The Wordsmyth: TV

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Monday, 22 February 2016

The Night Manager

A nice touch in last night's adaptation of Le Carré's The Night Manager.

Following a misadventure in Cairo (involving, somewhat predictably, a woman, an arms dealer, and Her Majesty's Government) British-Army-officer-turned-hotelier Jonathan Pine is now four years into a seemingly self-imposed exile in Switzerland, living quietly in a sparsely-furnished bunker building near his new employment, in Zermatt.

Motivated by unfolding events, he decides to renew his contact with a government agency in 'Victoria, London', and hurries home from work to dig out their phone number. He finds it tucked inside a copy of The Letters of TE Lawrence (ed. David Garnett), at the page headed

THE YEARS OF HIDE AND SEEK: 1922 - 1929

thereby nicely tying together themes of personal mortification, (unsuccessful) reclusiveness, and - Le Carré's go-to narrative device - damn-fool heroics by not-quite-upper-middle 'English' military types interfering in things they don't understand and which they cannot possibly hope to control.

I wasn't able to make out a lot of Pine's remaining bookshelf; but it did also contain The Dynasts and, of course, Seven Pillars of Wisdom.

Wednesday, 10 February 2016

Theory of knowledge

FRENCH TEACHER*: Seven across: 'revered philosopher'.
PE TEACHER: Clarkson.

- Big School

--
* Don't bother...

Tuesday, 12 January 2016

Authorial remembrance

When I was writing my Bowie book, as I was writing the final chapters, I went to‎ visit my father in Cheltenham (this turned out to be the last time I saw him before he died). He asked me what I was working on, and I told him that was writing a book about Bowie’s extraordinary performance on TOTP, and how he influenced an entire generation of music and fashion obsessives. When he asked me why I reeled off the various elements of his performance that had been so challenging, so inspiring, and so transgressive. I described the way in which Bowie had toyed sexually with his guitarist Mick Ronson, the way in which he had dressed like a pansexual spaceman, the way in which he looked, the way in which he sashayed across the screen like a 1920s film star, and, saliently, the way in which his flame-red hair, his dayglo jumpsuit and the general glam colour fest had almost colonised the programme. I explained that this was the moment when the 1970s finally outgrew the 1960s, when the monochrome world of boring, boring south-east England had exploded in a fiesta of colour.