I've had a flurry of cinema attendance since the turn of the year, with mixed results. For anyone who feels they might share my taste in films I thought I might jot down some thoughts.
Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, The
This being the English language version starring Daniel Craig. Ridiculously, I have yet to see the original film (which even my mother-in-law has seen!), so I came to this without a bias towards either that or Stieg Larsson's novel. I did come to it with a less-than-healthy opinion of Mr Craig, who despite someone once telling me I look like him (I don't), has to date struck me as possessing the emotional range of a common house brick. Not that that quality isn't suited to this particular role - I just don't think he needs to be THAT understated THAT often. Mara Rooney comfortably outshines him here in the title role, and Christopher Plummer's typically assured performance is worth a fair chunk of the admission fee by itself. As remakes of Scandinavian films go, I get the feeling that this isn't as successful as the 2002 Pacino/Williams version of Insomnia, but that doesn't mean this is a bad film - just a slightly pointless one, perhaps. I should warn that some of the action is fairly graphic, but although I don't think it quite reaches offensiveness (though one or two scenes do come close), I wouldn't recommend going to see it with your mother-in-law. Take mine instead.
Iron Lady, The
This has ignited an interesting debate about acting versus impersonation. Meryl Streep is apparently nailed-on for Best Actress at the Academy Awards, and hers is undoubtedly a superbly observed portrayal well worth seeing no matter what your views on Margaret Thatcher. However, it seems to me there is some merit in the view that acting is really about creating a fictional character from scratch, or at least from a personal interpretation of the vision of a director and/or screenwriter. After all, Michael Sheen's performances as David Frost and Brian Clough (possibly Tony Blair - not seen that one) are equally remarkably caricatures, but I don't see any Oscars on his mantelpiece. On the other hand, I wouldn't dare to suggest that Ben Kingsley or George C Scott should be stripped of their acting awards for Gandhi or Patten. Not that Scott accepted his anyway. And on another other hand, those films were conventional biopics whereas The Iron Lady certainly is not.
I triple-digress. It's a good film. Could be better, but still good. I don't know how successful the dementia-angle they took with the film was - it makes for one of Jim Broadbent's more superfluous appearances as the hallucinated Dennis - and I think I'm with those who would have preferred more focus on 1979-1990.
War Horse
Once again, I must declare that I haven't read the novel, nor have I seen the play. Sorry about that. Actually though, I'm almost glad I haven't, since I'm reasonably sure this film would have been a disappointment to me. As it was, I thought it was watchable enough, though utterly ridiculous. Rural pre-war Devon was full of hopelessly depicted cartoon-like characters, the events of the film seemed to span a couple of months at most as opposed to the more than four years of the war, and in general Mr Spielberg's schmaltz-meter must have suffered a spectacular malfunction. For sheer unbelievability in a semi-historical yarn, I'm not sure I have seen anything to touch this. On the plus side, Jeremy Irvine. Yes I did mean to conclude that sentence quite so abruptly.
Descendents, The
This is the kind of film I get on with. No far-fetched stories about murder or adventure, or even romance. No special effects. No fluffy animals, talking or otherwise. Just actors acting. Pretending to be real people and telling a human story, of events that could conceivably happen to you or me, albeit probably not in Hawaii or in the context of a multi-million-dollar land deal. Well, I didn't say it was perfect, did I? The theme of past (and now irrelevant) infidelity put me in mind of Death of a Salesman, which has to be high praise, doesn't it? The child acting is remarkable, Clooney is excellent, the locations are at times spectacular. My pick of these four by a distance.
I suppose there was a spoiler or two amongst the above. Sue me.
Question: One of the four films mentioned moved me to tears three times. One (just) did so once. The other two did not. Can you guess which is which?
Showing posts with label Made-up words. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Made-up words. Show all posts
Monday, 30 January 2012
Wednesday, 1 December 2010
011210
Earlier in the year I was selected for jury service, something I'd always wanted to do. I have a passing (perhaps passed) interest in the criminal justice system, or at least crime, so the opportunity to become involved in some small way was one I looked forward to. And not just because my employer was obliged to give me two weeks paid leave to attend. I think enough time has now elapsed for me to talk fairly non-specifically about my experience as a first-time juror, back in the summer.
Having been told where and when to report, I arrived at the appointed time and place, bringing with me the requested identification, some lunch, and a book. The jurors' suite at the crown court was a secure area, equipped with plenty of comfy seats, a small restaurant, quiet space for work, and cloak rooms. I and the other assmbled new jurors were given some instructions and watched an introductory film. It was explained that there were a number of courtrooms, each with their own programme of trials, sentencing and other business. The clerk explained that business at court moved at its own pace, and that there would be lots of sitting around doing nothing as a result. My kind of gig!
Towards the end of a long, uneventful day, after several juries had already been selected for other courtrooms, my name was on the next list to be read out. Fifteen of us filed upstairs to the courtroom, and mine was amongst the twelve names to be selected at random for the trial. The 'spare' three jurors were sent back downstairs. It was late in the day, so after we were each sworn in (no Bible for me thanks), there was only time enough for the Judge to explain the nature of the trial before we were dismissed for the day. It was a pretty serious offence - kind of a reckless endangerment thing with a resulting manslaughter charge. It was thought the trial would last for most of the two-week period of jury service. Wandering back to the waiting area to collect our things, it was obvious that some were not at all looking forward to hearing the details of the case, whilst others couldn't wait to find out more.
Day two began in confusion. One of the selected jurors had declared some kind of vague familial link to the defending barrister, and after discussion the judge had decided to dismiss the entire jury and select a new one. Since most other 'spare' people had by now been selected for other juries, it was a very similar group of fifteen people who again ascended the stairs to the courtroom to be selected. As the names were read out by the clerk, my chance of sitting on this jury diminished. With each passing name that wasn't mine, a sense of disappointment grew. I had had the best part of a day to get used to being on this relatively high profile jury and didn't want to be excluded from it now. Nine names became ten; ten became eleven; then, with just a 25% chance of becoming the final juror, my luck turned. Ignoring the temptation to punch the air and trying hard not to smile, I answered "Yes" to my name and took my seat amongst the Mark II jury.
My luck had more than turned, it turned out, as the new order of selection meant that I would be sitting next to a striking young gentleman who had caught my eye the previous day. He had worn a suit for day one, but had begun a trend of wearing fewer clothes by the day, as the weather became hotter, and it became obvious that jurors tended to wear whatever the hell they liked. He had a youthful yet chiseled look about him, with dark hair which was slightly messy in a conventional sort of way, and he wore glasses. Now that the suit had been dispensed with, it was possible to make out the contours of a frame which had obviously been fashioned through many hours in some gymnasium or other. Even through the dullest parts of the trial, it seemed I was destined never to be bored.
I will not go into the circumstances of the case in any more detail than I already have. Suffice it to say, someone had died, and it was alleged that the accused was responsible. The individuals involved in the case had, it seemed, led fairly chaotic lives, having had all sorts of minor skirmishes with the law in the past, often associated with alcohol or drugs. The testimony we heard from the accused, and indeed from some of the key witnesses, was at times muddled, hard to follow, full of inconsistencies and, one suspected, exaggerations. Yet there were certain irrefutible facts and pieces of evidence to help us.
The jurors were allowed to discuss the case amongst themselves outside the courtroom, and we began to congregate in a quiet corner during lunchtimes and other breaks to share our thoughts. Opinion was varied, and tended to swing from day to day based on what we had heard most recently. The consensus seemed to be that we would only bring clarity to our collective thoughts when given the opportunity to retire to consider our verdict. Some made extensive notes throughout, others hardly any. My bench-mate started to wear shorts and t-shirts, leaving less to my imagination as the trial progressed. His arms and legs really were very pleasant viewing indeed.
Defence followed prosecution. On the penultimate day, the judge gave his summation. We jurors had expected this to bring some measure of clarity and direction to the days of evidence we had just heard. Sadly, we literally received a summary of the facts - not particularly helpful save for one or two points of law.
And so to the deliberation room. Half a day (in our case) of talking through what we had seen and heard. Thankfully there was early agreement that most of what we had heard in the way of background had little bearing on the facts of the case. We asked to review certain pieces of evidence, and, having satisfied ourselves beyond that famed reasonable doubt, came to an agreement - a unanimous verdict of guilty. The defendant was sentenced some time later to quite a number of years in prison.
Maybe I'm a natural cynic, or maybe I was on a better than average jury, but the whole experience far exceeded my expectations. Each individual on the jury was fully involved in the deliberative process, and each brought something to it. So far as I could see there was no prejudice, no complacency, and no lack of humanity in the way our verdict was reached. Whilst the verdict did not go the defendant's way, I believe him fortunate to have come before the group of people he did. I don't know whether trial by jury always works, but I have seen firsthand that it can work very well.
Most of the jury, myself included, shared a couple of drinks together in a local bar after the final day of the trial. Some of them exchanged telephone numbers and facebook details, and as far as I know are still in touch with one another. I however, returned to my normal life and never contacted any of them ever again.
The end.
Having been told where and when to report, I arrived at the appointed time and place, bringing with me the requested identification, some lunch, and a book. The jurors' suite at the crown court was a secure area, equipped with plenty of comfy seats, a small restaurant, quiet space for work, and cloak rooms. I and the other assmbled new jurors were given some instructions and watched an introductory film. It was explained that there were a number of courtrooms, each with their own programme of trials, sentencing and other business. The clerk explained that business at court moved at its own pace, and that there would be lots of sitting around doing nothing as a result. My kind of gig!
Towards the end of a long, uneventful day, after several juries had already been selected for other courtrooms, my name was on the next list to be read out. Fifteen of us filed upstairs to the courtroom, and mine was amongst the twelve names to be selected at random for the trial. The 'spare' three jurors were sent back downstairs. It was late in the day, so after we were each sworn in (no Bible for me thanks), there was only time enough for the Judge to explain the nature of the trial before we were dismissed for the day. It was a pretty serious offence - kind of a reckless endangerment thing with a resulting manslaughter charge. It was thought the trial would last for most of the two-week period of jury service. Wandering back to the waiting area to collect our things, it was obvious that some were not at all looking forward to hearing the details of the case, whilst others couldn't wait to find out more.
Day two began in confusion. One of the selected jurors had declared some kind of vague familial link to the defending barrister, and after discussion the judge had decided to dismiss the entire jury and select a new one. Since most other 'spare' people had by now been selected for other juries, it was a very similar group of fifteen people who again ascended the stairs to the courtroom to be selected. As the names were read out by the clerk, my chance of sitting on this jury diminished. With each passing name that wasn't mine, a sense of disappointment grew. I had had the best part of a day to get used to being on this relatively high profile jury and didn't want to be excluded from it now. Nine names became ten; ten became eleven; then, with just a 25% chance of becoming the final juror, my luck turned. Ignoring the temptation to punch the air and trying hard not to smile, I answered "Yes" to my name and took my seat amongst the Mark II jury.
My luck had more than turned, it turned out, as the new order of selection meant that I would be sitting next to a striking young gentleman who had caught my eye the previous day. He had worn a suit for day one, but had begun a trend of wearing fewer clothes by the day, as the weather became hotter, and it became obvious that jurors tended to wear whatever the hell they liked. He had a youthful yet chiseled look about him, with dark hair which was slightly messy in a conventional sort of way, and he wore glasses. Now that the suit had been dispensed with, it was possible to make out the contours of a frame which had obviously been fashioned through many hours in some gymnasium or other. Even through the dullest parts of the trial, it seemed I was destined never to be bored.
I will not go into the circumstances of the case in any more detail than I already have. Suffice it to say, someone had died, and it was alleged that the accused was responsible. The individuals involved in the case had, it seemed, led fairly chaotic lives, having had all sorts of minor skirmishes with the law in the past, often associated with alcohol or drugs. The testimony we heard from the accused, and indeed from some of the key witnesses, was at times muddled, hard to follow, full of inconsistencies and, one suspected, exaggerations. Yet there were certain irrefutible facts and pieces of evidence to help us.
The jurors were allowed to discuss the case amongst themselves outside the courtroom, and we began to congregate in a quiet corner during lunchtimes and other breaks to share our thoughts. Opinion was varied, and tended to swing from day to day based on what we had heard most recently. The consensus seemed to be that we would only bring clarity to our collective thoughts when given the opportunity to retire to consider our verdict. Some made extensive notes throughout, others hardly any. My bench-mate started to wear shorts and t-shirts, leaving less to my imagination as the trial progressed. His arms and legs really were very pleasant viewing indeed.
Defence followed prosecution. On the penultimate day, the judge gave his summation. We jurors had expected this to bring some measure of clarity and direction to the days of evidence we had just heard. Sadly, we literally received a summary of the facts - not particularly helpful save for one or two points of law.
And so to the deliberation room. Half a day (in our case) of talking through what we had seen and heard. Thankfully there was early agreement that most of what we had heard in the way of background had little bearing on the facts of the case. We asked to review certain pieces of evidence, and, having satisfied ourselves beyond that famed reasonable doubt, came to an agreement - a unanimous verdict of guilty. The defendant was sentenced some time later to quite a number of years in prison.
Maybe I'm a natural cynic, or maybe I was on a better than average jury, but the whole experience far exceeded my expectations. Each individual on the jury was fully involved in the deliberative process, and each brought something to it. So far as I could see there was no prejudice, no complacency, and no lack of humanity in the way our verdict was reached. Whilst the verdict did not go the defendant's way, I believe him fortunate to have come before the group of people he did. I don't know whether trial by jury always works, but I have seen firsthand that it can work very well.
Most of the jury, myself included, shared a couple of drinks together in a local bar after the final day of the trial. Some of them exchanged telephone numbers and facebook details, and as far as I know are still in touch with one another. I however, returned to my normal life and never contacted any of them ever again.
The end.
Thursday, 25 November 2010
251110
It was late. Somewhere, an owl hooted....
Funny how groups of words stick in your head, isn't it? Those couple of sentences are (I think) taken from an episode of 'I'm Sorry I'll Read That Again', of which I had some BBC Audio tapes when I was little-ish. They appeared somewhere within a sketch as the deliberately cringesome opening lines of a not-very-scary (but supposed to be scary) story. Even now they make me smile. You had to be there, I guess.
'I'm Sorry I'll Read That Again' (ISIRTA) was a BBC radio comedy which ran from the mid-60's through to the early 70's, featuring Tim Brooke-Taylor, John Cleese, David Hatch, Bill Oddie, Graeme Garden and Jo Kendall. This all took place a fair chunk of time before I came along, but I had a Monty Python phase around the age of 10-12, and the presence of Cleese in the cast probably caught my attention when looking to offload my pocket money one weekend in a local independent music and record store. (Would you believe it's still there?! Established 1848 and still going strong. Visit if you ever come to Bath: www.ducksonandpinker.co.uk)
As such, the show was one of several fore-runners to Flying Circus. As well as Cleese, Graham Chapman and Eric Idle were regular script contributors. But of course the most obvious product of 'ISIRTA' was The Goodies, the TV sketch show starring Brooke-Taylor, Oddie and Garden. The Goodies never caught my imagination in the same way as Monty Python, but anyone who only knows Bill Oddie as an annoying and slightly unhinged twitcher should listen to his early radio efforts. Some of the topical and/or absurd songs he wrote and performed more than 40 years ago actually stand the test of time rather well.
The spin-off of 'ISIRTA', 'I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue', began in 1972 and remains a popular favourite on Radio 4. I haven't paid it much attention for years. But I still remember every word of 'The Angus Prune Tune' - the theme tune of it's parent, which ended three years before I was born.
Funny how groups of words stick in your head, isn't it? Those couple of sentences are (I think) taken from an episode of 'I'm Sorry I'll Read That Again', of which I had some BBC Audio tapes when I was little-ish. They appeared somewhere within a sketch as the deliberately cringesome opening lines of a not-very-scary (but supposed to be scary) story. Even now they make me smile. You had to be there, I guess.
'I'm Sorry I'll Read That Again' (ISIRTA) was a BBC radio comedy which ran from the mid-60's through to the early 70's, featuring Tim Brooke-Taylor, John Cleese, David Hatch, Bill Oddie, Graeme Garden and Jo Kendall. This all took place a fair chunk of time before I came along, but I had a Monty Python phase around the age of 10-12, and the presence of Cleese in the cast probably caught my attention when looking to offload my pocket money one weekend in a local independent music and record store. (Would you believe it's still there?! Established 1848 and still going strong. Visit if you ever come to Bath: www.ducksonandpinker.co.uk)
As such, the show was one of several fore-runners to Flying Circus. As well as Cleese, Graham Chapman and Eric Idle were regular script contributors. But of course the most obvious product of 'ISIRTA' was The Goodies, the TV sketch show starring Brooke-Taylor, Oddie and Garden. The Goodies never caught my imagination in the same way as Monty Python, but anyone who only knows Bill Oddie as an annoying and slightly unhinged twitcher should listen to his early radio efforts. Some of the topical and/or absurd songs he wrote and performed more than 40 years ago actually stand the test of time rather well.
The spin-off of 'ISIRTA', 'I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue', began in 1972 and remains a popular favourite on Radio 4. I haven't paid it much attention for years. But I still remember every word of 'The Angus Prune Tune' - the theme tune of it's parent, which ended three years before I was born.
Tuesday, 27 July 2010
270710
There was a time, in a previous incarnation of this space, when I would go to the trouble of writing a full review of each film I saw at the cinema. In order to rate the experience as a whole, I would rate the venue as well as the film - right down to the quality of the drinks and snacks and the well-behavedness of the audience. I would even rate the company, assuming I hadn't seen the film alone.
That time has passed. Inception: 7/10. See it, if you're good at suspending disbelief and skirting around gaping plot holes. Some people will tell you it's complicated. Not true - I think you'd have to be pretty stupid not to follow what's going on. I hope I haven't just insulted someone.
I did slightly prefer Shutter Island, if we're on the subject of Di Caprio. Which we aren't. Now that we are though, he's not ageing so well. Considering I've never taken much interest in (now not so) young Leo's career, it suddenly strikes me that I've seen a remarkably high proportion of his films, and enjoyed most of them. The guy's got an eye for a script, I guess.
That time has passed. Inception: 7/10. See it, if you're good at suspending disbelief and skirting around gaping plot holes. Some people will tell you it's complicated. Not true - I think you'd have to be pretty stupid not to follow what's going on. I hope I haven't just insulted someone.
I did slightly prefer Shutter Island, if we're on the subject of Di Caprio. Which we aren't. Now that we are though, he's not ageing so well. Considering I've never taken much interest in (now not so) young Leo's career, it suddenly strikes me that I've seen a remarkably high proportion of his films, and enjoyed most of them. The guy's got an eye for a script, I guess.
Tuesday, 29 June 2010
290610
There was a time (I refer readers to my previous post), when England's elimination from the FIFA World Cup (TM) would have left me devastated. I'm talking genuine trauma. Tears, anger, denial, that feeling like you've been punched in the stomach. Now? Utter indifference. Within twenty minutes I had shrugged it off and gone off to consult cinema listings. (Ignore the terrible reviews of 'Whatever Works' - it's pretty good).
Yet I don't think this change of attitude has come about as a result of our national team's ever lengthier list of not quites, nearlys and nowhere bloody nears. Three moderately successful World Cups followed by an awful one have worn away the blind faith of most people I know, but I know myself to still be capable of donning the blinkers and hoping for, even expecting a positive outcome. Yet I choose not to, at least where sport is concerned. There was a time when I would sit in front of the TV, quietly whispering to a God that I knew full well didn't exist, that if Nick Faldo could make this putt, or Jeremy Bates could somehow win this tie-break, or Peter Schmeichel could save this penalty, or David Bryant could win this end (maybe not that last one), I would happily do his evil bidding for the rest of my days. Am I mixing up God and the Devil there? Not sure.
I suppose my point is that in recent years I've allowed the perspective of which I was always capable to occupy the driving seat more. It's not that there are more important things in life than sport, it's that there is nothing important in life full stop. Some might say I've matured. Perhaps I'm a little more cynical than I used to be. Either way, on some level it saddens me that my emotions are stirred so rarely these days.
In respect of the passing of my youthful exuberance, I will decline to sign off with a typically flippant remark.
Yet I don't think this change of attitude has come about as a result of our national team's ever lengthier list of not quites, nearlys and nowhere bloody nears. Three moderately successful World Cups followed by an awful one have worn away the blind faith of most people I know, but I know myself to still be capable of donning the blinkers and hoping for, even expecting a positive outcome. Yet I choose not to, at least where sport is concerned. There was a time when I would sit in front of the TV, quietly whispering to a God that I knew full well didn't exist, that if Nick Faldo could make this putt, or Jeremy Bates could somehow win this tie-break, or Peter Schmeichel could save this penalty, or David Bryant could win this end (maybe not that last one), I would happily do his evil bidding for the rest of my days. Am I mixing up God and the Devil there? Not sure.
I suppose my point is that in recent years I've allowed the perspective of which I was always capable to occupy the driving seat more. It's not that there are more important things in life than sport, it's that there is nothing important in life full stop. Some might say I've matured. Perhaps I'm a little more cynical than I used to be. Either way, on some level it saddens me that my emotions are stirred so rarely these days.
In respect of the passing of my youthful exuberance, I will decline to sign off with a typically flippant remark.
Friday, 18 June 2010
180610
Vuvuzela has become an informal greeting in my house. It's a lovely sounding word, even if the noise they make isn't so pleasing on the ear.
The 2010 FIFA World Cup (TM) sponsored by Adidas, Coca Cola, Emirates, Hyundai/Kia, Sony and Visa, is hopelessly failing to catch my imagination up to this point. England's dismal opening showing has only been brightened by Spain's, and now France's, dismaler subsequent efforts. That said, I will be very (pleasantly) surprised if there isn't more disappointment before too long. My current feeling is that we could scrape through to the last 8, or even last 4, but it won't be pretty, and therefore it will be largely unenjoyable. Oh to be 13 and watching Italia 90 all over again.....
The 2010 FIFA World Cup (TM) sponsored by Adidas, Coca Cola, Emirates, Hyundai/Kia, Sony and Visa, is hopelessly failing to catch my imagination up to this point. England's dismal opening showing has only been brightened by Spain's, and now France's, dismaler subsequent efforts. That said, I will be very (pleasantly) surprised if there isn't more disappointment before too long. My current feeling is that we could scrape through to the last 8, or even last 4, but it won't be pretty, and therefore it will be largely unenjoyable. Oh to be 13 and watching Italia 90 all over again.....
Monday, 24 May 2010
240510
Well it turns out that even if I have a fractured skull there isn't much to be done. Skull fractures are pretty interesting as it turns out. They can be described by location (temporal, basal) or type (linear, depressed). The depressed ones, and those accompanied by outer head wounds, obviously need some urgent treatment, what with the brain either being squashed or exposed to the world. The linear ones tend to be left alone though, since they heal by themselves given some time. I won't be playing any football for weeks and weeks now, so the risk of re-bumping that same area, even allowing for my penchant for walking into things, is negligible. Incidentally, I don't think I have fractured my skull - though I've been enjoying imagining what it would be like to have done so. I appreciate that the reality is probably less romantic. In fact, my skull is quite high up my list of bones I wouldn't like to fracture.
We picnicked at the beach yesterday. Some eye-catching people were on show. Parts of me are a rather darker shade than they used to be. It hurts a little. Summer, it would seem, has arrived.
We picnicked at the beach yesterday. Some eye-catching people were on show. Parts of me are a rather darker shade than they used to be. It hurts a little. Summer, it would seem, has arrived.
Tuesday, 26 January 2010
270110
Phrases that annoy me Part 1:
"Everything happens for a reason"
This group of words, in this particular order, touches more nerves for me than perhaps any other, due to certain experiences with which I will not bore anyone here. Quite apart from the personal nature of my objection to this trite little package of good old-fashioned hogwash, however, it has always struck me as both nonsensical, and in no way helpful in what those who use it are trying to achieve.
I know that consoling someone after something bad has happened is not easy. Pain, whether physical or psychological in nature, can not be explained away, eased by logic or overpowered by wisdom. And yet words are often the only way we can reach someone who is suffering. What can you say to someone who is upset, that they have not heard before? Very little, in most cases. The mere fact that you take time to console and be with someone is likely to be far more important to them than anything you might actually say. Words are cheap, hollow, meaningless.
This is my first, though by no means greatest objection, to the use of 'Everything happens for a reason'. Is that supposed to cheer me up?! That this is my miserable destiny and no matter how I struggle to improve my lot, some all-powerful force will decide the course of my life? That I can look forward to my hopes and dreams being merrily trampled upon by some arbitrary cosmic boot for the rest of my life? That there is little point working towards anything or making plans, because what happens to me has already been decided? Thanks a bunch.
Of course some people use 'Everything happens for a reason' to explain happy accidents and unexpected good luck, or to comment on how apparently unconnected events can spark a train of events. A little more harmless in this context I guess, but essentially carrying the same message that we are helpless; bobbing up and down in the ocean of uncertainty waiting for something nice to float our way, or to be mowed down by a passing liner, bitten in two by a tiger shark, or simply to die of exposure. Balderdashery, if ever I heard it.
I've probably made it clear by now that I don't agree with 'Everything happens for a reason'. Not only does it absolve us from any blame, or indeed credit, for things that happen, it encourages a belief that we should remain passive in the face of 'Everything', that there is no point trying to change things. Most of all, it simply isn't true. Lots of things happen for no reason at all, that is to say no thought or planning has gone into them. They are not designed to achieve anything, and whilst they may have causes, these are often entirely unconnected to any consequences. Further, even events which have been planned sometimes have consequences which were not intended.
I do believe that we each have the power to influence in some way the vast majority of events in our lives. 'Everything happens for a reason' isn't a direct contradiction of this as such, but it does tend to divert attention from our ability to decide what those reasons should be, where we should attach meaning in life, and how we view our place in the world. We all have setbacks and moments of doubt. We all make mistakes. But most of us retain a good deal of scope to decide the direction of our lives. And even where we lack the power to influence events, we never lose the power to decide how we react to them.
In summary: lots of things happen for lots of different reasons; lots of other things happen for no reason at all; as individuals we have a choice as to how we are affected.
"Everything happens for a reason"
This group of words, in this particular order, touches more nerves for me than perhaps any other, due to certain experiences with which I will not bore anyone here. Quite apart from the personal nature of my objection to this trite little package of good old-fashioned hogwash, however, it has always struck me as both nonsensical, and in no way helpful in what those who use it are trying to achieve.
I know that consoling someone after something bad has happened is not easy. Pain, whether physical or psychological in nature, can not be explained away, eased by logic or overpowered by wisdom. And yet words are often the only way we can reach someone who is suffering. What can you say to someone who is upset, that they have not heard before? Very little, in most cases. The mere fact that you take time to console and be with someone is likely to be far more important to them than anything you might actually say. Words are cheap, hollow, meaningless.
This is my first, though by no means greatest objection, to the use of 'Everything happens for a reason'. Is that supposed to cheer me up?! That this is my miserable destiny and no matter how I struggle to improve my lot, some all-powerful force will decide the course of my life? That I can look forward to my hopes and dreams being merrily trampled upon by some arbitrary cosmic boot for the rest of my life? That there is little point working towards anything or making plans, because what happens to me has already been decided? Thanks a bunch.
Of course some people use 'Everything happens for a reason' to explain happy accidents and unexpected good luck, or to comment on how apparently unconnected events can spark a train of events. A little more harmless in this context I guess, but essentially carrying the same message that we are helpless; bobbing up and down in the ocean of uncertainty waiting for something nice to float our way, or to be mowed down by a passing liner, bitten in two by a tiger shark, or simply to die of exposure. Balderdashery, if ever I heard it.
I've probably made it clear by now that I don't agree with 'Everything happens for a reason'. Not only does it absolve us from any blame, or indeed credit, for things that happen, it encourages a belief that we should remain passive in the face of 'Everything', that there is no point trying to change things. Most of all, it simply isn't true. Lots of things happen for no reason at all, that is to say no thought or planning has gone into them. They are not designed to achieve anything, and whilst they may have causes, these are often entirely unconnected to any consequences. Further, even events which have been planned sometimes have consequences which were not intended.
I do believe that we each have the power to influence in some way the vast majority of events in our lives. 'Everything happens for a reason' isn't a direct contradiction of this as such, but it does tend to divert attention from our ability to decide what those reasons should be, where we should attach meaning in life, and how we view our place in the world. We all have setbacks and moments of doubt. We all make mistakes. But most of us retain a good deal of scope to decide the direction of our lives. And even where we lack the power to influence events, we never lose the power to decide how we react to them.
In summary: lots of things happen for lots of different reasons; lots of other things happen for no reason at all; as individuals we have a choice as to how we are affected.
Thursday, 19 November 2009
021209
This is going to be a post about football. I know that's not necessarily an interesting thing to talk about, but to be fair I haven't done it before, and one post in a year is quite forgivable I think. Whilst my passion for football has become a subtler, quieter one in recent years, in many ways it burns at least as brightly as it ever did. For some reason the sport retains the ability to generate within me an enthusiasm that I've found impossible to recreate elsewhere. That's not to say it's the most important thing in my life, but it's certainly where I feel most free, most expressive, most competitive, yet paradoxically, most in control. The absurdity of attaching meaning to anything in life is never more heightened than in the pursuit of a small round leather-coated balloon, yet somehow it's that knowledge that none of it matters that makes it matter so much, that allows me to lose myself almost completely in the immediacy of two teams on a medium-sized patch of grass.
I'm talking there specifically about playing the game, but I still watch a reasonable amount of football too, and can identify somewhat with the tribalism that supporting a club or national side tends to engender. I have a favourite team, and sound reasons for favouring them. My bias at times knows fairly distant limits, but it is by no means an unconscious bias, and my partisanship is never without at least a trace of irony.
Characteristically, I find myself two paragraphs into a post without having come close to the specific issue I set out to discuss, which is Thierry Henry's 'controversial' handball versus Ireland. To summarise the incident, the game was decided by a goal precipitated directly by this clear example of foul play, and allowed France, the home side, to qualify for the World Cup Finals in South Africa next summer at the expense of The Republic of Ireland. Had the goal been disallowed, either team would have had the remainder of extra time to score and win the game outright, or failing that, emerge victorious through the relative lottery of a penalty shootout. Instead there was anti-climax, disappointment, outrage, vitriol, a formal complaint, shrugging of shoulders, and general disillusionment.
There are several facets of this debate which seem to demand comment. Firstly, on a cheatingness scale of 1 to 10, Henry's act probably rated around 4. There are a couple of such incidents in most games. I don't think it was premeditated. It is unfortunate that it was allowed to go unpunished in such an advanced area of the pitch at such a vital moment, but in itself as an isolated occurrence of law transgressance it was neither malicious nor dangerous nor petulant.
Secondly, I do not believe that this injustice strengthens the case for using video replays to assist refereeing decisions. There are many incidents in matches which can be interpreted questionably by a match official, or missed by a match official. Offsides, foul tackles, shirt pulling, handballs, ball in or out of play, foul throws, the whole obstruction vs shielding the ball debate, the list goes on. Any of these can lead directly to a goal. I cannot see how it would be fairer to treat selected categories of these differently from the remainder by allowing an extra official, located in front of a TV screen, to tell the referee what his decision should be. To complicate matters, many such incidents can be interpreted in quite different ways even upon second and third viewings, in slow motion, from multiple angles. There is a real danger that an incident could be referred only to result in a delay of two or three minutes whilst the TV referee ponders over inconclusive footage, under unbearable pressure to come up with a decision which cannot reasonably be reached. Surely, the least unsatisfactory way forward, and fairest way forward, is to allow the on-field officials to retain total control of what goes on between the white lines?
Nextly, there is scope for improvement. Micro-chip technology may soon be used to notify a referee immediately when the ball crosses the goal line. No delay; no controversy; no problem. We may see additional officials behind each goal in selected competitions before too long. This should all but eliminate goalmouth incidents where the referee's view is obscured (though I maintain the linesman should have seen Henry's misdemeanour in this instance). There is certainly a case for younger, fitter match officials. We currently have men in their forties trying to keep up with professional athletes half their age. I appreciate that life experience may bring with it greater calmness and objectivity, but this is of limited use if you are 60 yards away with an obscured view. In this country, all top-level officials are now fully professional, but all the FA did to achieve this was to pay the existing, amateur referees more. An intensive, fast-track system is required to train promising young referees to officiate in top level games within 2-3 years.
And finally, isn't injustice exhilarating? Football, and (reluctant though I am to use a ball game as an analogy for life), perhaps life, would be very dull indeed if everyone got exactly what they deserved, all the time. If the virtuous people always won out, and the lazy, selfish, rule-breaking, deceiving, scheming, cowardly, jealous, greedy people were always found out, punished, and corrected. A large part of football's appeal, to me at least, is the opportunity to triumph in unfavourable circumstances, to pick myself up off the floor and hurtle into the next tackle, to chase an unlikely dream in spite of a muddy pitch, a howling wind, a dirty kit, a cheating opponent, and an incompetent bloody referee.
I'm talking there specifically about playing the game, but I still watch a reasonable amount of football too, and can identify somewhat with the tribalism that supporting a club or national side tends to engender. I have a favourite team, and sound reasons for favouring them. My bias at times knows fairly distant limits, but it is by no means an unconscious bias, and my partisanship is never without at least a trace of irony.
Characteristically, I find myself two paragraphs into a post without having come close to the specific issue I set out to discuss, which is Thierry Henry's 'controversial' handball versus Ireland. To summarise the incident, the game was decided by a goal precipitated directly by this clear example of foul play, and allowed France, the home side, to qualify for the World Cup Finals in South Africa next summer at the expense of The Republic of Ireland. Had the goal been disallowed, either team would have had the remainder of extra time to score and win the game outright, or failing that, emerge victorious through the relative lottery of a penalty shootout. Instead there was anti-climax, disappointment, outrage, vitriol, a formal complaint, shrugging of shoulders, and general disillusionment.
There are several facets of this debate which seem to demand comment. Firstly, on a cheatingness scale of 1 to 10, Henry's act probably rated around 4. There are a couple of such incidents in most games. I don't think it was premeditated. It is unfortunate that it was allowed to go unpunished in such an advanced area of the pitch at such a vital moment, but in itself as an isolated occurrence of law transgressance it was neither malicious nor dangerous nor petulant.
Secondly, I do not believe that this injustice strengthens the case for using video replays to assist refereeing decisions. There are many incidents in matches which can be interpreted questionably by a match official, or missed by a match official. Offsides, foul tackles, shirt pulling, handballs, ball in or out of play, foul throws, the whole obstruction vs shielding the ball debate, the list goes on. Any of these can lead directly to a goal. I cannot see how it would be fairer to treat selected categories of these differently from the remainder by allowing an extra official, located in front of a TV screen, to tell the referee what his decision should be. To complicate matters, many such incidents can be interpreted in quite different ways even upon second and third viewings, in slow motion, from multiple angles. There is a real danger that an incident could be referred only to result in a delay of two or three minutes whilst the TV referee ponders over inconclusive footage, under unbearable pressure to come up with a decision which cannot reasonably be reached. Surely, the least unsatisfactory way forward, and fairest way forward, is to allow the on-field officials to retain total control of what goes on between the white lines?
Nextly, there is scope for improvement. Micro-chip technology may soon be used to notify a referee immediately when the ball crosses the goal line. No delay; no controversy; no problem. We may see additional officials behind each goal in selected competitions before too long. This should all but eliminate goalmouth incidents where the referee's view is obscured (though I maintain the linesman should have seen Henry's misdemeanour in this instance). There is certainly a case for younger, fitter match officials. We currently have men in their forties trying to keep up with professional athletes half their age. I appreciate that life experience may bring with it greater calmness and objectivity, but this is of limited use if you are 60 yards away with an obscured view. In this country, all top-level officials are now fully professional, but all the FA did to achieve this was to pay the existing, amateur referees more. An intensive, fast-track system is required to train promising young referees to officiate in top level games within 2-3 years.
And finally, isn't injustice exhilarating? Football, and (reluctant though I am to use a ball game as an analogy for life), perhaps life, would be very dull indeed if everyone got exactly what they deserved, all the time. If the virtuous people always won out, and the lazy, selfish, rule-breaking, deceiving, scheming, cowardly, jealous, greedy people were always found out, punished, and corrected. A large part of football's appeal, to me at least, is the opportunity to triumph in unfavourable circumstances, to pick myself up off the floor and hurtle into the next tackle, to chase an unlikely dream in spite of a muddy pitch, a howling wind, a dirty kit, a cheating opponent, and an incompetent bloody referee.
Tuesday, 17 November 2009
301109
I'd like to state at the very top of this post that I did donate to Children in Need the other week, and I did buy a poppy earlier in the month. I also bought a raffle ticket in aid of RNIB only this morning.
In general, however, and particularly where people are concerned, I don't regard myself as a very charitable person. It's not compassion fatigue (love that phrase) either. If I'm completely honest with myself, I'm not sure that charities that help people are great causes. Try as I might, and believe it or not I really am trying not to sound utterly heartless, I think there are far too many human beings in the world, and we've become a bit of a nuisance. It seems more worthwhile to me to contribute to organisations who make it their business to clean up the mess we as a species have made, and continue to make, in the name of covering the face of the Earth with yet more of us.
It's important, yet somewhat difficult, to separate the real compassion I feel for people around the globe who suffer from various types and severities of physical and/or mental impairment, and for those whose lives have been blighted by war, famine, drought, crime, extremist political regimes and natural disasters, from my belief that there are more serious issues for this planet and its inhabitants. Whilst I accept that there is a vast number of people with no option but to exist in horrific conditions, it's clear that Homo Sapiens is not about to die out. Quite the opposite - the latest estimates are that there are 6.9 billion of us, and by 2050 this is due to increase to approaching 9 billion. Set against no more than 200,000 gorillas (in the wild), around 20,000 rhinos, and fewer than 5,000 tigers, this hardly seems fair.
It's quite a philosophical wrestling match. Whilst indivuals may well merit and deserve our help and love, as a species we're fairly obnoxious. On a personal level, whilst I would certainly accept charity were I to find myself in need, how should I reconcile this with believing that we/I are/am not a worthwhile cause?
Furthermore, when should I put up my Christmas Tree?
In general, however, and particularly where people are concerned, I don't regard myself as a very charitable person. It's not compassion fatigue (love that phrase) either. If I'm completely honest with myself, I'm not sure that charities that help people are great causes. Try as I might, and believe it or not I really am trying not to sound utterly heartless, I think there are far too many human beings in the world, and we've become a bit of a nuisance. It seems more worthwhile to me to contribute to organisations who make it their business to clean up the mess we as a species have made, and continue to make, in the name of covering the face of the Earth with yet more of us.
It's important, yet somewhat difficult, to separate the real compassion I feel for people around the globe who suffer from various types and severities of physical and/or mental impairment, and for those whose lives have been blighted by war, famine, drought, crime, extremist political regimes and natural disasters, from my belief that there are more serious issues for this planet and its inhabitants. Whilst I accept that there is a vast number of people with no option but to exist in horrific conditions, it's clear that Homo Sapiens is not about to die out. Quite the opposite - the latest estimates are that there are 6.9 billion of us, and by 2050 this is due to increase to approaching 9 billion. Set against no more than 200,000 gorillas (in the wild), around 20,000 rhinos, and fewer than 5,000 tigers, this hardly seems fair.
It's quite a philosophical wrestling match. Whilst indivuals may well merit and deserve our help and love, as a species we're fairly obnoxious. On a personal level, whilst I would certainly accept charity were I to find myself in need, how should I reconcile this with believing that we/I are/am not a worthwhile cause?
Furthermore, when should I put up my Christmas Tree?
Friday, 9 October 2009
091009
Yarks. So busy at work lately. I'm not used to that at all. There's always plenty to do, but normally it's quite possible to leave it til later or avoid it altogether, but this stuff is of the unignorable variety. I'm not complaining, incidentally, and it brings me back to one of the great paradoxes: given that I really don't mind work on those occasions when I get around to actually doing any, why is it that I dedicate so much effort to not doing any? Answers on a strike-delayed postcard.
Prospective parliamentary candidate visited the other day. I was non-commital and unenthusiastic, but in a way that was designed neither to encourage nor discourage the chap. I'm sure he means well. I just don't feel that political at this point in my life. Another paradox, since the election and some of the issues surrounding it are of some considerable interest to me, yet I feel no desire to take part, even if only to steal a pencil.
Weekend's are very nice I always think. I'm off to have one right now. Toodles.
Prospective parliamentary candidate visited the other day. I was non-commital and unenthusiastic, but in a way that was designed neither to encourage nor discourage the chap. I'm sure he means well. I just don't feel that political at this point in my life. Another paradox, since the election and some of the issues surrounding it are of some considerable interest to me, yet I feel no desire to take part, even if only to steal a pencil.
Weekend's are very nice I always think. I'm off to have one right now. Toodles.
Friday, 14 August 2009
140809
Glory be! The Weekend approaches. It's been one of my more procrastinatory weeks, which is probably understandable given the time off I've had in the last month or so. As I settle back into a routine of work I'm sure I'll become gradually more productive. I'll pretend for a moment that someone is interested in what I do for a living: basically I work in the public sector, and sit in an office. There's obviously a little more to it than that, but talking about it in detail depresses me because it reminds me that I have yet to sign for a Premiership football club or win an Academy Award. Frankly my third ambition of becoming the first man on Mars is looking more unlikely by the day. Where was I? Ah yes, I have quite a lot to do at work just now, but progress has been frustratingly slow, and largely it's my own fault. The perfect antitode is of course a Saturday, followed by a Sunday, known around these parts as a weekend.
And what of it? The weekend, that is. Well, there will be competitive sports x 2 (one knee-harming, one non knee-harming), pub, family, another pub, takeaway food, chinchillas (we have three!), and the opening weekend of the Premiership football season. An attractive package, no?
Despite a background horror at the realisation that summer fun has come and gone, I'm holding up. Thanks for the imaginary comments, by the way. I'm really enjoying thinking about reading what someone reading this blog might actually think of me.
And what of it? The weekend, that is. Well, there will be competitive sports x 2 (one knee-harming, one non knee-harming), pub, family, another pub, takeaway food, chinchillas (we have three!), and the opening weekend of the Premiership football season. An attractive package, no?
Despite a background horror at the realisation that summer fun has come and gone, I'm holding up. Thanks for the imaginary comments, by the way. I'm really enjoying thinking about reading what someone reading this blog might actually think of me.
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