Another damp, misty morning. I was trying to remember whether I've ever experienced a White Christmas- and I sort of think I have, but when was it- in early childhood- or- more plausibly- during the long, middle period of my life that I spent in the north of England? Or, again, was it only ever on the page or the screen- in those hundreds of fictional Christmases where the snow never fails to fall at the stroke of midnight and the stars shine bright and the sleigh bells chime?
Desmond Tutu has died. It seems likely that he will be remembered as one of his era's great heroes. I ask myself if I was ever in his presence- as I might have been, kicking around the Church of England as I once did- but as with the White Christmas I can't be sure. There was a time- before we lived so much of our lives through screens- when such questions must have been easier to answer. I've seen him on telly a thousand times; could one of those experiences have been an actual encounter, involving shared space and air and atmosphere- one of us in the body of a building, the other on a rostrum answering questions or perched in a pulpit expounding his truths? Search me.
I watched the third season of Ghosts up to and including the Christmas Special. I think they and I have done enough now. Familiarity is setting in- and familiarity is the death of comedy. Comedy is booted and spurred, it carries a whip. It flicks, it jabs, it takes us by surprise. It's a dangerous customer...
Mark Gattis' version of The Mezzotint was a nice little thing: a clutch of premium actors dolled up as Edwardians, parading Edwardian attitudes, playing golf, being stalked by a Nameless Horror. I love a good ghost story- even though- familiarity again- I've read and seen so many they no longer scare me.
And how shall I entertain myself today? The BBC's new dramatization of Around The World in Eighty Days looks promising. It has David Tennant for starters. And it's such a great story. Mike Todd's big screen version- starring every name actor who owed him a favour- was one of my earliest experiences of cinema. The screen was so big, the faces were so huge, the statue of the Buddha they bump into out East so very frightening in its vastness and impassivity! I wanted to be Phileas Fogg and I wanted to have a funny friend like Passepartout and- why not? - a staunch female chum like Princess Whatever-her-name-was, aka Shirley Maclaine in brown-face. I have never owned a top hat- and still feel the lack. To be English is to be David Niven in all his insouciance and self confidence, with all his charm and wit and mastery of any and every situation. David Tennant's Fogg is going to be a bit hapless we're told- well, of course he will be, times have changed- and the English sahib has slipped down the register from archetype to figure of fun...
Desmond Tutu has died. It seems likely that he will be remembered as one of his era's great heroes. I ask myself if I was ever in his presence- as I might have been, kicking around the Church of England as I once did- but as with the White Christmas I can't be sure. There was a time- before we lived so much of our lives through screens- when such questions must have been easier to answer. I've seen him on telly a thousand times; could one of those experiences have been an actual encounter, involving shared space and air and atmosphere- one of us in the body of a building, the other on a rostrum answering questions or perched in a pulpit expounding his truths? Search me.
I watched the third season of Ghosts up to and including the Christmas Special. I think they and I have done enough now. Familiarity is setting in- and familiarity is the death of comedy. Comedy is booted and spurred, it carries a whip. It flicks, it jabs, it takes us by surprise. It's a dangerous customer...
Mark Gattis' version of The Mezzotint was a nice little thing: a clutch of premium actors dolled up as Edwardians, parading Edwardian attitudes, playing golf, being stalked by a Nameless Horror. I love a good ghost story- even though- familiarity again- I've read and seen so many they no longer scare me.
And how shall I entertain myself today? The BBC's new dramatization of Around The World in Eighty Days looks promising. It has David Tennant for starters. And it's such a great story. Mike Todd's big screen version- starring every name actor who owed him a favour- was one of my earliest experiences of cinema. The screen was so big, the faces were so huge, the statue of the Buddha they bump into out East so very frightening in its vastness and impassivity! I wanted to be Phileas Fogg and I wanted to have a funny friend like Passepartout and- why not? - a staunch female chum like Princess Whatever-her-name-was, aka Shirley Maclaine in brown-face. I have never owned a top hat- and still feel the lack. To be English is to be David Niven in all his insouciance and self confidence, with all his charm and wit and mastery of any and every situation. David Tennant's Fogg is going to be a bit hapless we're told- well, of course he will be, times have changed- and the English sahib has slipped down the register from archetype to figure of fun...