It's over now, the music of the night. Except - not quite.

WARNING: MAJOR PLOT POINTS REVEALED BELOW.

To begin with, I have two facts to confess:1. I don't much care for Andrew Lloyd-Webber or his musicals.
2. I am irrationally obsessed with The Phantom of the Opera.

These two facts may seem incongruous, bit there has always been something incongruous about the appearance of The Phantom of the Opera in Lloyd-Webber's catalogue of mass-produced hits.  Opening in 1986, it is the second longest running show in the West End and is by far and away Lloyd-Webber's most successful musical, having grossed over $5.6 billion dollars worldwide, making it, in fact, the most successful musical ever made.

I first saw Phantom when I was fourteen, having listened repeatedly to the Original Soundtrack (on tape, recorded from a CD borrowed from the library).  I walked out of the theatre in a daze.  There was something about the show that drew me in and overwhelmed me.  It's not without its critics, who find it overblown and ridiculous, but my teenage self was seduced, by a disfigured genius with the voice of an angel.  Perhaps I saw something of myself in the Phantom - an odd child, struggling to fit in - or maybe I'm just a sucker for a man who can sing.  Because boy can the Phantom sing.  Which was one of the reasons why Gerard Butler was such a disastrous fit for the 2004 Joel Schumacher film adaptation.

The Phantom enters virtually every scene voice first - it is the means by which he seduces and controls Christine, the young chorus girl who he falls in love with.  Back then, I couldn't understand why Christine would choose Raoul over the Phantom; a man whose love for her was so powerful that he was willing to kidnap her.  As the years passed I came to understand why Christine had opted for Raoul - a somewhat wiser choice than a manipulative, possessive murderer.  But my heart still aches for the Phantom in that final scene, realising that forcing Christine to stay with him won't make her love him.  It's over now, the music of the night, he heartbreakingly sings, before vanishing without a trace.  A fitting end to a tragic tale.

Or not.

When I first heard that Andrew Lloyd-Webber was planning a sequel to Phantom, I had my doubts.  To continue the story would seem to make a mockery of the ending of the original show.  Christine had chosen Raoul, the man she loved.  The Phantom had accepted her decision and disappeared, leaving them in peace at last.  So how could the story possibly continue?

These concerns, added to the poor reviews that Love Never Dies received when it opened in 2010 meant that, despite being a Phantom devotee, I didn't bother to fork out the cash to go and see it during its truncated West End run.  However, I recently became aware of a DVD recording of the Australian production, which opened in 2011 in Melbourne.  It had undergone substantial revisions from the original London show and received more favourable reviews, so I decided to give it a go.

The production itself looks good.  There are fireworks and smoke and lavish sets.  Ben Lewis as the Phantom has a strong, if unexceptional voice, but hams it up a little, which is impressive in a show as hammy as this.  The makeup department seem to have skimped on the prosthetics - like Butler's Phantom, Lewis' 'horrific deformity' seems to be little more than a slight skin complaint on one side of his face.  Anna O'Byrne as Christine has a fine voice too, but her Christine is a little insipid.  One plus is Jack Lyall as Christine's son Gustave - adorable and with a fantastic voice.

Musically, Love Never Dies is very weak, even by Lloyd-Webber standards.  The title track, sung as an 'aria' by Christine (like Phantom, Love Never Dies also features 'shows within the show') is a pretty enough tune, but not strong enough to carry the show the way "The Phantom of the Opera" carried its predecessor.  "'Til I Hear You Sing" is a poor relation of "The Music of the Night"; the burlesque numbers are atmospheric but uninspiring; the song that young Gustave composes, which is supposed to reveal his genius, is, quite frankly, terrible; and the recitative sections grate on the ear, with the snippets of themes from The Phantom of the Opera only serving to highlight the superiority of its score.  The only song that holds its own is "The Beauty Underneath", an electric, synth-pounding mesmeric set piece, following the Phantom and Gustave on a dizzying trip through the Phantom's 'Phantasma' Freak Show.

Plot-wise, the libretto reads like a piece of fanfiction I might have written after leaving the theatre that first time.  The idea of Christine having a night of passion with the Phantom before her wedding stretches credulity.  Even more preposterous is the notion that he would leave her after such a liaison.

The second suspension of disbelief is the character assassination of poor Raoul.  He is a little dull and dimwitted in Phantom but he is essentially a kind man who cares deeply for Christine.  In Love Never Dies he is a drunk and a gambler with debts, who is rude to his wife and ignores his son.  Of course, this all makes it easier for the audience to stomach Christine's infidelity, but he is completely unrecognisable as the Raoul from The Phantom of the Opera.

The Phantom here is more accessible than in The Phantom of the Opera.  As with the cemetery sword fight in the film version, this removes much of his mystery and, therefore, his ability to terrify.  In Love Never Dies he comes across as a bit of a wife-stealing sleaze, who hangs out in bars and is no more powerful - or interesting - than any other man.  Daddy issues aside, it's a little perplexing that, having spent three-and-a-half minutes declaring that he appreciates the beauty underneath of the characters in the Phantom's Coney Island freakshow, Gustave should scream in terror and sob that it was "horrible" when confronted by the Phantom's frankly rather minor deformation.

Meg's obsession with the Phantom comes a bit out of leftfield, as does her sudden revelation at the end that she has been working as a prostitute to pay the bills.  It all seems a rather contrived way of killing of Christine to give the Phantom an angsty lover-dying-in-the-arms moment, and leave poor Gustave with an unenviable choice between two emotionally unstable fathers.

Andrew Lloyd-Webber has stated that although Love Never Dies is a sequel to The Phantom of the Opera, it can also be viewed as a standalone musical.  As a standalone show it is nothing more than an unexciting, cliched melodrama with an underwhelming score.  As a sequel, it is a terrible betrayal of the the characters and plot of the original story.  For me, the story of the Phantom will forever end with an empty chair and an abandoned mask.

This production of Love Never Dies comes bundled with a recording The Phantom of the Opera 25th Anniversary performance at the Royal Albert Hall.  If you can't afford to see a theatre production (and even if you can) this is well worth a watch.  It's a bit more static than the original due to staging constraints, but it is a fully acted, well-produced version.  He's not everyone's cup of tea, but I think that Ramin Karimloo's performance as the Phantom is my favourite (he played Raoul when I first saw Phantom).  Dramatically he certainly does and I think perhaps vocally as well he may even eclipse Michael Crawford, who for many years was my definitive Phantom (though admittedly I was too young to ever see him on stage).

Watch The Phantom of the Opera and be blown away by a powerful story of warped love and obsession and the true meaning of beauty.  But don't bother with Love Never Dies, unless you want all that shattered.

One Boy and His Hawk

Book Six
A Kestrel for a Knave - Barry Hines (1968)

Fifteen-year-old Billy Casper's lot in life is not a happy one.  Neglected by his mother, abandoned by his father, bullied by his brother and singled out for ridicule by his teachers, his only joy in life is his trained kestrel, Kes.  It is only through Kes, and through talking about her, that Billy's true potential really shines through.

Hines captures perfectly the rhythm and nuances of natural dialogue between his well-drawn characters.  Sometimes writing dialect out phonetically can interrupt the flow of the reader, but here it works well, and I ended up reading the majority of the book with a Yorkshire accent in my head.  Hines also gives wonderful descriptions of the natural world and the streets of the unnamed northern city that Billy inhabits.  Readers will find themselves stepping back into 1968 from the moment they pick the book up.

A Kestrel for a Knave has often been described as a coming-of-age story, which seems strange considering that the events of the novel span only one day (with the addition of a few flashbacks).  However, it is written with such attention to detail that it sometimes feels as though we are living the day alongside Billy, experiencing the highs and lows of his exhausting daily existence, from his early morning paper round to his bullying P.E. teacher.  It's an eventful day, but we are given to understand that most days in Billy Casper's young life pan out this way.  And this particular day will contain an event that will change Billy's life irreparably.

A brilliantly crafted story that will leave you thoroughly absorbed.

I'd love to tell you all my plans, but I really moustache

Book Five

James Bond: Moonraker - Ian Fleming (1955)

The most intriguing mystery in this book was why the German workers on Hugo Drax's Moonraker missile all possessed such an array of differing moustache styles.  Given that we know all along that Bond will save the day, it really was this puzzle that kept me reading until the end.  The explanation turned out to be rather disappointing, much like the rest of the book.

It's strange reading this now and trying to imagine the fear of Nazism returning that existed in the early 1950s when Fleming penned this story, but it's these fears that inspire the villainous Drax, whose motives are revealed to both Bond and the reader through the ultimate bad-guy cliché of tying up the hero and telling him everything.  Drax's dubious motives aside, the plot is unconvincing and dull in turn, with the moustache mystery being the best it has to offer in terms of intrigue.  

The distinction between the films and the original Fleming books has always been one of tone - the books take themselves far more seriously and Bond himself is a much less likeable character.  Fans are divided between which they prefer.  I have to come down on the side of the films.

Even considering the book as a work of its time, the sexism is a little blatant.  Despite being a capable, demonstratively intelligent woman, Bond girl de jour, Gala Brand, ultimately relies on Bond to use his wily thinking and heroic fortitude to save her.  Surprisingly though, apart from a naked scramble in a cliff fall, Bond doesn't get the girl - or come anywhere close.

As a standalone spy thriller, Moonraker is pedestrian and lazily written; as a James Bond story, it lacks the international capers and political intrigue of Fleming's other stories and leaves the reader feeling more than a little underwhelmed.

As long as there's hope, we can stick at it

Book Four

The Reason I Jump - Naoki Higashida (2007)

Translated by KA Yoshida & David Mitchell (2013)

Reading this book, it's easy to forget at times that it was written by a 13-year-old boy with limited verbal communication.  Naoki Higashida, who dictated the book using an alphabet grid, writes so eloquently and movingly about living with autism that you’d be forgiven for momentarily forgetting.  As David Mitchell writes in his foreword, the majority of books about autism are written by professionals without autism, or occasionally by adults with high-functioning autism, who have, for the most part, overcome the challenges to communication that their autism poses.  What makes The Reason I Jump so fascinating is its insight into the mind of a child locked in by the severity of his autism.  In it, Higashida answers a series of FAQs about autism with refreshing honesty and touching poignancy.

There has been the inevitable debate as to how far this really is Higashida’s own work, or if it is the product of facilitated communication but Temple Grandin, one of those adults with autism who has written about her condition, feels that the book was written independently (with no external support guiding the author's hand), but that it could have included “more documentation on Naoki's ability to communicate independently” and “descriptions of how he was taught.”

It’s often assumed that only those with High-Functioning Autism, or Asperger’s Syndrome (the terms are generally used interchangeably) have the self-awareness to understand their condition.  Higashida’s book challenges this assumption, along with a number of others.  He writes affectingly that autistic people do not want to be alone, but that because social interactions become so stressful for them and the people they are trying to interact with, it often leads sufferers avoiding company.  Higashida asserts that autistic people value friendship and human interaction just as much as anybody else.  He is frequently upset by the effect that his behaviour has on the people around him.  And the short stories interspersed amongst the questions he answers about autism demonstrate a high level of empathy, something it is often assumed that autistic people lack.

One of these short stories, about Earthling and Autisman, supports Higashida's view that autistic people are “different in many ways” to Neurotypical people.  The accepted wisdom is that autism has a spectrum (thus, the condition is termed ASD - Autistic Spectrum Disorder) onto which all humans can placed to some extent.  Although Higashida often refers seemingly authoritatively to “us autistic people”, it’s important to remember that this is the view of one person only.  Not every ASD sufferer exhibits the same behaviours, and some with the same diagnosis on paper can exhibit what appear to be completely opposing behaviours.  Higashida acknowledges this when he states that he doesn’t mind physical contact and isn’t a fussy eater, but knows that some people with autism are.  There were some answers, such as to “Why do you take ages to answer questions?”, “Why don’t you make eye contact when you’re talking?” and “Why do you make a huge fuss over tiny mistakes?” that really spoke to me, whilst others had no relevance at all.

I raced through this book in three days.  The sparse and simple poetry of Higashida’s candid prose make it an addictive and easy read.  I have an overwhelming desire to thrust it at everyone at meet and insist, “Look, I’m not just weird, please read this - it explains everything.” It is impressive that a 13-year-old boy is so adeptly able to articulate the feelings of many ASD sufferers.  Anyone who works with young people on the autistic spectrum should read this.

Now in his twenties, Naoki Higashida is an ambassador for autism, writing a blog and giving presentations across Japan on living with autism, despite his communication difficulties.  In answering Question 24, “Would you like to be ‘normal’?”, Higashide decides that, after several years of torment and deliberation, he wouldn’t, declaring “so long as we can learn to love ourselves, I’m not sure how much it matters whether we’re normal or autistic.”  He may have a point.

'Tis not too late to seek a newer world

Book Three
Brothers: The Hidden History of the Kennedy Years - David Talbot (2007)

David Talbot’s account of the Kennedy years begins and ends with that fateful day in November 1963.  The book is, at heart, an assassination conspiracy treatise.  The first chapter examines the events of 22 November 1963 and much of the second half of the book is dedicated to theories about possible conspirators.

However, despite being certain that there was a conspiracy, possibly involving the CIA, Talbot doesn’t offer any concrete evidence aside from multiple claims by many contemporaries of Kennedy, including his brother Bobby, that there was probably a conspiracy, alongside numerous stories of the obstructive behaviour of the CIA towards the Warren Commission and subsequent Congressional investigations during the 1970s.

Talbot saves his ace card until the last few pages – the eleventh hour confession of E. Howard Hunt, a former CIA agent, who fell from grace following his role in the Watergate scandal.  Hunt’s allegation that JFK’s assassination had been planned by the CIA is startling and compelling, but it is incomplete and still only the word of one man, who, like many of the major players who came under suspicion in connection with the assassination, is now dead.

Talbot is fiercely defensive of assassination researchers who have often been dismissed as loonies and is himself not prepared to accept that the truth behind JFK’s assassination will never be known.  He is vehemently critical of the American media, which he feels has been complicit in consistently refusing to give any credence to the possibility of a conspiracy and stringently backing the Warren Commission’s lone gunman theory.  Talbot also briefly suggests that Robert Kennedy’s death was part of the same conspiracy, though he doesn’t dwell on this or offer any reliable connection between the two assassinations.

The shadowy world of the CIA that Talbot portrays in Brothers is frightening, but in a post-Guantanamo and Snowden era, it is depressingly believable.  Talbot presents a plausible case for conspiracy, which chimes with my own beliefs, but sadly offers little in the way of solid new evidence.

By far and away the most interesting aspect of this book is its detailed examination of the brief Kennedy presidency, with the first half of the book dedicating a chapter each to the years 1961-63.  The titular brothers are not just the Kennedy brothers, but also their ‘brothers in arms’ – the group of liberal, often young, intellectuals who helped them to run the country.  (Interestingly, although by admission the book is about John and Bobby Kennedy’s relationship, there is very little mention of Ted Kennedy, the brother who survived.)

The three chapters provide a fresh interpretation of a presidency that has become mired in myth and scandal.  Particularly surprising to someone reading with over fifty years' hindsight, and in the light of the Obama administration’s normalisation of relations with the Caribbean island, is the obsession with Cuba in the Washington elite at the time.  Policy towards the Soviet Union and the wider Cold War was far overshadowed by the niggling irritation of the neighbouring island.  It is shocking to discover how many on the American right were in favour of invading Cuba purely because the existence of a communist nation a few hundred miles off the US coast was an embarrassment.   Talbot details at length the elaborate plots by the CIA to assassinate Fidel Castro during this period, the majority of which the president and his staff knew nothing about.  That Kennedy was prepared to coexist with Cuba rather than start a devastating war was abhorrent to many.

It was particularly distasteful to the military, with whom Kennedy had an especially acrimonious relationship.  Talbot has uncovered evidence highlighting the complete contempt that the top military leaders had for their commander in chief.  They had assumed that they would be able to easily sway the young president and persuade him to provide air support for the Bay of Pigs invaders once they were on the ground.  They were much mistaken.  Kennedy stood his ground.  Their resentment of Kennedy only grew from this moment onward.

Standing his ground against the Washington hawks was a key feature of JFK’s presidency.  What really shines throughout the book is how determined Kennedy was to avoid conflict because he knew there would be disastrous consequences in the nuclear age, as encapsulated by his handling of the Cuban Missile Crisis.

Talbot makes no secret of the fact that he is a lifelong Kennedy supporter and has called in the press for people to stop smearing the Kennedy legacy.  In his author’s note, he tells us he was a 16-year-old campaign volunteer on Bobby Kennedy’s 1968 presidential campaign, so it is unsurprising that the book paints the Kennedys in a very positive light.  Though Talbot states that he felt America was “irreparably wounded” by Bobby’s death, he offers surprisingly little about RFK’s legacy and the anti-war, civil rights and anti-poverty causes that he took up between JFK’s death and his own.  The book sticks closely to its brief and focuses instead on his clandestine investigations into his brother's murder.

Brothers is certainly a thoroughly researched account of the Kennedy presidency: Talbot interviewed over 150 Kennedy contemporaries, their family members and friends.   The book offers a plethora of fascinating new facts about JFK’s engagement with the key issues of the day - Cuba, the Cold War, Vietnam and Civil Rights.  It also scrutinises brilliantly his relationships with the key players, such as his own Vice President, Lyndon Baines Johnson, omnipresent FBI chief J. Edgar Hoover, and foreign leaders such as Nikita Khrushchev and Fidel Castro, as well detailing his relationships with the CIA, the military and organised crime.

Talbot also presents a very real image of Bobby as a man haunted by his brother’s death, who felt an insistent duty to carry on his vision for America.  As I have argued before, Talbot also sees Bobby’s death as the end of an era of hope in US politics (coming, as it did, so soon after the death of Martin Luther King), following which the Kennedys' band of brothers was shattered.  Talbot movingly reveals how they were each crushed by Bobby’s death, never to regain the same heights in their careers again.

Brothers is a brilliantly written and meticulously researched book which fleshes out the intimate political details of the Kennedy years, but it suffers at times from relying a little heavily on assassination conspiracy speculation.  Overall, very readable and enough new information to make it well worth reading.

So, like, here's the thing guys, right?

W1A (Series 2), BBC

The second series of W1A, the BBC’s comedy satirising its own inner workings, which ended on Thursday night, prompted more wry smiles than belly laughs, but amongst the catchphrases and corporate frustrations were odd scenes that made me laugh out loud.  In the final episode, it was the meeting to discuss inclusivity; a cringe-worthy conversation you can imagine taking place in many public sector organisations.  The meeting produced such gems as Monica Dolan's Head of Communications Tracey Pritchard clarifying whether the T in LGBT stands for Transvestite or Transgender and David Westhead's Current Controller of News and Current Affairs Neil Reid querying whether, because the News department had a higher percentage of BAME staff than the general population, it would have to sack some Black and Asian personnel.  Highlights from the previous three episodes included a free lunchtime yoga session and a meeting to brainstorm ways in which to make the BBC’s Wimbledon coverage “ethnically not so much white.”

The fact is though, that this is in area in which they could be better, to borrow a line from Sarah Parish’s stony-faced executive Anna Rampton.  By the end of the final episode, the clever narration and repetitive catchphrases had been overused and began to grate.  (Though, sadly, who hasn’t had those colleagues who repeat the same meaningless phrases over and over?)

For someone who has worked in a large organisation, struggling with layers of incompetent middle managers, endless acronyms and incomprehensible room-booking systems, W1A is depressingly realistic.  The meeting where the ‘Way Ahead Task Force’ attempts to pin down the exact function of the new Director of Better was strangely reminiscent of many lengthy sub-committee meetings.  But, unfortunately, knowing smiles are often the most reaction the programme provokes.

Hugh Bonneville's long-suffering Head of Values, Ian Fletcher, chairs a meeting 

in one of the New Broadcasting House's 'Innovation Spaces'

The BBC advertised the position of Director of Better on its website as a promotional April Fool before the second series began, but unfortunately no one seemed to get the joke, despite the job description requiring the applicant to “have experience of knowledge” and be capable of “summarising large volumes of innovation”, demonstrating just how terrifyingly true-to-life W1A really is.  Highlighting the corporation’s flaws is in someways a commendable attempt on the part of the BBC to poke fun at itself, but it may also be shooting itself in the foot at a time when it is under such intense scrutiny from politicians.

Despite its flaws, W1A is great piece of comedy, with excellent turns from Jessica Hynes as jargon-spouting PR Consultant Siobhan Sharpe (“We’re nailing jelly to the hothouse wall”) and Rufus Jones as idiotic entertainment format producer David Wilkes (“Can I just say: I can feel the wand of history passing over us”) in particular.  Although Series 1 dolled out more laughs, W1A undoubtedly remains one of the funnier comedies on the BBC at the moment.

Review: In the Land of Blood and Honey

In the Land of Blood and Honey (2011) is not the sort of film you would expect Angelina Jolie to make. As war films go it's bleaker, gorier and more shocking than most.  It tells the story of Ajla (Zana Marjanovic), a Bosnian Muslim living in Sarajevo at the outbreak of the war in 1992, and her relationship with her Bosnian Serb prison guard, Danijel (Goran Kostić), as the war progresses.

It’s a daring premise for a film about so recent a war.  When it premiered in Sarajevo, audiences were moved to tears by the memories that film brought to the surface; it is certainly jolting to see images of Sarajevo under siege again.  The treatment of women during the Bosnian war is a topic that is being explored more and more, in academia and literature, and although it is laudable what Jolie is trying to do with this film, unfortunately, it just doesn’t work.  Watching it, you feel you are being shown a clumsily polemic humanitarian lecture rather than a work of any true artistic value.

For starters, the film doesn't appear to know if it's a love story or a psychological exploration of the relationship between captor and prisoner.  Viewers are unsure if we are supposed to feel sympathy for Danijel, as a man overtaken by his circumstances, or to abhor him as a weak-willed misogynist.  If the former, then sadly Danijel is such a creepy and unlikeable character that it is impossible to feel sorry for him.  The chemistry between the two leads throughout is uncertain, as though they are equally unsure how to feel about their characters.

Aside from taking some locational liberties with Sarajevo, there are number of dubious directorial calls in the film.  Including gratuitous female nudity in a film about the objectification of women and juxtaposing quasi-romantic sex scenes with scenes of systematic rape seem nothing more than distasteful.  The war was awful.  It was messy and confusing and people did terrible things to one another, and any film about it will necessarily be harrowing.  In the Land of Blood and Honey, however, dwells on the violence with very little exploration of the motivations and feelings of the individuals involved.

The film caused outrage amongst Serbs on its release and it’s easy to see why.  The Bosnian Serbs are portrayed as cartoonish villains filled with Nazi-esque levels of vitriol towards their Muslim neighbours, whilst the Bosnian Muslims are exclusively shown to be helpless victims clinging idealistically to a vision of a multicultural Bosnia.  I am by no means an apologist for the actions of the Bosnian Serb Army, but the film does little to demonstrate the complexities of the wider war, other than a brief allusion to Srebrenica, and the Muslim-Croat war is never mentioned at all.

Of course, these complaints would have been obscured by a stronger story.  At heart, this is a weak story, poorly told.  The action jumps from scene to scene, seemingly too desperate to educate and shock in equal measure; there is no build-up of suspense and we are never given the opportunity to really get to know the characters.  The result is that the unsettling relationship between Danijel and Ajla is utterly incomprehensible.

The title itself is a controversial choice, evocative of Robert Kaplan's Balkan Ghosts and the myth of ancient hatreds that influenced John Major's thinking during the war.  Presumably the honey is supposed to be the sweet antithesis to the blood soaking the land, but there is very little sweetness in this film.  Coffee might have been a more appropriate choice.

It is estimated that up to 60,000 women were raped in prison camps during the Bosnian War. Their suffering, and that of women in all wars, is a commendable cause to highlight, but there have been better films made about the impact that this sexual violence had on Bosnia’s women (Esma’s Secret/Grbavica (2006), for one). Since In the Land of Blood and Honey was released, when people find out that I have studied the Bosnian War they often ask if I have seen it. Now I can say that I have – and that I wouldn’t recommend it. If you’re looking for good films about the Bosnian War, Hollywood has done it far better in Welcome to Sarajevo (1997), and Bosnians excelled at it in No Man’s Land (2001). In both educational and artistic terms, this film has sadly little to offer.

Originally posted at www.elliewilsonwrites.co.uk

Silent Classic: The General

Received poorly on its release in 1926, The General really is an extraordinary film. Buster Keaton's superb physical comedy and relentless energy in performing all his own stunts (undertaken with considerably fewer safety measures than today's actors enjoy) shine throughout a film that will make you laugh at loud at the escapades of Keaton's hapless Johnnie Gray, a railway engineer working on the Western & Atlantic Rail Road in 1862.

Johnnie has two loves in his life - his steam engine, General, and Annabelle (Marion Mack).  To impress Annabelle he tries to enlist to fight for the Confederate forces, but is turned down because he is more useful to the south as an engineer.  Annabelle declares she will not speak to him again until he is in uniform like her heroic father and brother.  When Johnnie's beloved engine is captured by Unionist spies, he sets off on a disaster-laden one-man pursuit of it behind enemy lines, unwittingly rescuing Annabelle in the process.  They make their escape from the Unionist forces and Johnnie is hailed as a hero for warning of the attack.

Keaton's physical exertions are well-matched by Mack, who manages it all in a cumbersome frock.   The battle set pieces at the end are hugely impressive, considering the limited editing techniques available at the time.  When a bridge and steam engine collapse into a river, in the single most expensive scene of the silent movie era, you'll forget that you're watching a film made nearly 90 years ago.

The slapstick gags are sometimes predictable but always hilarious.  The story is dragged out a bit towards the end and in the re-released version from January 2014 the ragtime piano soundtrack becomes a little repetitive, since no attempt has been made to match the music to the action.

Overall, however, this an excellent film that more than holds it own against today's action blockbusters and delivers a lot of laughs along the way.  Well worth seeing.

London is the place for me

I’ve only ever seen two films twice at the cinema. One was Mission: Impossible 3, which was entirely accidental (I hadn't even seen the previous two films, and still haven't). The other was Paddington, and it was entirely of my own free will.

Michael Bond’s Paddington books were my favourites when I was a young child; I chortled away at them until tears ran down my face. So when I heard they were making a big screen CGI version of my favourite bear, I was a little apprehensive. However, having heard good things from others who had seen it, noting its impressive cast list and that Bond had given his blessing to the film, even appearing in a brief cameo, I decided to brave it.

I had no need to worry.  The film is utterly charming from start to finish.  The CGI Paddington is endearing and perfectly voiced by Ben Whishaw, in all his hat-wearing politeness, and the story itself stays true to spirit of the original tales.

As is the fashion with films these days, it opens with a backstory for our ursine hero in Darkest Peru, with his Aunt Lucy and Uncle Pastuzo, and a British explorer, who manages to civilise the bears through marmalade and talk of a London that will always give them a warm welcome.  The gentle satirising of Britishness begins within the first few minutes and is littered throughout the film.  An earthquake that ruins the bears' home is the catalyst for Paddington to stow away on a cargo ship headed for London in search of that warm welcome.  However, when he arrives at Paddington station he is disappointed to find a London where “hardly anyone wear a hat or says hello.”

Fortunately, the young bear is taken in by the Brown family, played superbly in their eccentricities by Hugh Bonneville, as Mr Brown, who likes all his stationary in order, and Sally Hawkins, as Mrs Brown, an illustrator who struggles to keep her emotions in check.  Julie Walters puts in an excellent turn as Mrs Bird (in the books the Browns' housekeeper, but here an elderly relative) who likes everything ship-shape, keeps a hoover for all occasions and doesn’t trust the microwave.  Madeleine Harris and Samuel Joslin are also excellent as Judy and Jonathan.  ("You have literally just brought home a random bear", says Judy, aghast with teenage horror.)

As Mr Brown scrambles to get a bear added to his home insurance, mayhem ensues, from a spot of bother with the facilities, to a misunderstanding with a pickpocket and a mishap on the escalators in the Underground.  The slapstick is never overplayed and Paddington's genuine good intentions mean it never grates.  Jim Broadbent as Mr Gruber adds a touch of magic too, with his labyrinth of an antique shop and his train set delivering tea.

To add drama to the story, Nicole Kidman plays a villainous taxidermist out for revenge, aided by creepy nextdoor neighbour, Mr Curry (Peter Capaldi, in a wonderful cringe-worthy turn).  When Paddington finds his life in danger, the Brown family realise that they need Paddington every bit as much as he needs them, and band together to set out and rescue him.  (Supplying the 'mild peril' which, along with a flirtatious security guard and a spot of cross dressing, earned the film its scandalous PG certification).

The soundtrack is provided in part by D Lime, a Cuban band who perform live in the film, encapsulating the vibrant multicultural atmosphere of the London that Paddington comes to embrace - a place where “nobody’s alike, which means everyone fits in.”

Lessons about immigration aside, Paddington is an absolute delight, with plenty of humour for children and adults alike.  If you want something to make you chuckle and warm your heart this Easter, look no further.  This bear has been well and truly looked after.

Paddington was released on DVD today.

The best laid plans...

Book Two

Of Mice and Men – John Steinbeck (1937)

For several generations of British schoolchildren, this staple of GCSE English Literature syllabuses will be all-too familiar.  However, it wasn't on the menu during my school career and I hadn't got around to reading it as an adult either.  Our Year 10s have just started studying it and I am therefore pleased to announce that I have finally joined the ranks of those who have read Of Mice and Men.

Steinbeck's classic tale of the Great Depression and the American Dream has been endlessly deconstructed by students and English teachers for years, as successive generations search desperately for yet another original interpretation.  In order to judge the story on its own merits, I decided to avoid reading any of these before I started.

It’s a short novella, written by Steinbeck as a ‘playable novel’, resulting in large portions of dialogue and limited settings, with the majority of the scenes taking place inside the bunkhouse or the barn, making it easier to transfer to stage.  The story doesn't suffer for this, and in fact, it didn't really occur to me until I had finished reading. The accented dialect of the ranch hands is written out phonetically, which I have found off-putting in the past, but works really well here. I could hear the voices of the characters in my head as I read it.

It’s an intense story, with the action taking place over the course of just a few days, from Lennie and George first arriving on the ranch to the tragic ending in the brush four days later.  The whole book is really one ominous foreshadowing that leaves the conclusion inevitable, from the moment we first learn about the incident in Weed and witness Lennie’s initial meeting with Curley’s wife. However, although it quite clearly is, it never feels like an obvious setup and instead only contributes to the intensity of the drama.

Although Steinbeck has important messages about the society of 1930's America, the characters are so exquisitely crafted that the story never feels like a lecture.  The racism, discrimination and sexism inherent in society at the time of the book's publication is superbly exposed to the reader through the microcosm of life on the ranch.

But the core running through the centre of the novel is the friendship between George and Lennie.  Lennie, the giant with the child's mind who doesn't know his own strength, and the quicker-witted George share a bond that is belied by George's chastisement and which serves to make the conclusion even more devastating.

If you’re one of the few people who haven’t yet read the novella, or the revision guides, or written numerous essays on the multi-layered metaphor of Candy’s dog, I won’t go into too many details of the story. If you haven’t read it, it’s a simple but brilliant story that unfortunately may have become obscured and fogged by exhaustive scrutiny. And if you did read it in school, I would recommend a re-visit without the pressure of annotation and analysis, to enjoy it for the bleak yet powerful story of failed dreams that it truly is.

Five stars.

My 2015 Reading Challenge Begins

As a child, I was a voracious reader; under the covers with a torch, in the corner at parties, behind a maths textbook at school – name a time and place I shouldn’t have been reading and you can bet I would have been.  I devoured the entire library at my first school with two years left to go.  But something happened when I was 18 and went off to University.  Suddenly I stopped reading for pleasure.  I worked my way through lengthy reading lists, of academic texts and journal articles, but when the work was done, I didn’t want to read anymore.

This persisted after I graduated and through my twenties.  In 2014, I decided that would change.  As it’s often said – all great writers read.  And if I wanted to call myself a writer, truly, I would have to start reading.  So, in January 2014 I charged myself with reading 12 books that year – one a month.  I set aside time each week to read.

I completed my challenge, skidding up to the deadline on New Year’s Eve as I raced through the last few chapters of Charles Dickens’ Christmas Stories.  I looked back over the list of books I had read that year and felt rather pleased with myself.  Except – I couldn’t really remember all that many details about the books I had read.

So when I set myself the same challenge for 2015 – 12 books in 12 months – I decided that, alongside the reading, I would also write a short review of every book, to serve as an aide de memoire at the end of the year, and ensure that all that reading didn’t go completely to waste.  And lucky for you, dear reader, I’m going to share them with you.  I may have some unusual recommendations you wouldn’t have previously considered, or I may steer you clear of something you’d thought was going to be interesting.  Who knows?

Book One

(Yes, I am aware that the beginning of March is a little late to be finishing only my first book, but January 2015 was something of a write-off in terms of leisure time for reasons I won’t bore you with.)

Doctor Who: Marco Polo by John Lucarotti

(A Target Book, published 1985)

Ok, I know, not exactly a literary classic to kick off with, but I needed an easy read to get myself back into the swing of things. I’ve been watching the Classic Doctor Who episodes from the beginning and this is one of the missing episodes, so I decided to buy the Target book instead.

Like all the Target novelisations, this doesn’t feature exceptional prose.  I don’t know how much of the dialogue is lifted from the original episodes, but at times it does feel like a script with the odd stage direction thrown in here and there.  There are some nice descriptions of thirteenth century China and Mongolia though.

In terms of plot, it’s fairly slow-moving and a little obvious, since we know that there is no way the Doctor is going to end up letting the mighty Kublai Khan keep his TARDIS, but the historical aspects of the story were interesting enough to keep me reading, even if I hadn't have been interested in the adventures of the Doctor and his companions.   I felt that Messer Polo himself came across as somewhat dense and easily fooled, but that may have been the intention of the author.

Lucarotti’s interpretation is witty at times and I could definitely hear the character’s voices in my head when I was reading.  However, one of my bugbears with this book, and with the other novelisations, is that Ian seems to come across as a bit of a chauvinistic pig and Barbara as a bit of a wet lettuce, which isn’t the impression I get from watching the programme at all.

Overall?  An easy read and not especially gripping, but, if nothing else, it got me to do a significant amount of background reading on a period of history I previously knew very little about.  Three stars.