV series even better than <em>The Sopranos</em>, someone has now gone one further and made a TV series even better than <em>The Wire</em>.<br />
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Think of <em>Breaking Bad</em>, and you might think of that remarkable scene in series one where a man with terminal cancer pleads with his family not to have to undergo chemotherapy so that he won't spend his last days unable to enjoy a meal, or you may think of the ferocious shootout between a DEA Agent and two monolithic Cartel enforcers. Like <em>The Wire</em>, <em>Breaking Bad</em> demonstrates that TV drama (at least when it's done well - so much potential is wasted here) has inherited the nineteenth century novel's ability to combine the finest intimate psychological detail with a vast social and political canvas, exploring a whole society from domestic living rooms to crackdens<br />
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<br />
Walter White, a brilliant Nobel-winning chemist reduced to working as a high school science teacher, with a pregnant wife and a son with cerebral palsy, is diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. This sounds rather a depressing set-up for a drama series, and it is, but things get much worse. Walt's brother-in-law Hank is a DEA agent. Accompanying him on an excursion, Walt recognises a young dealer escaping Hank's clutches: it's a former pupil of his, Jesse Pinkman. He has a proposition for Jesse: they'll cook some better quality Crystal Meth together. They clash with other drug dealers, find a ruthless kingpin prepared to to buy their product, and try to keep one step ahead of the DEA. Then things get worse.<br />
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<em>Breaking Bad</em>'s genius lies partly in its visual brilliance, which creates a remarkable post-traumatic aesthetic. Its pre-credits sequences - even by themselves better than anything else on television - give us images that arrest and frighten us, but are often devoid of dialogue, and make great use of sound effects. The eerie opening of the second episode of season two is a magnificent example. We hear a strange mechanical grinding, we see shell casings, blood and glass fragments strewn across the ground, and then we see the source of the uncanny noise: a car with its "lowjack" on leaping up and down like a maddened dog. The explosive climax to this episode will show us who fired the bullets, whose car it is, where the glass came from and how the lowjack came to be left on, but for now the <em>Breaking Bad</em> viewer is left like those who experience violence or trauma in real life.<br />
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The terrifying sequence that opens several episodes in the second season stays with you for a long time. We see a floating eyeball in a swimming pool, and though we are quickly shown it belongs to a cuddly toy, this, as Stephen King rightly noted in his piece on the show for <em>Entertainment Weekly</em> is somehow much creepier than a human eye. We see bodies under tarpaulins. Isn't that Walt's swimming pool? Could that be Walt and Jesse under the tarpaulins?<br />
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As with Cormac McCarthy's work, evil is personified in this world. As Tuco, Raymond Cruz takes a potentially cliched role - the psychotic druglord capable of snapping at any time - and makes it real. The fatal drug-crazed beating he inflicts upon one of his underlings at the end of season one is a familiar sight from gangster films, but here it feels horribly raw, from the vile sight of his bloodied knuckles to the ferocious roar of triumph he utters, to the bathos of his driving back and demanding Walt and Jesse's help in reviving the dead man. Along with the killing of Mike's dad in <em>The Wire</em>'s fourth season, it's the most disturbing act of violence ever seen on television. Tuco's grandfather, who communicates by a bell on his wheelchairs (one ring for yes, none for no), is one of tv's greatest villains. We know that we'll be hearing that bell again come Armageddon. The image of Tuco's cousins crawling across their bellies to a shrine of Walt, or one of them crawling towards Walt in his hospital room, his stumps smearing a trail of blood behind him, drown out all thought and just demand to be watched, like the images in McCarthy or Ballard's work (even McCarthy might get nightmares from the severed head mounted on a tortoise in series 2). Gus (Giancarlo Esposito) is more frightening than any Bond or Batman villain: if Tuco is mindless thuggery at its most horribly believable, than Gus represents wickedness at its most intelligent, adaptable and calculated. His chief heavy Mike (Jonathan Banks) on the other hand, is a more ambivalent figure, allowed a monologue of lasting moral power when he is trying to persuade Walt to give up on Jessie in the penultimate episode of season 3:<br />
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<strong><em>I used to be a beat cop a long time ago. And I'd get called called out on domestic disputes all the time [...] but there was this one guy, this one piece of shit I will never forget [...] big boy 270, 280 - but his wife - or whatever she was - his lady - was real small like a bird - wrists like little branches. Anyway, my partner and I get called out there every weekend, and one of would pull her aside and say "Come on, tonight's he night we press charges." and this wasn't one of those "deep down he loves me" setups. We got a lot of those, but not this. This girl was scared. She wasn't gonna cross him. No way, no how. Nothing we could do but pass him to the EMT's, put him in a car, drive him downtown, throw him in a drunk tank. He sleeps it off, next morning, out he goes. Back home. But one night, my partner's out sick, and it's just me. And the call comes in and it's the usual crap - he broke her nose in the shower, that kind of thing. So I cuff him, put him in the car and away we go. Only that night, we're driving into town...and this sideways asshole is in my back seat humming "Danny boy"...and it just rubbed me wrong. So instead of left, I go right, out into nowhere. And I kneel him down and put my revolver into his mouth. And I told him "This is it. This is how it ends." And he's crying, going to the bathroom all over himself, swearing to God he's gonna leave her alone, screaming - as much as you can with a gun in your mouth. And I told him to be quiet - that I needed to think about what I was going to do here. And of course, he got quiet, goes still and real quiet, like a dog waiting for dinner scraps. Then we just stood there for a while. Me, acting like I'm thinking things over, and Prince Charming kneeling in the dirt with shit in his pants. And After a few minutes I took the gun out of his mouth. And I say "So help me, if you ever touch her again I will such and such and such and such and blah, blah, blah, blah. [...] Just trying to do the right thing. But two weeks later he killed her. Of course. Caved her head in with the base of a Wearing blender. We got there, there was so much blood, you could taste the metal. Moral of the story is, I chose a half measure when I should have gone all the way. I won't ever make that mistake again</em></strong><br />
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In this monologue, a menacing thug becomes a human being, with a life of violence and conflict behind him, capable of wisdom and compassion as well as brutality. We know this is a man putting forward the case for murder, yet we grasp the complexity of not only his viewpoint but of his emotional makeup, and see how how inevitable it is that he would reach such a conclusion. It is impossible to get a firm grip on anyone in <em>Breaking Bad</em> - they will always surprise you - and yet they never fail to convince you.<br />
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Aaron Paul's remarkable performance as Jesse sees him create a human being whose development is never predictable, and yet always entirely believable. He has the familiar televisual qualities of a slacker: he uses the word bitch rather iconically, and his answer machine message is a wonder in itself. As Walt drags him deeper into the mire, his desperation reveals the human being behind this facade . One episode in series 3, after Jesse has been hospitalised by Hank, sees him delivering a ferocious monologue about spite and revenge, rasping a terrible promise to spend the rest of his life taking Hank for every cent he has, his bruised and swollen face leaving us in no doubt that he's abandoned the decency and warmth that we've always seen in him and is now a thug through and through. At the end of the episode, he quietly agrees to take up Walt's offer to forget about pressing charges and go back to work in the meth lab after all. This tightrope runs through all four seasons: Jesse is responsible for bringing his girlfriend off the wagon, attempting to sell meth to the members of his rehab meetings and is well on the way to becoming a full-time thug for Gus in series 4, and yet we feel his rage at the death of Tomas in series 3 and the poisoning of Brock in series 4. Series 3 begins with him declaring "I'm the bad guy," having apparently come to terms with his responsibility for his girlfriend's overdose, and yet by the end of the season we feel that so much will be lost if he agrees to kill Gael. The more this show hurts you, the more it takes you into parts of the human psyche where you don't want to go, the more characters you care desperately about do things you hate but which you find desperately convincing, the more you can't stop watching. Here I'm reminded of Paul Cornell's argument in his perceptive piece on the difference between drama and escapism (<a href="http://www.paulcornell.com/2007/12/the-twelve-blogs-of-christmas-four-4/" id="yui_3_7_2_16_1359646926756_69" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.paulcornell.com/2007/12/the-twelve-blogs-of-christmas-four-4/</span></a>):<br />
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<strong><em>as much as I love Studio 60 or any other Aaron Sorkin drama, I’ll hesitate before watching it, and sometimes opt for lighter fare, because I know it’s going to hurt me. That’s the contract I make with it. It’s not there to console me, comfort me, make me feel better right now, although it may end up doing that in the end. The comfort it finally affords me is that of the blues. It’s actually there to make me feel alive and connected with the rest of human experience, hopefully extreme human experience that I’d prefer to do like this rather than first hand, thanks very much. </em></strong><br />
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I have the same experience with <em>Breaking Bad</em>. Take the scene where Walt stands by and lets Jesse's girlfriend Jane, who's blackmailing Walt, choke to death following an overdose. When watching that scene, I wish like hell Walt would move her onto her side and save her life. I'm horrified that he's doing this murderous act. But I'm totally convinced that he did do it. The finale to series four hurt me because I wanted Walt to be a moral counterpoint to Gus, to be the hero, but he wasn't: and while the revelation that he poisoned Brock in order to manipulate Jessie's grief over the death of Tomas horrified me, once again I believe it totally: no-one could have seen it coming, but everything led to it.<br />
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Another time the show hurt me was the attempt on Hank's life in the third series. Hank - brilliantly played by Dean Norris with the intimidating cocksure amiability of a man as comfortable loading a Glock or gathering friends round a barbecue - seems, like Jesse, to be an archetype at first glance: rarely without his gun, raucously cheerful. We see the pressure mounting on this seemingly indomitable figure after he is involved a traumatic shoot-out. After being posted to a dangerous new job in Mexico, he becomes increasingly uneasy, realising that outside his home turf he's less of an alpha male than he thought. When he loses it and beats up Jesse, he resigns. His wife urges him to put some spin on his version of events - to say Jesse attacked him first. Hank has no intention of doing so; he tells her he has failed to be the man he thought he was. We realise that Hank is everything Walt isn't: a man with the guts to act on his conscience, and to take responsibility for his mistakes. But, horribly, the script has already established that Hank's murder has been arranged. Hank hands over his gun and leaves his office, there's a deeply moving moment where Hank finally cries a little as his wife hugs him in the elevator. Excruciatingly, though, we still know that Tuco's cousins are coming to kill Hank to avenge Tuco's death. What happens when they corner him in the carpark is too exciting to paraphrase, but by the end of it, I had as close to an out-of-body experience as I've ever had during a work of fiction. "He's going to die!" my family and I wailed at each other as we watched, "he's actually going to die!" Only drama, rather than schlock or escapism, can hurt you like this.<br />
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This is a show as profoundly moral in its writing as it is unflinchingly nihilistic in its visual brilliance. Walt is an unsurpassable study in moral bankruptcy, cynicism and self-deception. The one thing that he undeniably does is choose: he chooses to lie to Skylar, to deal in drugs, to work with people like Tuco and Gus, to reject other's charity in favour of his own pride, to let Jane die. After the death of Jane, the next stage in his moral degradation occurs in the first episode of series 3, in a blood-curdling moment when he is asked to say a few words to the school about a plane crash that has shaken the town, and which he secretly bears some responsibility for. He makes a speech lacking any honesty or moral depth - pointing out it was merely the 50th worst air disaster, that neither plane was full, that no-one on the ground was killed, describing disasters that were much worse and pointing out how none of the students have even heard of them: "We will move on and we will get past this, because that is what human beings do, we survive, and we overcome. Yeah." It's a speech the Walt we met at the start wouldn't have made, before he made so many choices which he can only live with by abandoning morality, yet it's horribly convincing (many other TV writers would have depicted Walt's descent here too crudely, and simply had him act like an idiot because it suits the mood of the scene, the clangingly unsubtle "disastrous speeches" in Ricky Gervais sitcoms being a case in point). When he realises that Gus played a part in the attempt on Hank's life, you still hope he will be incensed, but instead he tells Gus he admires the intelligence behind this way of thinking, and would have acted similarly if he were in the same position. <br />
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At the end of series 3 Walt goes from killing two people and incurring Gus's wrath in order to prevent Jessie from having to become a murderer to offering up Jessie to Gus on a plate. Both these developments are genuinely shocking: which is to say they are convincing. They don't strike us as the result of a writer changing tack in order to do something fashionably dark. I'm thinking here of the disastrous climax of the third <em>Torchwood</em> season - in which the protagonist suddenly murders his own grandson even though the writers never bothered to make him morally enigmatic or ambiguous enough to make this work - Clarice Starling turning cannibal in Thomas Harris's <em>Hannibal</em> and the ending to Chris Chibnall's execrable <em>Doctor Who</em> episode <em>Dinosaurs in a Spaceship</em> in which the Doctor turns executioner. The problem with all three isn't that the protagonists do something bad, but that the writers fail to convince us that they could. McNulty and Freamon's megalomaniacal scheme in series 5 of <em>The Wire</em> and Tony's killing of Christopher in series 6 of <em>The Sopranos</em>, on the other hand, surprise us: we find ourselves going "I can't believe they did that!" with no sense of any grinding of gears as the writer contradicts or rewrites what has been established previously and a complete conviction that they DID do that, as if they were a real person that surprises us rather than a fictional character that could be made to do anything. We even find ourselves remembering all the things from previous seasons that pointed to this outcome (Tony's exasperation with Christopher, McNulty and Freamon's frustration with the system).<br />
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The first episode of Series 3 sees Jesse at a rehab group. "Have you ever killed anyone?" he asks the leader of the group. He replies:<br />
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<strong><em>I killed my daughter. It was July 18th, which is my birthday - July 18th 1992. I was high on cocaine and I was drunk. Cocaine wasn't an issue, because I had bought myself two grams the night before as a birthday present and I had plenty left, but I was out of vodka - and this is in Portsmouth, Virginia, where, instead of selling liquor in the supermarkets they have these ABC stores which close at 5 pm and right then it was like 4:42. So...I'm arguing with my wife - "come on, go to the ABC for me, it's my birthday, come on they're not gonna sell it to me. And she's saying "no, no." So I'm pissed, and the clock is ticking, so I jump in my truck. She's my 6-year-old daughter. She's playing at the end of the driveway...so..</em></strong><br />
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<strong><em>Jesse:<br id="yui_3_7_2_16_1359646926756_94" />How do you not hate yourself?<br id="yui_3_7_2_16_1359646926756_96" /><br id="yui_3_7_2_16_1359646926756_97" />Counsellor:<br id="yui_3_7_2_16_1359646926756_99" />I did hate myself for a long time. But it didn't stop me from drinking and getting high - it just made it that much worse. Self-hatred, guilt - it accomplishes nothing.</em></strong><br />
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Jesus, what a terrible, sweaty American masterpiece this is. The acting here by Jere Burns is so studied and intensely convincing, that the counsellor - in only his second scene - becomes a person with a life of unimaginable pain and guilt. All drama needs the courage to stop the clock for a second: to let us stop and consider these characters, in moments not designed to chase ratings and free of incidental music. The tragedy of drama in the UK over the past two decades and counting is that we have lost the ability to do this. <em>Breaking Bad</em>, <em>The Wire</em>, <em>Deadwood</em> and <em>The Sopranos</em> are almost the only post-80s drama series (and certainly the only post 90s-drama series) to spend time thinking about their characters, as <em>I Claudius</em>, <em>Edge of Darkness</em>, <em>Tinker, Tailor, Soldier Spy,</em><em> The Singing Detective</em>, <em>the Jewel in the Crown, Pennies From Heaven</em> and <em>Brideshead Revisited</em> previously did.<br />
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John Delancie's performance as Jane's dad Donald Margolis also scars you: a desperately believable portrayal of the father of a recovering addict. He's an air traffic controller. The moment when this causes the aforementioned swimming pool image to finally come into the main narrative is the one of the most powerful moments of metaphor I've ever encountered in a work of fiction, poetically and emotionally, and, along with Walt's previously mentioned speech from the next episode, easily the greatest artistic engagement with 9/11 that we've yet seen in fiction. Here we must skirt around the vulgar, philistine temptation of seeing Walt's response to his cancer as an allegorical representation of America's response to 9/11 by declaring a war on terror. We don't need to reduce Walt or his story to anything else: the show's moral power and artistic brilliance mean that it speaks for itself as an exploration of human folly and tragedy. <em>Breaking Bad</em> does, however, dares to suggest that when bad things happen to people they behave badly, and crucially (and most appositely in this never-ending Post-9/11 era of the Patriot Act, renaming Torture "Rendition" or "Enhanced Interrogation Techniques" and referring to drowning as "simulating drowning", Iraq, Afghanistan, Guantanamo Bay, Drones and the "dispositional matrix" (<a href="http://m.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2012/10/obama-plans-for-10-more-years-of-extrajudicial-killing-by-drone/264034/" id="yui_3_7_2_16_1359646926756_106" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://m.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2012/10/obama-plans-for-10-more-years-of-extrajudicial-killing-by-drone/264034/</span></a> ) that the bad thing was no excuse. One of <em>Breaking Bad</em>'s profound themes is that Walt's suffering does not excuse his choices or make them less despicable, nor are they redeemed by being motivated by his desperate need to provide for his family. A desperately moving scene towards the end of series 4 sees Walt break down and sob in front of his son Walt Jr (beautifully played by RJ Mitte). The next day he apologises, but Walt Jr points out that it's the best he's been in months, because for once he wasn't bullshitting: he was real again. Walt, however, puts the mask back on. A similarly powerful scene in series 2 sees Skylar (Anna Gunn, also excellent) demand that Walt tell her the truth. Cranston's performance here is remarkable in the layers of duplicity, emotion and calculation he conveys as Walt opts not to. "Your daddy did that for you," coos Walt to his baby daughter in a chilling scene in series 2 as he shows her the drug money.<br />
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Yet while it isn't fruitful to see <em>Breaking Bad</em> as a metaphor for America, it's undeniable that reality for America gets more and more like <em>Breaking Bad</em> every day. Just look at Joe Klein's extraordinary defence of Obama's drone attacks: <a href="http://m.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2012/oct/23/klein-drones-morning-joe" id="yui_3_7_2_16_1359646926756_110" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://m.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2012/oct/23/klein-drones-morning-joe</span></a><br />
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<strong><em>But: the bottom line in the end is - whose 4-year-olds get killed? What we're doing is limiting the possibility that 4-year-olds here will get killed by indiscriminate acts of terror.</em></strong><br />
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I'd call that a<em> Breaking Bad</em> moment. Walter White's story, like any great work of fiction, is irreducibly itself, not metaphor for something else, but we see reminders of his haggard face - so pained, yet so convinced that he can get himself out of a mess he drags himself deeper into every day - all around us. It's no wonder that Obama prefers to watch <em>Homeland</em>. Perhaps their Nobel Prizes aren't the only thing he and Walt have in common. We are in a <em>Breaking Bad</em> world and it is terrifying. Thanks to acting, writing and direction of humbling skill, the show that holds a mirror to this and shows us more horror than we could have thought possible is the most enjoyable thing on television.<br />
<br />Richard Cooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18114063496425319491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240001912845478109.post-2879643358708944242013-01-01T12:36:00.002-08:002021-04-16T12:55:06.670-07:00Skyfall and me<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<strong><em><u>(CONTAINS SPOILERS)</u></em></strong></div>
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This piece is mainly about <em>Skyfall</em> and to a very small extent about depression (under the surface, though). First, let's start off with how I felt when I first saw it. Bear in mind that the reason for the unfairly rantish tone to the section that follows is that I first saw the film with unreasonably high expectations. <em>Skyfall</em> has suffered a most peculiar fate for a Bond film: it's been <em>over</em>praised. Bond films are not talked about intelligently, yet previously the assumption from dull critics was that we all found them naff. One of the reasons I fell so hungrily on Paul Cornell's review of <em>Casino Royale</em> on his blog (it's linked to the right of the screen) was that it was precisely the kind of thing that no journalist was writing: it made no assumptions that we'd always hated the Bond films, and drew on previous films and books without assuming we hadn't read or seen them. In the age of Simon Winder's execrable yet favourably reviewed book <em>The Man Who Saved Britain</em> (which opens with the author rewatching <em>Live and Let Die</em> and finding it to be crap before going on to tell us what he nevertheless thinks these films and books tell us about Britain) and interminable professional pundits like Bidisha appearing on Radio 4 to tell us all why she didn't think there should be a 23rd Bond film, here was an actual critique of the film. The Sam Mendes-helmed <em>Skyfall</em>, though, everyone's decided to praise, and its faults have been unilaterally ignored. It's familiar to anyone who remembers the aura of holiness that everyone placed around Danny Boyle following his Olympics Opening Ceremony. An example of the smugness of this "we all liked that, didn't we?" culture is a ghastly tweet from Lauren Laverne during the ceremony: "to anyone complaining about this, please fuck off forever." </div>
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So with that in mind, here's my original rather misanthropic take on <em>Skyfall</em>:</div>
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<strong><em>What's odd about this is how magnificent it would have been had it appeared in 2002 instead of Die Another Day. There, the Aston martin's reappearance, the "no gadgets any more" theme and the death of M would make perfect sense. This would have been a phenomenonal swansong for Pierce Brosnan</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>Instead, this stars an actor too young to have been active during the cold war, who's only played Bond twice before and who's playing a version that didn't become a double-O until after 9/11. He He was already sold to us as 21st-century Bond: in Casino Royale, he says "do I look like I give a damn?" when asked "shaken or stirred?" and the only gadget he was given was a defibrillator. The death of M and the Goldfinger modifications on the Aston Martin are odd given that M was rebooted in Casino Royale and the Aston was just a car Bond won off a thug in a card game. </em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>Four years is not long enough to start from scratch if you've got the same actor in the lead: the amount of time that lapsed between The Dark Knight films was about the same, and yet imagine if tthe last one had featured references to the days of Robin, King Tut and Aunt Harriet. </em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>GoldenEye proposed that Bond remain an anchronism in a modern world, Skyfall tries to get back to that concept, despite having created a modern</em></strong> <strong><em>Bond in Craig's previous 2 movies. The scene where Bond points out his gadgets are pretty meagre and Q replies they don't go in for exploding pens anymore isn't surprising or poignant because we've already had two gadget-less films, and this version of Bond has operated in a gadget-less world ever since he became a 00. It's as if Captain Picard had started reminiscing about the time he fought the Gorn. </em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>However, this could have worked If the film had the balls to bring back some of the old chutzpah, to begin with Bourne-Bond and bring in classic Bond more and more as the film progresses. Instead we get the dull Ben Whishaw as Q, who patronises both Bond and the audience when he says "what were you expecting: an exploding pen? We don't really go in for that anymore" prompting me to say "yes, but wasn't it better when you did?" Is this grown-up storytelling, or an adolescent making a big thing of throwing his toys in the skip? (and I can't help remembering that the first of Bryan Singer's worthless X-Men films has the line "what were you expecting, yellow Spandex?": as if that film - and its boring black costumes - were something more interesting, less embarrassing, more substantial than that.</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>Then there's the fact that Bond contributes so little to the narrative. His first scene with Silva sees him fail to save Severine's life - and yet literally seconds later he does the very thing that would have done so, before revealing that he's already radioed for help. The London setpiece is similarly flat: he arrives at the enquiry, opens fire...and contributes nothing. Once he's shot the fire extinguisher, Silva gives up and leaves. And what was Mendes thinking of in the scene where Bond watches his quarry assemble a sniper's rifle, but lets him take out his unknown target before attacking him?</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>What's missing is verve: the opening scene tries so very hard to be Casino Royale, but Mendes is no Martin Campbell, and stupidly insisted on replacing David Arnold with his regular conposer Thomas Newman. Music matters: this scene would have been a lot more exciting had Arnold done the score.</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>Like the Aston Martin and the ill-judged Goldfinger homage in Fields' death in Quantum of Solace , the scene where Bond, an opponent and a gadget fall into a pit with a komodo dragon is clearly the director adding what he thinks is a "traditional" Bond moment, trying to recreate some half-remembered scene from his childhood viewing. Here Mendes is clearly thinking of Live and Let Die and its alligator farm scene, but if only Skyfall had more of that film's brio and invention (I can't imagine, either, that this scene of CGI Komodo dragons and no notable stuntwork will stick in children's imaginations the way the very real crocodiles and the splendidly dangerous stuntwork stuck in mine)</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>Then there's the emblems of stale humourlessness: the things that remind me I'm not watching a Bond film, as I was with GoldenEye. That fucking gunbarrel still at the end of the credits, instead of the beginning where it was dynamic and inspiring. Newman's score, bland credits again (a huge improvement on MK40's effort for Quantum, but Daniel Kleinman - returning after Casino Royale, for which he provided the most beautiful credits sequence ever created - seems to be on autopilot: his gunbarrel - assuming it's his - is no better than MK40's either - remember how good the ones he did for Casino Royale and the Brosnan films were? )</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>All three Craig films have attempted to shoehorn two Bond girls into a script that only needs one: here, at least Berenice Marlohe's performance is skillful, never grating as Caterina Munro's and Gemma Arterton's did, but the idea of the Doomed Woman whom Bond cannot save is getting creepily misogynist as well as tedious. With both her death and that of the victims in the train Silva sabotages, I couldn't help thinking: no-one in this film really cares, so do we? There's more emotion in the destruction of the aston martin. Doesn't the film have the same casual disregard for life as in a Jerry Bruckheimer movie? </em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>On to the film's redeeming features: Daniel Craig getting to play a damaged James Bond, an idea that Die Another Day fudged; the skilful way the character of Eve is constructed; a decent supporting cast for once; the most exciting climax ever seen in a Bond film, a decent villain for once (although due more to the actor than the script) the pretty landscape shots, the mythic tones (Mallory, Tennyson, Churchill and best of all the gag about the model bulldog: a lovely mixture of deflating humour, poignancy and stirring iconography). The splendid moment when the series uses the word "fuck" for the first time. The film having the guts to suggest that Bond isn't fazed or offended by homoeroticism. Not enough. The film may have some pretty "remember the Bond films? What a shame he's a thing of the past" moments, but the entertainment is meagre and no more intellectually rewarding than before. Depriving Bond of gadgets and thrills doesn't make him Hamlet. We're depriving our children of magic.</em></strong></div>
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A few weeks later, things got so bad I was making up alternative titles:</div>
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<strong><em>Desperate Need for a Script Doctor, No?</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>Crush a Fan's Dreams with Love</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>Never Say "I'm looking forward to the new Bond movie" Again</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>For Kim Newman's Tastes Only</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>That Draft Was Not Enough</em></strong></div>
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I've calmed down a bit now. The Aston Martin complaint is trivial, and the comment about rebooting M is unfair, firstly because the three post-reboot films have allowed us to get to know the character enough for her death to be moving, and secondly because right from her first scene in <em>Casino Royale</em>, the writers have skilfully created a different character - tougher, courser, with more of a bullshit-detector - than the one Dench played in the Brosnan films. This is one is actually closer to Fleming's M - perhaps even closer than Bernard Lee's was. The comments about the title sequence are unfair, too, as Kleinman has produced a fine piece of work even though it lacks the gorgeous colour and texture of <em>Casino Royale's</em> titles. The comments about Whishaw aren't entirely fair too; there's enough spark between him and Craig to suggest this could result in good things in the next film, and it was a step in the right direction to bring this away from the standard quippery of the John Cleese (who was clearly cast to try and recreate the Desmond Llewelyn style, like the similarly too-obvious choice of Stephen Fry as ersatz Q in <em>Stormbreaker</em>) model, and into more character based-comedy by making him younger and his disdain for Bond believable rather than part of a pantomime routine.</div>
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But let's flash back to December 1995. I'm sitting in the cinema with my dad, waiting for the film I've been dreaming about - <em>GoldenEye -</em> to start. A terrific arrangement of the Bond theme accompanies a gorgeous new computer-generated version of Maurice Binder's Gunbarrel design by Daniel Kleinman. A splendid opening shot of a vast dam. A figure appears and there's magnificent bit of stuntwork as he attaches a bungee chord and leaps down the dam. Bond meets up with 006 (a slick introduction for the film's villain). The precredits sequence ends in equally spectacular fashion, as Bond drives a motorbike off a mountain in pursuit of a wayward plane. There's so much to list here. Famke Jannsen as the ribcage-cracking Xenia Onatopp, knowing exactly the kind of full-bodied Camp her character needs to make her come to life, and pitching her performance perfectly. A marvellous introduction for Judi Dench as the new M, which begins with her calling Bond "a sexist mysoginist dinosaur, a relic of the cold war" and ends with her telling him to "come back alive." The same flair for action that Campbell would later bring to <em>Casino Royale</em>, giving us a tank chase (a <em>tank chase</em> !) that's got everything: the Bond Girl barely concealing a "he's coming for me" smile, the Bad Guy guzzling from a hipflask and barking panicky instructions to his driver as the tank approaches, soldiers pirouetting though the air as their vehicles collide. The sheer, joyous, Christmasty, <em>Bondness</em> of it all. At the end of it my imagination was full of tank chases, tanks derailing trains, femme fatales with ribcage-cracking thighs, heroes bungee jumping down vast dams, exploding pens, fights atop giant satellite dishes, impeccably tailored heroes who grab machine guns, gun down countless Russian soldiers, remove their leather belts (which naturally doesn't result in their trousers coming down) and after a quick smile and a "trust me" to the Bond Girl, fire grappling hooks from them and then smash their way through a window without so much as ruining the line of their suit.</div>
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Compare the Q scenes: in 1995, we get the delightful Desmond Llewelyn in full-on Merlin mode. In fact, forget Merlin: he's Father Christmas. In 2012 we get Ben Whishaw in an Art Gallery. As Bond himself says, "Not exactly Christmas." And note just how well the exploding pen mocked by Whishaw's Q actually works in<em> GoldenEye</em>: it comes at a moment establishing that Natalya rather than Bond has turned the tables on the villans, and allows Bond to continue to advance the narrative (unlike the Bond of <em>Skyfall</em>) without diminishing Natalya's contribution. Minor baddie Boris has a nervous habit of clicking a pen three times: when he confuses Bond's pen for his own, Bond and the audience struggle to keep track of whether the pen is armed or disarmed.</div>
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In 2012 my inner child feels short-changed, despite <em>Skyfall</em>'s considerable merits, and Brosnan is still my favourite Bond.</div>
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<em>Skyfall</em> is the slickest, cleverest example yet of the cultural trend that gave us Christopher Nolan's <em>The Dark Knight</em>, <em>Quantum of Solace</em> and the version of <em>Doctor Who</em> offered by the <em>Death Comes to Time </em>webcast and some of the <em>New Adventures</em> novels, just as Craig-Bond is a slicker version of Dalton Bond. It's a more entertaining take than those cited, a stronger take, and one that gets far more mileage out of the concept, but it's still leading to a dead end. The great critic Adam Mars-Jones put a name to this phenomenon when discussing the film of <em>Watchmen</em> on Newsnight Review "It's sordid escapism that I don't understand: I get sordid, I get escapism, I don't like them mixed." The original <em>Watchmen</em>, of course, rather spearheaded this dubious movement along with Frank Miller's T<em>he Dark Knight Returns</em>, but no-one understood - and continues to understand - this better than Moore himself, who delivered this magnificent rant against the Legacy six years after its publication (<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KJqLVsPD7Js">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KJqLVsPD7Js</a> 6;40 mark)</div>
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<strong><em>I think that I'd have to echo what David Bowie said about his influence: this is the face that launched a thousand pretensions. At the time I hoped that Watchmen might show up a lot of the essential silliness and redundancy of the superhero genre. It wasn't meant as a revitalisation of the superhero, it was meant as a tombstone for the superhero, at least in my terms. I could 't see any point in doing superheros after Watchmen. Unfortunately, everyone else could, and there have been an awful lot of bad Watchmen clones. Not just specifically Watchmen ones: this would extend to Dark Knight [Returns] as well, people who were looking at those frankly grim and postmodern superhero comics of the mid-80s, and instead of moving on from there, have just recycled them again and again and again for the last six years. It's almost like postmodernism by numbers: you make a few references to William Burroughs, you make a few references to some currently popular band like REM that will impress your young readers with how hip you are, you throw in some garbled sub-psychadelic philosophy, and you've got a Modern Comic. Doesn't matter whether it has any substance, doesn't matter whether it has any direction... but it hits enough of the right buttons so that people will recognise this as something modern and experimental and daring, and of course it is not in the least bit experimental or daring. To me the people who have taken chances are not in the mainstream. The people who have taken the chances are the people like Chester Brown, the Hernandez brothers, Peter Bagge, Julie Doucet, all of those people. They are not getting big royalties for this summer's giant Batman crossover, but they are doing the work that is dangerous and radical and innovative. They're the ones who deserve the credit. </em></strong></div>
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In <em>Watchmen</em> Moore, unlike Miller, Christopher and Jonathan Nolan, David Goyer or Purves and Wade (and Moore himself in other projects) wrote about human beings. No disrespect to those writers, of course, (I enjoyed <em>The Dark Knight Rises</em>, <em>Batman Begins </em>and <em>Casino Royale</em> immensely, and don't get get me started on what<em> Blade</em> means to me) but they are dealing with mythic, iconic rather than psychologically layered characters, and their work is at its strongest when it embraces this. It didn't say much for the comic world that they tended to lump <em>Watchmen </em>and<em> Dark Knight Returns</em> together, (I'm reminded here of Lawrence Miles's observation that <em>Doctor Who </em>and <em>Quatermass</em> are opposites rather than kindred spirits as is often lazily assumed). What Frank Miller did in <em>Dark Knight Returns</em> and <em>Batman Year One</em> was exactly what he later did in <em>Sin City</em> (which no-one ever claims as anything other than pulp): he retold Mickey Spillane and Dirty Harry stories, but with a dash more verve, and a refreshing willingness to push towards the more grotesque aspects always present but only touched on in the world of Mike Hammer and Harry Callahan. To argue that this made Batman a more plausible figure and was a work of great intellectual significance - let alone that it is fit to stand alongside <em>Watchmen</em>, <em>Maus </em>and <em>American Splendor</em> - is as preposterous as claiming that <em>Sin City</em> can stand comparison with <em>The Wire</em>. There's an element of wishful thinking here: fans like to convince themselves that what they enjoy has social, political or philosophical depth. It's easier to convince yourself that your favourite superhero story has something to say about the Iraq War then actually go and read a selection of books and articles about the Iraq War; a cultural equivalent of finding out you can work from home. The modern <em>Battlestar Galactica</em> is the most abhorrent manifestation of this: a slackly paced, poorly acted farrago of cardboard characterisation, predictable dialogue, macho top Gun dogfights and right-wing moralising, all dressed up as something that cares about serious issues (let's not forget George Monbiot's praise of <em>Avatar </em>as a pro-environmentalist movie<em> </em>here, or the those who suggested that Bane's "Occupy Gotham" movement in <em>The Dark Knight Rises</em> was based on the Tea Party rather than, say, Occupy Wall Street.) </div>
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I can't help but think of a quote from <em>Doctor Who</em> writer Gareth Roberts: "a failure of the imagination that would see Miss Marple as a player of chess on a thousand different boards, just because she always turns up when there's a murder." Roberts was talking about the 1988-89 seasons of <em>Doctor Who</em>, which were directly influenced by Alan Moore and Frank Miller's work at the time, with Script Editor Andrew Cartmel even telephoning Moore to ask him to write for the show. Roberts's summary isn't quite fair, especially as a description of the televised shows (some of the best <em>Doctor Who</em> stories - <em>Ghost Light, The Greatest Show in the Galaxy, Remembrance of the Daleks, Survival, The Curse of Fenric</em> - were made at this point ) but it's certainly true of what came after them. Virgin's New Adventures novels and<em> </em>the <em>Death Comes to Time</em> webcast built on the ideas from the 88-89 seasons, and did indeed turn the Doctor into a much less interesting figure, who referred to himself as Time's Champion with a straight face, solemnly told us that "my duty must take precedence over all", roared "your TARDIS is revoked!" and "I'm playing with a fire so dangerous I could scorch eternity," and allowed innocent people to die for the Greater Good. In the New Adventures, he turned out to be a mystical figure called The Other who threw himself into a "time loom" and bonded with a Time Lord called Theta Sigma. He also turned out to have deliberately killed the sixth Doctor because he was in danger of embarking down "the road that leads to the Valeyard [the Doctor's evil alter ego]" and "someone needed to take over and become the Ka Faraq Gatri [destroyer of worlds, bringer of darkness, oncoming storm]." The one portrayed in <em>Death Comes to Time</em>, meanwhile, turned out to have omnipotent power to hold back the deaths of those he cared about and vaporise entire spaceships at a single command, but was charged never to use this power. I'd have to agree with Roberts that this is a much less interesting version of the character. It may have gone wrong in the 1990s, but this "player of chess" movement started in 1988-89.</div>
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Elsewhere in 1988-89, Timothy Dalton was James Bond and Michael Keaton was Batman. To what extent can we see Dalton-Bond as part of this "time for our heroes to grow up" situation? It's tricky, because the spectre of Ian Fleming has always hung over any shifts in the franchise, and it seems likely that, as in 1981's <em>For Your Eyes Only</em>, Cubby Broccoli was motivated more by a desire to get back to the series's roots and to Fleming rather than anything to do with developments in the comics world. What probably does link the worlds of Bond, comics and <em>Doctor Who</em> are two things: postmodernism (in the vague bastardised meaning of the word), and the rise of fandom. Regarding the former, Philip Pullman's analogy of Adam and Eve realising they were naked is probably still the most apt here, accounting for that peculiar phrasing in EM Forster's "Dear me, oh, dear me, yes, the novel tells a story." Embarrassment and shame arrive, and we realise that we're allowing ourselves to be entertained. Novels like Thomas Pynchon's <em>The Crying of Lot 49</em> and Paul Auster's <em>New York Trilogy</em> do the same thing with detective thrillers: we're solemnly told that the detective can never uncover the truth, that meaning is endlessly deferred and that no satisfying climax or denounement can be reached. The trouble is, an actual thriller writer - Raymond Chandler - did this so much better: and he could make his thrillers thrilling as well. A favourite teacher of mine at university responded to my suggestion that Thomas Pynchon's<em> The Crying of Lot 49</em> would have been more interesting had it featured a scene where Oedipa is captured and taken by the Trystero organisation to their lair. "But that would be like something out of a 007 film," she replied. Yes, I replied (internally, a few weeks later), but wouldn't that also be better? Wouldn't that dramatise Pynchon's obsessions with entropy, conspiracy theories, and make them more interesting and vital? Wouldn't it breathe life into them, instead of dropping them into the narrative like stones? To be fair, the postmodern detective trend also gave us Dennis Potter's magnificent <em>The Singing Detective</em>, but that works because it's about the author of the mystery: the detective sections would be unsatisfying if broadcast on their own.</div>
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To move to the second point, the rise of fandom resulted in generations of fans demanding respectability, a situation still with us today. From the 1980s onwards, they've hated the casting of Bonnie Langford in <em>Doctor Who</em>, the bit with the miniature Doctor in <em>Last of the Timelords</em>, the batnipples on the suits in the Joel Schumacher Batman films and the comedy scenes in<em> Superman 3</em>, and they wanted a "back to Fleming" approach after the silliness of <em>Moonraker</em>. <em>For Your Eyes Only</em> started the dour/camp cycle (although <em>You Only Live Twice</em>/<em>On Her Majesty's Secret Service</em> prefigured it). The biggest fear in fandom is that of embarrassment: they want something they can show their girlfriends, something that the mainstream media can assimilate more comfortably. Steven Moffat's comments for a 1995 fanzine interview(<a href="http://nzdwfc.tetrap.com/archive/tsv43/onediscussion.html">http://nzdwfc.tetrap.com/archive/tsv43/onediscussion.html</a>)</div>
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<strong><em>It's not that I don't like it, but I wouldn't care to show it to my friends in television and say look, I think this is a great programme, because I think they might fling me out... Unless I chose my episodes very carefully, I couldn't sit anybody I work with in television down in front of Doctor Who and say 'watch this, this is a great show...What I resented was having to go to school two days later, and my friends knew I watched this show. They'd go 'Did you see the giant rat?!' and I'd have to say I thought there was dramatic integrity elsewhere.</em></strong></div>
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That's the kind of peer pressure-conscious response (is there any more detestably un<em>DoctorWho</em>ish phrase than "my friends in television"?) that filmmakers are so keen to avoid, and why Moffat's own run on <em>Doctor Who</em> is careful to avoid the idyosncratic, the untested and the non-audience friendly (<em>Twilight</em> good, Sylvester McCoy bad: that's how the sworn enemies of this blog think, and while you'll never get another <em>Love and Monsters</em> under Moffat, which is their triumph and my bane). <em>Skyfall</em> is the slickest, cleverest example of FEP (Fanboy Embarrassment Prevention) yet. As I've said elsewhere on this blog, will we see a dark, gritty reinvention of Harry Potter in a couple of decades' time?</div>
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Yet...<em>Skyfall</em> is good-natured entertainment , made with loving care. Its quietly elegiac tone is affecting, and it's a fine lesson in how less is more: the climax, which as someone said to me on Twitter, resembles an</div>
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explosion-filled episode of <em>Last of the Summer Wine</em>, is the stuff of legend. It's got Bond returning home, it's got Bond hiding in the same priest hole where he took refuge when he heard his parents had died, it's got Albert Finney as a grizzled gamekeeper who taught Bond to shoot and was there when his parents died, and must now do both again, it's got the Aston Martin DB5 and its modifications appearing again in such an Excalibur-like fashion that it doesn't matter at all that this makes no sense in terms of dating or continuity, it's got Bond's surrogate parent dying yards from the grave of his original parents. Bond's line "I never liked this place anyway" before the most satisfying explosion I've seen in any action movie, the way Bond looks at Kincaid when he realises M's gunshot wound is terminal and M's line "I fucked this up didn't I?" are the stuff of iconic heroic drama. The film knows that Craig and Dench performing scenes like this together is as good as any FX fireworks.</div>
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Daniel Craig's triumph is in his ability to get dramatic weight out of taciturnity: compare the film with the duff scene in<em> GoldenEye</em> with Bond and Natalya on the beach. Bond is sitting there looking very taciturn indeed, and Natalya asks how he can be so cold. "It's what keeps me alive." says Bond. "It's what keeps you alone," replies Natalya. They then embrace, and the moment of taciturnity passes. The scene screams "interlude": you sense that everyone in the cinema is thinking "let's move on to the action," but in Skyfall hearing that Bond hid in the priesthole for two days after his parents were killed is as gripping as the action. <em>Die Another Day</em> featured a neat revelation: Gustav Graves has modellled his new appearance on Bond. "Just in the details," he taunts Bond, "That unjustified sneer: a defence mechanism concealing such inadequacy."' The trouble is, it's only there for that one scene. <em>Skyfall </em>manages to dramatise Bond's taciturnity, so that it feels like a poignant theme central to the entire film rather than a few lines that sound cool when heard in the trailer but which just sit there in the film (Miranda Frost's "a man no-one can get close to" speech in <em>Die Another Day </em>is another example of the latter, which was indeed plundered from for the trailer, and Scaramanga's suggestion that the two of them have much in common in <em>The Man With The Golden Gun</em> is yet another). The word-test scene in <em>Skyfall</em> may have proved ideal for the teaser trailer, but it's clearly not just there for that reason: it's part of the emotional core of the story, it sets up the theme as well as the narrative of the climax, and Craig is able to convey, in his reaction to the key word, the sense that this means something to him, whilst Brosnan was unable to respond to Graves's slurs with anything other than a quip (raising his pistol: "my defence mechanism is right here" - a moment that also compares poorly with the splendid moment in <em>Skyfall</em> where Bond is entirely unintimidated by Silva's come-on and even teases back with the line "what makes you so sure this is my first time?" It's a little moment that makes Bond a more three-dimensional, interesting figure.</div>
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The use of humour has also vastly improved: instead of the "quips" of Brosnan, Connery and Moore and the humourlessness of Dalton, we have humour based on warmth and character details. Bond's "deep water" line is my favourite: the quips are now portrayed as something Bond - rather than the audience - likes, and this exchange becomes a splendidly poignant final moment between Bond and M. Equally good is the exchange between them about Bond's obituary, the ejector seat gag, the shooting practice scene with Bond and Kincaid and the aforementioned payoff with the bulldog figurine. This is proper humour.</div>
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Michael G Wilson and Barbara Broccoli, even more so than Cubby Broccoli and Harry Saltzman, shaped the dreams of my boyhood. It's not their fault this film was spoilt for me by overpraise </div>
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Richard Cooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18114063496425319491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240001912845478109.post-72763978955738728302012-11-17T16:21:00.000-08:002013-02-15T04:32:20.197-08:00"Like an old man trying to send back soup in a Deli" - The Seinfeld Supremacy<div style="text-align: justify;">
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I trust we're not forgetting about <em>Seinfeld</em>? Fourteen years on from when it concluded, it remains unsurpassed, and probably always will be. If you've never seen it, or are starting to think of it as dated, get hold of a DVD right now and start with season 5 (or go straight to the season 6 episode <em>The Jimmy</em>) The first two seasons are good but quite gentle. The third season features some terrific episodes and the fourth even more, but the fifth season sees the show reach perfection, with the plotting and characterisation exquisitely balanced and every line, plot idea and nuance funny in a unique way. Seasons 5 and 6 are probably the show's peak, although 7, 8 and 9 are not very far behind.</div>
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<em>Seinfeld</em> is pure comedy: it isn't about detailed and believable characterisation, satire or tragedy. It must be understood in this way; no time for any of that "<em>The Office</em> is painfully real / <em>Steptoe and Son</em> is like a Pinter play / Basil Fawlty is quite a tragic figure really" stuff here. The same goes for the oft-cited "no hugs, nothing learned" rule: although it's true, this is never used to give the show airs of something more than comedy (as it happens, there is an episode of <em>Seinfeld</em> - <em>The Betrayal</em> - based on a Pinter play, but crucially it's a lot funnier than Pinter). Even the death of George's fiancé Susan is never allowed to be anything other than funny. Instead, the show plays with language. Choosing an episode at random for this piece, a glance at <em>The Chicken Roaster</em> reveals two linked throwaway lines with the signature flourish which none of <em>Seinfeld'</em>s writers can stop generating but which British comedy writers these days can only dream of. Jerry runs into Seth, an old college buddy, who's got a meeting at work to go to, but Jerry insists they catch up on old times and asks "whatever happened to Moochie?" as they walk off arm-in-arm: "he's dead." "is that right?" Over lunch, Seth discloses that the meeting was rather important: he works for a big investment firm, and it was their first meeting with their latest investors. Seth subsequently loses his job, and stays cheerful, insisting it was worth it to catch up with an old college buddy: "I only knew you through Moochie," replies Jerry. Those two exquisite Moochie lines, almost throwaway by <em>Seinfeld</em>'s standards, contain the show's aesthetic, and one that only comedy could have produced. The pleasurable effect of hearing a funny name like Moochie is linked to the poignancy of Seth's predicament and the destructive effect of friendship with Jerry.</div>
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This linguistic playfulness can be found in every episode. "I don't WANNA be a pirate," says Jerry in <em>The Puffy Shirt</em>, adding a child-like high-pitched whine to "wanna" as he reprises a variation of the line in subsequent episodes each time someone demands he take on a role. "You're killing independent George!" wails George in <em>The Pool Guy</em>. "So Biff wants to be a buff," says Jerry in <em>The Boyfriend</em>. <em>The Voice</em> sees Jerry unable to kick the habit of saying "Hellooooo!" in a stupid voice, <em>The Yadda Yadda</em> is based in the idea that the titular phrase can be used to conceal important information, while <em>The Summer of George</em> sees Elaine irritated by men's tendency to make miaowing noises whenever a woman criticises another woman, even if the men made the criticism first. The title character in <em>The Jimmy</em> has an irritating habit of referring to himself in the third person. Lines from the Buddy Rich tapes - "I'm gonna show you what's it like", "this guy - this is not my kind of guy" and "we'll see how he does up there, without all the assistance" - are gleefully inserted into the dialogue of <em>The Opposite</em>, <em>The Understudy</em> and <em>The Butter Shave</em> respectively. Jerry Stiller's performance as George's father Frank - one of the funniest things ever caught on camera - peaks with those moments when what seems like the actor's struggle to remember lines lends them something you could never have imagined: "He had this big smiling face: it was like a biiiig...apple pie" (<em>The Understudy</em>). "I saw a provocative movie on cable last bight. It was called <em>The Net</em>, with that girl from the bus" (<em>The Serenity Now</em>). Best of all is this exchange with George's mother (the wonderful Estelle Harris) from <em>The Puffy Shirt</em>:<br />
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<strong><em>Estelle: Georgie, would you like some Jello?<br id="yui_3_7_2_19_1353190956851_56" />Frank : Why do you put the bananas in there?<br id="yui_3_7_2_19_1353190956851_58" />Estelle: George likes the bananas!<br id="yui_3_7_2_19_1353190956851_60" />Frank : SO LET HIM HAVE BANANAS ON THE SIDE!"</em></strong><br />
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The bizarre staccato roar in which Stiller delivers the last line is as good an example of what an actor can do to a line one could hope for. Phil Morris as the ultimate ambulance-chasing lawyer Jackie Chiles and Steve Hytner as Jerry's least favourite stand-up Kenny Bania also create their own verbal style, but to describe what they, Wayne Knight as Newman, John O'Hurley as J. Peterman and Len Lesser as Uncle Leo can do with a line would render this piece book-length.</div>
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Sometimes it might be a non-verbal gesture that creates the poetry of comedy. <em>The Pie</em> starts off with the simple conceit of Jerry's girlfriend shaking her head when he offers her some pie. This baffles Jerry, but later on they eat at a restaurant run by Poppy (played with gusto by Reni Santoni), and Jerry sees him leaving a toilet cubicle without washing his hands. His girlfriend insists he tries some pie: all Jerry can do is shake his head in an identical way. Later, George is having lunch with prospective new employers and they pass him some pie, but George spots the chef watching furtively and realises he's an enemy from earlier in the episode who has contaminated his food in revenge. As his potential new employers demand he take a bite, warning him that they have no time for those who aren't team-players, George just shakes his head. A simple, funny physical movement, played with and threaded through a neatly-structured plot so that it becomes funnier and funnier: that's why this show is comedy in its purest form.<br />
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Other episodes of <em>Seinfeld</em> take a casual allusion and gleefully turn it into a riff. A episode about Jerry being nagged by his parents to see <em>Schindler's List</em> (<em>The Raincoats</em>) sees the episode's other central plotline - Elaine's latest boyfriend Aaron and his overbearing friendship with Jerry's parents - turn into a reenactment of that film's climax, nicely performed by Judge Reinhold:<br />
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<strong><em>No, I could've called the travel agency, got them on another flight to Paris, I coulda got them out. [...] This watch, this watch could've paid for their whole trip. This ring, this ring is one more dinner I could've taken them out to. Water, they need some water They'll get dehydrated on the plane! Get the Seinfelds some water. Please! Please!</em></strong><br />
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An episode that has seen Kramer act increasingly like a dog (<em>The Andrea Doria</em>) throughout ends with a full on Lassie parody. An episode about condo elections (<em>The Cadillac</em>) in Florida ends with Jerry's dad recreating Nixon's exit from the White House. <em>The Wig Master</em> is painstaking in its goal to have Kramer become a pimp. First, another of the episode's plot strands provides him with a silver cane, then another one provides him with a Technicolour Dreamcoat from a production of <em>Joseph,</em> then someone's hat is blown away by the wind, then Kramer catches it and puts it on, accompanied by appropriate music and hip members of New York's nightlife exchanging the equivalent of high-fives with him as he saunters along the streets before reaching his car, and inadvertently stumbles into another of the episode's plotlines: prostitutes have been using the carpark in which George and Kramer park their cars to "turn tricks". After a 'John' flees the car and a hooker attacks Kramer for frightening away her trade, Kramer is apprehended by the cops as he is fighting her off. The punchline to this joyous riff - and to the episode - is Kramer's poignant cry as his mugshot is taken: "<em>I'm not a pimp</em>!": a child caught playing at being grown-up.</div>
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Then there are the extraordinary textures the writers can create from playing with the convoluted nature of comedy itself, using its ludicrousness as a strength rather than a weakness. In <em>The Chinese Woman</em>, George spots his father talking to a man in a cape, (a cameo by Larry David, adopting an unashamedly ludicrous posture), who turns out to be his divorce lawyer. After the inevitable Superman comparison (one of the few things Jerry's interested in), we end with a scene in which the subject of the episode's other plot (a woman Kramer has apparently got pregnant) is about to throw herself off a bridge. A caped figure sidles towards her and gently guides her away. "Who are you?" she asks. "I'm Frank Costanza's lawyer," he replies. There are no astonishing moments like this in British comedy these days, and few the other side of the Atlantic. The caped lawyer can't give any other answers because that's all there is to him. In my pieces on <em>Family Guy</em> and <em>Father Ted</em>, I tried to pinpoint those extraordinary poetic moments unique to comedy, in which the gag folds back upon itself, and the writers revel in everything undefinable about it. This is one such moment: the fact that the character has been created purely because it is amusing to have George's father hold mysterious meetings with a man in a cape, and that the only reason for his appearance on the bridge is that it makes aesthetic rather than logical sense as those are the 2 plots left to be joined up, are all allowed to shine and refract as if through a prism. The example from <em>Father Ted</em> I used was Dougal's line, after Ted has raised the question of why they don't just take the rabbits back to the pet shop he bought his from: "It was a travelling pet shop, Ted, they won't be back till spring." Other examples include Sideshow Bob's line in <em>The Simpsons</em> "Well if it isn't my sworn arch enemy Bart Simpson, and his sister Lisa to whom I'm fairly indifferent." and numerous lines in <em>The Hitchhikers' Guide to the Galaxy</em> such as this exchange:<br />
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<strong><em>Arthur: It's not so much an afterlife, more a sort of après vie<br id="yui_3_7_2_19_1353190956851_80" />Zaphod: Hey, you dead guys! We're missing some ultra important thing here! Something somebody said and we missed it!<br id="yui_3_7_2_19_1353190956851_82" />Arthur: I said it was more apres vie<br id="yui_3_7_2_19_1353190956851_84" />Zaphod: Yeah, and Don't you wish you hadn't? </em></strong><br />
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I love how that final line doesn't appear in the radio series, but was added for the TV series and the novel adaptation <em>The Restaurant at the End of the Universe</em>: an afterthought by Douglas Adams and an afterthought for the characters, acknowledging that they have to hear all these gags and don't always find them funny. All four examples use the way the gag works, the requirements of the gag, our expectations of that particular narrative and even the implausibilities it results in as walls to bounce the comedy off. They all parse earlier gags, and render everything funnier.</div>
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Other episodes take relish in distorting the shapes that we tend to associate with comedy narratives. <em>The Bizarro Jerry</em> sees Elaine encounter a group with the exact opposite qualities of Jerry, George and Kramer. Jerry makes the natural comparison with the Bizarro Superman. The episode ends with Bizarro Jerry saying "Me so happy, me want to cry" - we've gone from a reference to Bizarro Superman to using his very language, a quintessentially <em>Seinfeld</em> dynamic (the technique is one of displacement: compare it with the aforementioned climaxes to <em>The Raincoats</em> and <em>The Cadillac</em>, or <em>The Jimmy</em>, which starts with the title character's irritating habit of referring to himself in the first person, but by the end has George cathartically responding to his own storyline with "GEORGE IS GETTING UPSET!"). <em>The Opposite</em> sees George do the exact opposite of what he would normally do, resulting in the fortunes we've come to expect after five seasons being reversed. One has to marvel at Joe Queenan's bizarre claim that the sitcom has seen no innovation since the days of <em>I Love Lucy</em>: how can he say that when <em>Seinfeld </em>had such fun playing with the conventions and texture of the sitcom itself?</div>
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<em>Seinfeld</em> is based around four people who aren't nice, demographically friendly or carefully constructed according to current audience interests, as those in <em>Friends</em> and <em>The Big Bang Theory</em> are. The scripts understand that not only are these not wonderful people: they aren't realistic either. What's most cloying about<em> Friends</em> and <em>The Big Bang Theory</em> is the constant insistence that these six people (in the case of TBBT it comes down to 2: girls and boys) are the only ones in the universe. Both those shows believe they are mimetic. <em>Seinfeld, </em>by contrast, revels in the fact that Kramer needs no job and yet has no money, that Elaine can't be bothered to keep up her anti-fur stance, that Jerry's "whole life revolves around cereals and Superman", that Jerry and Newman's enmity is little more than a kid's game that they both abandon when a more interesting game to play comes along. It also revels in the fact that these are not good people. To return to <em>The Chicken Roaster</em>, when Seth, jobless purely because of Jerry but bearing no grudge, is on his way out of Jerry's apartment, he picks up a newspaper and asks if he can keep it for the classifieds. Jerry replies "actually, I haven't read Tank McNamara yet..." and takes it back from him (Note that this occurs immediately after the "Moochie" line I mentioned earlier: in <em>Seinfeld</em>, these character details, grace notes, inflections, allusions to earlier lines and returns to earlier moments in a different key are combined to make comedic rainbows. It's why the delight the show gives never lessens after multiple viewings. You can watch it forever). The ingenious closing two-part episode - <em>The Finale</em> - was based around the idea that these are four odious individuals. They watch a fat man get carjacked with great amusement, and find themselves afoul of a new "Good Samaritan" law. They end up in prison, but the episode's tone is not self-consciously "dark": it's gleeful.</div>
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The oddest thing about <em>Seinfeld</em> is the sublime effects they can get from Jerry Seinfeld's poor-yet-wonderful acting (Similar to the magnificent effects achieved by Larry David's awful-yet-brilliant acting in its sister show <em>Curb Your Enthusiasm</em>). This seems to be part of the same gag-parsing technique: when Jerry has to roar "Manya died - MANYA DIED!" out of a window in <em>The Pony Remark</em>, the phrase is made funnier by his inability to shout convincingly, as if the convoluted nature of a sitcom plot (Manya dies shortly after Jerry and Elaine offend her by saying they hate people who own or ever have owned ponies) is bounced back into the comic mix, strengthening rather than weakening it. It's because of this inexplicable effect that <em> The Blood</em>, in which Kramer has been storing blood everywhere, feels like a collision between Rabelais and Nabokov. When an accidentally-propelled scalpel falls toward Jerry, his whimper of terror sounds like a joke on the ridiculous nature of the moment. When he comes to and learns that Kramer has provided blood for a subsequent transfusion after the scalpel badly wounded him, all he can do is scream, and Kramer had no choice but to scream back. When the same thing happens with Newman stepping in as donor, all three of them scream. There's body horror here (Kramer has to store his blood in Jerry's car engine: it clots), and yet the script and actors are making us laugh at the absurd nature of that horror itself. If Jerry could scream convincingly, this effect would not be achieved. Jerry Seinfeld is actually a brilliant actor.</div>
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Jason Alexander as George Costanza gives one of the greatest performances in the history of television. As surely as with James Gandofini in <em>The Sopranos</em> or Bryan Cranston in <em>Breaking Bad</em>, every little movement, every expression, just the way he walks into a room, tells us exactly what is going on inside his character's head. He brings tremendous rage and suffering to the part, outacting the entire cast of many 'serious' dramas. Consider the scene in <em>The Boyfriend</em> where George has given Jerry's address as his current place of employment, claiming to be a latex salesman for Art Vandelay. The unemployment office ring Jerry's apartment while George is using the bathroom, and Kramer answers. "VANDELAY! SAY VANDELAY!" roars George's voice from the bathroom. Kramer ignores him and tells them that they have the right address, but this is just an apartment. As he hangs up, George bursts in with his trousers round his ankles, and lies defeated on the floor. Jerry enters: "And you want to be my latex salesman...". Alexander's investment in his character is so intense, in the physicality of his rage and in his ability to perform pratfalls and emotion with equal integrity, that moments like this are simultaneously hysterically funny and a point at which we feel we know this person as well as anyone in fiction.</div>
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Julia Louis-Dreyfus as Elaine overcomes all of the stereotypes attached to women in comedy. Firstly, she's a natural clown: think of her and the first image that comes to mind might well be her signature violent shove while exclaiming "Get out...?", her inability to dance or the increasingly ludicrous facial expressions she pulls why saying "You think <em>I</em> have grace...?". Secondly, her character is as obnoxious and as base as the male ones, with none of the gender-essentialism of <em>The Big Bang Theory</em> or <em>Friends</em>. The gag about men who are "sponge-worthy" in <em>The Sponge</em>, her detestation of the sex scenes in <em>The English Patient</em> in the episode of that name ("Give me something I can use!") and her struggle to keep up with the no-masturbation competition in <em>The Contest</em> are the kind of vulgar comedy gold all often seen as the province of men (<em>The Big Bang Theory</em>, by contrast, sees the scenes with its female characters as the space for jokes about clothes-shopping, nail-varnish and <em>Eat Pray Love</em>).</div>
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When Michael Richards, as Kramer, made his entrance in the first episode of <em>Seinfeld</em> I ever saw - <em>The Couch</em> - my Dad, watching it with me, remarked, "oh God, there's the standard wacky neighbour: look at his funny haircut..." but a moment later, Kramer collided with a sofa a removal man was bringing in. He fell to the ground and leapt back up in an oddly graceful way. My dad chuckled:'"He did do that fall rather well, I must say -can we just rewind that?". That seems to me to capture the magic of Richards as Kramer, and its effect on the viewer: at first it seems to be standard sitcom shtick, then Richards plays it in a way no-one else could. His performance in <em>The Jimmy</em> is wonderful in a way nothing else has ever been. This imperishable episode sees Kramer mistaken for a mentally-challenged person after he's encountered with one side of his mouth still frozen by Novocaine following a dental appointment. He's invited to a charity dinner, where Mel Torme sings "When You're Smiling" to him. Kramer beams, and what makes this moment so delightful is the lack of deception: Kramer, after all, is indeed a special person, and didn't set out to give a false impression. The mixture of audacious bad taste and sweetness makes even the most po-faced viewer want to hug themselves: this as far away from Gervais-style cruelty as could be imagined, just as <em>The Bubble Boy</em> is interested more in the humour of an angry, raucous Bubble Boy (and in the poetry of saying "Bubble Boy") than in gags about his suffering.<br />
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The show's commitment to comedy aesthetics above everything else allows the characters to perform monologues of sustained power. Here's the climax of <em>The Marine Biologist</em> (in which George has been pretending to be a marine biologist to impress a girl, but been confronted by a beached whale which she implores him to save; and in which Kramer has been practicing his golf shots down by the beach):<em><br id="yui_3_7_2_19_1353190956851_109" /></em><br />
<strong><em>George: So I started to walk into the water. I won't lie to you boys, I was terrified! But I pressed on and as I made my way passed the breakers a strange calm came over me. I don't know if it was divine intervention or the kinship of all living things but I tell you Jerry at that moment I was a marine biologist! [...] </em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>The sea was angry that day my friends, like an old man trying to return soup at a deli. I got about fifty-feet out and then suddenly the great beast appeared before me. I tell ya he was ten stories high if he was a foot. As if sensing my presence he gave out a big bellow. I said, "Easy big fella!" And then as I watched him struggling I realized something was obstructing his breathing. From where I was standing I could see directly into the eye of the great fish!</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>Jerry: Mammal.<br id="yui_3_7_2_19_1353190956851_116" />George: Whatever.<br id="yui_3_7_2_19_1353190956851_118" />Kramer: Well, what did you do next?<br id="yui_3_7_2_19_1353190956851_120" />George: Then from out of nowhere a huge title wave lifted, tossed like a cork and I found myself on top of him face to face with the blow-hole. I could barely see from all of the waves crashing down on top of me but I knew something was there so I reached my hand and pulled out the obstruction!<br id="yui_3_7_2_19_1353190956851_122" />(George pulls out a golf ball)<br id="yui_3_7_2_19_1353190956851_124" />Kramer (looking sheepishly at it for a while): What is that - a Titleist? A hole in one, eh?<br id="yui_3_7_2_19_1353190956851_126" />Jerry: Well, the crowd most have gone wild!<br id="yui_3_7_2_19_1353190956851_128" />George: Oh yes, they did Jerry, they were all over me. It was like Rocky 1.<br id="yui_3_7_2_19_1353190956851_130" />Diane came up to me, threw her arms around me, and kissed me. We both had tears streaming down our faces. I never saw anyone so beautiful. It was at that moment I decided to tell her I was not a marine biologist!<br id="yui_3_7_2_19_1353190956851_132" />Jerry: Wow! What'd she say?<br id="yui_3_7_2_19_1353190956851_134" />George: She told me to "Go to hell!" and I took the bus home.</em></strong><br />
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Only comedy could create the effect that scene creates. The line "like an old man trying to send back soup in a Delhi," scans as gorgeously as poetry, and yet it's something other than poetry: it's irreducibly comedy.</div>
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Here's an equally brilliant vehicle for Michael Richards from <em>The Fire</em>:<br />
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<strong><em>KRAMER: she ran out of the building and a street sweeper ran over her foot and severed her pinky toe.<br id="yui_3_7_2_19_1353190956851_144" />GEORGE: That's unbelievable!<br id="yui_3_7_2_19_1353190956851_146" />KRAMER: Yeah! Then after the ambulance left, I found the toe! So I put it in a Cracker Jack box, filled it with ice, and took off for the hospital.<br id="yui_3_7_2_19_1353190956851_148" />GEORGE: You ran?<br id="yui_3_7_2_19_1353190956851_150" />KRAMER: No, I jumped on the bus. I told the driver, "I got a toe here, buddy - step on it."<br id="yui_3_7_2_19_1353190956851_152" />GEORGE: Holy cow!<br id="yui_3_7_2_19_1353190956851_154" />KRAMER: Yeah, yeah, then all of a sudden, this guy pulls out a gun. Well, I knew any delay is gonna cost her her pinky toe, so I got out of the seat and I started walking towards him. He says, "Where do you think you're going, Cracker Jack?" I said, "Well, I got a little prize for ya, buddy - knocked him out cold!</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>GEORGE: How could you do that?!<br id="yui_3_7_2_19_1353190956851_158" />KRAMER: Then everybody is screamin,' because the driver, he's passed out from all the commotion...the bus is out of control! So, I grab him by the collar, I take him out of the seat, I get behind the wheel and now I'm drivin' the bus.<br id="yui_3_7_2_19_1353190956851_160" />GEORGE: You're Batman.<br id="yui_3_7_2_19_1353190956851_162" />KRAMER: Yeah. Yeah, I am Batman. Then the mugger, he comes to, and he starts chokin' me! So I'm fightin' him off with one hand and I kept drivin' the bus with the other, y'know? Then I managed to open up the door, and I kicked him out the door with my foot, you know - at the next stop.<br id="yui_3_7_2_19_1353190956851_164" />JERRY: You kept makin' all the stops?<br id="yui_3_7_2_19_1353190956851_166" />KRAMER: Well, people kept ringin' the bell!</em></strong><br />
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This is a show famous for its "no hugging, no learning" rule, yet television has never been more joyous. The only emotion involved here is the warmth we experience when we experience great comedy. </div>
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Only two moments in the entire series allow the characters to express emotion towards one another. One is the scene in <em>The Deal</em> where Kramer gives Elaine the bench she wanted as a birthday present, along with a birthday card that quotes Yeats. Even this moment has a sting, though, as it drops Jerry in it for not getting Elaine anything. The second moment comes in <em>The Wallet</em> when Elaine returns after Julia Louis-Dreyfus has taken a few episodes off due to pregnancy. The four cheer and rejoice in a way that stays funny rather than schmaltzy, but there's still an uncharacteristic note of warmth.<br />
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Jerry's parents are highly skillful creations in this regard. It's been noted that Jerry is unusual as a protagonist in a sitcom for whom things work out, and crucial to this is his having relatively relaxed parents. They're necessarily gentler than George's, but the achievement of Barney Martin and Liz Sheridan's performances as Morty and Helen Seinfeld is that they still make them funny. The scene in <em>The Shower Head</em> where Elaine demands that Helen provide a urine sample to help her cheat on a drugs test gains a curious comic edge from the latter's lack of offence, instead getting flustered about which glass she should use. Even the scene in <em>The Outing</em> where they phone Jerry after rumors that he and George are a couple are circulating demonstrates that they are vexed - "it's those damn culottes you made him wear when he was five!" - rather than offended. The episode's iconic line "not that there's anything wrong with that" sounds particularly natural coming from Liz Sheridan, setting us up for what it will sound like when Estelle Harris gets to say it. Helen and Morty succeed as creations because they reinforce the idea that Jerry has had irritatingly little to be concerned about (as he says in <em>The Serenity Now,</em> "I'm open, there's just nothing in there") as a source of humour, and so his parents are not demons like the Costanzas (not to mention the comedy gold that ensues when both sets of parents clash). Few comedies would be able to use a mother's unironic "how can anyone not like him?" (<em>The Wallet</em>) for comic effect, let alone as a catchphrase (not that its depiction of older people is rose-tinted - See <em>The Cadillac</em> for a splendidly acid portrayal of bitchiness and political rivalry among the elderly.)</div>
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A more typical moment comes in <em>The Serenity Now</em>, when Jerry decides to try his hand at emotion: "What is this salty discharge?" he says upon shedding his first tears. He then insists upon opening up to George, who eventually relents and tells Jerry " All of my darkest fears, everything I'm capable of. That's me." Jerry stares in horror: "Yikes. Well, good luck with all that. [...] I think you scared me straight." Even eerier is the moment in the season seven finale <em>The Invitations</em>, when George's fiancé Susan, nicely played by Heidi Swedberg who gets us rooting for her, has been fatally poisoned by licking poor-quality envelopes when sending out wedding initiations (George insisted on the cheaper ones). The others react to the news, with Julia Louis-Dreyfus delivering the line "I'm...so sorry, George...?" as if Elaine is baffled rather than moved. It's the eeriest moment in <em>Seinfeld</em>'s history. </div>
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Yet, to reiterate, this is not a "dark" sitcom. It's not designed for the "this makes me squirm and therefore it must be funny" school of comedy criticism. It revels in its own artificiality, realising that its characters and plots are driven by the requirements of comedy, not just human observation. This is what makes it the opposite of <em>Friends</em>. <em>Seinfeld</em> acknowledges that Susan's death happens because it's funny, while <em>Friends</em> can't help but see Ross cheating on Rachel as the worst thing in the world. Douglas Adams said of PG Wodehouse "He doesn't have to be serious - he's better than that." Here's a show that was never serious, except in its artistry, and consequently created a world.</div>
Richard Cooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18114063496425319491noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240001912845478109.post-9505769580647169952012-10-19T16:03:00.001-07:002014-05-22T08:57:46.762-07:00Hey Fandom: Any Room For An Opinion?<div style="text-align: justify;">
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Regular readers of this blog, particularly its more mature pieces - will have noticed I'm in the tricky but interesting position of trying to bring the language of criticism - heartfelt, individualistic, provocative, unashamed - into the world of fandom, which tends towards the conformist - (did everyone else dislike it?) - the tentative - (of course that's just my opinion) - the anti-intellectual (you're taking it too seriously, how pretentious to use such big words, what are you on about?) the accusatory (you're just jealous, you're just trying to demonstrate your own superiority) the insulting (don't be obnoxious, don't troll, get a life, he's mad, what a strange man) the abbreviated (LOL, TL: DR, IMHO) and the labelling (Hah! Comic Book Guy from <em>The Simpsons</em>! Trainspotter! Geek!)</div>
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One of the creepiest trends on both twitter and forums is the trembling, "don't hit me" use of "IMHO" in an opinion. Why do it? Of course it's your opinion: what else could it be? The only way "that's just your opinion" would work as a riposte to anything on this blog would be if I'd claimed to be able to produce figures backed up by <em>The Lancet</em>. Yet so many are nervous of upsetting someone who liked that show, book or film, they're deliberately removing authority and even conviction from their tone.</div>
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This is partly because criticism exists in a separate world from fandom, and perhaps a truce of some kind needs to be called. If you enjoy watching something and only want to share that enjoyment, then understandably you might see any less than adulatory opinion as pissing on your parade. Conversely, though, if you want to be left alone with other positive-minded fans, surely you can leave those of us who are enjoying debating an interesting point alone too rather than coming over to shout "WELL I LIKED IT!" There's room enough for both types, and no need for one to antagonise the other. </div>
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What's more worrying is seeing this panicky response to criticism spreading amongst writers themselves. Paul Cornell has written superbly about fandom foibles - this <a href="http://www.paulcornell.com/2007/02/canonicity-in-doctor-who/" target="_blank">piece</a> on canon and this one about fandom's relationship with drama are essential reads - but this curious <a href="http://www.paulcornell.com/2007/12/the-twelve-blogs-of-christmas-six-4/" target="_blank">conversation</a> about <em>Doctor Who Confidential</em> on the comments section of his blog provides a typical example of the brief glimpse of humourless, feudalistic threat displayed when one of the readers/viewers, without being rude or offensive, speaks out of turn:</div>
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<strong><em>Rob:<br id="yui_3_7_2_19_1350680252364_61" />Sourpuss comment coming, for which I apologise in advance: The "family feel" of DW:C is no doubt wonderful to be part of, but it's the single biggest contributing factor to my no longer watching the show. The whole thing is so cliquey and self-congratulatory that it often seems as if an in-house lark has been broadcast by mistake. 'Ave a word, there's a love...</em></strong></div>
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<strong><em><br id="yui_3_7_2_19_1350680252364_63" />Paul:<br id="yui_3_7_2_19_1350680252364_65" />Rob, how many Making Ofs do you know that are scathing attacks on their subject matter? They like what they do! And they transmit that to the viewers, and the whole makes a jolly celebration. <br />
</em></strong><br />
A third poster, SK, had a terrific reply to this:<br />
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<strong><em>Some 'making ofs' are actually watchable, interesting pieces which show how various effects (special or otherwise) were achieved, and what the people behind the scenes were aiming at (which is especially interesting if it didn't quite come off, and they realise that it didn't quite come off). <br id="yui_3_7_2_19_1350680252364_73" /><br id="yui_3_7_2_19_1350680252364_74" />Not all of them are as cloying and indulgent.</em></strong><br />
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A debate like this is surely everything a comments page is for: neither Rob nor SK have been rude: all they've done is criticise a TV programme. But this was Paul's reply:<br />
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<strong><em>Excuse me, SK, I rather harumph at your tone, especially at this time of the year, and especially because the people concerned were mentioned here only because they were kind enough to send me a gift. They don't deserve to come here and see that. Which is not to say I don't think you should be free to say it, just not in my gracious abode. Now, have some mulled wine.</em></strong><br />
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And that's it. Discussion quashed. The mulled wine reference doesn't quite disguise the flash of warning: "careful old chap, don't care for your tone." The thing about "jolly celebrations" is that those in a different mood need to be cast out.</div>
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It's significant that this conversation should have revolved around <em>Doctor Who Confidential</em>, as that show was a good example of the Pollyannaism and enforced jollity that has taken hold of <em>Doctor Who</em> since 2005. SK's point is strong: compare <em>DWC</em> to the featurettes you would find on, say, the DVD of a Christopher Nolan Batman film. They assume their audience wants to know interesting details, and have enough respect for them to reward that curiosity rather than endlessly praising their own work. Peter Jackson, Christopher Nolan and the team behind <em>Seinfeld</em> realise that there's more you can give the audience than a "jolly celebration."</div>
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The world of <em>Doctor Who</em>, of course, didn't always use to be like this. In the 1990s, when new content consisted of novels and fan-produced videos rather than a lavish Caitlin Moran-approved BBC One series, there was a greater belief in the importance of refusing to pull punches in your criticism. <em>Doctor Who Magazine</em>'s reviewers at the time - Craig Hinton, David Owen, Vanessa Bishop - were searingly honest if they disliked a novel, video, factual book or documentary, even though this would sometimes cause tension if the author was offended. </div>
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In the same decade, <em>Red Dwarf Smegazine</em> once had a feature called "The Great <em>Red Dwarf</em> debate", in which Steve Lyons and Joe Nazzaro debated whether the show had gone downhill or hit its stride with series 3. Lyons argued that what had made the earlier series work had been lost. Now, I don't agree with Lyons's view- for me <em>Red Dwarf</em> matured from 3 onwards - but I find it interesting: it's the kind of discussion I want to read and enter into. Can you imagine <em>Doctor Who Magazine</em> running a similar debate today? They've run one about whether the brightly coloured Daleks are better than the old ones: that's as controversial as it gets. Turning to the most recent DWM, I notice the latest "debate" is about what is better: horror in <em>Doctor Who</em> or science fiction in <em>Doctor Who</em>? It's interesting, too, that while the stronger reviewers like Vanessa Bishop, David Owen and Gary Gillatt all continue to review releases related to the old<em> Doctor Who</em> (to the same critical standard as before), the DVD release of series 5 was reviewed by Toby Hadoke of "Moths Ate My Doctor Who Scarf" fame, while their most prominent reviewer of new episodes is the remorseless Graham "I loved it" Kibble White.<br />
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The example I used in an earlier blogpost for the tendency to stomp on any interesting opinion in order to create a sense of critical agreement and unity was Steven Moffat's response to hallor on twitter. To recap, this was the conversation (Moffat had just referred to River Song as bisexual)<br />
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<strong><em>Hallor:</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>appreciate the thought but I don't understand how River works for bisexual visibility when people need to be told she is bi</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em>Moffat:</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>?????</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em>Hallor:</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>If people need to be told she's bisexual, she's clearly not contributing to bisexual visibility. How is this hard to grasp?</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em>Moffat:</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>When did I say I thought I was contributing to bisexual visibility?? Please stop being rude to me, you have no reason to be.</em></strong><br />
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<strong><em>Hallor:</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>I'm just questioning your portrayal of a character you claim to</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>Be bisexual. How is that rude? I thought this was a discussion.</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em>Moffat:</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>How is your rudeness hard to grasp?</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em>Hallor:</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>I've been nothing but polite. Disagreeing with your opinion on something does not automatically mean I'm being rude. </em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em>Tom Spilsbury [editor of DWM]:</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>The comment that was rude was the 'hard to grasp' one. I know, because I get strangers who talk to me like this too. It is rude.</em></strong><br />
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Good though the response to my blogpost on twitter feudalism was, it's depressing how many people took the view that Hallor's tweets were rude. I still can't see the point of responding to a coherent and civil question with five question marks, nor can I understand how five question marks could denote anything other than a failure to grasp something - what else are question marks for?<br />
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Anyway, Steven Moffat deleted his Twitter account in September, which his wife says is due to work commitments, but which Graham Linehan and Ian Levine saw as evidence that the "trolls" had won, and which script editor Andrew Ellard claims was preceded by a series of tweets of Dickensian pathos asking how he could reduce his more negative "@s". <strong><em>(See September 2013 update below <a href="http://richardhcooper.blogspot.co.uk/2012/05/look-at-conduct-of-graham-linehan-and.html" target="_blank">this piece</a>) </em></strong> Those mean, mean fans. Don't they know what it's like to work in the media? Don't they release the damage opinions can do? Hard to grasp: what a cheek. Feel free to say their episode made you cry and that Matt Smith is fantastic and that you hope the Cybermen are coming back, but asking about River Song's contribution to bisexual visibility in the media: that's just out of order. It's sad for those of us who find the latter kind of discussion more interesting.<br />
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It's interesting to compare this conversation with a piece of correspondence published in <em>DWM</em> in May 1994, in which a reader from California named Sarah Keller wrote in to protest against the late Craig Hinton's review of Paul Cornell's <em>Doctor Who</em> novel <em>No Future</em>. Here's some extracts:<br />
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<strong><em>With all due disrespect to Mr Hinton, I ask that this whining overgrown schoolboy be fired and forced to grow up for a few years before thinking he is equipped to review books. </em></strong><br />
<strong><em>[...] Another example of Craigie's 'wit' being unleashed is his attack on Paul Cornell's gay characters in Love and War. I felt they were portrayed as people. Interesting people with problems. Which means that they can be "deeply unhappy" and unfortunately die of AIDS! It happens in life. Maybe not in Hinton's worldview, but as I've said, he needs a strong dose of reality. Certainly, honey, gays can be well-balanced and just happen to be gay, but some also dare to have human problems. </em></strong><br />
<strong><em>[...] This foolish little git is becoming more than I can tolerate. Please, please, please put a nuzzle on his rabid snout and kick him out into reality. He is disgusting.</em></strong><br />
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Here's some extracts from Craig Hinton's reply:<br />
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<strong><em>Sarah - you seem to have misinterpreted my criticism of Ace and Benny in Paul's book. I was referring to the complete lack of character development since Love and War.</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>[...] in the Sixties, the Lord Chamberlain's office in Britain decreed that the only homosexuals permissible on stage and screen had to be "deeply unhappy", tragic people, whose nature meant they were flawed human beings. My comments expressed my disappointment that it's taken a long time for the opposite view to be seen in the series.</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>[...] Please don't presume that my "world-view" excludes people who have died of AIDS - I only wish this weren't true.</em></strong><br />
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Sarah Keller's letter, like Hallor's tweet, brings up interesting issues. Unlike that tweet, it actually is rude, using wildly abusive language, implying that Craig Hinton was homophobic and wrongly assuming he wasn't gay. What's fascinating is that it doesn't occur to Hinton not to respond politely and intelligently: his reply is admirable and quite moving. The comment made by the editor at the time before he hands over the discussion to Hinton is noteworthy too: not only does he also decline to reciprocate Sarah Keller's rudeness, but his remark that "the 'who's your favourite doctor?' discussions of my youth are now stating to seem like a long time ago"' is actually used as a joke, a rueful acknowledgement that the time has come away to put away childish things. Nowadays it's not at all a joke, it's DWM editorial policy. Keller's letter would not have been published, and the current editor would have blocked her on twitter.<br />
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Paul Cornell has praised both the review and the letter in recent years when someone posted it on a forum. A quick look at the posts he used to make on the <em>Doctor Who</em> newsgroup rec-arts-drwho reveals a <em>Doctor Who</em> fan unafraid to challenge dreary received wisdom, frequently using the admirable maxim "dissent is good" (one I'm sorry he used first, as I can't use it for this blog), and raising the valuable point that <em>Doctor Who</em> itself is about someone who loves new ideas (a point he also makes well in the more recent canon piece, and which Lawrence Miles has made about Ian Levine, observing that no-one would detest Levine's closed mind and contempt for opinions different to his own more than the hero of the TV series he has dedicated his life to).<br />
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Similarly, Gareth Roberts, another writer for the modern series, wrote a sharp piece in DWM in July 2003 - two years before the show's resurrection. He rightly asks: "if you were coming to <em>Doctor Who</em> for the first time with <em>Trial</em> [<em>of a Timelord</em>], what on Earth would you think the series was about?" and writes of <em>Silver Nemesis</em> "I have no idea what Lady Peinforte, or Herr De Flores, or the Cyberleader want. What does the Nemesis do? The Doctor and Ace are so odd that's almost as hard to figure them out." Isn't this equally true of the recent series, which features as its heroes a girl whose baby has been stolen from her but who doesn't care about that too much, a woman who happens to be that baby grown up into a regenerating, time-travelling, gun-toting archaeologist, the girl's husband, who died and spent centuries watching over her as a plastic android replica, but is back to normal now, and a Doctor that all three have seen gunned down? Given the dream-like opportunity of writing for a wildly successful TV version of the show, a generation of intelligent critics like Cornell and Roberts have blunted their fangs as far as <em>Doctor Who</em> is concerned.<br />
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The presence of writers on Twitter and logging on to forums, leading to them accidentally ingesting criticism, is a complicating factor. It's significant that Paul Cornell's objections to speaking ill of <em>Doctor Who Confidential</em> centred around the possibilities of those that worked on it seeing the comments. The antipathy towards fans Answering Back doesn't stop at twitter "@" etiquette, though. It's fair enough to say that it's unreasonable to send mean tweets on a show directly to its writer (mean being crucial here: not "I appreciate the thought but don't understand how River works for bisexual visibility" or wondering if someone who used 5 question marks is finding what you said "hard to grasp", and the same goes for "didn’t enjoy episode three, but episode two was surely best of the series! Love your shows, and IT I can really relate to, thanks!" which resulted in a lesson in etiquette from Graham Linehan detailed <a href="http://fingerbuffet.wordpress.com/2010/07/11/the-incredibly-thin-skinned-world-of-graham-linehan/" target="_blank">here</a>. With forums, however, the comments are not addressed to the author. Russell T Davies and Benjamin Cook's shocking book <em>A Writer's Tale</em>, which unintentionally explains so much of what went wrong with <em>Doctor Who</em> from 2006 onwards, contains an enlightening section where Davies reveals that writer Helen Raynor logged on to Outpost Gallifrey and read what fans had said about her Dalek story. Davies relates that, according to her, the experience was like being ganged up on and threatened by a group of bullying men. He reveals that he had to spend a large amount of time on the phone persuading her that they did indeed need her services. Now, if people had been sending Helen Raynor unpleasant remarks about her work directly to her, or making them to her face, I would agree with Davies's point, but to chastise someone for criticising a TV programme on a public forum because of the possibility of the author choosing to log on and read it is a preposterous as eavesdropping and then saying "How Dare you?" Sending strangers harsh criticism of their work uninvited is unpleasant and pointless but to say that you shouldn't make those criticisms anywhere on the Internet in case the author finds the site is a step too far. None of this is to say that a lot of nonsense isn't uttered on forums, of course, only that those that utter it are not "trolls", as Graham Linehan or Ian Levine would brand them. Trolls abuse people, not episodes of TV shows.<br />
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Another <em>Doctor Who</em> writer, James Moran, responded to one of Graham Linehan's anti-forum rants with this telling tweet:<br />
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<strong><em>You'd think comedy forums would be funny, wouldn't you? Read one once that was slagging off a mate. Yikes.</em></strong><br />
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Every writer someone criticises is someone's mate and yet the very idea of criticising someone's mate has now become such a palpable fear, it's seen as a damaging enough case to end the tweet there, as forcefully as if Moran had said "can you believe they even drowned a little puppy?"<br />
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After the ferocious Graham Kibble-White had unleashed his nervously-awaited critical take on <em>Victory of Daleks</em> (he really liked it) someone asked his editor Tom Spilsbury on Gallifrey Base what he would do if Graham the Jackal loathed an episode. His response was that he couldn't see how he could employ anyone that mad. One thinks here of the response to Lawrence Miles's provocative - and in my view, spot on - argument on his blog that <em>The Unquiet Dead</em> endorsed anti-asylum seeker xenophobia in DWM's Fact of Fiction on that story. The piece summarised Miles's argument, and then simply expressed gratitude that most fans "knew when to stop reading things into" <em>Doctor Who.</em> That was it: no counterargument, no defence of the episode, no refutation of Miles's argument. The cry of fandom: stop reading things into it: we're not going to tell you why we dislike or disagree with your reading of it, nor offer a contrasting reading of our own: we just want you to stop reading. The dreariest conversation I ever had was with a fan who used to tell me I was "overanalysing" whenever I ventured a less than positive opinion about <em>Doctor Who</em>. He subsequently shortened this to just that word with an exclamation mark, which he fell back on whoever I said anything he disagreed with. This is a dangerous fallacy. You can't over-analyse anything or read too much into anything: you can analyse something poorly (in the other person's opinion), you can read or interpret something poorly (in the other person's opinion) but you cannot think too much. If every decoding is anther encoding, then every disagreement should be another opinion: what's chilling about fan language is that it attempts to bring the debate to a halt: arguments are met by insults and denials, but not counter-arguments or defences of whatever was criticised. <br />
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When I wrote my piece on <em>The Thick Of It</em>, an obvious aim was to stir debate: no decent writer only writes pieces he or she knows everyone will agree with. On Twitter I had some pleasing debates with admirers of <em>The Thick of It</em>, exchanging contrasting ideas while remaining friends. The comments section of the blog, curiously, was a different story, attracting insults only a few days after the blogpost went up (unlike the pieces on Moffat's <em>Doctor Who</em> and Graham Linehan, which still haven't attracted anything offensive). What was most telling about the first comment, written in a tone of humourless anger throughout, was what it didn't say: there was no defence of <em>The Thick Of It</em>, nor was there any actual rebuttal of any aspect of my argument: instead the piece focused on my stupidity for having written such a disrespectful article in the first place. There was a lot of insults: the piece was "rubbish", it was "egotistical" of me (I actually have to agree with Martin Amis here and say calling a writer egotistical is like calling a boxer aggressive: I'm not sure a meek, diffident essayist would be worth reading) to think that I could "deconstruct" <em>The Thick of It</em>, the piece was "not really criticism at all" but "an impotent attempt to assert your intellectual superiority." Again, note the denial: rather than countering the criticism, a very loud "NO!" is sounded: I don't need to disagree with you or because your opinion doesn't exist. I tried to make some of these points in my replying comment:<br />
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<strong><em>Hello angry anonymous comment-person.</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>Interesting that these panicky reactions to someone saying something critical about your favourite show apply as much to The Thick of It as they do to Doctor Who. (God knows what a Thick of It Forum would be like)</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em>It's not egotistical to deconstruct Shakespeare, let alone The Thick of it. Is your strange idea of deference towards a tv show part of that tired old "when you make tv shows yourself then you can talk" argument, or do you think no-one has any business talking disrespectfully about tv? Would you prefer me to know my place? Are there no tv shows you feel superior too? How intimidating you must find switching on the tv if so. Don't you even feel superior to Jeremy Kyle? Piers Morgan? Frankly I'd rather have an egotistical critic than a diffident or meek one. </em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em>There's a slight contradiction between your annoyance at my less than polite tone towards a tv show and your own towards</em></strong> <strong><em>me: apparently it's fine to leave messages on someone's blog saying their piece is "rubbish" and that they are motivated purely by an "impotent attempt to assert you intellectual superiority" (and personally, I've no problem with you doing that) but bang out of order to mock a much-loved tv show on one's own blog. Have a look at The Thick of it on iplayer: there, see? It's still there, the nasty man's horrid little blog didn't hurt it.</em></strong><br />
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<strong><em>The sheep-like attitude you would seem to</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>prefer to see in viewers and bloggers is depressing. No-one should be afraid to say they don't like something. It will have no effect on the programme/book/film (so if you're of a fan of it: why worry?); what it will do is encourage debate.</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em>What's particularly striking is that you offer no counter-argument or defence of The Thick Of It: you focus entirely on how you hated the post.</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em>The piece IS a criticism of The Thick of It: they exist, get over it. They're not going to cease to be criticisms and stand revealed as the work of "impotent" and "egotistical" fakes because you point at them and scream "that's not real!"</em></strong><br />
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A second commentator named Melissa Naylor posted a brief reply telling me I "came across as obnoxious" and advising me to "work on your people skills". The debate - which could have been on <em>The Thick Of It</em>, comedy satire, fandom and politics - had now descended into insults (again, note the wide gulf between "work on your people skills" and "appreciate the point but don't understand how River works for bisexual visibility"). Rather than post testy replies on the dubiousness of holding forth to complete strangers about their "people skills", I deleted all three of our comments. This was a mistake, and in retrospect I should have kept a copy of the conversation to quote in full.<br />
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However, I offer two reasons for this uncharacteristic act. Firstly, if I wanted to swap insults I'd join a forum (although you can approach me on Twitter for that kind of thing). Secondly, I'd prefer to debate the pieces on Twitter rather than on the same blogpage, as my posting a defence immediately below the piece itself seems to me to dilute it: it should stand for itself, and follow-up comments I write within a day are inevitably going to be weaker than something I've spent time thinking over. Many blogs don't enable comments, and I've long wondered if it isn't self-defeating for an author of a long provocative essay to put shorter posts immediately below it, and both of the comments bear this out as the posters are clearly uncomfortable with things that are actually going to be a given in anything I write (of course the essays are going to be egotistical, of course they'll be unafraid to "deconstruct" anything and of course they're not going to worry about "people skills"). Leaving comments enabled makes this more like a forum with the essay as the first post, and that leads to other posters wondering why the first person posted such a long piece, and why they expressed an opinion with the assumption that it was true, with no IMHOs in sight. (If you don't like this piece,by the way, you can tweet me at @richardhcooper)<br />
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The same panicky, anti-intellectual tone can be found on some of my favourite responses to my "How Steven Moffat Ruined Doctor Who" blog, which were posted on a forum (I quote from them in a spirit of interest, not spite, as these comments are not addressed to me, which makes them opinions, not insults):<br />
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<strong><em>This article is nothing more than a long-winded opinion made to sound authoritative and important. Some of us don't like the vapid, cheesy emotionalism of episodes like Love and Monsters and the whole of RTD's time and prefer arc-heavy, mystery laden shows. It's fine to have an opinion. He seems to be confusing "I don't like it" with "It's bad and has no value." I sure as hell disagreed with a lot of what RTD did at the helm, but I wouldn't accuse him of "ruining" the show.</em></strong><br />
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<strong><em>If you look toward the comment section, it all makes sense. He basically tears Moffat apart using pseudo arguments, makes lite criticism of RTD to seem like he's bring fair and balanced, and adamant Moffat hates eat it up as though it were an intelligently well thought out article backing their own opinions. </em></strong><strong><em>It's persuasion on the most basic level. Appear intelligent by saying things people won't necessarily understand, be assertive in your opinion, and sprinkle in exactly what people want to hear, in this case it's the opinion that Moffat is a horrible writer that has ruined Doctor Who.</em></strong><br />
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<strong><em>After reading through this, I realized I'd read through it before. And Terror is right. It's a long winded way of saying that this person just plain hates Moffat Who. I had written up a list of things to refute points and such, but I just can't be bothered to. People are always bashing the current showrunner and saying tv has degenerated from intelligent material to flashy lights and bangs. I was about to type up more but I had to stop myself. I'm stopping. </em></strong><strong><em>I remember the first time I read this, it actually convinced me of a few things and I started disliking Moffat. It's articles like these that now force me to require a good slap in the face every time I start to whine about some aspect of the show that is apparently not good. These rants are like commercials- they get in your head.</em></strong><br />
<br />
<strong><em>As others have said. It's too conflicting with itself, ignoring a lot of parts of Classic Who. And far too negative. Why the hell does he even watch this show? He seems like a bit of a negative sod overall too. </em></strong><strong><em>Sure...it's an in-depth analysis...but it's an incredibly picky analysis.</em></strong><br />
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<strong><em>What a sad title for a topic. I don't mind discussing these things here, but in the future, could you please link articles with titles like "An opinion piece on Moffat", etc.? I love visiting this place and I really dislike seeing sentences like these hovering halfway down the page every time I go here.</em></strong><br />
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<strong><em>This is the kind of guy that irritates me the most. He thinks that just because he has a blog, and can write an essay length entry, that he is intelligent and knows what he is talking about.</em></strong><br />
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<strong><em>Claiming that JNT was better than Moffat? The balls on this author.</em></strong><br />
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It's fascinating, endearing and sad to see the lengths the commentators go to deny that they were impressed or saw any merit in the article, whilst describing the dangerous, seductive cleverness of its rhetoric. Exactly how could I "make" a long-winded opinion "sound authentic and important"? That would be quite a skill. The one thing that seems to be absent from these fans' world-view is the conceit that something can be entertaining, well-written, interesting or enlightening even if one disagrees with it. They seem to soften momentarily, expressing interest in the way the piece is written, (do they not realise that "the balls on this author!" is precisely the kind of compliment an essayist dreams of ?) and then quickly back off. <br />
<br />
The third comment is the most fascinating, revealing the palpable sense many fans have that a differing opinion poses a threat. The commentator sees my piece as a potential brainwasher. If anything, that's preposterously flattering to me. Raymond Chandler used to direct people to his bookcase when they asked if Hollywood had ruined his books. "There they are - they're fine." Couldn't someone tell fans the same thing? The distinction the first commentator makes between "I don't like it" and "it has no value" is false, and would only be valid if I had a tendency to wipe master-tapes, burn books and shout "what are you reading that rubbish for?"'at people reading Dan Brown on trains. Only a bigot would: I pose no threat to what you like, even if I happen to hate it. <br />
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It''s a familiar set of comments to anyone who's ever observed forum posters respond to a Lawrence Miles piece. <em>Is he mad? What a saddo. Why talk about the show so much if he doesn't like it? Why's he use such clever words to sound clever? Why's it so long? Why's he so pretentious? What's he on about?</em> The notes sounded most often here are a lack of interest in anything you can't understand, and annoyance at opinions different from your own, neither of which are very Doctorish traits.<br />
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One of the most chilling moments I've had on the Internet came when I found out what TL:DR meant (if you don't know yet, google it. If you don't experience any revulsion you may be reading the wrong blog). It's the ultimate expression of the fear of different opinions, the fear of reading, the fear of controversy, reduced to an easily replicable slogan, which doesn't even bother to spell out its own words. The essay is a long form. The freedom it affords its author to develop their ideas comes from its assumption that the the reader can take or leave it. The piece isn't written for your convenience, so its length and the forthrightness of its opinions are not tailored accordingly. It's only aimed at readers who are prepared to consider another's viewpoint. If you can't be bothered to read the piece, is there much point in bothering to take issue with it? <br />
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The reaction to Christopher Priest's <a href="http://www.christopher-priest.co.uk/journal/1077/hull-0-scunthorpe-3/" target="_blank">piece</a> about the Clarke nominations saw the problem spreading wider still. Priest's blogpost was far from perfect, but it was an interesting and heartfelt piece that raised a number of good points. Damien G Walter's curious response <a href="http://damiengwalter.com/2012/03/29/understanding-christopher-priest/" target="_blank">piece</a> put it down to jealousy - heaven forbid it might be an opinion:<br />
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<strong><em>So why then would a man held in rather high esteem by the community of Science Fiction writers and readers throw a hissy fit about the recently announced Clarke awards shortlist? The immediate assumption one might make is that Priest is somewhat vexed about his own novel The Islanders being overlooked for this year’s shortlist. And no doubt this is one of many straws piled upon this particular heehawing donkey’s back, but in this case probably not the most significant one. </em></strong><strong><em>A more significant reason might be that Christopher Priest has spent most of his professional career not being J G Ballard. The two writers began their professional careers around the same period of the early to mid 1960′s, among a number of writers who would become known as the New Wave, all loosely connected by their shared agenda of making SF a serious and respected literary genre. Priest is not now among the first writers that come to mind in discussions of the New Wave…which is of course the point. </em></strong><strong><em>[...] Christopher Priest has spent his entire career being close enough to the top table to smell the gravy, but has never quite been invited to sit down. </em></strong><strong><em>[...]And now, just when Priest might have expected to be acclaimed as an elder statesman of the genre, another wave of writers have taken the limelight instead. The bulk of the criticisms Priest lays at the feet of the current generation of SF writers including Charles Stross and China Mieville are products of his own swollen, bruised and delusional ego, but a few are true</em></strong><br />
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Equally dispiriting was Pat Cadigan's open <a href="http://m.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=10150658976353229" target="_blank">letter</a> to the Guardian in which she said she was "really disappointed to see <em>The Guardian</em> has picked up what is an extended tantrum by a disappointed writer and treated as if it should be taken seriously." Just what is the most depressing part of this? Is it the insistence that this must be down to jealousy - a complaint which essentially denies the existence of a criticism instead of refuting or countering it - or the idea, <a href="http://www.cheryl-morgan.com/?p=13411" target="_blank">echoed</a> by Cheryl Morgan in her response to Priest, that one thing that SF doesn't need is people taking it too seriously. Stay out of this, <em>Guardian</em>, no controversy here, nothing the outsiders need to know about: now let's get back to praising each other.<br />
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As Catherynne M Valente pointed out <a href="http://www.catherynnemvalente.com/2012/03/the-tears-of-christopher-priest/" target="_blank">here</a>: "saying 'he’s just jealous' as a way of discounting everything a person says does not become a critic." Adam Roberts, similarly, <a href="http://www.strangehorizons.com/reviews/2012/04/the_arthur_c_cl.shtml" target="_blank">suggested</a> that debates are what shortlists are for, not encumbrances to them. One might also recall the reaction to AS Byatt's excellent <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2003/07/07/opinion/harry-potter-and-the-childish-adult.html?pagewanted=all&src=pm" target="_blank">piece</a> on Harry Potter, <a href="http://www.salon.com/2003/07/08/byatt_rowling/?mobile.html" target="_blank">dismissed</a> by Salon editor Charles Taylor - as a "Goblet of Bile":<br />
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<strong><em>It’s clear that we’re dealing here with an acolyte at the temple of high culture barring the doors as the ignorant masses who love pop culture come a knockin’. Loath as I am to resurrect the old canard accusing writers or critics who dislike a popular work of art of being jealous, in Byatt’s case it might be true. Remember, this is the same writer who went into a highly publicized hissy fit some years back when Martin Amis was given a lucrative advance against future books. It’s only human for writers or filmmakers or musicians to feel resentful and even contemptuous when what they consider good, serious work is being passed over in favor of some pop artifact. But sooner or later, if you choose the life of a writer, you damn well better be able to make peace with the possibility that in all likelihood you will not enjoy spectacular commercial success. Byatt has it better than most, enjoying a modicum of fame, more than her share of respect, and the distinction of being one of the relative few who has been able to make a living at literary fiction. But success on the scale of J.K. Rowling’s clearly gets under her skin.</em></strong><br />
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As with the reactions to Priest, the isn't a counter-argument but a very loud SHUT UP! Note also that Byatt's piece contains this:<br />
<br />
<strong><em>- as they do not now review the great Terry Pratchett, whose wit is metaphysical, who creates an energetic and lively secondary world, who has a multifarious genius for strong parody as opposed to derivative manipulation of past motifs, who deals with death with startling originality. Who writes amazing sentences.</em></strong><br />
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Perhaps Taylor has never head of Pratchett: a vastly superior writer to Rowling who attracts far more literary snobbery (and whose collected short stories features an introduction by Byatt as erudite and delightful a corrective to literary snobbery as anyone has ever written). Fay Weldon's comments were spot on:<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Byatt does have a point in everything she says but at the same time she sounds like a bit of a spoilsport. She is being a party pooper but then the party pooper is often right.</em></strong><br />
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This leads us to my favourite <a href="http://sotcaa.org/comment/positivelynegative.html" target="_blank">piece</a> about this topic. It's a fine argument for the superiority of anger, contempt, indignation and conviction over mulled wine and forced jollity. How can one have an interesting opinion without negativity, any more than one could have one without positivity? When we get angry about things is often when we care the most, and frequently more things are achieved by people who have had enough than by Pollyannas. Of course "it was the worst thing in the history of television" and "you can't write" are bloody useless criticisms, but only because they're one-note, poorly expressed and, in the case of the latter, personally insulting. We need to judge critiques in terms of quality rather than negativity. As the great Adam Mars-Jones - perhaps the best critic working today - said recently, "the only bad review in my book is one whose writing is soggy, its formulas of praise or blame off the same stale shelf" (He also said "a book review is a conversation that excludes the author of the book. It addresses the potential reader", which is a valuable reason why "Amy Pond is one of the most unconvincing and poorly-crafted characters in TV history" is better blogged than tweeted to her creator, why calling the author of a blogpost "obnoxious" is better posted on a forum than the comments section of the actual blog itself, and why you should never go on the offensive against someone for what they said about your work on a forum).<br />
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Tell me Bond films or <em>Doctor Who</em> are crap and I'll be bored. Tell me why you find them dreary, repugnant or troubling and I'll be interested, even if I don't agree. Tweet to me "Read your latest blogpost: God, you're so full of yourself" and I'll struggle to see what you'd expect in reply, tweet to me "your piece is riddled with holes: for instance..." or "that's a preposterous argument because..." and I'll be interested enough to debate with you.<br />
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The age of TL:DR and IMHO has left a generation frightened of opinions. Increasingly, the image for the future of interesting critical opinions on SF, fantasy and comedy looks like that of a boot stamping down on a human face, and whatever the owner of the boot might say, that doesn't look like Comic Book Guy's face to me. If it's "people skills" you want, maybe you should join a forum or find a meeker blog. There's no mulled wine here.<br />
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Richard Cooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18114063496425319491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240001912845478109.post-41100747509757043332012-09-28T08:11:00.000-07:002012-10-01T07:38:24.361-07:00How To Write The Thick of It<br />
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Razor-sharp. Incisive. Horribly accurate. Fact imitating fiction. Now you can write your very own episode of <em>The Thick of It</em>.<br />
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1) You'll need pop culture references: endless pop culture references: "It's like that third <em>Tron </em>movie that no-one's waiting for", "the Scottish Simon Cowell", "Like a fucking Will Self lecture", "we are the Gallagher brothers of politics", "okay, let's Macintyre this - stand up", "then it's just me, the Kindle and Jodi Picoult"', "Fuck off, Bagpuss", "When I've finished with him he'll look like Mel Gibson's fucking Jesus", "Nicola's gone all Jeremy Kyle", "You're the fucking shittest James Bond ever - you're David fucking Niven", "That was a bit annoying. And hilarious. Like Russell Brand. You want to hate him, but he’s just funny", "not the sofa - what are you, Lorraine Kelly?"' "You couldn't keep the cast of <em>Glee</em> out", "it's like when Queen lost Freddie - no-one could replace him, certainly not Paul Rodgers", "Oi, James fucking May, it was you who sprayed the private information about the school, wasn't it? Like Jenson Button shaking up a magnum of piss". Naming things people like is a gift for the writer of dialogue: it saves time.<br />
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2) Swearing is automatically funny. This is useful because you can adapt it to any situation: if someone is presenting poppies at the cenotaph and makes a mess of it, you can create lines like "bollocking poppy wank" and "she is officially a cenotwat". Not to forget "Shitehead Revisited", "Fuck off Mr Chips" and "Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Cunt". The trick is to add the swear word at the right moment. This makes it ideal for quoting on Twitter or at work the next day.<br />
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3) Another useful technique is to take an established name, and add a twist to make it fit one one of the characters: "how's Martina Luther King?", "where's Hale and Pacemaker?", "Lord Bonnie Longford" "Lucille Ballbag" "Benny fucking Hendrix", "Where's Dame Ellen McArseache?", "Indiana Murray and the bum-dildo of vengeance".<br />
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4) Despite the richly talented cast, you don't need to give them too much to work with. Don't bother with the characterisation, nuance and inventive comic detail you find in their other work such as <em>Knowing Me Knowing You</em>, <em>The Day Today</em> or <em>Getting On</em>. What's that got to do with satire? That's just art. All you need in the way of characterisation is the odd reference to how the characters are unhappily married or don't get to have sex very often and have to resort to porn. The character of Phil Smith is a masterful example here.<br />
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5) There are two ways of writing dialogue: one is to have a character make references to the other's sexual failures, the other is for them to suggest they are gay.<br />
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Here's the first:<br />
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<em><strong>Phil: (producing a bottle of champagne)<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_134884306937698" />It was in my desk drawer - I was saving it for something special.<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376102" />Emma:<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376106" />What, like losing your virginity?<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376110" />Phil:<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376114" />I've done that in style, actually - if my penis could talk...<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376118" />Emma:<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376122" />Yeah, it'd say "I'm lonely, where is everyone, let me out of this coffin..."<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376126" />(series 4, ep 1)</strong></em><br />
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<br />
Here's a couple of examples of the other:<br />
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<strong><em>Phil:<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376142" />While Peter is absent I am his surrogate: the King's hand<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376146" />Adam:<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376150" />Yeah - finish him off with that hand as well, do you? Prick.<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376154" />(series 4, ep 3)</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>Malcolm: (interrupting an argument between Ollie and Phil)<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376164" />I love it, I love it, it's the pre-match sparring for the big supergayweight title fight, eh? (mimes boxing) Ok Oliver, wipe away the precum, you've got some work to get on with. <br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376168" />(series 3, ep 4)</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
6) if the ad-lib hasn't come off, keep ad-libbing: non-sequiturs are funny, particularly if you keep adding to them and commenting on the fact that they are non-sequiturs. Here's some examples:<br />
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<strong><em>Fleming:<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376184" />What I need to know is, are you solid?<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376188" />Nicola:<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376192" />Yes, I'm completely... I'm as solid as...as the proverbial, as a - as a rock, As a rock-hard....as a - as a sailor's...wang on shoreleave."<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376196" />(series 3, episode 8)</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em>Phil:<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376206" />You're like the man who fucked the monkey that gave us AIDS, that's who you are!<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376210" />Ollie:<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376214" />(Incredulous) I'm like the man who did what - who fucked the monkey (laughs) that gave us AIDs?<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376218" />Phil:<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376222" />That's right: you keep saying "it wasn't me, it wasn't me" and there's monkey shit on your balls, not mine.<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376226" />(series 3 episode 4)</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em>Nicola:<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376236" />Great, thank you, Steve fucking "oooh Nicola" Fleming<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376240" />Ollie:<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376244" />Yeah... He is a fucking... [pause] ninny isn't he?<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376248" />(series 3, episode 7)</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>Adam:<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376258" />Glen, you're a marvel, you know - you're like a modern-day Jeeves...only...not...modern...day...you're like Jeeves...only not as good."<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376262" />(Series 4, ep 3)</em></strong><br />
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<br />
See how the actors' unhappy way of delivering the dialogue, as if the characters were struggling to articulate themselves well, can be used to excuse what might otherwise seem rather feeble material.<br />
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7) Comedy can be created by clinging to the phrase a person has just used:<br />
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<strong><em>Fleming: Glen, are you on top of your game?<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376284" />Glen: I'm, er [splutters] I am above my game, I'm in a geo-stationary orbit way above it looking down going "Hello game, it's Glen!"<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376288" />(series 3 episode 8)</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>Julius:<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376298" />You've done some pretty awful things to me in my time but this takes the bloody biscuit - and you've pissed on that biscuit and I've got to eat it. Well, here's the news Malcolm, I will not eat the pissy biscuit!<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376302" />Malcolm:<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376306" />Sam! No pissy biscuits.<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376310" />(Series 3 ep 8)<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376314" /><br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376316" />Ben:<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376320" />The leader of the Opposition is in that room, Malcolm, practicing walking, I mean, baby horses can walk - from the womb. She's one nil down to a pony.<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376324" />Malcolm:<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376328" />A pony isn't a baby horse. It's a foal: a fucking foal is a baby horse.<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376332" />Ben:<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376336" />Right, our guest tonight on "I don't give a fuck about baby horses is me.<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376340" />[later in the episode]<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376344" />Ben:<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376348" />shall we get a pony to challenge her?<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376352" />Malcolm:<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376356" />It's not a fucking pony, it's a fucking foal.<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376360" />(series 4 ep2)</em></strong><br />
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<br />
Everyone knows that's what dialogue sounds like in comedy.<br />
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Can you do that? Let's try right now, shall we?:<br />
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<strong><em>Teri looks in the biscuit tin) Why do you always have to eat all the penguins?<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376380" />Olly:<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376384" />Why are you always asking me about the Penguin count? You're a Penguin Nazi<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376388" />Teri:<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376392" />You're calling me a Nazi Penguin?<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376396" />Ollie:<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376400" />No, I'm calling you a Penguin Nazi <br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376404" />Teri:<br id="yui_3_2_0_19_1348843069376408" />What's the difference?</em></strong><br />
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People will be tweeting " 'penguin Nazi'! lol #thethickofit"' in no time. It could be the new "quiet bat people" (series 4 ep 2).<br />
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8) for your plot, you'll need some new initiative, campaign or scheme: let's say: lollipop ladies...<br />
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9) There's a photo-op or a lecture to try and launch this initiative, but something goes wrong. Nicola/Mannion makes a speech about the lollipop scheme, but there's a faux pas: a member of the public asks a question that puts them on the spot: they flounder, ad-lib "awkward" non-sequitars, and try and ingratiate themselves with the questioner. Ollie/Emma pulls a face. Malcolm/Stewart watches it live on TV or hears it over the phone and goes ballistic, repeating whatever non-sequitur Nicola/Mannion has just used: "Postman Pat! Did he [or she] just compare the Party to Postman Pat? WHAT THE FUCK...!" Glen/Phil/Teri looks on nervously as he knocks things off the desk and makes frantic phone calls.<br />
10) Mannion/Nicola arrives back and swears furiously: "Thanks a fucking bunch! I was supposed to be the fucking Lollipop Leader now I'm Postman Prick?" Malcolm/Stewart responds with insults.<br />
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(11) Shots of punning or pop-referencing newspaper headlines, photo mock-ups, political cartoons (Nicola hanging from a lollipop like a gallows, Mannion with a lollipop up his backside, Mannion/Nicola as Julius Caesar stabbed in the back with a lollipop, Mannion/Nicola as Postman Pat with someone else significant depicted as his cat Jess) are bemoaned by Stewart/Malcolm and sniggered at by Ollie/Glen/Teri/Emma/Phil. <br />
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12) As Mannion/Nicola sets off homewards, Stewart/Malcolm continues to make angry phone calls and Ollie/Glen/Teri/Emma/Phil make ruefully amused comments, the lollipop scheme is abandoned for some fairly ironic reason. All is back as it was. Nothing has changed. Nothing ever will. Credits roll over insults.<br />
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13) Any good work of fiction has a political aspect to it. All literature is propaganda, as Orwell said, and the same is true of TV. <em>The Thick of It,</em> however, is only concerned with the politics of the ministry and the party: leave that all that "exploring it through three-dimensional human beings, complex relationships, though-provoking storylines, unbearably moving moments, complex acting, harrowing moments that take the viewer out of their safety zone, putting characters you care about in worrying situations, dramatising important political and social questions through a gripping plot dynamic, finding the admirable traits in loathsome people and vice versa, rich dialogue rather than just a stream of insults, asking what the fuck is wrong with the country" stuff to <em>The Wire</em>, <em>Breaking Bad</em>, <em>Boys From The Blackstuff</em>, <em>Cracker</em> and <em>The Sopranos</em>. That's for people with far too broad a definition of politics.<br />
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14) No backstory, no characterisation, no emotion, no non-political humour (unless you count the insults and the pop culture references) no subversion of the format, no suggestion that spin-doctoring and ministerial or party politics are banal. This is not designed as a show that supports an "it's about more than just politicians" reading. It's for people who like talking about politicans, and satire. Hence the straight-to-the-point directing and editing, the abrupt opening and ending, the lack of music or logos, the plain credits. Satire is all it is: what it stands or falls as.<br />
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15) that said, don't go overboard on the satire: no anger, keep it non-partisan, keep it safe. This must please satire fans and deliver what is expected: it must not ruffle feathers, cause controversy, upset people.<br />
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16) your main messages are:<br />
a) politicians are idiots<br />
b) everything in politics rebounds on you<br />
c) it doesn't make any difference which party <br />
d) swearing is funny<br />
e) all scheme, proposals and initiatives go wrong<br />
f) nothing changes, nothing can be done<br />
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17) Trust me, this will work: it's tried and tested, it makes people feel safe, all the more so because it makes them feel the Government is being challenged while they laugh at nob gags and references to Gordon Ramsey.<br />
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18) One other thing, the first series, like the current one, starred Peter Capaldi, okay? Look at the DVD cover: Peter Capaldi. I don't see anyone else there, do you? There is no Chris Langham, do you hear me? I don't care if it has gone horribly downhill since he left. Look at the DVD cover, comrade. There was no Langham in the Party.<br />
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<br />Richard Cooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18114063496425319491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240001912845478109.post-62536807136636665612012-09-07T04:23:00.000-07:002016-12-18T18:20:07.002-08:00Why I Loathe Confessional WritingI have a confession to make: I despise confessional writing. I know it's awful of me as a weak liberal, but I loathe pieces in which the author ruefully acknowledges that that it was awful of them as a weak liberal to do whatever slimy thing they've done. When I was reading Lionel Shriver's piece on how, when a friend of hers got cancer, she abandoned her, but isn't proud of herself, I abandoned reading pieces by Lionel Shriver. Awful of me, I know, but I was too weak. I wasn't brave or unflinching, to give two of the buzz-words that are applied to this kind of writing.<br />
<br />
A difference between right-wing hacks and liberal hacks is that while the former do little to persuade even themselves that they're anything other than malodorous, the latter think that saying something abhorrent or doing something abhorrent is redeemed if you pontificate upon how abhorrent it was of you in your piece, and how all of us - not just the author of the piece - are complicit in this abhorrence, for this is an abhorrence symptomatic of our times.<br />
<br />
Anne Enright's endlessly detestable piece on the McCann family for <em>The</em> <em>London Review of Books</em> - available here <a href="http://toodumbtolivearchive.blogspot.co.uk/2007/10/disliking-mccanns.html">http://toodumbtolivearchive.blogspot.co.uk/2007/10/disliking-mccanns.html</a> but currently subscription-only at its home at <a href="http://www.lrb.co.uk/v29/n19/anne-enright/diary">http://www.lrb.co.uk/v29/n19/anne-enright/diary</a> (not the first time it's disappeared from there) - is a paradigm. From the words "distancing yourself from the McCanns is a recent but potent form of magic and disliking the McCanns is an international sport", the piece assumes we are all complicit in the author's obnoxiousness. Praised by Sam Leith ( <a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/comment/3643503/Anne-Enright-was-spot-on-about-McCann-mania.html">http://www.telegraph.co.uk/comment/3643503/Anne-Enright-was-spot-on-about-McCann-mania.html</a> ) as "spot-on" and "darkly funny", it gives us the horrible image of Enright using Google Earth to study the hotel in Portugal in order to work out how the kidnapping was feasible while chatting with her husband about whether the McCanns were wifeswappers and staying up late at night to look for further YouTube interviews with the couple.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>I disliked the McCanns earlier than most people (I’m not proud of it). I thought I was angry with them for leaving their children alone. In fact, I was angry at their failure to accept that their daughter was probably dead. I wanted them to grieve, which is to say to go away. In this, I am as bad as people who complain that ‘she does not cry.’</em></strong><br />
<br />
Actually, she's worse: those people who say such foolish things don't put them on paper for others to see, including the victims. 'Literary' prose stands revealed in this piece as no better than corporate jargon or tabloid-speak: it has its own set of cliches, it panders to the expectations of readers used to this sort of thing, it relates only to itself and not to other human beings or the outside world, it occupies a specific slot within the media, it's deeply callous. The final sentence is "Then I go to bed and wake up the next day, human again, liking the McCanns", concluding a pattern that Enright has woven throughout the piece, which is there to tell us this is an essay and not a column, as the smudgy sheen they put on videotape in late-90s-onwards tv programmes is there to tell us this was done on film (perhaps one day the former, too, can be done at the touch of a button). It's those little frowns, those self-deprecations and qualifications, turns at the corners of sentences that are so nauseauting: "I'm not proud of it", "I thought I was angry with them for" "it’s part of our mass paranoia" "I am otherwise inclined". "I have never objected to good-looking women". "Maybe I should believe in myself more" "I had physically to resist the urge to go out to my own car and open the boot to check", one-sentence paragraphs (often the sign of a scoundrel) a whole paragraph consisting of "if." They don't make Enright anything other than a literary rubbernecker.<br />
<br />
Forgive me, but let's look at it in more detail:<br />
<br />
<strong><em>In one – completely unverified – account of her interrogation, Kate McCann is said to have responded to the accusation that the cadaver dog had picked up the ‘scent of death’ on her clothes by saying that she had been in contact with six dead patients in the weeks before she came on holiday. My doctor friend doubted this could be true of a part-time GP, unless, we joked, she had ‘done a Shipman’ on them. Then, of course, we had to row back, strenuously, and say that even if something had happened between mother and child, or between father and child, in that apartment, even if the child just fell, then Kate McCann was still the most unfortunate woman you could ever lay eyes on.</em></strong><br />
[...]<br />
<strong><em>During the white heat of media allegations against Madeleine’s parents, my husband came up the stairs to say that they’d all been wife-swapping – that was why the other diners corroborated the McCanns’ account of the evening. This, while I was busy measuring the distance from the McCanns’ holiday apartment down the road to the church on Google Earth (0.2 miles). I said they couldn’t have been wife-swapping, because one of the wives had brought her mother along.<br />
<br />
‘Hmmmm,’ he said.</em></strong><br />
[...]<br />
‘<strong><em>She was only a slip of a thing,’ I said.<br />
<br />
I did not say that the body might have been made more pliable by decomposition. And I had physically to resist the urge to go out to my own car and open the boot to check (get in there now, sweetheart, and curl up into a ball).</em></strong> <br />
[...]<br />
<strong><em>Who needs a cadaver dog when you have me? In August, the sudden conviction that the McCanns ‘did it’ swept over our own family holiday in a peculiar hallelujah. Of course they had. It made a lot more sense to me than their leaving the children to sleep alone.</em></strong><br />
[...]<br />
<strong><em>It is not that we blame them – if they can be judged, then they can also be forgiven. No, we just dislike them for whatever it is that nags at us. We do not forgive them the stupid stuff, like wearing ribbons, or going jogging the next day, or holding hands on the way into Mass.</em></strong><br />
[...]<br />
<strong><em>Most of the animosity against the McCanns centres on the figure of Madeleine’s beautiful mother. I am otherwise inclined. I find Gerry McCann’s need to ‘influence the investigation’ more provoking than her flat sadness, or the very occasional glimpse of a wounded narcissism that flecks her public appearances. I have never objected to good-looking women. My personal jury is out on the issue of narcissism in general; her daughter’s strong relationship with the camera lens causes us a number of emotions, but the last of them is always sorrow and pain.</em></strong><br />
<br />
<br />
We can see all the prejudices of a tabloid mind here: prurient speculations about the McCanns' sex lives; wondering whether they killed their child; the obscenely irrelevent matter of Kate McCann's good looks; wondering why they don't accept their daughter is probably dead; unverified sources; pawing at whatever scraps of juicy new internet gossip you can get; hating someone you've never met because of media coverage, all of them with that recurring note, that constant emphasis, that constant damned assumption that this is the kind of thing we all do. It "makes harridans of us all." Yes, Enright knows her dislike of the McCanns is preposterous, and that expecting them to go away and grieve is nonsensical as well as callous, and she knows you know, but she's only being honest. <em>Yes it's bad to do things like this, but it's the way of the world, our sin not mine</em>. Only that reassuring preciousness in the language - the "'Hmmmm,' he said" getting a paragraph to itself - distinguishes it as "literary", a step up from Jon Gaunt, and that endless veering from the McCanns to the more important matter of the inside of Anne Enright's head ("I realise that I am more afraid of murdering my children than I am of losing them to a random act of abduction. I have an unhealthy trust of strangers.") Good to know that Enright has no problem with attractive women, though. I have one with ugly prose.<br />
<br />
Following 9/11, the literary editor Robert McCrum foolishly argued - in a piece available here <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2001/sep/23/september11.society">http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2001/sep/23/september11.society</a> - that:<br />
<br />
<strong><em>swamped as we've been with a tidal wave of quite unbear able reality, it's the writers of fiction, contemporary masters such as Ian McEwan in Britain and Paul Auster in the US, who have come up with the words of comfort and clarity we crave in the midst of shock and desolation. People sometimes dismiss fiction as mere entertainment, but at times like this there's no question that novelists at their best have a privileged access to truths about the human condition denied to others. Partly, this is because they have a detachment that reporters, caught up in the maelstrom of events, cannot equal. Journalism is history's first draft, and the journalism of novelists, while not always to everyone's taste, can supply the insights that people need at a time like this.</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
In Enright's "liking the McCanns" prose we can see the worst effects of that very approach to writing. The belief that you can take a real-life situation and render it "literary" results in sentences about other people's suffering which are more interested in how that sentence should be structured. This is why George Orwell argued that good prose should be like a windowpane. Compare the piece with Christopher Hitchens's report on the victims of Agent Orange, or how Orwell himself writes on those living in poverty, and the latter's account of a hanging. Both are great stylists, but because they care more about their subjects than their literary standing, they leave you caring about the victims and wondering what can done about the situation, rather than nodding at the inevitability of our callousness and insularity, grateful it at least allowed a novelist to alleviate the horror by churning out exactly what literary periodical subscribers expect from literary prose. Martin Amis's non-fiction has moved from one pole to the other. The first three collections of essays by Amis are the work of an alert, interested, empathetic journalist (take a look at his fine, moving piece on the AIDS crisis in <em>The Moronic Inferno</em>). The Amis behind <em>Experience</em>, <em>Koba the Dread</em> and <em>The Second Plane, </em>who writes about others' suffering but cares about nothing other than his own phrasing ("Fred West will only get one sentence from me [...] Here is that sentence") is much less worth having.<br />
<br />
Literary hackery, like tabloid hackery, is a factory. The difference is that it's where the alternatives to the mass-produced are mass-produced; where the alternatives to the churned-out are churned out. Novelists are much better at writing novels than anyone else, but the idea that we understand events like 9/11 or Madeline McCann's abduction all the better once we've read Martin Amis describing his "species grief" at the "worldflash" of a terrible future, his replacement of the word terrorism with horrorism and how Anne Enright felt when she woke up trivialises the those events as surely as it overrates those authors (and sadly, Amis's outburst about strip-searching Muslims and not letting them travel until they "get their house in order", his reliance on Neocon sources like Mark Steyn and Amis and Ian McEwan's awesomely daft attempts at political symbolism in their respective novels <em>Yellow Dog</em> and <em>Saturday</em> are just three things out that didn't bear out McCrum's prophecy of an invigorating novelistic response to 9/11).<br />
<br />
Confessional writing doesn't wait until violence or tragedy takes place, though. Zadie Smith's inexplicable piece for <em>The New Yorker</em> on the way she treated a poverty-stricken friend she lent money to -<br />
<a href="http://m.newyorker.com/reporting/2010/10/11/101011fa_fact_smith" id="yui_3_2_0_20_134610656416694" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://m.newyorker.com/reporting/2010/10/11/101011fa_fact_smith</span></a> - has already been roasted by Edward Champion here <br />
( <a href="http://www.edrants.com/zadie-smith-the-literary-material-girl/" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1346106564166102" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.edrants.com/zadie-smith-the-literary-material-girl/</span></a> ) and little more can be said, except that once again Smith thinks that pontificating on bad behaviour stops the reader from gagging on that bad behaviour. Furthermore, she is only aware of half of what she actually did wrong. She seems to think her sins are impatience for the paying of the debt, and thoughtlessness in not realising her friend had no internet connection with which to contact her. She seems unaware of the question of why she needed a loan paid back in the first place if it was, in her words, "no skin off my nose", or whether the friend deserved to have her problems paraded in <em>The New Yorker</em> in this way (as Champion points out, withholding your friend's name isn't sufficient if you're famous: anyone who knew them both could identify her).<br />
<br />
Over in Britain, the broadsheet reaction to the killing spree and death of Raoul Moat brought to the mind the storm over James Bulger's murder. In the latter, the pontifications of more liberal, up-market hacks determined to make a career for themselves was almost as vile as that of the tabloids. The career of Blake Morrison owes a lot to it as does that of Andrew O'Hagen. Regarding the latter, have a look at this narcissistic essay for <em>The London Review of Books </em><a href="http://www.lrb.co.uk/v15/n05/andrew-ohagan/diary" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1346106564166110" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.lrb.co.uk/v15/n05/andrew-ohagan/diary</span></a> - the first piece of writing he ever had published - and the obscene mixture of prurience and facetiousness in the subsequent letters exchange, in which a bunch of people with the time to write long letters to <em>The London Review of Books</em> expand a discussion of infanticide to jokey criticisms of each others' letters (those endless quips about "eating my hat") and the merits of Richmal Crompton's <em>William</em> books. At least they're keeping themselves amused, and O'Hagen's got a career out of it.<br />
<br />
Morrison used the same murder (in his book <em>As If,</em> as well as pieces for <em>The Guardian</em> (<a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/2003/feb/06/bulger.ukcrime">http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/2003/feb/06/bulger.ukcrime</a>) whenever the case resurfaces) to ruminate on everything from the nature of evil itself to his own shortcomings as a parent and as a heterosexual man. His pieces combine deeply distressing details from the murder itself - although they don't seem to distress Morrison as much as they distress me: at one point he mentions a particularly horrific detail and adds that it was withheld at the trial to spare James Bulger's family suffering, but doesn't bother to tell us why he felt otherwise, just as Enright is untroubled by describing Madeline McCann as "probably dead" - with flippant gags like this: "As Larkin might have put it, parental anxiety began in 1993 [the year of the murder], between the Children's Act and Eminem's first CD." <br />
<br />
Reading the moment in <em>As If</em> where Morrison, narrating the trial in the present tense, notices both Jon Venables and Robert Thompson are putting on weight; remembers that he and his sister were fat at their age; and reminisces about divebombing in the swimming pool in Majorca in front of derisive holiday-makers, it's not surprising that a few years later we'd reach a stage where Martin Amis, in a non-fiction book on the Stalinist Purges, would compare the screams of his baby daughter to the screams from the Gulag. By the time we reach the chapter describing Morrison's own baby daughter, we're treated to the saccharine prose of Tony Parsons's smarter brother:<br />
<br />
<em><strong>The whorled, Danish Pastry of an ear, the stretched skin above the lobe so paper-thin the sun shines through </strong></em><br />
<em><strong><br id="yui_3_2_0_20_1346106564166128" />the silver seal of a milk-blister on an upper lip<br />
<br id="yui_3_2_0_20_1346106564166132" /> A gleaming, gappy grin, a last little spit out of pink</strong><br />
</em><em><strong>where she lies, a dairy squiggle, on the floor</strong></em><br />
<em><strong><br id="yui_3_2_0_20_1346106564166136" /> there she lies, a fizz of cream on the floor.<br id="yui_3_2_0_20_1346106564166140" /> </strong><br />
</em><br />
Prose like this supports McCrum's claim that creative writers address the troubles of the world in a way the rest of us can't: specifically, they cutesefy a troubling issue and reduce it to an opportunity for putting hyper-sugary, comfortingly literary - rather than startling, convincing or moving - combinations of words together and exploring the author's past. I certainly couldn't write like that. Morrison is right to be horrified at the words of John Major at the time of the killing - "we must condemn a little more, and understand a little less" - but narcissists understand nothing either, not even themselves.<br />
<br />
Morrison was quick to let us know what he thought of the Virginia Tech massacre, too - this piece appeared in <em>The Guardian</em> just three days later <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/education/2007/apr/19/internationaleducationnews.highereducation">http://www.guardian.co.uk/education/2007/apr/19/internationaleducationnews.highereducation</a><br />
opening with this absurdly blinkered and impertinent paragraph:<br />
<br />
<strong><em>I can't have been the only writer dismayed to learn that Cho Seung-Hui, the perpetrator of the Virginia Tech massacre, was a literature student. Few people today believe the idea, passed down from Matthew Arnold through TS Eliot and FR Leavis, that the study of books can civilise and humanise us. But it is alarming to think that majoring in English might have contributed to Cho's problems or even inspired him to become a mass murderer.</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
The sheer insularity of literary hackery can be suffocating sometimes. As if the subject Seung-Hui was studying was of any fucking relevance. The delusion that literature ought to make people less likely to shoot one another has been around since Joseph Brodsky's claim that it is more problematic for someone who has read Dickens to shoot people than for someone who has not (a recurring bugbear mentioned neither for the first nor for the last time on this blog); here Morrison repeats that thoughtless insult to non-novel-readers and then inverts it. The "only writer" to think this way? We can only hope.<br />
<br />
During the Raoul Moat coverage, one non-tabloid journalist ruefully confessed to finding herself rooting for Moat, wanting him to escape because she found it hard not to think of him as the underdog. When I say I empathised more with the policeman he shot and blinded, the girl he wounded and the family of the man he shot dead, it might seem pious, but let me stress I don't regard this - and the fact that I've never "disliked" the McCanns - as evidence of a high character: I regard them as the norm. Hacks like these rely on assumptions: on the belief that we all inevitably fall prey to the worst aspects of modern culture, that we're all addicted, that we're all obsessed, that we're all complicit. Scummy thoughts and ideas are allowed to become norms rather than embarrassments.<br />
<br />
The late Gordon Burn's piece on Jade Goody, <br />
<a href="http://m.guardian.co.uk/books/2009/mar/07/gordon-burn?cat=books&type=article" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1346106564166172" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://m.guardian.co.uk/books/2009/mar/07/gordon-burn?cat=books&type=article</span></a><br />
similarly, was barely preferable to <em>OK</em> magazine's tribute, which put "In Loving Memory 1981-2009" on its front cover before she had actually died. Burn's piece isn't interested in pricking the balloon; it attributes the manipulation of Goody to a global cultural state of affairs rather than an unpleasant tv programme. If we took the latter view, we could think of practical ways to prevent demonic circuses like the one that sprang around Goody happening again (not letting Peter Bazalgette become head of the UK Arts Council, not commissioning anything like <em>Big Brother</em> again, boycotting tabloids, working out how to promote such a boycott), but the view Burn takes is that this what life is like the 21st Century, predicted by Roth, Bellow, Foster Wallace and Mailer, and that we are all complicit in making and keeping it that way. It's a piece which expresses no interest in changing anything.<br />
<br />
It's time to to start saying <em>No:</em> Every other person doesn't feel this way, it is your fault rather than the cultural climate, and your honesty doesn't redeem it<em>.</em> Why not start checking your behaviour at the time rather than publishing an essay on it a few days later? Ask yourself why you slow down for car crashes.Richard Cooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18114063496425319491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240001912845478109.post-58377550681691543412012-08-08T18:45:00.000-07:002012-10-01T08:27:49.736-07:00Friendly Fire in The War Against Cliche: A Look at the Endless Recycling of Martin Amis<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
<br />
Martin Amis has little time for repetition. All writing is a war against cliche, he argues. This is from his memoir <em>Experience</em>:<br />
<br />
<em><strong>Earlier on I called Jacobs's book 'mysteriously' repetitive. The quote above is from p.313. On p.314 we get: 'one cause of change may be simple exhaustion, like an art form running out of steam." And on page 315 we get: "Exhaustion, like that of a literary genre running out if steam, played its part.' The proofreader must have been mysteriously repetitive too. </strong></em><br />
<br />
Unfortunately, if we apply this scrupulous attention to recurring details that Amis found lacking on that occasion to his own cultural contributions over the years, we find the war against cliche is strafed by friendly fire...<br />
<br />
On John Updike's approach to writing sex scenes:<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Updike tags along , not only into the bedroom but into the bathroom. Indeed, he sends a Japanese camera crew in there after him.</em></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(The Observer, 1987)</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="http://news.google.com/newspapers?nid=1828&dat=19870921&id=DCAfAAAAIBAJ&sjid=bqcEAAAAIBAJ&pg=5057,3508611" id="yui_3_2_0_20_134446668665677" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://news.google.com/newspapers?nid=1828&dat=19870921&id=DCAfAAAAIBAJ&sjid=bqcEAAAAIBAJ&pg=5057,3508611</span></a><br />
<br />
<strong><em>The Updike approach, where you send a kind of little Japanese film crew into the bedroom..."</em></strong><br />
(University of Manchester debate on literature and sex with Will Self and Carol Maver, 2009) </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="http://media.humanities.manchester.ac.uk/humanities/mp3s/ahc/21st_century_writing/amisselfmavor.mp3">http://media.humanities.manchester.ac.uk/humanities/mp3s/ahc/21st_century_writing/amisselfmavor.mp3</a><br />
(16:10)<br />
<strong><em>He sends in a little Japanese camera crew into the bedroom, and the bathroom. Where is this getting us?"</em></strong> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(Literary festival in Paris, 2010) <a href="http://m.guardian.co.uk/books/2010/jun/20/martin-amis-politics-britain-irrelevance?cat=books&type=article" id="yui_3_2_0_20_134446668665697" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://m.guardian.co.uk/books/2010/jun/20/martin-amis-politics-britain-irrelevance?cat=books&type=article</span></a><br />
<br />
<em><strong>He sends a little Japanese camera crew into the bedroom</strong> </em></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<em>(</em>Jaipur literary festival, 2011)</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="http://kafkesque.blogspot.co.uk/2011_01_01_archive.html?m=1" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656105" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://kafkesque.blogspot.co.uk/2011_01_01_archive.html?m=1</span></a><br />
<br />
<br />
On <em>Pride and Prejudice</em><br />
<br />
I<em><strong> wouldn’t have minded a rather more detailed conclusion (to Pride and Prejudice) — say, a twenty-page sex scene featuring the two principals, with Mr. Darcy, furthermore, acquitting himself uncommonly well.”</strong></em> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
("Miss Jane's Prime", The Atlantic, 1990, reprinted in his book of essays, <em>The War Against Cliche</em>, 2001) <a href="http://www.martinamisweb.com/pre_2006/austen.htm" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656121" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.martinamisweb.com/pre_2006/austen.htm</span></a><br />
<br />
<strong><em>...the inartistic feeling that I have that if the novel has a flaw, it's that we don't get a 30-page sex scene describing their wedding night [...[ Why do we so like the idea of Darcy and Elizabeth? We want them to get together. [...] the reason for this particular keenness of our erotic and romantic interest, I think, is that they are made for each other - she will loosen him up, he will have a sort of countervailing effect on her - but also sexually made for each other...</em></strong> <br />
(University of Manchester debate on literature and sex, 2009) <a href="http://www.themanchesterreview.co.uk/site_content.php?name=Previous_Podcasts" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656133" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.themanchesterreview.co.uk/site_content.php?name=Previous_Podcasts</span></a> (10 minutes in)<br />
<br />
<strong><u>[</u><em>Pride and Prejudice] had but a single flaw: the absence, towards the close, of a forty-page sex scene</em></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(<em>The Pregnant Widow</em>, 2010)<br />
<br />
<strong><em>I always used to think that there’s only one flaw with Pride and Prejudice, and that is the absence of a 30-page sex scene between Elizabeth and Darcy. Although of course that wouldn’t have worked either. And I finally realised why you have this feeling, and this is the great achievement of the novel: here you have two characters who were made for each other, and it’s such a perfect fit, you know she’s going to make him a little more relaxed, a little less stuffy, bring out the playful side of him. And he’s going to make her not only rich, because, let’s face it, there is a vulgar appeal to that, but he’s going to make her serious as well as lively, perhaps curb her high spirits… But a marvellous osmosis is going to take place between these two people. </em></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(Hay Festival, Mexico, 2011) <br />
<a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/hay-festival/8825242/Martin-Amis-intoxicating-free-the-novelist-life.html" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656151" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/hay-festival/8825242/Martin-Amis-intoxicating-free-the-novelist-life.html</span></a><br />
<br />
On teaching creative writing:<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Don't identify with Elizabeth Bennet or Mr Darcy. Identify with Jane Austen. See what she is trying to do.</em></strong> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(interview for <em>The Telegraph</em>, 2007) <a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/1566006/Martin-Amis-leaps-back-into-the-ring.html" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656173" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/1566006/Martin-Amis-leaps-back-into-the-ring.html</span></a><br />
<br />
<em><strong>[try] to identify with the author not with the character, to see what he is trying to do.</strong></em> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(interview with T<em>he Sunday Times</em>, 2007) <a href="http://www.martinamisweb.com/interviews_files/millar_suntimes.pdf" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656181" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.martinamisweb.com/interviews_files/millar_suntimes.pdf</span></a><br />
<br />
<strong><em>I don't look at any of their creative stuff. All I do is teach great books, from the very authorial point of view; don’t identify with Mr Darcy or Elizabeth, identify with Jane Austen, that’s the way we sort of do it, which is the way you should do it anyway.</em></strong> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(interview for the <em>Independent</em>, 2007) </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/books/features/martin-amis-also-talked-to-johann-hari-about-a-range-of-other-subjects-here-are-his-comments-775090.html" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656189" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/books/features/martin-amis-also-talked-to-johann-hari-about-a-range-of-other-subjects-here-are-his-comments-775090.html</span></a><br />
<br />
<strong><em>When I teach literature I always tell them, these would-be writers (we don’t do workshops, we just read great books), I say, “When you read Pride and Prejudice, don’t if you’re a girl identify with Elizabeth Bennet, if you’re a boy with Darcy. Identify with the author, not with the characters.” All good readers do that automatically, but I think it’s helpful to make that clear. Your affinity is not with the characters, always with the writer.</em></strong> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(Hay literary festival, Mexico, 2011) </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/hay-festival/8825242/Martin-Amis-intoxicating-free-the-novelist-life.html" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656197" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/hay-festival/8825242/Martin-Amis-intoxicating-free-the-novelist-life.html</span></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
<br />
On Terry Eagleton<br />
<br />
<strong><em>He is a marooned ideologue who can’t get out of bed in the morning without guidance from God and Karl Marx.</em></strong> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(<em>Financial Times</em> interview, 2007)</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="http://www.ft.com/cms/s/0/36fd4746-85e4-11dc-b00e-0000779fd2ac.html" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656211" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.ft.com/cms/s/0/36fd4746-85e4-11dc-b00e-0000779fd2ac.html</span></a><br />
<br />
<strong><em>"a marooned ideologue..."</em></strong> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(Letter to <em>The Guardian</em>, 2007) <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk//world/2007/oct/12/religion.immigration?mobile-redirect=false" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656219" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.guardian.co.uk//world/2007/oct/12/religion.immigration?mobile-redirect=false</span></a><br />
<br />
<strong><em>"an ideological relict, unable to get out of bed in the morning without the dual guidance of God and Karl Marx"</em></strong> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(Open letter to Yasmin Alibhi-Brown, <em>The Independent</em>, 2007) <a href="http://www.martinamisweb.com/interviews_files/ma_response_eagleton.pdf" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656227" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.martinamisweb.com/interviews_files/ma_response_eagleton.pdf</span></a><br />
<br />
On writing something lighter:<br />
<br />
<strong><em>"If writing is freedom, then you don't want to shackle yourself to existing conventions and indeed existing characters. If I had a severe brain injury, I might take it on."</em></strong> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(Asked by Charlie Higson whether he would write a James Bond novel, "Amis, Amis and Bond", Radio 4, 2007) <a href="http://m.beemp3.com/download.php?file=2453817&song=Amis%2C+Amis+and+Bond" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656241" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://m.beemp3.com/download.php?file=2453817&song=Amis%2C+Amis+and+Bond</span></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(25:30)<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
"<strong><em>Salman Rushdie made a good distinction just after the fatwa was pronounced on him. He said 'I'm writing a children's book.' I said 'why are you doing that? I wouldn't think of doing that, I don't think, unless I'd had a serious head injury.' He said, 'well, I sort of have.'"</em></strong> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(debate on terrorism at the University of Manchester with Maureen Freely and Ed Husain, 2007) <a href="http://www.themanchesterreview.co.uk/site_content.php?name=Previous_Podcasts" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656249" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.themanchesterreview.co.uk/site_content.php?name=Previous_Podcasts</span></a> (59 minutes in)<br />
<br />
<strong><em>"People ask me if I ever thought of writing a children's book. I say, 'If I had a serious brain injury I might well write a children's book', but otherwise the idea of being conscious of who you're directing the story to is anathema to me, because, in my view, fiction is freedom and any restraints on that are intolerable."</em></strong> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
("Faulks on Fiction", BBC2, 2011) </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
quoted here:</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="http://m.guardian.co.uk/books/2011/feb/11/martin-amis-brain-injury-write-children?cat=books&type=article" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656257" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://m.guardian.co.uk/books/2011/feb/11/martin-amis-brain-injury-write-children?cat=books&type=article</span></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
<br />
On fiction and climate change <br />
<br />
<strong><em>"[...] when you've reviewed your fifth novel running that begins with this sentence: 'Heaving a heavy sigh and scratching his nose, Splork led the camel out of the igloo, and looked out at the conflagration that was heading towards him'...</em></strong> "</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(University of Manchester, panel on literature in the 21st Century, 2007)</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="http://media.humanities.manchester.ac.uk/humanities/mp3s/ahc/21st_century_writing/amis.mp3">http://media.humanities.manchester.ac.uk/humanities/mp3s/ahc/21st_century_writing/amis.mp3</a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
15:30</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<strong><em>"I’m dying to read Ian [McEwan]’s book. And he’s done it the clever way, which is not to have the first sentence being “Splork tied his camel to the rail outside the Igloo and looked south.” No, it’s some guy who goes to all of these conferences.</em></strong> "</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(Interview for <em>Prospect</em> Magazine, 2010) <a href="http://www.prospectmagazine.co.uk/magazine/martin-amis" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656283" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.prospectmagazine.co.uk/magazine/martin-amis</span></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
On the novelist's declining powers:<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Medical science has granted us a new phenomenon: the octogenarian novel. And one thinks, with respect, of Saul Bellow's Ravelstein and Norman Mailer's The Castle in the Forest; yet no one would seriously compare these books to Humboldt's Gift and Harlot's Ghost. Updike was 76 when he died. And for many years he suffered from partial deafness. I don't know (perhaps nobody knows) whether the two afflictions are connected, but the fact is that Updike, in My Father's Tears and Other Stories, is in the process of losing his ear.<br id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656297" />[... [</em></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<strong><em>"Craig Martin took an interest in the traces left by prior owners of his land. In the prime of his life, when he worked every weekday and socialised all weekend, he had pretty much ignored his land."<br id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656301" /> The first sentence ends with the words "his land"; and so, with a resonant clunk, does the second. Mere quibbles, some may say. But we are addressing ourselves to John Updike, who was perhaps the greatest virtuoso stylist since Nabokov - who, in his turn, was perhaps the greatest virtuoso stylist since Joyce.</em></strong>"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
(Review of John Updike's <em>My Father's Tears and Other Stories</em> for <em>The Guardian</em>, 2009)</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk//books/2009/jul/04/my-fathers-tears-john-updike?mobile-redirect=false" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656309" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.guardian.co.uk//books/2009/jul/04/my-fathers-tears-john-updike?mobile-redirect=false</span></a><br />
<br />
<strong><em>"It's a recent phenomenon. Shakespeare died at 52, Dickens at 58, Jane Austen at 41. Saul Bellow published in his mid-80s a charming but slight novel, called Ravelstein, nothing like the mighty, longer novels. Norman Mailer made a dignified exit, too, again in his mid-80s. What happened with John Updike was that his ear went: this great stylist was reduced to sentences like this: 'the great make a mess on the floor when they fall; no-one cleans them up when they fall.' The clunking repetition of fall in two different applications, two different meanings - the idea of letting that go, of not spotting that, is a terrifying indictment of failing powers. <br id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656325" />And then you have Philip Roth, who I think is having tremendous difficulty in breathing life into his characters - it's an amazing thing to be able to convince the reader that these characters really live, that this situation is alive, the ability to infuse life into your creations and that seems to me to be precarious in his case."</em></strong><br />
(Panel on literature and ageing with Clive James, University of Manchester, 2009) <a href="http://www.martinamisweb.com/events_files/ma_james_porter_litageing.mp3" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656333" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.martinamisweb.com/events_files/ma_james_porter_litageing.mp3</span></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(14 minutes in)<br />
<br />
<strong><em>"It's a modern phenomenon - Dickens died at 59, Shakespeare 54, Jane Austen at 41. There was no question in the past of the talent dying before the body."</em></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(interview with Mark Lawson, BBC4, 2010) </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nw0QwZpUiT8&feature=youtube_gdata_player" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656341" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nw0QwZpUiT8&feature=youtube_gdata_player</span></a> (2:10)<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><em>"The development given to us by modern medicine is that writers now have to endure the loss of their powers.This is horribly evident when you read the late novels of writers who live beyond 70. Shakespeare died at 56, Jane Austen at 41. 'They never had to feel their powers deserting them. Now, writers die twice!"</em></strong><br />
(Hay-on Wye festival, 2010)</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-1284532/Becoming-grandfather-uncool-says-Martin-Amis.html" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656355" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-1284532/Becoming-grandfather-uncool-says-Martin-Amis.html</span></a><br />
<br />
<strong><em>“We’re going to die as everyone dies, but before that our talent is going to die. There are no exceptions to this. It’s an entirely 20th century phenomenon. Shakespeare died at 52, Dickens at 58, Jane Austen at 41 and DH Lawrence at 44. But now you have the octogenarian novelist, and on the whole they’re no bloody good. “You can’t keep it up and there are various ways you can see novelists disintegrating before your eyes as they move past 70. John Updike amazingly lost his ear. His last collection of short stories is full of ugly rhythms and some quite elementary mistakes, for instance two successive sentences ending with the same word. Now anyone interested in style will be told by their ear that you can’t do that. It gives a terrible kind of clunk on the page. And his last collection of short stories was full of schoolboy repetitions as if his ear was no longer telling him things. Another thing that happens to novelists is that they can’t breath life into their characters any more. The whole book is dead, inert, and you just have that terrible thing where you read the sentence, “He grew very angry” or “He went over to the window and opened it”, and you just find yourself thinking, “No, he didn’t. You’re not convincing me that he did that. Life has not been breathed into it.” That’s a sudden death of talent. But what invariably happens is a sort of dilution. Saul Bellow and Norman Mailer both wrote novels when they were 85, Ravelstein and The Castle in the Forest, and they’re not bad. But no one would seriously consider comparing them to Humboldt’s Gift or Harlot’s Ghost, these great 800-page bristling, sizzling novels. The flame, like on a cooker, just goes right down to the minimum, and that’s what lies before all of us."</em></strong> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(Hay Festival, Mexico, 2011) </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/hay-festival/8825242/Martin-Amis-intoxicating-free-the-novelist-life.html" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656375" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/hay-festival/8825242/Martin-Amis-intoxicating-free-the-novelist-life.html</span></a><br />
<br />
<strong><em>"And the writer in decline is a contribution of medical science—it didn’t used to come up, because they’re all dead. Dickens at 58, Shakespeare at 52, Jane Austen at 41. Didn’t used to come up. But now you have 80-year-old novelists. And it’s self-evident that the grasp and the gift erodes—you can see it in various ways. In Updike it was the ear that went. Those reliably melodious sentences just dried up—schoolboy inadvertencies crept into his later prose that just wouldn’t have been there earlier on.</em></strong> [the conversation turns to Amis's respect for Bellow's last novel] <strong><em>I respected Mailer’s last book, too. But no one would seriously compare either of those novels to Humboldt’s Gift or Harlot’s Ghost. I thought Ravelstein was a beautiful last gesture. But it had that mutedness. That incredible unstoppable energy had gone. That’s something new to worry about.</em></strong><br />
(interview for <em>Vulture.com</em> 2012)</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="http://www.vulture.com/m/2012/07/in-conversation-martin-amis.html" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656387" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.vulture.com/m/2012/07/in-conversation-martin-amis.html</span></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
On learning to love the reader:<br />
<br />
<strong><em>But Nabokov wants to embrace his readers too. He comes across as this snorting wizard of hauteur, but he is the dream host, always giving us on our visits his best chair and his best wine. What would Joyce do? Let's think, he would call out vaguely from the kitchen, asking you to wait a couple of hours for the final fermentation of a home-brewed punch made out of grenadine, conger eels and sheep dip. </em></strong>[Hence] [t]<strong><em>hat 600-page crossword clue, Finnegans Wake."</em></strong> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(PEN American Centre, at a talk in honour of the 100th Anniversary of Nabokov's birth, 1999) <a href="http://www.martinamisweb.com/documents/ma_nabokov.doc" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656401" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.martinamisweb.com/documents/ma_nabokov.doc</span></a><br />
<br />
<strong><em>" 'Tell a dream, lose a reader', said Henry James. And we all know that the pun is the lowest form of wit. Joyce spent seventeen years punning on dreams. The result, Finnegans Wake, reads like a 600 page crossword clue." </em></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(<em>Experience</em>, 2000)<br />
<br />
<strong><em>"'Tell a dream, lose a reader,' said Henry James. Puns are cornily but rightly considered the lowest form of wit. [...] A writer should always be a good host. Nabokov would put you in his best armchair, serve you his best wine, and would be fussing about you. Joyce would come in, and be vaguely off in the kitchen somewhere, and looking among the old wine bottles saying 'I'll be out in a minute.' He didn't love the reader. [...] Finnegans Wake is a seven-hundred page crossword clue, and the answer is 'the' ".</em></strong><br />
(Clive James interview, 2001) </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="http://www.clivejames.com/video/library/1" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656423" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.clivejames.com/video/library/1</span></a> (13:40)<br />
<br />
<strong><em>"There can be a turning against the reader and that's the difference between Ulysses and Finnegans Wake; Joyce doesn't give a shit about the reader any more. And late Henry James is an awful slog. It's a disaffection that you must fight."</em></strong> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(Guardian interview, 2003) <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk//books/2003/aug/29/fiction.martinamis?mobile-redirect=false" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656431" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.guardian.co.uk//books/2003/aug/29/fiction.martinamis?mobile-redirect=false</span></a><br />
<br />
<strong><em>"It's a noble, democratizing book — alas, written by this man who was too inverted to take it further. Talk about a marriage with the reader: he's like Henry James in the growing estrangement from the reader in his corpus. Ulysses is a great, long honeymoon, but then he withdraws from the reader: separate beds and separate rooms. Finnegan's Wake is indifferent to the reader to a sadistic extent. Look at it: It's all dreams told in puns, the two most inimical things. With James, the estrangement of the marriage was even more fiendishly prolonged. All the hospitable stuff is over by the early-middle period, then more and more coldness and self-inspection. We all write for ourselves, but the whole idea of the marriage has broken down at that point."</em></strong> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(interview for Powells books, 2003) <a href="http://www.martinamisweb.com/interviews_files/powells_interview.pdf" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656439" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.martinamisweb.com/interviews_files/powells_interview.pdf</span></a><br />
<br />
<strong><em>"Love for the reader simply gives out: in the case of Joyce, you have that noble, all-inclusive book Ulysses, followed by that 700 page crossword clue, Finnegans Wake. We all agree there are a couple of things novels can't do. One is dreams, the other is sex. To write 700 pages about dreams in the form of multilingual puns is not the act of a lover. It's the act of an invert. In [Henry] James's Case, you see this generous intelligence, this thriving marriage with the reader devolve into separate beds and then separate rooms, and finally messy divorce." </em></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(University of Manchester, debate on fiction in the 21st century, 2007</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="http://media.humanities.manchester.ac.uk/humanities/mp3s/ahc/21st_century_writing/amis.mp3">http://media.humanities.manchester.ac.uk/humanities/mp3s/ahc/21st_century_writing/amis.mp3</a>(about 18 minutes in)<br />
<br />
<strong><em>"Nabokov invites you in, gives you the best chair by the fire and his best wine – then leaves you with a chess problem to solve. You arrive at James Joyce's house and he's forgotten you were coming. He leaves you in a drafty corridor for half an hour while he fixes a drink of peat and conger eel. He doesn't care about you."</em></strong> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(Hay Festival, London, 2009) </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="http://www.spoonfed.co.uk/spooners/lowri-257/martin-amis-talks-to-peter-florence-at-hay-festival-1647/" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656455" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.spoonfed.co.uk/spooners/lowri-257/martin-amis-talks-to-peter-florence-at-hay-festival-1647/</span></a><br />
<br />
<strong><em>[...] "but also to love the reader, and that’s what I mean by the pleasure principle. The difference between a Nabokov, who in almost all his novels, nineteen novels, gives you his best chair and his best wine and his best conversation. Compare that to Joyce, who, when you arrive at his house, is nowhere to be found, and then you stumble upon him, making some disgusting drink of peat and dandelion in the kitchen. He doesn’t really care about you. Henry James ended up that way. They fall out of love with the reader. And the writing becomes a little distant."</em></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(Vulture.com, 2012) <a href="http://www.vulture.com/m/2012/07/in-conversation-martin-amis.html" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656463" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.vulture.com/m/2012/07/in-conversation-martin-amis.html</span></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
<em><strong>"Being a writer is like having a guest: you give them your best chair, closest to the fire, your best wine and you try to amuse them. Not instruct them, amuse them."</strong></em><br />
("What I've Learned", Esquire, 2012) <a href="http://www.esquire.co.uk/2012/09/what-ive-learned-martin-amis/">http://www.esquire.co.uk/2012/09/what-ive-learned-martin-amis/</a><br />
<br />
<strong><em>"I have undiminished love for the reader. It’s like being a good host. You give your best chair and your best wine to your guests and you want them to have–not only instruction and delight in the old phrase—but since writing inevitably involves a bit of suffering for the writer—I mean a novel wouldn’t be any good if it didn’t—its quite an altruistic love in that you’re fully prepared to go through a bit of shit and uncertainty and doubt but that’s what you put in for the pleasure of your readers."</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
("Twenty Minutes with Martin Amis", Tottenham Review, 2012)<a href="http://www.tottenvillereview.com/twenty-minutes-with-martin-amis/">http://www.tottenvillereview.com/twenty-minutes-with-martin-amis/</a><br />
<br />
On the future of the planet<br />
<br />
<strong><em>"We're coming to a stage where we see that the planet ages too - an idea that would not have occurred to a 19th-century farmer any more than it would have occurred to the dog at his feet."</em></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(New Yorker festival, 2005) </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="http://www.smh.com.au/news/books/cover-boys/2005/12/29/1135732674254.html?page=fullpage" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656477" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.smh.com.au/news/books/cover-boys/2005/12/29/1135732674254.html?page=fullpage</span></a><br />
<br />
<strong><em>"First, let me say that writers now, if I can put it this way, are inside history in a way they haven't been before. For instance, the idea that the planet was a finite commodity would have no resonance for a residence of 17th-century England any more than it would have done for the dog at his feet."</em></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(University of Manchester panel, 2007) <a href="http://www.themanchesterreview.co.uk/site_content.php?name=Previous_Podcasts" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656485" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.themanchesterreview.co.uk/site_content.php?name=Previous_Podcasts</span></a> (10:30)<br />
<br />
On Philip Larkin and his girlfriend Monica Jones:<br />
<br />
<em><strong>This eccentric old boot - I thought she was a bit strange - but coming back to the memory of this after the publication of [Larkin's letters and his biography], the memory became horrific to me. The horror of Monica... I don't say this lightly or callously... looking back on this memory and seeing how parched his life was, how Monica was the main girl in his life, the love of his life. Re-examining the memory of this dinner, Monica looked like an urka. She didn't look like a female urka, either, she looked like a male urka. She sort of dominated the evening [...], and talked more than anyone else. She made a funny noise when she wasn't speaking: a little grunt of satisfaction. I remembered a friend who had a mad old relative..."</strong></em></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(University of Manchester panel on Philip Larkin, 2008) </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="http://media.humanities.manchester.ac.uk/humanities/mp3s/ahc/21st_century_writing/amis_200810.mp3">http://media.humanities.manchester.ac.uk/humanities/mp3s/ahc/21st_century_writing/amis_200810.mp3</a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<strong><em></em></strong> (10:30)</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<strong><em>"I spent an evening with Larkin and Monica and it’s described in my book Experience quite neutrally, as if they were both slightly eccentric. Years later, ten, fifteen years later when the Letters and the Life [the biography of Larkin by Andrew Motion] came out, I completely re-experienced that evening with horror. I didn’t realise that he was sexually so miserable, and I have to say she looked like an urka [a Russian criminal from the bottom of society]: like a male urka. Really butch. And she dominated the evening in a weird way. She was awful. A beast. And I thought, that is the love of his life." </em></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(<em>Prospect</em> interview, 2010) <a href="http://www.prospectmagazine.co.uk/magazine/martin-amis/" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656507" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.prospectmagazine.co.uk/magazine/martin-amis/</span></a><br />
<br />
<strong><em>In 1982 I had dinner with Philip and Monica [...] at the time I found found the occasion only mildly bizarre, and wrote about it cheerfully enough in a memoir published in 2000 (although I see that I did describe Monica as 'virile'. That understates the case). Ten years on, I look back at that evening with something close to horror. In Monica's presence, Larkin behaved like the long-suffering nephew of an uncontrollably eccentric aunt. And she was the love of his life.</em></strong><br />
(Introduction to his selection of Larkin's poems, 2011)<br />
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On fictional response and 9/11<br />
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<strong><em>[novels are] messages from your subconscious history. They come from the back of your mind, not from its forefront."</em></strong></div>
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(<em>Experience</em>, 2000)<br />
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<strong><em>As Norman Mailer said, the temptation to rush in is immense, but you've got to let it simmer, back-boil it. This is true of every experience for writing; it has to have a chance to get into your unconscious and up your spinal column. You can't do it with the front of the brain.</em></strong> </div>
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(interview for powells.com, 2003) <a href="http://www.powells.com/blog/interviews/old-martin-amis-is-in-your-face-again-by-dave/" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656537" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.powells.com/blog/interviews/old-martin-amis-is-in-your-face-again-by-dave/</span></a><br />
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<strong><em>"Norman Mailer said soon after September 11th that the writer's temptation [is] to wade straight in [...] you have to resist the initial temptation because - I found this is more or less universal - a writer needs two or three years to process an event, especially one of that size, because what needs to happen is the unconscious - sitting around thinking about it will buy you a certain distance but it's a sort of glandular process in the end, you have to let your body absorb it, you've got to think about it silently, not in words, but let it soak in to your body."</em></strong></div>
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(interview with Bill Moyers, 2006)</div>
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5J8p1QQ4y3s">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5J8p1QQ4y3s</a></div>
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(1:43)<br />
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<em><strong>"As Norman Mailer said when 9/11 happened, the temptation to charge in should be resisted because what happens with writing is that you receive the stimuli and they go down into your subconscious, and what settles settles, and what doesn't doesn't. You find, after a couple of years, that you've got something to write about."</strong></em></div>
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(Interview for <em>The Observer</em>, 2006) <a href="http://m.guardian.co.uk/books/2006/oct/01/fiction.martinamis1?cat=books&type=article" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656553" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://m.guardian.co.uk/books/2006/oct/01/fiction.martinamis1?cat=books&type=article</span></a><br />
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<strong><em>"Norman Mailer said the temptation was to rush in on September 12th, but he said, and we all agree, that it takes several years for public events to filter down into the unconscious, and that's where novels come from. You can't do it from the top of your head, from the frontal brain, it has to go right through your system and come out the other side.</em></strong>"</div>
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(Literature in the 21st century panel, University of Manchester 2007)<br />
<a href="http://media.humanities.manchester.ac.uk/humanities/mp3s/ahc/21st_century_writing/amis.mp3">http://media.humanities.manchester.ac.uk/humanities/mp3s/ahc/21st_century_writing/amis.mp3</a></div>
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(1:30)<br />
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<strong><em>"It goes from the front of the brain to the back of the brain and down the spine into the cortex, and enters your unconscious [...] as Norman Mailer said, the temptation to charge in with fiction is very great, but you must let it make that process: it must weave and trickle through you, and then perhaps you'll have something to say."</em></strong> </div>
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( University of Manchester, panel on literature and terrorism, 2007.) <br />
<a href="http://media.humanities.manchester.ac.uk/humanities/mp3s/ahc/21st_century_writing/literature_and_terrorism_amis_20071203.mp3">http://media.humanities.manchester.ac.uk/humanities/mp3s/ahc/21st_century_writing/literature_and_terrorism_amis_20071203.mp3</a></div>
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(57 minutes in)</div>
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<strong><em>"Norman Mailer - rest in peace - said that when September 11th happened he wanted to write a novel about it on September 12th - beginning on September the 12th. He said that the temptation to rush in is immense [...] These experiences have to make a three-year journey, roughly, down the cerebellum and spinal cord into wherever it is your fiction comes from - the unconscious, basically: they have to process that."</em></strong></div>
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(Video interview for Prospect magazine, 2009.)<br />
. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DjXcdCu7jpo&feature=youtube_gdata_player" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656567" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DjXcdCu7jpo&feature=youtube_gdata_player</span></a> </div>
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(opening remarks)</div>
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On the invigorating effect of tragedy</div>
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<strong><em>"I think that good stuff, good literature, is incapable of depressing anyone, otherwise there would be a bloodbath in the theatre at the end of King Lear."</em></strong> </div>
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(<em>Desert Island Discs</em>, 1996) </div>
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<a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/features/desert-island-discs/castaway/198eb7d3" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656611" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/features/desert-island-discs/castaway/198eb7d3</span></a> (8 minutes in)<br />
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<strong><em>"I don't think any interesting work of art can possibly be depressing--otherwise, King Lear would kill more people than cholera."</em></strong></div>
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(Washingtonpost.com webchat, 2003) </div>
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<a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/articles/A36420-2003Oct29.html" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656625" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/articles/A36420-2003Oct29.html</span></a></div>
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<strong><em>Achieved art is quite incapable of lowering the spirits. If this were not so, each performance of King Lear would end in a Jonestown.</em></strong> </div>
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(introduction to his selection of Larkin's poems, 2011)</div>
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On book-reviewers' demands for fiction<br />
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<strong><em>"The current complaint, which I have already seen a number of times, goes something like this: can we please have a moratorium on novels about science! There will be, of course, no moratorium on novels about science. That is where the novel is heading, to fill a vacuum created, perhaps, by the failure of the sister discipline, philosophy of science, and by the indifference or contempt in which scientists hold it. Scientists don't care what the novelists say either."</em></strong> </div>
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(<em>Experience</em>, 2000 )<br />
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<strong><em>[...] the complaints of such a reviewer when they say things like "can we have a moratorium on...". They've been saying that recently about science - and it's true that, I think, in the coming decades, writers, novelists and poets will in some sense be philosophers of science [...] but no scientist today reads or has anything but contempt for philosophy of science. Science is out there on its own, and I think scientists will fill that void - there's nothing to be done about that</em></strong>."</div>
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(University of Manchester, literature in the 21st century, 2007)</div>
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<a href="http://media.humanities.manchester.ac.uk/humanities/mp3s/ahc/21st_century_writing/amis.mp3">http://media.humanities.manchester.ac.uk/humanities/mp3s/ahc/21st_century_writing/amis.mp3</a></div>
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(12 minutes in)<br />
<br />
On what cannot be known about the universe yet:<br />
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<strong><em>"I wouldn't call myself an atheist any more. I think that's it's a sort of crabbed word. And agnostic is the only respectable position, simply because our ignorance of the universe is so vast that it would be premature. We're about eight Einsteins away from getting any kind of handle on the universe. So there's not going to be any kind of anthropomorphic entity at all. But why is the universe so incredibly complicated? Why is it so over our heads? That worries me and sort of makes me delay my vote on the existence of some intelligence. Not a being, but an intelligence. And I don't mean intelligent design. I just mean why is it so vast, as Updike said, why not this attractive spattering of stars in the background, [that would] be perfectly enough, you know? Why all these multiple universes, these parallel universes? These extraordinary quasars and black holes. What do we need all that for? So many questions remain, that I wouldn't call myself an atheist any more."</em></strong></div>
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(Bill Moyers interview, 2006)</div>
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5J8p1QQ4y3s">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5J8p1QQ4y3s</a></div>
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(18:50)</div>
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<strong><em>"It is amazing - the total tonnage of what we don't know about the universe is truly humiliating. It turns out - it has recently turned out - that the macro-world - the world of the very large - is almost as Taoist and weird and convoluted and counterintuitive as the microworld - the sub-atomic world. For instance, in the real universe if you go outside and throw your keys in the air, they not only do not return to your hand, they accelerate up into infinity. We have discovered that the universe is not only expanding but accelerating, and no-one has any idea why. Something like - some humiliating figure like - 98 per cent of the universe consists of dark matter and dark energy, which we are in the pathetic position of having to call "dark material" - that's all we know about it. So, standing as we do about 30 or 40 Albert Einsteins away from even the most rudimentary grasp of the universe..."</em></strong></div>
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(panel on literature and religion, Univeristy of Manchester, 2007) <a href="http://www.themanchesterreview.co.uk/site_content.phpname=Previous_Podcasts" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656671" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">.</span></a></div>
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<a href="http://media.humanities.manchester.ac.uk/humanities/mp3s/ahc/21st_century_writing/amis_20080701.mp3">http://media.humanities.manchester.ac.uk/humanities/mp3s/ahc/21st_century_writing/amis_20080701.mp3</a><br />
(9 minutes in)</div>
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<strong><em>"It seems to me very significant that for the last two generations - thirty years perhaps - all science or cosmology has garnered is humiliation - they keep finding things out that destroy past knowledge - for instance that the universe is expanding but also accelerating in its expansion - a cosmologist said to me that's like coming up behind your house, throwing your keys in the air, and instead of coming back into your hands they go on going up. That's how radically it attacks previous knowledge. And I think in all thought about human destiny and the destiny of the universe, what we have to acknowledge - and it feels like a proof of something - that the universe is much cleverer than we are, and no-one knows what all this superfluous, unreadable intelligence is, and it sounds almost like a proof of the existence of God, but it's certainly proof of a higher intelligence, i.e. the universe, and why is it so much cleverer than we are? We're 10 Einsteins away from getting close to an understanding of the universe."</em></strong></div>
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(TimesTalks panel with AO Scott, El Doctorow and Margaret Atwood, 2012)<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=66mI4DImKv0&feature=youtube_gdata_player" id="yui_3_2_0_20_1344466686656683" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=66mI4DImKv0&feature=youtube_gdata_player</span></a> (1:14:30)<br />
<br />
After such a farrago of recycling, it's hard not to think of the Penguin Classics edition of Saul Bellow's novel<em> More Die of Heartbreak</em>, which contains an introduction by Amis that appeared in an earlier book of essays, <em>Visiting Mrs Nabokov</em>, in 1993, and before that was the text of a paper he gave for a Saul Bellow conference in 1987, the year of the novel's publication. Even Amis's greatest hero - ("I was his ideal reader" -<em>Experience</em>) - must make do with regurgitated rather than fresh consideration.</div>
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<br />
Amis's virtues - or lack of them - as a novelist are a whole other debate, but as a cultural commentator - a course which, as a panel junkie, Professor of Creative Writing, the most interviewed novelist of his generation, a political essayist and a commentator on everything from Islamic fundamentalism to Katie Price, he has inescapably and relentlessly chosen - his position is untenable until he starts to try out more new material on the road. Perhaps he'l let me have that last cliche.<br />
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Richard Cooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18114063496425319491noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240001912845478109.post-15482586857005560092012-07-13T09:33:00.002-07:002013-09-04T16:11:05.281-07:00The Death of Satire<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">A few years back, Ricky Gervais's ghastly<i><span style="background: white;"> Extras </span></i><span style="background: white;">Christmas special climaxed with this impassioned monologue:</span> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></div>
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<b><i><span style="background: white; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">What are we doing, selling ourselves, selling everything. Happiest day of my life - ooh, quick, I'd better do the invites, bake a cake, and get a press tent: must have a press tent, it's a wedding. You know - I must see pictures of myself with other people I'm in a programme with. Ooh, I'm now pregnant, perhaps we should televise the birth, get Ruby Wax to present It, or do Jimmy Carr's 100 Greatest Caesarians. I'm sick of these celebrities just living their lives in the open: why would you do that? It's like these popstars who choose the perfect moment to go into rehab: they call their publicist before they call a taxi, then they come out and they do the second autobiography: "this one's called love me or I'll kill myself" Kill yourself then. And the papers lap it up [...] and fuck you the makers of this show, as well - you can't wash your hands of this. [...] the Victorian freak show never went away, now it's called Big Brother, or X Factor, where in the preliminary rounds, we wheel out the bewildered to be sniggered at by multi-millionaires. And fuck you for watching this at home. Shame on you. And shame on me.</span></i></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Not long afterwards, James Blunt, interviewed by<i> the Observer </i>for its "This Much I Know" feature, remarked that this programme had really nailed our modern, celeb-obsessed culture. There's an example for you of how satire works these days: the James Blunts of the world tune in, watch it on their plasma-screen tellys, say "that's it, that's it exactly. So well-observed..." and get on with their luxurious lives. <i>Big Brother </i>and<i> X Factor</i>, meanwhile, are just glad of the publicity (it's also worth noting the right-wing tinge to the gag that follows this monologue, where a female celebrity backs up Gervais's points and agrees to join him on his walk-out, only to say that there's paparazzi outside so she'd better slip on a bikini first. It's strikingly similar to the defence offered by people like Paul McMullan ).</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Ben Elton is an old hand at this kind of satire. When discussing his novel set in something akin to the<i> Big Brother</i> house, Elton was quick to point out that he enjoyed<i> Big Brother</i>, and thought that while it did get a little out of hand it was good popular entertainment. When publishing a novel about Cowell-style talent shows, Elton was quick to point out he'd sent Cowell and Louis Walsh copies and they'd both loved it. You can't make satire any safer than by getting it approved by the targets </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">We do have one cultural resource that can counter this, though, don't we: surely <i>Doctor Who</i> doesn't stink in this way? A show about an alien being that loves change and new ideas, always moving from one place to the next, one situation to the next, one moral dilemma to the next, one scientific problem to the next. Surely that can't have been corrupted? Sadly, yes, and it started before the casting of cutely safe, safely cute flow-chart monstrosity Matt Smith, and even before the casting of David Tennant (a proper actor, but still too safe). The moment of truth came when the Doctor was still in the angrier form of Christopher Eccleston (to date, the best actor to take on the role). In his penultimate episode, <i>Bad Wolf,</i> the Doctor has been imprisoned in the <i>Big Brother</i> house. There's a voiceover cameo from Davina McCall, there's an authentically recreated set and diaryroom, Paul Oakenfold's theme is used, even the individual catchphrases ("please do not swear", "we're coming to get you"). We then get this exchange: </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></div>
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<b><i><span style="background: white; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Doctor: So the population just sits there? Half the world's too fat, half the world's too thin, and you lot just watch telly. </span></i></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></div>
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<b><i><span style="background: white; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Lynda: Ten Thousand channels, all beaming down from here.</span></i></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></div>
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<b><i><span style="background: white; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Doctor: (grimly) The human race: brainless sheep, being fed on a diet of - (he softens) mind you, have they still got that programme where three people have to live with a bear?</span></i></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></div>
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<b><i><span style="background: white; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Lynda (ecstatically) oh, </span></i></b><span style="background: white; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Bear With Me<b><i>! I love that one!</i></b></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></div>
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<b><i><span style="background: white; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The Doctor: And me - the celebrity edition where the bear got -</span></i></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></div>
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<b><i><span style="background: white; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">(The Doctor and Lynda simultaneously): in the bath!</span></i></b></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Here, in that little throwaway moment, we don't just witness the moment when <i>Doctor Who</i> was killed ; we get an idea of how capitalism works. Roland Barthes's brilliant essay "Operation Margarine" compares it to innoculation. You introduce a little bit of the poison, to keep the system used to it. In Barthes's example, you advertise margarine by first acknowledging that margarine is drab, then reasserting its merits. Most tv adverts still use the operation margarine technique. Adverts for banks often begin with parodies of the irritating things people associate with banks (jargon, smallprint) before moving to the one company that will never subject you to them (the Marmite adverts are a playful take on the idea).</span><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Both the Bazalgette and Cowell empires are built on this principle. Every time you say that Cowell is infuriating, that Big Brother is claustrophobic, that we're zombies for watching it, that the whole thing will lead us to a <i>Year Of The Sex Olympics</i>-style dystopia, you're also saying that it's fascinating television; sooner or later pseudo-disparagement leads to bathetic punchlines: "I can't stop watching". "It's awful, but it's riveting". As for Balzagette and Cowell: like Murdoch, they don't care what you think of their rotten product: they just want you to keep consuming it.</span><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">After<i> Doctor Who</i>'s corruption, what's left to believe in? Perhaps the recently concluded <i>Harry Hill's TV Burp</i>? Surely that never let us down? The show was spiky in its earlier days, combining impeccably performed pratfalls with genuinely cutting observations about the stupidity of contemporary British television. A horrible sign that things were going wrong in its later seasons came when Dermot O'Leary filmed a walk-on cameo, waving to the applauding audience as he left. O'Leary is the acceptable face of capitalism, a trendy, kindly-faced shill for corporate-minded, tabloid television: the material filmed for the National TV Awards in which Matt Smith's Doctor struggles to get him there on time was final proof that<i> Doctor Who </i>didn't exist anymore, and something soulless was masquerading in its place. The <i>X-Factor </i>spoofs on<i> TV Burp </i>began to resemble Peter Kay's Channel 4 spoof, <i>Britain's Got the Pop Factor... and Possibly a New Celebrity Jesus Christ Soapstar Superstar Strictly on Ice</i>, which was all too to glad to get Cat Deely and Neil Fox onboard to play themselves. It's currently being reported that Harry Hill is working on Simon Cowell's<i> X Factor</i> musical. If true, that would make him the Nick Clegg of the comedy world (and while we're here, we might ask why the normally admirable Stewart Lee felt<i> The Jerry Springer Show</i> merited a lavish West-End musical: yes I know it was satirical, but doesn't it rather take the view that Jerry Springer is significant? Wouldn't it be more satirical to take the the view that his show was nothing, and merited no discussion? Springer himself seemed quite flattered by it).</span><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Conservatism-posing as satire found a new expression in Peter Morgan's script for the ludicrously overpraised film<i> The Queen</i>. It could almost have been written by Tony Blair, it's very misty-eyed toward monarchy, and it takes the same view of Princess Diana's death as the tabloids, and yet it was widely seen as a film talking a wry look at all three issues. The film's driving force is the idea that the Queen was out of touch with the public. It has no time for the idea that the mass sobfests were part of an emotionally incontinent reaction to the death of a celebrity (an idea that can get out of hand, admittedly, but still a viable alternative to listening to Candle in the Wind), or that there's something obscene about hearing people say they cried far more than at there own mother's funeral. It also presents Prince Charles as a politically savvy, wily old bird, who understands the situation as well as Blair and delivers a heartfelt speech about Diana's gifts "whatever you and I thought of her" to the Queen. The ludicrous idea of Prince Charles as "Pretty clever..nice guy..bit of a maverick...", often put about by men smart enough to know better like Clive James, Stephen Fry, Billy Connolly and Barry Humphries, finds its most striking articulation in a film that saves its savage scorn for the Queen Mother and attempts to portray the Queen as, in Morgan's own words, "a cold, emotionally detached, haughty, difficult, prickly, private, uncommunicative, out of touch bigot," but to dislike the Queen and the Queen Mother and exempt Charles is like opposing organised religion except for that Pope chap. As for the anti-Tony Blair stance, could anyone honestly point to a single moment in the film which portrays him in an unfavourable light? Even Alastair Campbell, for all the shots of him leering in the shadows and writing "People's Princess" on a notepad, is never shown to do anything other than shrewdly pick up on the mood of the people. A friend of mine as fiercely non-Conservative as I am who didn't know I'd already seen it recommended the film to me and added it was "interesting because it paints a very unflattering picture of Mr Blair". This isn't surprising when you look at the film's critical reception. The Emperor not only had lovely clothes: he was pretty scathing about the need for an Emperor in the first place.</span><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">A welcome exception to this received wisdom came from the novelist Nicola Barker,who wrote in The Guardian:</span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">(</span><b><span style="background: white; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">http://www.guardian.co.uk/theguardian/2007/oct/20/weekend7.weekend26?INTCMP=SRCH ):</span></b><span style="background: white; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></div>
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<b><i><span style="background: white; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">It's puny. It lacks the courage of its convictions. It's wishy-washy. This - highly lauded - enterprise promises to engage with one of the most important British cultural moments of the past 20 years. It should be heroic and screwed-up and vicious and ridiculous and angry - but it isn't. It's complacent and hollow and self-satisfied. Why grasp a nettle, I can't help wondering, if you're going to persist in wearing gloves?</span></i></b><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">This almost makes up for the defence of<i> Big Brother </i>a few paragraphs earlier, in which Barker repugnantly describes reality tv as "profoundly moral." Well, you can't have everything. As for Morgan's "bigot" comments, what on Earth did he think was going on in the ridiculous scene where the Queen gazes soulfully at a stag which may or may not contain Diana's spirit? Or the scene where the Queen looks heartwarmed when the little girl amongst the mourners gives her flowers? How Morgan must hate those scenes if someone added them.</span><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">What's happened to Channel 4 over the past decade demonstrates even more disturbingly the extent to which Right-Wing people are thinking of themselves as Leftist. More4's inexplicable<i> The Execution of Gary Glitter </i>was a piece of red-top tabloid television, right down to the contributions from Garry Bushell and Anne Widdecombe, with the horrible twist that it was made by people who thought they were satirising that very world (what was going through Miranda Sawyer's head as she filmed her contributions is an enigma to rank alongside why Elia Kazan agreed to name names): the show's writer even wrote a smug piece for the Independent bemoaning capital punishment and chiding Obama for not condemning it. Similarly, while Channel 4 routinely chastises offensive programmes from the past in its clip shows -<i> Mind Your Language, </i>Benny Hill,<i> Love Thy Neighbour</i>, <i>Minipops</i> - when Frankie Boyle on an episode of his <i>Tramadol Nights</i> referred to Katie Price's disabled son by name and made a joke about the child getting so big her bodyguard boyfriend was necessary to "keep him from f**king her", they defended the joke as necessary in order to push back the boundaries of comedy. Channel 4's Alternative Christmas Message used to be a jolly, frivolous affair with The Simpsons or the Osbournes. In 2008 it was made by Mahmoud Ahmadinejad Not an impersonator, but the actual Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, the same despot responsible for the public hanging of juveniles, denial that there are any gays in Iran and countless human rights violations was given the opportunity to make a broadcast in which he, in all seriousness, attempted to argue that his values were in alignment with those of Christianity at its best. Who knows how the people at Channel 4 responsible for this justified it to themselves: did they think they were being satirical? Did they think they were using offence and provocation to give people a jolt and get them thinking, to stimulate debate? Ahamadinejad, meanwhile, had no such deceptive motive: British television gave him an opportunity to present himself as a moralist, and he took it.</span><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Back in 1997 Channel 4 broadcast Chris Morris's magnificent <i> Brass Eye</i>, perhaps the only genuinely subversive piece of satire ever shown on British tv, or at least since <i>That Was the Week that Was</i>. It remains the biggest Influence upon Channel 4, but unfortunately, it influenced them in all the wrong ways, and its real strengths were forgotten. The lesson that Channel 4 and the next generation of would-be Morrises took away from <i>Brass Eye</i> was not its expert lassoing of media pundits with their own stupidity, or its portrayal of a media that dictates the news rather than vice versa, but that shocking people was an end in itself (Even Morris's own revival of <i>Brass Eye</i> for the notorious 2001 special seemed more interested in baiting than in challenging the Right-Wing, lacking the invention that made the 1997 series so invigorating). Post<i>-Brass Eye</i> shows like <i>Balls of Steel</i>, <i>Frankie Boyle's Tramadol Nights</i>, <i>Death of a President</i>,<i> The Taking of Prince Harry</i> and <i>Black Mirror</i> are all based on the principle that if it offends the Daily Mail, then it must be clever. This is not the intellectual riposte to the Daily Mail's poisonous effect on British life that we so badly need, but an infantile ploy for attention. Look at the poster for a new series of <i>My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding</i> - "Bigger, fatter, Gypsier" or the leering trailers for the<i> Bodyshock </i>documentaries: is this really anything other than red-top television?</span><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Even those supposedly offended by the likes of Frankie Boyle or Jimmy Carr have closed their minds to more disturbing offences. The disability campaigner Nicky Clark, for example, accepted Gervais's vague gestures of apology following his annoyed tweets to those who asked him to stop using the word "mongs", and his insistence that the word had changed its meaning, and after conducting a fawning interview with Gervais for the New Statesmen can now be found writing pieces for the same magazine berating whatever tasteless gag Frankie Boyle has made recently. In a conversation I blundered into with her on Twitter, she said she thought Gervais's <i>Derek</i> made some salient points about oppressive carers. I replied: "Couldn't he do that without clenching his jaw in a "comedian-does-spazface"' kind of way?" To which Ms Clark replied "spazface? Mind your language, son, there's a dear". It was oddly reminiscent of the stoning scene in <i>Life of Brian,</i> when a bunch of people gather to stone a man for saying "Jehovah" but begin to stone one another for repeating the word each time the accusation is repeated. Ms Clark and I have more in common than she assumes, as she has two daughters on the Autistic Spectrum and I have Asperger's Syndrome, so neither of us care for the word "spaz", but in view of the astonishing experience of being implicitly accused of using a term of abuse I've been on the receiving end of in my schooldays - by someone who acts as a spokesperson for people like me - perhaps she might understand my annoyance.</span><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">People like Nicky Clark aren't really interested in standing up to bullies: they are happy to make a career out of "He shouldn't say that", but uninterested in discussing why he said it, what the implications of saying it are, whether an excuse offered for why he said is really that sincere or convincing and whether there are more subtle ways of spreading bigotry about minorities. Ricky Gervais is far worse than a cartload of Jimmy Carrs, Chris Moyleses or Frankie Boyles, and his work does far more damage both culturally and, as this <a href="http://sotcaa.org/comment/assisting-ricky-gervais.html" target="_blank">shocking piece</a> uncovers, to individuals.<i> Life's too Short</i> is <i>Mind Your Language</i> 2.0. It is based around the assumption not that people of Warwick Davis's height are funny - as its production team would be quick to say - , but the more insidious - and just as boorish - idea that the majority of the public think they are. Passers-by watch with amusement as he struggles to get out of his car; when he attempts to buy a packet of condoms, the woman behind the counter loudly shout across to her colleague, asking if these will fit a dwarf. The naturalism so crucial to Gervais and Merchant's success rules out any possibility that these onlookers are meant to be absurdly unconvincing (as opposed to Peter Griffin in <i>Family Guy,</i> whose idiocies are not presented to us as the way most human beings tend to react, but as comic conventions dictated by whatever joke the <i>Family Guy</i> team are playing with).</span><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> In <i>Derek</i> (an idea which began with sketch from 1999 which vanished from YouTube as the 2012 Channel 4 pilot was preparing to broadcast), Gervais is able to clench his teeth and play a character familiar from playground "spastic" impersonations (that word is unpleasant, cruel and anachronistic, but so is Gervais), partly by his tried-and-tested "irony" and partly by falling back on sentimentality. Back in 1998, <i>American Pie </i>discovered the knack of adding schmaltz to knob gags so that Guardian contributors could laugh along too, and shows like<i> Derek</i> and <i>The Inbetweeners</i> have perfected this to mask far more detestable content. It's revealing here, as SOTCAA have pointed out, to consider Merchant's reaction to Gervais's claims that Derek isn't really disabled at all in this 2001 interview (<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><a href="http://web.archive.org/web/20051230122016/http:/www.themightyboosh.inuk.com/rickyandstephen.html">http://web.archive.org/web/20051230122016/http://www.themightyboosh.inuk.com/rickyandstephen.html</a>) </span>with the pair, when the character was part of their "Rubbernecker" show: "Yeah, that's the corporate party line. Toeing the party line. The man who sees the world differently. Brilliant."</span><b><span style="background: white; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></b></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">But are these considerations the kind of thing that Nicky Clark wants to write about? Of course not. It would raise questions, and require discussion and debate. How much easier it is to send off a piece to the New Statesmen about how Frankie Boyle shouldn't have made that horrid joke (It's interesting, too, that her piece – <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><a href="http://www.newstatesman.com/blogs/lifestyle/2012/06/where-we-see-vulnerability-frankie-boyle-sees-target">http://www.newstatesman.com/blogs/lifestyle/2012/06/where-we-see-vulnerability-frankie-boyle-sees-target</a></span></span><span style="background: white; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> -</span><span style="background: white; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> is dismissive of this open letter by Boyle - <a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/tvandradio/bbc/7660232/Frankie-Boyle-letter-about-BBC-in-full.html">http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/tvandradio/bbc/7660232/Frankie-Boyle-letter-about-BBC-in-full.html</a></span><b><span style="background: white; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> -</span></b><span style="background: white; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> even though it shows rather more guts and social commitment than her article).</span><span style="background: white; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">If satire in this country has any future, it is essential to realise that our current media climate has the appearance of being flooded with it, but on closer inspection it's a mirage. To produce something that couldn't be easily understood as "wickedly subversive": ah, how wickedly subversive that would be.</span><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></div>
Richard Cooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18114063496425319491noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-240001912845478109.post-83514812344554508902012-07-08T08:24:00.001-07:002016-12-05T18:27:38.602-08:00Kazuo Ishiguro and His Critics<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Kazuo Ishiguro might be Britain's greatest living novelist, but despite winning the Booker, three other times on the shortlist and attracting a great deal of respect and attention, a lot of nonsense is talked about his work. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">The late Frank Kermode's review of </span><i style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px;">Never Let Me Go</i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> for</span><i style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px;"> the London Review of Books</i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> was one of the most egregious. It dismisses the book in its second paragraph:</span></div>
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<i><b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">[Never Let Me Go] abandons the formality of [Ishiguro's] previous speakers in favour of a familiar, chatty style no doubt thought right for the character of a young woman of the place and date specified [...] Whatever the virtues of this authorial decision, the texture of the writing becomes altogether less interesting.</span></b></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> He then quotes the following passage (claiming to have opened the book at random):</span></div>
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<b><b style="background-color: white;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">What with one thing and another, I didn't get a chance to talk to Tommy for the next few days. Then one lunchtime I spotted him on the edge of the South Playing Field practicing his football... I went over and sat down on the grass beside him, putting my back against the fence post. This couldn't have been long after that time I'd shown him Patricia C's calendar and he'd marched, because I remember we weren't sure how we stood with each other.</span></i></b></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">"Everything is expertly arranged," comments Kermode, "as it always is in Ishiguro, but the dear-diary prose surely reduces one's interest." But is this passage really as uninteresting as Kermode would have us believe? As is often the case in an Ishiguro novel, the emphasis is on what will happen between these characters, or will take on new significance later. If the scene were garnished with Kermode-friendly prose, wouldn't it detract from this effect? As a reader and rereader of the book, I was too interested In Tommy and Kathy and their developing relationship to wish that Ishiguro had described Kathy approaching him in the South Playing Field with more ornate phrasing. Critics like Kermode would doubtless see this as inattentive: the ability of fiction to create human beings; its gift of granting us the illusion that we are learning more about them; the ability of narrative to let us move through the mind, time and the imagination in directions, as we see these characters develop, that we had never even perceived before; all take a backseat to the true purpose of literature in their world.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> As for the casual phrasing of the reference to Patricia C's calendar, doesn't Ishiguro's "dear diary" simplicity here strengthen the sense of temporal placement, which is a major strength throughout his work? Ishiguro is the poet of reconsideration: his narrators realise the significance of earlier moments in their lives once they put them in the context of other moments. It's a signature touch of Ishiguro's to have his narrator place an event before or after something mentioned previously. These points of reference need to be clear and believable: if they were written in purple prose they would be obscured, and we would lose the sense of navigating through landscapes of mind and memory of which Ishiguro is such a delicate master.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> There's no bad prose in the quoted passage, and as part of the novel's framework it contributes to an outstanding literary effect, and yet Kermode dismisses it because it contains no overtly literary or avante-garde phrases. Critics see what they expect to see. Thomas Pynchon, for example, has references to quantum physics, history, politics, postmodernism or picaresque surrealism on every page (whether he actually does anything with them is another matter), but Ishiguro's novels just feature people talking. What's a literary critic supposed to do with that?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> An even more tedious objection came from Philip Hensher in his review of<i> When We Were Orphans</i>:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> <b><i>There is something troubling about Ishiguro's prose style that took me a while to pin down, and it's this - he hardly ever uses a phrasal verb. He is a writer who always prefers to say 'depart' rather than 'set off', 'discover' rather than 'find out'. Phrasal verbs are, in a way, at the heart of English; they are a part of the language which presents peculiar difficulty to the learner, since there is no logic whatever in their meaning, and they hardly ever resemble anything in another language.</i></b></span><b><i><br id="yui_3_2_0_18_1341759837264118" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px;" /></i></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><i>A Frenchman, learning English, would soon see the connection between 'discover' and 'découvrir'; 'find out', on the other hand, would seem to him like an exotic and irrational expression, which, despite its being more idiomatic, he might well choose to avoid. There is no logic to them; why 'get on with' and 'get off with' should mean what they do, rather than the other way round, cannot be justified, and yet they are at the heart of the spoken language.</i></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">In Hensher we have a critic who says that it took him a while to find what Ishiguro doesn't use, yet when he finds it insists that it is at the heart of the language. There's also something suspicious about his references to those learning English struggling to grasp this: surely this isn't a veiled reference to Ishiguro's Japanese descent? The idea that Ishiguro's knowledge of the English language is lesser than Philip Hensher's is risible enough even before one remembers that Ishiguro came to England at the age of six.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> Phrasal verbs make their first appearance in<i> When We Were Orphans</i> on page two, but even assuming this doesn't render Hensher's use of "hardly ever" dubious, doesn't their paucity suggest a distinctive prose style worth serious consideration? Shouldn't a reader consider what the writer does with that style, and what effects he achieves that couldn't be achieved otherwise? Or would Hensher deride Hemingway for rejecting so many more voluptuous words? A reader of this school would no doubt look at Cormac McCarthy's prose and see sentences without apostrophes and quotations marks and pared-down dialogue smudged into the narration, while another reader would see that these superficially reductive techniques actually create writing of transcendental, wonderfu, yet horrifying beauty that no other author could have written, seeming to descend from the sky rather than the page.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> It isn't just the deceptive clarity of the language (it certainly deceived Hensher and Kermode) that leads critics astray, though. They don't get Ishiguro because they don't trust emotion in Iiterature.<i> Never Let Me Go</i> isn't an exercise in surrealism or a warning about cloning: it's about life, and therefore about love, hope, death, friendship, grief and happiness. The novelist Rachel Cusk, in an essay about<i> Never Let Me Go</i> for the <i>Guardian</i>'s "Rereading" series, couldn't come to terms with this, and suggested that:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><b><i>as in Cormac McCarthy's </i>The Road<i>, the novel's horrific imaginings almost become a perverse kind of sentimentality, as though these (male) writers are unable entirely to distinguish between imagination and fear</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Leaving aside the blatant gender-essentialism of that assessment (only marginally less fatuous than diagnosing feminine hysteria on an author's part as the cause for a novel's concerns), what depresses the committed reader of Ishiguro here is the sense that Cusk sees only neurosis instead of nuance; that she can't see a profoundly moving story (two, to include <i>The Road</i>) when it's right in front of her because surely it can't be that simple. One is reminded of DS Savage's execrable essay "The Fatalism of George Orwell" in The Pelican Guide to English Literature, in which he insisted that the only thing Orwell's work gave insight into was Orwell's own damaged psyche (the thought of undergraduates being nudged towards a tome that saw fit to print it is unbearable).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> It's understandable that contemporary critics struggle with <i>Never Let Me Go.</i> In the modern literary climate, novels are talked about, both in reviews and PHDs, either as a mode of political reportage (Roth for what he tells us about America, Coetzee for what he tells us about South Africa, Morrison on the African-American's dilemma) or as a testing-ground for current literary theory (which is why Pynchon is found on university reading lists more often than Evelyn Waugh or Graham Greene, and why Adam Thirlwell and John Banville are given more space in the book pages than Terry Pratchett). Here we can see the critic's dilemma: when you read <i>Never Let Me Go</i>, <i>The Remains of the Day</i> or<i> A Pale View of Hills</i>, you're not given a set of literary parallels and influences to draw on for your review, unlike the novels of Tom McCarthy, Thirlwell, Will Self or Banville, where you can talk about Self's debt to Kafka or see how Thirlwell is playing with Kundera or <i>Madame Bovary.</i> There's also no clear references to the War on Terror or Global Warming, and no characters in it seem to correspond to Blair and Bush. Instead, you're presented with a novel about three people and the pattern of love, friendship, bullying, antagonism, betrayal, apology and forgiveness that colours their relationship; a novel about a butler whose awareness of of the love between him and the housekeeper and his employer's Nazi-sympathising are sublimated throughout his life; and a novel about a woman whose loss of a daughter to suicide makes her recollect her friendship with the mother of a damaged and possibly neglected child, whose life and failures may have parallels with her own. If you're interested in human beings, in their failures and yearnings, how their lives can be shaped by love and loss, and what it feels like to be someone else, then these novels will move you profoundly and open up the world and the possibilities of language. But what's a reviewer going to say? That it moved them?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"> There is another problem with Ishiguro's oveure that confounds critics, though in different ways: he wrote</span><i style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;"> The Unconsoled</i><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">. This book has the same status within his body of work that Waugh's</span><i style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;"> Brideshead Revisited, </i><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Greene's </span><i style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;">The End of the Affair</i><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">, Ballard's</span><i style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;"> Crash</i><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"> and </span><i style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;">The Atrocity Exhibition</i><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">, Cook and Moore's </span><i style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;">Derek and Clive</i><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">, Lawrence's </span><i style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;">Lady Chatterley's Lover</i><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"> and Austen's </span><i style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;">Mansfield Park</i><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"> have within theirs: often disliked, often disliked by those who love the rest of the </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">oeuvre</span><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">, and yet a key text in one's understanding of that particular artist and their work. Many have found it unreadable: James Wood, a critic not hostile to Ishiguro's other work, famously said it invented "its own category of badness" while Tony Parsons loutishly suggested that burning was too good for it and that maybe Ishiguro should committ harikiri. Other critics see it as precisely the sort of thing that should be occupying their time rather than the author's other novels. Kermode can't get to wait to get</span><i style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;"> Never Let Me Go </i><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">- which he's supposedly reviewing - out of the way so that he can champion</span><i style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;"> The Unconsoled</i><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">. Another of Ishiguro's masterpieces - </span><i style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;">The Remains of the Day</i><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"> - is described by him with dripping condescension: "Subtle though it undoubtedly is, this is the easiest of the novels, as its popular success testifies." Perhaps it's hopeless romanticism on one's part to venture that what it really testifies to is the book's power and beauty. What's certain is that popularity is no more an indicator of lesser quality (even if Kermode wants to dress up this phrase as "easiness", which leads one to wonder how long it will be before "pleasurable" and "moving"' join the warning sirens) as it is of the higher kind. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> The scene in <i>The Unconsoled</i> set during a screening of <i>2001:A Space Odyssey </i>in which Clint Eastwood and Yul Brynner are mentioned as cast members may excite the critics who can then scrawl "ooh look! surrealism! Postmodernism! Hyper-real! Intertextual! Unreliable narrator!" in the margins of their review copies, in much the same way that the moment in Ian McEwan's <i>Enduring Love</i> when the narrator so very dramatically misremembers what flavour the sorbet in the previous chapter was might as well come pre-underlined for hungry A-Level students lusting for unreliable narrators. For this reader, though, it is far less impressive than a great many moments from Ishiguro's "easy" novels.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> Where to begin? Consider the moment in<i> A Pale View of Hills</i> where the narrator's father-in-law - Ogata-San, a retired teacher - asks his son, Jiro, to contact one of the latter's friends, Shigeo Matsuda, as he has written a derogatory article about Ogata-San's legacy (before the Second World War he urged his students to glory in the prospect of Japan's triumph) and teaching methods for an educational journal. Each time he asks, over their evening games of chess, Jiro gives a noncommittal answer, until finally Ogata-San's nagging riles him and he lunges at the chess pieces, but upsets a teapot instead. This is writing that unites moments of individual human crisis, conveyed with exquisite subtly and depth, to political and social conundrums which are never rendered trite. Kazuo Ishiguro is a Jane Austen interested in the Napoleonic Wars.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> <i>The Remains of the Day </i>contains such a multitude of moments like this one wonders where to start. I can't resist going for my favourite (apologies for using it already in my Mark Haddon essay on this blog). Stevens, a butler at Darlington Hall, is staying at the local inn, having taken an uncharacteristic excursion to meet up with the Hall's former housekeeper. Stevens often occupies himself with mastering the art of 'bantering', and as the landlord and his friends ask him if he slept well he gets an opportunity:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><b><i>‘You won’t get much of a sleep up there, sir. Not unless you’re fond of the sound of old Bob’ – he indicated the landlord – ‘banging away down here right the way into the night. And then you’ll get woken by his missus shouting at him right from the crack of dawn’.</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><b><i>Despite the landlord’s protests, this caused loud laughter all round. […] I was struck by the thought […] that some sort of witty retort was required of me. Indeed, the local people were now observing a polite silence, awaiting my next remark. I thus searched my imagination and eventually declared:</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><b><i>‘A local variation on the cock crow, no doubt.’</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><b><i>At first the silence continued, as though the local persons thought I intended to elaborate further. But then noticing the mirthful expression on my face, they broke into a laugh, though in a somewhat bemused fashion. […]</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><b><i>I had been rather pleased with my witticism when it had first come into my head, and I must confess I was slightly disappointed it had not been better received than it was.</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Such humour in that passage, and such poignancy. A lifetime of thwarted desire, hope and sadness conveyed in a few clear sentences. How Ishiguro can write! How much more powerful this makes the realisation that Lord Darlington, Stevens's former employer, was a Nazi sympathiser. Salman Rushdie, an admirer of Ishiguro's, describes Lord Darlington a "guilty-as-hell British Nazi aristocratic" who was watered down in the film and portrayed as merely pathetic. This is true, but the strength of the novel lies in its refusal to judge Lord Darlington, leaving us to reach that conclusion by ourselves. If <i>The Remains of the Day</i>, which uses nuance, humour, deft character studies and the most delicate prose and narrative structure to depict war and its effects upon lives with genuine verisimilitude, so that it becomes reality again rather than cliche or horror, is the "easiest" of his novels than perhaps the 'easy' novel should go by a different name: literature.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> These 'easy' novels are also far more innovative in their techniques than<i> The Unconsoled.</i> <i>A Pale View of Hills </i>climaxes with a staggering moment that demonstrates new possibilities for fiction in depicting reality and memory. Etsuko, the narrator, had a daughter called Keiko, who committed suicide after her mother left her father for a British man and took her to Britain to live with them. As she reflects on the suicide, she relates her memory of her friendship with a woman in Japan named Sachiko, who had a troubled little daughter named Mariko. Sachiko is hoping to start a new life for herself and Mariko in America. At the moment in question, Etsuko is looking for Mariko, who has run from the house, and when she finds her, atttempts to persuade her that the move is nothing to be frightened of. Mariko's dialogue ceases to make sense, and the reader realises with a shiver that Etsuko is actually talking to Keiko years later. After trying to persuade Keiko to come with her to Britain, Etsuko has a glimpse of Mariko in the darkness. The jolt the reader has when realising that Mariko's presence is ghostly, and the extent to which she has all along been haunting Etsuko's subconscious as she relates this story, is one of those achievements that makes a reader wonder how anyone can possibly see the novel as an outmoded artform.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><i>An Artist of the Floating World</i> makes similar use of this technique of baffling the reader in order to enrich them. The narrator, an artist named Masuji Ono, recalls the time his teacher disowned a fellow pupil. We realise with dawning unease that this is precisely how Ono himself later disowned a student, and that Ishiguro has somehow managed to combine two important scenes into one. Not only does it sear the moment onto the reader's consciousness, it also shows - rather than tells - us the major theme of the book: the futilie struggle to use memory to justify or blot out our actions. Technique and theme are inseparable, and that's a result only a great writer can achieve.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> Ishiguro has perfected another technique far more powerful than <i>The Unconsoled'</i>s surrealism: he is the master of the trivial anecdote. In scenes of this kind, the narrator recalls a memory in which nothing much seemed to happen, and wonders if it had more significance than he realised, or if it could throw light on other moments in his life. The difficult trick Ishiguro pulls off here is in making this seem like a genuinely trivial experience that happened to a human being, rather than a wilfully trivial experience that feels like it happened to no-one and that only a novelist could have contrived. Ishiguro's vignettes, unlike those of Ian McEwan, or David Mitchell in <i>Black Swan Green</i>, or some of Zoe Heller's in<i> Notes on a Scandal</i>, never have a whiff of the midnight oil about them. The reader pours over these passages with a slightly impatient fascination: they come across with too much conviction and concise verisimitude to be shaggy-dog stories, and yet we can't quite get at their implications until we've finished the book. It feels like one of the enigmas one faces in one's own life rather than a literary cliche. T<i>he Remains of the Day </i>has the splendid anecdote of the "great Butler" opening the car door and standing his ground.<i> Never Let Me Go </i>has the pencil case, Tommy's drawings and Kathy being watched while listening to her favourite song. <i>A Pale View of Hills</i> has the picnic Etsuko and Sachiko take where they are befriended by an American woman while Mariko misbehaves, <i>When We Were Orphans</i> has the scenes with Christopher and Akira playing at detectives together in their boyhood,<i> An Artist of the Floating World </i>has the charming scenes where Ono takes his grandson Ichiro to the cinema. These passages are made even more vivid by Ishiguro's natural ease with positioning his narrator's memories, which Kermode earlier mistook for "dear-diary prose." Ishiguro captures the texture of life itself, unlike the works of his contemporaries which tend to capture the texture of novels.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">But the most moving passages are the most innovative, whatever Kermode and Cusk may say. The astonishing endings of <i>The Remains of the Day </i>and <i>Never Let Me Go</i> demand to be quoted here. In the latter, Kathy has finally disclosed to the reader that Tommy has "completed": that is, undergone his final, fatal organ donation. For the reader, this moment feels like death itself: we knew it was coming, don't doubt it when it happens, and yet still </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">find ourselves gasping in disbelief. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Remembering a teenage fantasy the two shared that all lost things could be found in Norfolk, Kathy drives there herself:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><b><i>Though the tears rolled down my face, I wasn't sobbing or out of control: I just waited a bit, then turned back to the car, to drive off to wherever it was I was supposed to be.</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">After quoting a passage like that, what one say in the face of a literary culture dominated by the Kermodes, the Cusks, the Henshers and their followers? Simply that so much more is contained within it then they appear to have found within the whole novel. Such emotion, expressed through such delicacy of language, and yet all through the character's perspective, rather than spilling into the sentimental outpourings which sound more like an author. It feels like the emotions of a person's life, not of fiction. As with all good science fiction or fantasy (and whatever else you want to call metaphorical writing), Ishiguro uses a striking unreal concept to defamilarise an all-too-real one</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">The climax of</span><i style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px;"> The Remains of the Day</i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> contains two remarkable moments. The first is this passage:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><b><i>I do not think I responded immediately, for it took me a moment or two to fully digest these words of Miss Kenton. Moreover, as you might appreciate, their implications were such as to provoke a certain degree of sorrow within me. Indeed - why should I not admit it? – at that moment, my heart was breaking.</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Not only does this bring to a climax the unspoken love affair between Miss Kenton and Stevens, but it sees him break free from the shackles that life under a Butler's code has imposed on his language. It's extraordinarily moving for the reader to find themselves cheering as Stevens finally acknowledges the what we have been so desperate for him to acknowledge. The second moment, as Stevens sits on a bench and chats with a stranger, brings the other of the book's main strands- his ambiguous attitude towards Lord Darlington - to catharsis. Stevens confesses:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><b><i>"The fact is, of course," I said after a while, "I gave my best to Lord Darlington. I gave him the very best I had to give, and now - well - I find I do not have a great deal more left to give."</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><b><i>The man said nothing, but nodded, so I went on:</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><b><i>"Since my new employer Mr Farraday arrived, I've tried very hard, very hard indeed, to provide the sort of service I would like him to have. I've tried and tried, but whatever I do I find I am far from reaching the standards I once set myself. More and more errors are appearing in my work. Quite trivial in themseves - at least so far. But they're of the sort I would never have made before, and I know what they signify. Goodness knows, I've tried and tried, but it's no use. I've given what I had to give. I gave it all to Loed Darlington</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><b><i>"Oh dear, mate. Here, you want a hankie?"</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><b><i>"Lord Darlington wasn't a bad man. He wasn't a bad man at all. And at least he had the privilege of being able to say at the end of his life that he made his own mistakes. His lordship was a courageous man. He chose a certain path in life, it proved to be a misguided one, but there, he chose it, he can say that at least. As for myself, I cannot even claim that. You see, I trusted. I trusted in his lordship's wisdom. All those years I served him. I trusted I was doing something worthwhile. I can't even say I made my own mistakes. Really - one has to ask oneself - what dignity is there in that?"</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">My favourite moment there is when the other man offers the hankie and the reader realises that Stevens has actually broken down, but would never tell us. No other medium could achieve a moment like this. Film would have to show us Stevens crying, (even if the view were obscured, the actor's voice would reveal the tears) and even with a voiceover, it could not construct the narrative entirely from Steven's words, which is where the tremendous emotional jolt comes from as we realise our narrator is not being straight with us. For that reason, It's not surprising the Merchant Ivory film adaptation omitted this scene. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">The nature of life as an Englishman, class, war, Fascism and idealism are made flesh and blood in this moment in that curious way that history books cannot achieve. This is what fiction is for.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"> To return to the Jane Austen and the Napoleonic Wars contrast, Ishiguro's fiction is also astonishing in its imaginative </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">interpretation</span><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"> of the effect war and geo-political turmoil have upon individual lives. </span><i style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;">When We Were Orphans</i><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">, which mixes a surreal worldview with a compelling narrative and so beats </span><i style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;">The Unconsoled </i><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">as Ishiguro's most challenging book, gives us a inter-war narrator who cannot come to terms with the existence of violence and wrong-doing in society, and believes that it can ultimately be prevented, just as the League of Nations must surely prevent a second War. The words subvert and genre are grossly overused together in cultural discussions (I'd be the first to say that </span><i style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;">Never Let Me Go</i><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"> is a brilliant piece of science fiction, not a subversion of it, except in the sense that anything good is subversive of its genre), but </span><i style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;">When We were Orphans</i><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"> actually does subvert detective fiction, in the same way that Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons's </span><i style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;">Watchmen</i><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"> subverts the superhero fallacy. Its narrator, Christopher Banks, has wanted since childhood to be a great detective in the Holmes/ Wimsey/Poirot tradition, and it soon becomes apparent that he now believes he is one. Things get odder as the novel progresses, until Christopher seems to believe that his detecting skills will bring peace to the 1930s. The problem of how one can accept the unchangeable pain and wickedness in the world is here given a curious and troubling form of expression. This is a novelist engaging with the world in a way in which no-one else does.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> Perhaps the problem is that Ishiguro's novels give me pleasure. We distrust pleasure, partly because of the regression of media book pundits to lazy readers who believe that anything difficult is not worth reading, which understandably has given smarter critics an aversion to anything with no stenuous patches. After hearing Booker judge Chris Mullin state that a book had to 'zip along' to meet his criteria, and Booker Prize Chairman Stella Rimington insist "we wanted to select books people would read and enjoy, not read and admire" (an absurd distinction: how could I enjoy a book I didn't admire? How could I not enjoy a book I admired?), one briefly feels the need to burn every book that took less than a month to read, just as one wonders if they are the only person in the country who likes books after catching a few minutes of Channel 4's<i> The TV Bookclub </i>and seeing three presenters swap praise of Tony Parsons, or listening to Mariella Frostrup giggle her way through <i>Open Book.</i> When the red mist clears, though, one starts to realise that the school-of-thought that sees<i> The Road</i> as sentimental and<i> Never Let Me Go</i> as too simply written is no better.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Let's end by comparing two prose stylists. Here's Ishiguro, in <i>A Pale View of Hills:</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><b><i>A half-moon had appeared above the water and for several moments I remained on the bridge, gazing at it. Once, through the dimness, I thought I could see Mariko running along the riverbank in the direction of the cottage</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Here's Cusk on <i>Never Let me Go:</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><b><i>indeed Its procedures are the very reverse of generic, for there is no analogy at work within the text, which instead labours to produce its iterative naturalism as a kind of sub-set or derivation of our own.</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">I know which one I prefer.</span></div>
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Richard Cooperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18114063496425319491noreply@blogger.com6