I watched a fascinating documentary on BBC recently, about British whaling and how it had continued into the 1960s.
This was quite a surprise to me, as I am sure it would have been to so many people. Something that is unthinkable today, and yet was happening as recently as in the 60s.
What perhaps has stimulated my thoughts in an unexpected way was simply the knowledge that the principal whaling station on South Georgia was called Port of Leith.
This is the kind of geography that no one would be expected to know, not even to remember.
I suppose I only remember it because for three years I lived in Leith, the port of Edinburgh, between 1995 and 1998.
In this period of my life, two years before I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, I was working as the Development Director for the Scottish chamber Orchestra.
I have fond memories of my time in this employment, and it is perhaps more frequently in my thoughts these days as the vote for Scottish secession comes potentially closer.
Who knows which way the Scots will vote, and far be it from me to second-guess them.
But I do have personal experience of that peculiar sense of Scottish nationalism, in that working for a National Scottish company, I did experience at times what can only be described as racism.
I was told to my face on one occasion that the job I was doing should be done by a Scot, but when I spoke about this to my boss, who was also an Englishman, he reassured me and said quite simply that they had appointed the best person for the job.
What this has reminded me of our those experiences that I had living in Scotland, almost exclusively positive, as Leith in Edinburgh was definitely on the up during my time there, thanks primarily to the fact that a new Scottish office building had recently been constructed in the port area, as a preliminary to the construction of the new Scottish Parliament building.
This meant that the flat in which my wife and I lived was within 400 yards of an extraordinary selection of world class restaurants, most of which had been opened in the wake of the transformation of the old port as part of the general tidying up of a depressed part of Scotland’s capital.
We loved eating out, and we truly had an incredible selection within short walking distance of where we were living.
This was a purpose built block of flats, but constructed in about 1816. The style of apartment is particular to Edinburgh, and would be described as a drawing room flat.
In short, this meant high ceilings and a huge living room.
We had a period shutters and a truly gigantic living room, that gave us spacious living, and good views from our second floor position.
Another proposed development that happened whilst we were in Edinburgh was the location of a permanent mooring for the Royal yacht Britannia, in the Port of Leith itself, with an associated shopping mall linked to a mooring station for transatlantic shipping.
This certainly added to reasons why people might visit Leith, and perhaps explains why when we left Edinburgh, we made a small killing on the sale of our flat, after owning it for just three years.
Of all of the restaurants available to us, perhaps our favourite was a small French restaurant, the name of which escapes me.
This was located just a little out of the way in the conversion of one of the many old warehouse buildings that would have served the merchants of the port.
It was an excellent conversion, and whilst we never ate upstairs, there was apparently an upstairs room that could be used for functions is required.
But we quickly felt completely at home in the beautifully and simply designed ground floor restaurant, and we seemed never to have a problem getting a table.
Service was attentive and efficient, and the linen was crisp and white.
And the food. French influenced but of the minimalist and uncluttered by sauces, but beautifully presented on a fabulous selection of square white plates.
It became a home from home for us, and though not as inexpensive as we might have liked, it became the place that we regularly dined weekly at, and if occasion presented itself, at the least excuse.
I remember precious little detail of the menus, but then, this is not a restaurant review. Suffice that the food was excellent and to our taste.
I remember that the restaurant was presided over by the portrait of a woman, that was I think uncompleted. But this only added to the sense of the space, and it may have been a genuine period antique, though it may equally have been painted only recently but with an accomplished hand.
Everything about the place spoke of style, and no wonder that we wished we could eat there on a daily basis.
I wonder sometimes if it still exists, though it matters not as it remains one of my fondest memories of time spent in Scotland.
And in the land of memories, nothing need change.
Friday, 13 June 2014
Friday, 6 June 2014
Confessions Of A Moustache Waxer
I have recently started to wax my moustache.
Why this feels like some kind of confession, I don’t know.
It isn’t the first time that I have waxed my moustache, although to be honest I had thought that I was no longer subject to the vanities of youth.
I am 53 years of age, and severely disabled thanks to multiple sclerosis. So this is hardly something that is designed to improve my Saturday nights on the town.
The first time that I waxed my moustache was when I was much younger, and years before MS was over on the scene.
I was 22 years of age, living as a recently graduated student in London, and active in the management of the housing in which I had been living since my last year at university.
This was a housing co-operative in East London, and my only photographic evidence of my appearance at the time is my old underground monthly tube pass, which has a small passport sized photograph showing me with my waxed moustache.
Although I display this small image proudly tucked into the frame of a picture on one of my walls, most people that see it think of it as something rather quirky, and my ex-wife and good friend (still) has been quite frank with me, and says that I look as if I were some kind of terrorist.
I can’t say that I agree, but perhaps there is something less than typical about this photograph.
This would have been taken in about 1982, and at the time, I obtained my supplies of moustache wax from a small costume supplier somewhere off Drury Lane in the West End of London.
It was the kind of small shop that I imagine would have gone out of business many years ago, and so when it came to obtaining supplies of moustache wax once again only recently, I had no idea where I would obtain supplies.
Of course, what I had failed to take into account was the fact that we live in the Internet age, and a swift search of the Internet led me to a page of moustache wax suppliers on Amazon which quite took me aback.
The choice was astonishing, I had no idea that I would be presented with the problem of choice rather than the difficulty of finding the stuff.
Clearly, there has been a resurgence of interest in moustache waxing.
And of course, since I have started to wax my moustache, I have started to see waxed moustaches in many contexts where otherwise I might have entirely missed them.
So for example garden designers at the recent Chelsea flower show, and this has made me reflect simply that when you get a red car, you see red cars everywhere.
Another inspiration for me has been the recent BBC dramatised documentary of the 37 days leading up to the start of the First World War.
Set in that summer of 1914, it is a veritable parade of extraordinary moustaches, from all across Europe.
It has made me start to ruminate about the way in which this was of course the glory day of the waxed moustache, and I realise that I have been a secret collector of old photographs of men with grand moustaches, picking them up in junk shops and at the markets. Almost rescuing them or adopting them when they have become forgotten and unloved.
But there is perhaps something sombre and sad in the realisation that it was the First World War that put an end to this aspect of male vanity in its ultimate flowering.
Because all of those grand moustaches from the Edwardian period were destroyed in that terrible conflict, and in some respects, it is a terrible cliche that the young officer leading his troops from the trenches and into battle would have sported some kind of handlebar moustache.
But there it is, I have started to cultivate a waxed moustache, and in my case, given the limitations placed upon me by my multiple sclerosis, I am fortunate that my carers have risen to the challenge of waxing my moustache for me.
It has become part of my daily routine, being assisted with shaving using an electric razor, rather than having a three-day stubble which has been my typical appearance since forever.
And then, a slap and a wax. The application of aftershave, the slap, and then the waxing of the moustache.
It’s my only vanity, I console myself.
Why this feels like some kind of confession, I don’t know.
It isn’t the first time that I have waxed my moustache, although to be honest I had thought that I was no longer subject to the vanities of youth.
I am 53 years of age, and severely disabled thanks to multiple sclerosis. So this is hardly something that is designed to improve my Saturday nights on the town.
The first time that I waxed my moustache was when I was much younger, and years before MS was over on the scene.
I was 22 years of age, living as a recently graduated student in London, and active in the management of the housing in which I had been living since my last year at university.
This was a housing co-operative in East London, and my only photographic evidence of my appearance at the time is my old underground monthly tube pass, which has a small passport sized photograph showing me with my waxed moustache.
Although I display this small image proudly tucked into the frame of a picture on one of my walls, most people that see it think of it as something rather quirky, and my ex-wife and good friend (still) has been quite frank with me, and says that I look as if I were some kind of terrorist.
I can’t say that I agree, but perhaps there is something less than typical about this photograph.
This would have been taken in about 1982, and at the time, I obtained my supplies of moustache wax from a small costume supplier somewhere off Drury Lane in the West End of London.
It was the kind of small shop that I imagine would have gone out of business many years ago, and so when it came to obtaining supplies of moustache wax once again only recently, I had no idea where I would obtain supplies.
Of course, what I had failed to take into account was the fact that we live in the Internet age, and a swift search of the Internet led me to a page of moustache wax suppliers on Amazon which quite took me aback.
The choice was astonishing, I had no idea that I would be presented with the problem of choice rather than the difficulty of finding the stuff.
Clearly, there has been a resurgence of interest in moustache waxing.
And of course, since I have started to wax my moustache, I have started to see waxed moustaches in many contexts where otherwise I might have entirely missed them.
So for example garden designers at the recent Chelsea flower show, and this has made me reflect simply that when you get a red car, you see red cars everywhere.
Another inspiration for me has been the recent BBC dramatised documentary of the 37 days leading up to the start of the First World War.
Set in that summer of 1914, it is a veritable parade of extraordinary moustaches, from all across Europe.
It has made me start to ruminate about the way in which this was of course the glory day of the waxed moustache, and I realise that I have been a secret collector of old photographs of men with grand moustaches, picking them up in junk shops and at the markets. Almost rescuing them or adopting them when they have become forgotten and unloved.
But there is perhaps something sombre and sad in the realisation that it was the First World War that put an end to this aspect of male vanity in its ultimate flowering.
Because all of those grand moustaches from the Edwardian period were destroyed in that terrible conflict, and in some respects, it is a terrible cliche that the young officer leading his troops from the trenches and into battle would have sported some kind of handlebar moustache.
But there it is, I have started to cultivate a waxed moustache, and in my case, given the limitations placed upon me by my multiple sclerosis, I am fortunate that my carers have risen to the challenge of waxing my moustache for me.
It has become part of my daily routine, being assisted with shaving using an electric razor, rather than having a three-day stubble which has been my typical appearance since forever.
And then, a slap and a wax. The application of aftershave, the slap, and then the waxing of the moustache.
It’s my only vanity, I console myself.
Sunday, 18 May 2014
An Inspector Calls (1954)
For the first decade of my working life I lived in Leeds in West Yorkshire. This meant that I was a fairly regular visitor to Bradford.
Bradford has many attractions, not least of all the quality of its curry houses.
Fairly central to the city is the National Museum of Film and Photography, in my memory one of the first major national museums located purposefully outside of London.
And just outside of the Museum is a bronze statue of the novelist and playwright JB Priestley, someone whose writings have somewhat fallen out of fashion in more recent times.
One of his most important early works is his English Journey, and I remember that 50 years after it was written, another important writer of a different generation was commissioned to write a similar work that followed in the kind of footsteps of this pioneering writer.
In spite of having what might be described as socialist leanings, one of the most interesting facts concerning the original JB Priestley English Journey is that he undertook it from the back seat of his chauffeured limousine.
This perhaps sets him apart from someone like George Orwell, who of course famously went down and out in London and Paris, and whilst not exactly adopting a disguise to do so, he actually lived the life of someone without a penny to his name.
And this is the background to the man that wrote An Inspector Calls, perhaps one of his most famous stage works, and one that I have at some point in my theatre going life seen presented on the London stage.
Most recently, I have recorded a broadcast version of this work, and transferred it to my growing collection of over 600 films, accessible at the click of a mouse from a 2 TB hard disk attached to my computer.
It is extraordinary that such an elderly play can be so fabulously engaging even in the present day.
A recent blog entry of mine talked about the way in which the BBC has been looking at the circumstances in the lead up to the First World War, in this centenary year.
In some respects, this play is closely linked to an understanding of what was lost by the destruction of the generation that fought this terrible war.
At the outset of the play, we are told that it is 1912, and the events that take place on a single night that will forever transform the lives of the participants shed great light on this time in our nation’s history.
Without giving away any of the plot details, no spoilers, sufficient to say that a mysterious police inspector interrupts a family in the middle of a family celebration.
Without providing any significant detail, but simply by asking questions about the knowledge that the family members have of a young girl that has taken poison and died horribly at the local infirmary, it is discovered that each of them has played some crucial role in determining the fate of this woman.
It is an extraordinarily moral work, and one which it would be difficult to imagine staged outside of its own period.
But it is fundamentally a work of great insight into the human condition, and the way in which we affect the lives of others, quite fitting then that such an imposing statue of the author should stand so prominently as a memorial to him in his home town.
I am sure it was not simply a quirk of fate that it should be shown at this point in time, when there is so much s thought about the world left behind after this conflict.
That the play should have had such a durable life is a tribute to its quality, and if anyone has not read or seen it, catching the film is an excellent way of appreciating it.
Bradford has many attractions, not least of all the quality of its curry houses.
Fairly central to the city is the National Museum of Film and Photography, in my memory one of the first major national museums located purposefully outside of London.
And just outside of the Museum is a bronze statue of the novelist and playwright JB Priestley, someone whose writings have somewhat fallen out of fashion in more recent times.
One of his most important early works is his English Journey, and I remember that 50 years after it was written, another important writer of a different generation was commissioned to write a similar work that followed in the kind of footsteps of this pioneering writer.
In spite of having what might be described as socialist leanings, one of the most interesting facts concerning the original JB Priestley English Journey is that he undertook it from the back seat of his chauffeured limousine.
This perhaps sets him apart from someone like George Orwell, who of course famously went down and out in London and Paris, and whilst not exactly adopting a disguise to do so, he actually lived the life of someone without a penny to his name.
And this is the background to the man that wrote An Inspector Calls, perhaps one of his most famous stage works, and one that I have at some point in my theatre going life seen presented on the London stage.
Most recently, I have recorded a broadcast version of this work, and transferred it to my growing collection of over 600 films, accessible at the click of a mouse from a 2 TB hard disk attached to my computer.
It is extraordinary that such an elderly play can be so fabulously engaging even in the present day.
A recent blog entry of mine talked about the way in which the BBC has been looking at the circumstances in the lead up to the First World War, in this centenary year.
In some respects, this play is closely linked to an understanding of what was lost by the destruction of the generation that fought this terrible war.
At the outset of the play, we are told that it is 1912, and the events that take place on a single night that will forever transform the lives of the participants shed great light on this time in our nation’s history.
Without giving away any of the plot details, no spoilers, sufficient to say that a mysterious police inspector interrupts a family in the middle of a family celebration.
Without providing any significant detail, but simply by asking questions about the knowledge that the family members have of a young girl that has taken poison and died horribly at the local infirmary, it is discovered that each of them has played some crucial role in determining the fate of this woman.
It is an extraordinarily moral work, and one which it would be difficult to imagine staged outside of its own period.
But it is fundamentally a work of great insight into the human condition, and the way in which we affect the lives of others, quite fitting then that such an imposing statue of the author should stand so prominently as a memorial to him in his home town.
I am sure it was not simply a quirk of fate that it should be shown at this point in time, when there is so much s thought about the world left behind after this conflict.
That the play should have had such a durable life is a tribute to its quality, and if anyone has not read or seen it, catching the film is an excellent way of appreciating it.
Tuesday, 6 May 2014
Goodbye Mr Chips (1939)
Bank holidays in Britain are famous for several things. Atrocious weather is one of them, and it is typical that the films scheduled for broadcast fall into the category of family favourites.
This recent Monday May bank holiday has been exceptional as far as the weather has been concerned. And I was fortunate to catch an early morning film, one which I almost certainly have seen before, but which this particular viewing somewhat astonished me for its capacity to evoke an emotional response.
Quite simply, I think it is the fact that we are in the centenary year of the commencement of the Great War.
The BBC has been remarkable at the range and number of extraordinary documentaries looking at different aspects of this important historical moment.
It is only a couple of years since the last of the surviving soldiers that fought in the trenches died. It is now only something that can be remembered through the recorded reminiscences of those that experienced life at the frontline, and there is an added poignancy to the relics of this period in our history, such as the medals and trench art that have survived to come down to us.
It is sobering to think that it will be shortly similarly the case for the Second World War, as those that served in this conflict age sufficiently so that they have become a tiny minority of the population.
And so perhaps it is possible for me to have seen this film before and for it to have changed its significance viewing it now, when so much seems present in our minds.
One of the most moving documentaries that I have recently viewed is a dramatisation of the 37 days leading up to the declaration of war in 1914, subsequent to the assassination of the Archduke Ferdinand.
This has been an exceptionally well realised programme, that has essentially sen the whole of the complex political story from the viewpoint of a lowly clerk in one of the foreign office departments, giving an interesting perspective on the way in which Britain was at the centre of an extraordinary empire at the time of the events that led inextricably toward the chaos of the war to end all wars.
What I suppose I had forgotten was the way in which this particular film captured a sense of the world that was destroyed by that conflict, as it amounts to the story of an elderly master at an English boys school, who is invited to become the headmaster of his school as a consequence of the decimation of his peers and the younger masters, called up to fight for King and country.
The achievement of one man’s lifetime ambition is related in the context of his own personal story, including the loss of his wife and child during childbirth.
The sense of the history of the time suddenly becoming more relevant, makes it emotionally compelling in a way that I could not have appreciated at previous viewings.
And I have just discovered that the film was made in 1939, almost certainly during that period of impending war. Perhaps that it should have won five Oscars is a fitting tribute to its quality, and perhaps a deep wish that the lessons of the history that it contains should not be forgotten.
This recent Monday May bank holiday has been exceptional as far as the weather has been concerned. And I was fortunate to catch an early morning film, one which I almost certainly have seen before, but which this particular viewing somewhat astonished me for its capacity to evoke an emotional response.
Quite simply, I think it is the fact that we are in the centenary year of the commencement of the Great War.
The BBC has been remarkable at the range and number of extraordinary documentaries looking at different aspects of this important historical moment.
It is only a couple of years since the last of the surviving soldiers that fought in the trenches died. It is now only something that can be remembered through the recorded reminiscences of those that experienced life at the frontline, and there is an added poignancy to the relics of this period in our history, such as the medals and trench art that have survived to come down to us.
It is sobering to think that it will be shortly similarly the case for the Second World War, as those that served in this conflict age sufficiently so that they have become a tiny minority of the population.
And so perhaps it is possible for me to have seen this film before and for it to have changed its significance viewing it now, when so much seems present in our minds.
One of the most moving documentaries that I have recently viewed is a dramatisation of the 37 days leading up to the declaration of war in 1914, subsequent to the assassination of the Archduke Ferdinand.
This has been an exceptionally well realised programme, that has essentially sen the whole of the complex political story from the viewpoint of a lowly clerk in one of the foreign office departments, giving an interesting perspective on the way in which Britain was at the centre of an extraordinary empire at the time of the events that led inextricably toward the chaos of the war to end all wars.
What I suppose I had forgotten was the way in which this particular film captured a sense of the world that was destroyed by that conflict, as it amounts to the story of an elderly master at an English boys school, who is invited to become the headmaster of his school as a consequence of the decimation of his peers and the younger masters, called up to fight for King and country.
The achievement of one man’s lifetime ambition is related in the context of his own personal story, including the loss of his wife and child during childbirth.
The sense of the history of the time suddenly becoming more relevant, makes it emotionally compelling in a way that I could not have appreciated at previous viewings.
And I have just discovered that the film was made in 1939, almost certainly during that period of impending war. Perhaps that it should have won five Oscars is a fitting tribute to its quality, and perhaps a deep wish that the lessons of the history that it contains should not be forgotten.
Monday, 31 March 2014
Time And Space
So you think the clocks going back Is Difficult
Spare a thought for those that were living in 1582 when the Gregorian calendar reform took place.
We might think that we are hard done by in the United Kingdom, when the clocks are reset by an hour and in effect we have two get up an hour earlier.
Of course, this is balanced by the fact that at the autumn equinox, when the clocks go forward, we feel as if we have gained an extra hour of sleep.
Of course, few of us will ever think about the reason for this, and least of all, connect this shift in our management of time to the Gregorian calendar.
But the fact is that in truth our calendar is founded on the solar year, and we have the church of Rome to thank for the reform to that calendar in 1582, undertaken primarily so that the calculation for the date of Easter could be more accurately connected with the lunar calendar.
There is an interesting connection between the lunar calendar and the solar, but it is a connection that we are not fully conscious of.
But the truth of the matter is that the old Julian calendar, introduced by Julius Caesar, failed to take account of small inaccuracies in the differences between the two.
The consequence of this was that lunar and solar had become unsynchronised, and the adjustments made were intended to bring things back into order.
And so the length of the solar year was properly recognised to be 365.25 days in duration, with alternate leap years providing the additional necessary time between the two.
But in addition, there was a 10 day difference to be taken into account, and the solution to this was simply to forget 10 days of the calendar, which as you can imagine, for a mostly illiterate population, felt a little bit like losing 10 days of your life.
And if your birthday happened to fall in one of those 10 days, it must have felt as if you had been deprived of an entire year of your life.
And so, whilst we cope with this simple daylight saving means of adjusting our clocks, spare a moment for those mediaeval folk, who must have pondered hard as to the way in which they were being dealt with by the church, and all for the sake of calculations concerning which they would have found mystifying.
But there is something of poetic beauty in the way in which time has been distilled from an observation of the way in which the Earth moves in space, in the context of our solar system.
And although time is a particularly human means of making sense of things, it is ultimately something outside of ourselves, and immutable.
Spare a thought for those that were living in 1582 when the Gregorian calendar reform took place.
We might think that we are hard done by in the United Kingdom, when the clocks are reset by an hour and in effect we have two get up an hour earlier.
Of course, this is balanced by the fact that at the autumn equinox, when the clocks go forward, we feel as if we have gained an extra hour of sleep.
Of course, few of us will ever think about the reason for this, and least of all, connect this shift in our management of time to the Gregorian calendar.
But the fact is that in truth our calendar is founded on the solar year, and we have the church of Rome to thank for the reform to that calendar in 1582, undertaken primarily so that the calculation for the date of Easter could be more accurately connected with the lunar calendar.
There is an interesting connection between the lunar calendar and the solar, but it is a connection that we are not fully conscious of.
But the truth of the matter is that the old Julian calendar, introduced by Julius Caesar, failed to take account of small inaccuracies in the differences between the two.
The consequence of this was that lunar and solar had become unsynchronised, and the adjustments made were intended to bring things back into order.
And so the length of the solar year was properly recognised to be 365.25 days in duration, with alternate leap years providing the additional necessary time between the two.
But in addition, there was a 10 day difference to be taken into account, and the solution to this was simply to forget 10 days of the calendar, which as you can imagine, for a mostly illiterate population, felt a little bit like losing 10 days of your life.
And if your birthday happened to fall in one of those 10 days, it must have felt as if you had been deprived of an entire year of your life.
And so, whilst we cope with this simple daylight saving means of adjusting our clocks, spare a moment for those mediaeval folk, who must have pondered hard as to the way in which they were being dealt with by the church, and all for the sake of calculations concerning which they would have found mystifying.
But there is something of poetic beauty in the way in which time has been distilled from an observation of the way in which the Earth moves in space, in the context of our solar system.
And although time is a particularly human means of making sense of things, it is ultimately something outside of ourselves, and immutable.
Friday, 21 March 2014
How well do you speak Klingon?
I don’t often use this blog to talk about my dreams. In the specific sense of what I have been dreaming about.
But last night, I had a dream. One that I find of sufficient interest to want to write about.
They say that sometimes in your dreams you can process ideas that you might otherwise have missed in your conscious waking life.
This perhaps constitutes one such example.
Quite simply, at some point in my dream, I think I woke up, or perhaps at least had a moment of conscious self awareness.
Enough to be able to remember my dream, and to smile at the thought of it.
Quite simply, in my dream, I was reading a lengthy article in some respectable newspaper which was all about the potential to develop communication with an alien race.
And the entire article was written in Klingon.
Now, I first want to make it clear that I do not speak Klingon.
Most of you will know that Klingon is an invented language, created for the purpose of pursuing an unhealthy interest in the Star Trek series.
I haven’t bothered to research Klingon using the Internet, although it would be a fair guess that it would be possible to discover an entire community of people that spend much time spreading understanding and knowledge of Klingon.
But, I am not one of them.
Although I did find it very funny, and interesting, that in the film Paul, the two young men travelling to America for a comic convention were able to speak fluent Klingon.
They were deluded in thinking that this language might be a useful means of communicating when they do not wish anyone else in earshot to understand what they are communicating about.
Since they have just met Paul, the little green alien in the title of the film, one of them uses his Klingon to be able to suggest that they overpower the alien.
Paul, however, asks if those words being spoken are in fact Klingon.
The idea that Paul is actually an alien, and that he is a danger to either of them, becomes quite farcical when it is realised that he recognises Klingon.
And all that this knowledge arouses in him is confirmation that the rescuers that have picked him up our complete nerds.
Now I am a fan of the new Star Trek films, that have given new life to this old idea.
Into the dark, released in 2013, is an exciting rebirth of the Star Trek film series.
But the idea that Klingon might hold some kind of key to alien languages, and that an interesting article in Klingon might be written for a serious newspaper, is in itself entering the realms of farce.
But as in most intense dreams, I read this article with interest, clearly making some sense of this strange language, and being interested in what was being communicated.
I do not recall anything exact of what was being communicated, and my only residual memory is that I was amused at the context of what I had been doing. Reading an article written in Klingon.
And hence this blog entry.
The conclusion of which is I think simply to be amazed at the possibilities in dreaming.
And part of me is simply relieved that I can have such lucid dreams, in spite of the fact that I have multiple sclerosis, and that although physically I am unable to explore the world, I can still travel to extraordinary places in my dreams.
Long may it still continue.
But last night, I had a dream. One that I find of sufficient interest to want to write about.
They say that sometimes in your dreams you can process ideas that you might otherwise have missed in your conscious waking life.
This perhaps constitutes one such example.
Quite simply, at some point in my dream, I think I woke up, or perhaps at least had a moment of conscious self awareness.
Enough to be able to remember my dream, and to smile at the thought of it.
Quite simply, in my dream, I was reading a lengthy article in some respectable newspaper which was all about the potential to develop communication with an alien race.
And the entire article was written in Klingon.
Now, I first want to make it clear that I do not speak Klingon.
Most of you will know that Klingon is an invented language, created for the purpose of pursuing an unhealthy interest in the Star Trek series.
I haven’t bothered to research Klingon using the Internet, although it would be a fair guess that it would be possible to discover an entire community of people that spend much time spreading understanding and knowledge of Klingon.
But, I am not one of them.
Although I did find it very funny, and interesting, that in the film Paul, the two young men travelling to America for a comic convention were able to speak fluent Klingon.
They were deluded in thinking that this language might be a useful means of communicating when they do not wish anyone else in earshot to understand what they are communicating about.
Since they have just met Paul, the little green alien in the title of the film, one of them uses his Klingon to be able to suggest that they overpower the alien.
Paul, however, asks if those words being spoken are in fact Klingon.
The idea that Paul is actually an alien, and that he is a danger to either of them, becomes quite farcical when it is realised that he recognises Klingon.
And all that this knowledge arouses in him is confirmation that the rescuers that have picked him up our complete nerds.
Now I am a fan of the new Star Trek films, that have given new life to this old idea.
Into the dark, released in 2013, is an exciting rebirth of the Star Trek film series.
But the idea that Klingon might hold some kind of key to alien languages, and that an interesting article in Klingon might be written for a serious newspaper, is in itself entering the realms of farce.
But as in most intense dreams, I read this article with interest, clearly making some sense of this strange language, and being interested in what was being communicated.
I do not recall anything exact of what was being communicated, and my only residual memory is that I was amused at the context of what I had been doing. Reading an article written in Klingon.
And hence this blog entry.
The conclusion of which is I think simply to be amazed at the possibilities in dreaming.
And part of me is simply relieved that I can have such lucid dreams, in spite of the fact that I have multiple sclerosis, and that although physically I am unable to explore the world, I can still travel to extraordinary places in my dreams.
Long may it still continue.
Tuesday, 4 March 2014
The Lady Vanishes (1938)
It strikes me as a particularly relevant that this film by Hitchcock should have been shown recently.
Events in the news have been surprisingly reminiscent of some of the issues raised in this wartime propaganda film, which I found amusingly described on the BBC as a humorous thriller.
It is some measure of the quality of the film that it has been remade, and although I have only seen one of the remade versions, it is just as successful as the original.
Although there are aspects of the original that make it preferable, as ever, over subsequent remakes.
Hitchcock is not terribly well known for his humorous films, but this certainly has its moment of finding humour in the way that it pokes fun at two cricket obsessives.
But humour that is balanced perfectly with the deportment of those two otherwise laughable characters when confronted with danger.
This is as much part of the critical message of the film, in the same way that the ‘pacifist’ that is killed by a ruthless foe makes it clear that this is not the way of dealing with such an enemy.
That the vanished lady is an amiable elderly lady is another aspect in which characters are painted so as to be different from the stereotype.
The subtle message is perhaps that it is important not to underestimate the capacity of those that we might otherwise find humorous.
The McGuffin in this film is the notion that the contents of a secret treaty can be contained in a snatch of music, music that is smuggled out of the country in which the action takes place, and music which then unites Miss Froy with those who in turn have saved her from the clutches of foreign agents.
That it is a love story as well as at turns a spy thriller and a comic portrayal of the English abroad is part of the genius of the director.
Events in the news have been surprisingly reminiscent of some of the issues raised in this wartime propaganda film, which I found amusingly described on the BBC as a humorous thriller.
It is some measure of the quality of the film that it has been remade, and although I have only seen one of the remade versions, it is just as successful as the original.
Although there are aspects of the original that make it preferable, as ever, over subsequent remakes.
Hitchcock is not terribly well known for his humorous films, but this certainly has its moment of finding humour in the way that it pokes fun at two cricket obsessives.
But humour that is balanced perfectly with the deportment of those two otherwise laughable characters when confronted with danger.
This is as much part of the critical message of the film, in the same way that the ‘pacifist’ that is killed by a ruthless foe makes it clear that this is not the way of dealing with such an enemy.
That the vanished lady is an amiable elderly lady is another aspect in which characters are painted so as to be different from the stereotype.
The subtle message is perhaps that it is important not to underestimate the capacity of those that we might otherwise find humorous.
The McGuffin in this film is the notion that the contents of a secret treaty can be contained in a snatch of music, music that is smuggled out of the country in which the action takes place, and music which then unites Miss Froy with those who in turn have saved her from the clutches of foreign agents.
That it is a love story as well as at turns a spy thriller and a comic portrayal of the English abroad is part of the genius of the director.
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