libraries

I always feel completely at home in any public library - I suppose it's because I've spent so much time in them over the years. My parents didn't have much money, but they were took me to the children's library in Oxford as soon as I was old enough. I can't remember not being able to read, and have always been a pretty voracious reader, so the library was a treasure chest and I spent hours in there. My parents used to drop me off while they went shopping from a pretty early age - you could do that in those days - and I made the most of it. The holy grail was finding an Enid Blyton book on the shelves - she was so popular that her books were always out, but I discovered other children's authors, Ruby Ferguson was one, I remember - I loved her books, which were all about girls with ponies on Romney Marsh, and I adored school stories. It amuses me to read that children's books should be 'relevant' - why? Nothing could be further away from my life than the pre-war girl's boarding school, but I was addicted to them. I suppose stories about friendships, bullying etc. are universal wherever you are, and the Harry Potter phenomenon is testament to the fact that the boarding school still has a hold on the childish imagination. I suppose it's the fact it's a self-contained world where adults are entirely peripheral and their world is merely incidental, so it can provide a convincingly child-centred universe.
Oxford built a new, modern, much larger library and that's where I first took my children. I don't remember too much about it - the old library remains a much more vivid memory. As soon as we moved to Bristol in 1983 I discovered the Central Library on College Green, a magnificent building which retains the original Edwardian grandeur. It's surroundings have improved enormously in recent years - traffic is banned from outside and attractive fountains and flower beds are nearby, and it's recently been expensively refurbished and reorganised. I'm sorry that so much space is now given up to DVDs but I suppose libraries have to find ways in which to survive. I still love going there, mooching around the shelves, and I can see myself spending more and more time there as I get older.
Now, the reference library upstairs - it's magnificent! It has lovely big old desks and capacious, comfortable chairs. It's not what it was and has had to make room for the music library which was expelled from the ground floor and is now a shadow of its former self. But you can still spend hours in there reading ancient bound copies of magazines and newspapers and probably much else. There's always plenty of retired people doing family history research and much else I expect. The whole place a comfortable, well-used public service and I always feel as if I've come home whenever I go there. Public libraries are a repository of ecverything good about our society and I feel sure they wouild probably fail every one of the government-inspired financial 'public use' audits. It's hugely important that we keep them, use them, preserve them ,develop them - do whatever has to be done for them - they're a necessity, a public service in the most fundamental sense. Maybe not quite as important as water and sewerage, as demonstrated by the recent floods but still a vitally important part of public life.

reading aloud

I was wondering if people still read aloud to their children? I only ask because I've just bought a couple of Young James Bond DVDs for my nephew - it's his 12th birthday soon, and I don't think his parents have read to him much, yet he still loves to listen to stories in bed and has lots of audiobooks. He doesn't have a TV or computer in his bedroom and I know his parents have absolutely and firmly resolved to hold out as long as possible on this, a stance with which I totally agree. My sons had a TV in their bedroom when they were about 15-16 and my daughter never had one at all and there's something pitiful, I think, about children holed up in their bedrooms, away from adult life, with their TV's, DVD players and computers.
Anyway, back to reading aloud. I derived enormous pleasure from reading to my children, and discovered and rediscovered many, many books. They were incredibly lucky, as the 1970s were in many ways the golden age of children's literature. TV didn't compete in the way it does now, with multi-channel, 24-hour programmes on tap, there were no computer games or videos/DVDs. We read to them every night, either individually or to all of them at once, which meant that my youngest son got to hear Lord of the Rings at the impressionable, and possibly inappropriate age of about 7 and developed a deep and abiding love of the books, and, many years later, the films. I still have many of the books and am sad that bedtime stories now seems to be a dying practice. I've seen articles in the paper about reading to children but I imagine that parents who've been at work all day are simply too tired. I feel immensely privileged to have been a mother when most mothers of young children didn't need to work - nowadays it's a necessity in order to have even a half-decent income and pay the mortgage and bills.
My life would have been immeasurably the poorer for not having had that time every evening with them. And of course there were the books. I know the Frog and Toad books, Bread and Jam for Frances and Each Peach Pear Plum, off by heart, having read them in turn 4 times over. I feel sorry, not only for the children, but for today's parents today who haven't had such richness in their lives; still, I always promised myself that I wouldn't bang on about 'the good old days' when I became old and grey, and the 1970s had its disadvantages. It certainly wasn't all bad, though - great TV, great children's books, great films and some great music.

Harry Potter

I went to see the new Harry Potter film, which I think is called Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. I confees the whole phenomenon has passed me by - my children were all too old when the books came out, though some of them have seen the films. I took my nephew and niece to see the first film when it came out - they're younger, so are much more in tune with the whole thing. I can't remember whether I enjoyed it or not - I suspect it passed me by. This film, I believe the new film is the fourth, or is it the fifth? Anyway, I hadn't a clue what was going on, or who anyone was. A group of us went to a large cinema in Kilkenny, the only one there. I'd been there a few years before to see The Perfect Storm, and it hadn't changed much since then. It's a big auditorium with no stadium seating - fortunately there wasn't anyone sitting in front of me. The sound was poor - I'm used to Dolby Surround Sound, and the audience, which was sizeable, kept getting up and down to refuel, go to the loo etc. etc. I'd been warned that Irish audiences are talkative, but this one was OK; I wouldn't have minded too much anyway with a film like this, but I'm usually allergic to cinema chatterers and give them filthy looks, ask them politely but firmly to stop talking, or as a last resort, move if they won't shut up and there's room. Bristol audiences aren't too bad actually; I've heard London ones are awful. I've trained my children from a very early age to keep quiet at the cinema and they're all as intolerant as me. I really can't bear it - I suspect it comes from doing most of your film watching at home - you get used to being free to talk as much as you like. I read recently that older audiences are flocking to the cinema, fuelling the rising popularity of mainstream arthouse films such as Brokeback Mountain and The Lives of Others, so maybe audiences will have better manners in future. We'll see....
Anyway, back to Harry Potter. I really haven't got too much to say about it except that it seemed pretty long. I liked Imelda Staunton very much - she's always a treat, but I did get a bit confused towards the end. I suspect I may have lost concentration for a while as I really didn't know who was supposed to be who. I supppose it links back to the previous four films - anyway, now I'm home I've borrowed the DVDs of HP 2,3 and 4 from my daughter so I can catch up. More on HP to come, then....

holiday reading - The Historian

I've just come back from 2 weeks in Ireland on holiday, and, as usual when on holiday, I've spent most of my time reading. I always find that it's a time when I can catch up, finish books that have been hanging around started but not finished, read ones that have been sitting there waiting for too long, and maybe discover some unexpected treats. I did all three, so feel very satisfied. The first thing I did was finally finish The Historian by Elisabeth Kostova. I'd started this on the recommendation of my daughter and it felt as if I'd been reading it for ever. It's certainly long, if nothing else - a kind of an amalgam of The Name of the Rose and Possession though nothing like as good as either. I've heard it mentioned as being a kind of Da Vinci Code for grownups but can't comment as I've never read the Dan Brown pageturner and don't intend to.
I have to say that I found it, not dull, as I managed to finish it, but unsatisfying and stodgy. The characters never sprang to life or leapt off the page - they were plot devices and that's all. The plot was labrynthine and, I suspect, deliberately complicated. I just about kept it together, and was determined to finish it, but I found it ultimately a dull, wearisome read.

1982 - part 2

Watching Wimbledon this year has been a frustrating experience at times due to the relentless rain, but it's the final Saturday, the sun's shining and it looks like it'll all be done and dusted on time. Growing up with a sport-loving father, I remember it was always on - one of those events, along with Test match cricket, football, late-night boxing and the Grand National that are part of the fabric of my life.
There's been lots of talk about the previous 'worst Wimbledon ever', in 1982, so, once again, my thoughts have been drifting back to that year - the Falklands campaign and my father's death as the conflict ended. I was reminded that the rain during that month was indeed torrential and never-ending. As I was up to my neck in small children at that time my memories are very fragmented, just a series of vivid images. My father had an allotment; as it was summer everything was coming up so I needed go down there and pick everything. More often than not, I did it in pouring rain. It's one of those memories that becomes etched on your brain - grief, rain, vegetables and fruit, and Wimbledon, all jumbled up together, and so intense it seems like yesterday.

football - the early days

It may seem strange to be talking about football in July, but in many ways it's the best time to be thinking about it. New players are being signed up, new kits are wheeled out, and the disappointments of the previous season are beginning to fade. It's a time of year when hope triumphs over expectation - supporters can dream of next season before those dreams collapse, crumbling into dust.
Many football-lovers are seriously disillusioned and disaffected by Brisith football and it's not hard to see why. The dominance of the Premier League, preposterous wage levels, the impact of television etc. etc. have led to non-renewal of season tickets and non-attendance at games. My brother, who was a huge football fan from early childhood - he attended Manchester Utd's European Cup victory at Wembley in 1968, is one of these - he now watcheds rugby. Although I don't attend matches I can't say the same, I still get a thrill when the season starts, even though I only watch games on TV these days - I suppose football's in my blood, and my interest goes a long way back
It started, I suppose when my father took me as a toddler to the ground over the road from where we lived. The club, Oxford City, played in the Isthmian League against such sides as Corinthian Casuals and Wycombe Wanderers, and attracted a pretty good crowd in those days. It meant my mother had Saturday afternoons to herself so it became a habit. I would happily occupy myself toddling up and down the terraces while my father watched the match, so I guess I absorbed the atmoosphere through a kind of osmosis. My brother who was three years younger actually played there for the school team in a primary schools' cup final, which was a great day - he still has the team photo.
I passed the 11 plus, went to a new school 'up the hill' and quickly became drawn into the orbit of Oxford United, heresy in my father's eyes - he always referred to them as 'Headington United', even though they'd changed to 'Oxford Utd' in 1960. Anyway, Utd made it to the Fifth round of the FA Cup in 1964, and beat Blackburn Rovers, who were then a top Division One side, 3-1, in a memorable match at the Manor Ground. The ground was packed and it was an incredible game. Oxford then drew Preston North End at home in the Sixth round and lost, but didn't disgrace themselves; 22,000 packed into the tiny Manor Ground and again, it was an unforgettable occasion.
I continued to go to games for couple of years, but then got a Saturday job; my football watching days were over. My interest stayed with me, though. I'll write about it again as there's plenty more to come.

Collateral

I saw Collateral last night on DVD, recommended to me by my son. It's a good action movie for a Saturday night, but, being a Michael Mann film, it's more interesting than usual. Tom Cruise, as in Magnolia, proved again that, used properly, he can act, and he was truly menacing as Vincent, the contract killer picked up accidentally by Max, Jamie Foxx's taxi driver. I hardly recognised Foxx, who showed that he is one of the most interesting actors around in mainstream Hollywood. The real star of the film, though, was LA, an unfamiliar LA; the film takes place over the course of one night, with traffic constantly circling the freeways, and tower blocks, with mean, dark alleys in between, always in the background - all looked strange, unfamiliar. As with other Mann films it wasn't a straightforward action movie; the shootouts were punctuated by scenes in which nothing happens, just conversation. I can't do any better than Roger Ebert, the distinguished critic, who describes the film here as 'one long conversation between a killer and a man who fears for his life, punctuated with what happens at five stops, which are essentially five short films in themselves'. The two stop off for a break in a nightclub, and have a conversation with a trumpeter who tells them of the night he met Miles Davis. It's a conversation steeped in warmth, regret and loss - it has little impact on the film's narrative, but nevertheless deepens and strengthens it. There are several more scenes like this; all are 'excessive' to the narrative in film studies parlance, and they confirm Mann's status as a great director.
It ends on an empty subway train, and, as I've said before, I have a fondness for trains and stations - at night they have an extraordinary atmosphere. Ebert found the ending somewhat stereotyped - I rather liked it, it was melancholy and downbeat. The sky lightens as morning approaches and the film has come full circle - it began just as darkness was falling. The whole film has a lovely symmetry but is nevertheless left unresolved. Max and Annie, the lawyer he has rescued from Vincent walk off the train and along the platform, and that's it.
Mann chooses his projects very carefully, and his films are never less than interesting. Manhunter, The Insider, Heat and The Last of the Mohicans are all fine films, and he made Miami Vice a lot better than it might have been in other hands.