Just found this, its a bit of fun that I first slapped together a real long time ago, it got revived a bit a couple of years ago for a promo. This is the final version, which I think never actually got published. It was built with a really old version of flash that was outdated even when it first built and it was absolute pain to code. Since then flash has got a bit better, it seems and you can track code with some degree of sanity. Read the how to play before you give it go, it's got useful pointers that'll save you time and effort wondering why the ball doesn't move, lol. Don't bother with e-mail although you can put in a name if you like, the submit score button won't work either, or it shouldn't unless the perl script it activates is still on site and will process hits across domains. The game is pretty simple but it's totally skill based, there's no randomising, so if you don't score, it's your fault, although not scoring isn't a complete waste of time because you can sample the assorted insults at the end of the game that greet a nil score.
(update) Looks like the score board is still up, oops, never mind. knock yourself out and see if you can beat the high score.
(update) update) Oh dear, this page is playing up, the embed for the flash file disapeared, I wonder why? Anyway I've edited the page but it might be a problem that re-accures, knowing Google, so if there's nothing here I promise I'm not just pulling your chain.
((update) update) update) The weirdness with this flash file continues, don't know why but it only accepts input when it feels like it, first the name and e-mail boxes stopped accepting input, then subsequently mouse input failed. Too weird for me to work out what's going on, has to be something about this page or the browser or both. Anyway I'll leave it up for a day or so then if still doesn't co-operate it gonna get filed un B.
Wednesday, 26 June 2013
Tuesday, 11 June 2013
Quentin Derward
Has any writer ever been more unjustly maligned than Sir Walter Scott? Maybe Kipling comes a close second but he and Scott beat other candidates by a considerable margin. I suppose he's an easy target because without close inspection, the kind inspection that entails actually reading his stuff, you could easily make a few assumptions about his work. Assumptions of a kind that would dismiss his work as effete and shallow, you know, lacking the depth that we're all supposed to crave as thinkers. I have considerable reservations about the value such assumptions imply, projecting worth onto work simply because it's incomprehensible, it seems to me to be esoteric. Scott was also writing during a period when our culture was going through considerable change and even when he was writing, his work seems to me to be odds with 19th century neoclassicism. Scott's a romantic, he represents the kind of cultural background that could reconcile the dying wish of the fatally wounded Admiral Nelson for a kiss from a male subordinate without the necessity to imply any sexual context. We lose that ability pretty quickly after Scott, the imperatives that grew in the Victorian era see the division between the sexes harshly delineated and the growth of sexual repression.
Scott's genre of historical romantic adventure has been restricted to literature aimed at women, somehow it became unacceptable for the majority of men, subject to the burdens imposed throughout the Victorian era to allow romanticism into their lives, even for those privileged enough to avoid an eighteen hour day in the mill, an example of gender solidarity. So men are denied colour and variety of dress, the wigs and the make up are packed away. The women are covered from head to toe, to save their men from distraction, their ornate and occasionally colourful garments the last remaining window into the romantic world. For the most part, the Victorian legacy continues today, albeit manifested slightly differently, because we're living in a world where the same imperatives still apply, in fact they're probably even more urgent then they were in the Victorian era. There is the occasional rebellion of course, usually borne through youthful exuberance, the Preraphaelites and their associates, the brief period of post war hedonism in the 1920's for those wealthy enough to participate. Similar oases occur infrequently, perhaps the lukewarm reception that greeted the Star Wars prequels can be partially attributed to them being out of step with mood, their predecessor being granted the grace of youthful recollection. Another such example and probably one that had a strong, albeit vicarious, influence upon George Lucas's work is Quentin Derward, a 1955 adapt ion of Scott's work of the same name.
Robert Taylor, a veteran romantic lead, takes the eponymous role of our hero. The female lead, Isabelle, Countess of Marcroy played Kay Kendel, an actress used to lighter comedy roles, her career was showing promise but was cut short by illness, in circumstances that were tragic enough for the plot of one of Scott's novels. They're both brilliantly cast and represent fine examples of the pulchritude of their respective sexes. Kendell is not as nearly waif like as you'd expect, she's doesn't have the impish quality of Vivien Leigh, she's more robust, reflecting the strength of a mature woman. Taylor executes his role perfectly, his character, burdened by his code of honour yet vulnerable to his passions. Robert Morley as king Louis XI deserves attention but the other roles are bit too brief to do justice to the depth that Scott imbues his characters with, William De la Marck being reduced to a caricature but played with excellent menace by Duncan Lamont. The narrative is interspersed with quite elaborate action set pieces, probably the best being, the fight in the bell tower, which mingles tension with spectacle very effectively. There's also one particularly nice scene that is pivotal to relationship between the two leads. A beautifully photographed tableax, the countess runs into a field, fleeing those she thinks have betrayed her, no heavy strings to accompany the drama, just the wind blowing through the corn, it's a scene that really pulled my chain.
So If you're in the mood for some old fashioned action adventure, heavy on the romance, that will get the misses reaching for the tissues and the kids jumping around with play sword fights you might wanna check it out, it's a cut above the usual fair, you might be surprised.
Scott's genre of historical romantic adventure has been restricted to literature aimed at women, somehow it became unacceptable for the majority of men, subject to the burdens imposed throughout the Victorian era to allow romanticism into their lives, even for those privileged enough to avoid an eighteen hour day in the mill, an example of gender solidarity. So men are denied colour and variety of dress, the wigs and the make up are packed away. The women are covered from head to toe, to save their men from distraction, their ornate and occasionally colourful garments the last remaining window into the romantic world. For the most part, the Victorian legacy continues today, albeit manifested slightly differently, because we're living in a world where the same imperatives still apply, in fact they're probably even more urgent then they were in the Victorian era. There is the occasional rebellion of course, usually borne through youthful exuberance, the Preraphaelites and their associates, the brief period of post war hedonism in the 1920's for those wealthy enough to participate. Similar oases occur infrequently, perhaps the lukewarm reception that greeted the Star Wars prequels can be partially attributed to them being out of step with mood, their predecessor being granted the grace of youthful recollection. Another such example and probably one that had a strong, albeit vicarious, influence upon George Lucas's work is Quentin Derward, a 1955 adapt ion of Scott's work of the same name.
Robert Taylor, a veteran romantic lead, takes the eponymous role of our hero. The female lead, Isabelle, Countess of Marcroy played Kay Kendel, an actress used to lighter comedy roles, her career was showing promise but was cut short by illness, in circumstances that were tragic enough for the plot of one of Scott's novels. They're both brilliantly cast and represent fine examples of the pulchritude of their respective sexes. Kendell is not as nearly waif like as you'd expect, she's doesn't have the impish quality of Vivien Leigh, she's more robust, reflecting the strength of a mature woman. Taylor executes his role perfectly, his character, burdened by his code of honour yet vulnerable to his passions. Robert Morley as king Louis XI deserves attention but the other roles are bit too brief to do justice to the depth that Scott imbues his characters with, William De la Marck being reduced to a caricature but played with excellent menace by Duncan Lamont. The narrative is interspersed with quite elaborate action set pieces, probably the best being, the fight in the bell tower, which mingles tension with spectacle very effectively. There's also one particularly nice scene that is pivotal to relationship between the two leads. A beautifully photographed tableax, the countess runs into a field, fleeing those she thinks have betrayed her, no heavy strings to accompany the drama, just the wind blowing through the corn, it's a scene that really pulled my chain.
So If you're in the mood for some old fashioned action adventure, heavy on the romance, that will get the misses reaching for the tissues and the kids jumping around with play sword fights you might wanna check it out, it's a cut above the usual fair, you might be surprised.
Wednesday, 5 June 2013
Lessons
| About this: recently I was reminded about the demands placed upon illustrators, stuff like: Draw it this way and no he's too tall. I could go on the list would be endless, when someone's paying you for your effort there's a tendency for them to view you as proxy for their own vision, of course it doesn't work like that and when faced with overbearing demands I would occasionally hand the offender my pencil and say, 'Here you go!'. Well anyway I wrote this story quite a while ago and it got a certain amount of feedback, mostly hostile it has to be said although one rather conscientiousness fellow did offer some rather good criticism which I did mean to act on. Unfortunately I haven't got round to that yet. Anyway I though I'd give the un-amended version an airing here. There was some withering views from a jolly fellow, who I gather didn't appreciate the humour, at the time this was quite a surprise cos I hadn't intended any, which is probably not a good sign. Our protagonist's plight here does reflect actual events although you shouldn't interpret him as literally autobiographical. When I took up illustration for the short period I did, I'd given up drawing for a number of years, I only really did learn to draw properly, on the job, so to speak, when you're doing it professionally the incentive to learn is acute, so his rather incredulous initial inability to draw female figures, does actually reflect reality quite closely. |
Work, a reprographic studio just before they went electronic, had become a chore and I was suffering under the tyranny of my immediate superior, a woman named Cheryl. First names at work, don’t you just hate them? I view those days, when the mutual disdain shared by manager and underling was more honestly acknowledged, with a certain degree of regretfulness at their passing.
Cheryl’s hostility towards myself was never overt and always something of mystery to me. In fact, for a while, the surreptitious nature of her malice left me wondering if it was indeed deliberate and not just the fact that we didn’t get along. It wasn’t until the day she pulled out some of my artwork, to verify that it was square, that I caught on that our problems together had been at her contrivance. Indeed the artwork was out of square and she made sure that every one in the studio knew about the deficiency. She chastised me as loudly and vehemently as she could manage without shouting. After this indignity had passed and when she was out of the studio, I took the time to examine the parallel motion on my board. The sabotage was subtle, it had been wired up asymmetrically with an extra turn around one of the pulleys at the top of the board. From then on I was always extra careful to furnish her with as few opportunities as possible for her to justify her contempt. Of course this didn’t do anything to pacify our relationship, fuelled by frustration, her sniping became more frequent and her accusations more demonstrative.
Working in this atmosphere I contrive to stave off depression with frequent lapses into daydream. The usual fayre, crushed coral beaches, populated by bronzed maidens, the white sand clinging to the soles of their feet as they kneel attentively beneath shade of the palms. Today though, I’m in Peach-nut Grove, a pastoral haven blessed with orchards streams and idealised children, who spend their days fishing and playing hopscotch.
-*-
‘Why are there are no women in any of the panels?’ she inquired her malice concealed neatly.
It's an illustration, in the form of comic strip, I perform some duties as an illustrator as well as the tedium of reprographic artwork. The reason there's no women in the comic's panel is that I'm not good at drawing them. Excepting a few prosaic life classes my limited skills have been honed on the imitation of comic strip super heroes. My efforts at portraying feminine pulchritude make the Libyan Sibyl appear as svelte as Michelle Pfeiffer in comparison.
‘No reason,’ I trip my answer out, my mind invoking an image of an innocent child skipping through a lush field of green punctuated by the occasional vibrance of daisy. Unfortunately someone’s been busy building,and there now seem to be a railway line bifurcating my summery idyll. It's not long before a thunderous smoke belching diesel appears.
‘Don't you think...’ oh dear I think that innocent child's in trouble ‘...it's a bit...’ yep things are defiantly looking dodgy in Peach-nut Grove ‘...Sexist?’
Of course It’s rhetorical, I’m supposed to nod like one of the ugly steel riveted nodding donkeys that’ll soon accompany those diesels with an incessant thumping. ‘No, it's not sexist,’ I assert, reinterpreting her question, to an inquiry of fact instead of opinion, despite the fact I completely lack any innate comprehension of the concept of sexism.
Her eyes narrow, ‘I think it is sexist’.
‘Nah you're mistaken, why would I draw anything sexist?’
Now it's her turn to state fact, ‘It is sexist, you're going to change it, add some women in the group in the bottom panel.’
‘There's no time, the bike is here in half an hour and Clair's already signed off these drawings.’ I say knowing my protest will be as fruitless as the sickly trees poisoned by the incessant trains running through Peach-nut Grove.
‘There's plenty of time, we'll hold the bike until you finish.’
Undermined by my own productivity with pen and ink and mindful of Cheryl’s devious malice I return to my drawing board. As I take my seat Carlos, my neighbour in the studio, offers some mocking wisdom. ‘Yeah, can't have you being sexist Mick, I think should point out that all the figures are white too.’
‘What, oh no please Carlos...’
‘Just kidding’.
‘Thank god for that, I haven’t a clue how to do black skin with ink, they'd end up looking like golliwogs.’
‘Careful,’ says Carlos.
‘Oh god yeah, I mean, looking like that racist artefact, children used to play with that was fashioned to resemble a Minstrel.’
Carlos chuckles and returns to his work, I sit and look at a blank page in a Frisk pad for a few minutes before I gather the will to hone my pencil to a point. More precious minutes pass while I try to forge my Venus of Willendorf into a recognisable female figure. It's a cruel fact that nature robs the feminine form of much of the elegance of youth soon after puberty. There's a reason why people will pay to witness the athletic grace displayed at professional football. While the ungainly gait and flaying arms of the women's game, requires the devoted eye of a parent or spouse to be truly appreciated.
As I cast around to discover the genius of the female form, I recall my experience in the life drawing class. Our models were women in their thirties or late twenties, deliberately posed to resemble a sack of swede in order to suppress any sexuality or eroticism in our drawings. I smile briefly as I imagine the scandal and embarrassment caused if one of us had produced something akin to a Klimt drawing at one of those life classes. I had always done rather well at those classes though, mainly because I didn't bother with the ungainly bits. While others included the elephantine hips together with every crease and buckle formed in the sack by those bulging swedes. I kept my drawings focused, omitting anything I didn't care for. Women have these rather elegantly curved clavicles so I'd concern myself the neck, face and bust area. This would, of course, incur accusations of a breast fixation, during those tedious post class crit sessions. The unfortunate practical upshot of this though, was that it left me unpractised at rendering the wider female form.
So I find my self drawing this clavicle as a starting point and the familiar curve inspires an idea, why don't I use that curve for the rest of the figure? After all that's what distinguishes the female form from the male, its er, interesting curves. I start marking out the curves of the figure with my clutch pencil, hesitantly at first but pretty soon I've finished my first figure and when take a look I find I'm rather pleased with her. Her head with its neatly flowing hair, askance atop a serpentine spine and her purposeful arms terminated with delicately poised fingers, I quickly integrate her into the composition and decide to try it again. The second figure is better, the next better still, hey, I'm getting good at this. By the time I've finished the women are in danger of outnumbering the men. I use a brush to ink the figures because the artwork is on drafting film and pen work takes too long to dry. ‘There finished with time to spare,’ I say as I set the artwork to dry under my Anglepoise.
‘Lets have a look’ Debbie one of the girls in the studio is curious, Carlos too and they saunter over to inspect the masterpiece. ‘Why was this changed?’ Debbie Asks. Debbie’s fair, with waist length hair about 5'2" and a be-freckled complexion, I suspect she’d be very attractive if she wasn’t so bloody fat. Don’t get my wrong while I appreciate svelte figures and flat bellies, I’m rather partial to women with somewhat rounder curves, just not that round. With her figure being as it is though, Debbie finds herself having to try harder than most to lure men into the sack.
Just how much harder I was to find out some time later when she employed a bottle of gin to in effort lure me into such a position. I was saved from disgrace only by the fact that she had to encourage me to consume such copious amounts of alcohol before my natural reluctance was overcome, that I promptly passed out.
‘Oh Cheryl said, the original was sexist,’ I inform her.
‘ I don't think this what she had in mind when she said that.’ warned Debbie.
‘This is the non-sexist version?’ Carlos chimes in.
By now a certain trepidation is starting to arise in my mind ‘Yeah...’ I say, looking for reassurance, ‘...It's the new non-sexist version, that is totally non-sexist!’ I exclaimed with poorly feigned assurance.
‘What...’ Debbie tilts her head slightly as she examines the drawing, ‘...what are they wearing?’
‘Look I didn’t have time to think up a wardrobe, I just covered up the curvy bits with a few lines.’
‘The bikes here!’
Cheryl moves to join us. She arrives at my desk and I hand her the artwork. ‘Here it is, I finished a few minutes ago. I think you were right about the first one, this version is much better’.Cheryl lifts her eyes from the artwork and stares at me, Given the right pretext Cheryl could instantly conjure up the mood to take a flame thrower to every child who ever ventured onto the meadow at the long since idyllic Peach-nut Grove. Instead though, I witness a curious self satisfied smile appear, it's then I realise this was a obstacle I was never meant to hurdle.
‘This is no good, give me the original.’ Cheryl barks.
‘That's is the original.’ I reply.
‘No the first version, the one that Clair's signed off.’ she presses.
Cheryl’s attention is momentarily diverted as one of the admins calls out to her, ‘Clair’s on the line for you Cheryl.’
‘Ask her to hold, I’ll just be a minute.’
‘It’s gone,’ I say as she turns her attention back to me.
Now she is getting angry, ‘What do you mean? give me the drawing I saw this morning.’
‘Sorry to interrupt Cheryl,’ the admin interjects timidly ‘it’s just that Clair says she needs the artwork for the back page. If they don’t get it soon they’ll have to put back the print run.’ this plea arouses the attention of the studio manager, David, who walked over to join us.
‘Don’t you remember?’ I say, ‘you used the last of the drafting film yesterday to register those separations for the 35mm slides.’ She’d done so in the face of my protest that they could’ve just as easily used acetate but as soon as I revealed my interest in preserving the stock of drafting film her determination to deplete it unnecessarily grew implacable. ‘But it’s okay, I used this,’ I reached over to my desk where I pick up a T20 eraser. I hold it up between my thumb and forefinger to best display the label clearly, Rotring T20 Ink Eraser.
‘What’s the delay?’ David asks, ‘I thought this artwork had been finished this morning.’
‘But...’ she stared at the artwork as the penny clattered to the floor, ‘...but, it’s ink’. Wonderful stuff drafting film, it's has its disadvantages, the ink takes an age to dry on its impermeable surface but one of the benefits is that you can neatly erase even Indian ink from that surface neatly, with the right kind of firm rubber.
What’s that? I think I hear birdsong in Peach-nut Grove.
Catcher -- Liar
You remember those books from your school English exam? My exam board had some quirky books on their lists, you know the kind of thing they include to modernise the curriculum. One 'em was Billy Liar, Keith Waterhouse's, day in the life work. It's not a bad book actually, from what I recall, I re-read it several years later it's a kinda interesting work because it exemplifies post war English culture albeit through a regional aspect. It's got some mild satirical references to the funeral trade, which went a bit over my head, I think probably because the references are too specific and were a bit dated. My conception of the work didn't really gel in my mind until I read J. D. Salinger's Catcher in the Rye, after I'd done so it struck me that Waterhouse was satirising Salinger. Salinger's oft lauded work has a substantial fan base, mainly amongst angst fuelled post teens from across the water. It's unusual, or was, to find British fans of the work though, mainly because Salinger is an apologist for self obsession, wearisome self obsession, the kind of self obsession that spawns things like Oprah.
In Britain, introspection is sitting alone in a corner of the room, occasionally gazing through a window. In America introspection is finding the best corner of the room from which other people can notice you introspectively contemplating the vista through the window. That is, or was rather, the essential difference between Britain and America, from my slightly jaundiced perspective anyway, I make no claims for impartiality. That anology essentially empitomises the differences between the books too, Catcher reads like a tale, carefuly crafted to cast the protagonist in a sympathetic light. Liar reads like a similar episode but as it actually happened, the demonstrative antics exposed as insincere, symbolic and impotent. I once asked someone who recommended Catcher to me, to read Liar and tell me what they though of Billy. They complied with the request but were somewhat confused, they felt no sympathy for Billy, instead they considered him to be a duplicitous, pathetic loser. That's probably a fair assement and I'm sure Waterhouse would've approved, 'sfunny even though I probably feel the same about Billy I'm more inclined to feel sympathetic towards him than Holden.
Anyway, it's been ages since I read either of these, so it'll be interesting to re-read them again just to see if my recollection of the works hold up.
In Britain, introspection is sitting alone in a corner of the room, occasionally gazing through a window. In America introspection is finding the best corner of the room from which other people can notice you introspectively contemplating the vista through the window. That is, or was rather, the essential difference between Britain and America, from my slightly jaundiced perspective anyway, I make no claims for impartiality. That anology essentially empitomises the differences between the books too, Catcher reads like a tale, carefuly crafted to cast the protagonist in a sympathetic light. Liar reads like a similar episode but as it actually happened, the demonstrative antics exposed as insincere, symbolic and impotent. I once asked someone who recommended Catcher to me, to read Liar and tell me what they though of Billy. They complied with the request but were somewhat confused, they felt no sympathy for Billy, instead they considered him to be a duplicitous, pathetic loser. That's probably a fair assement and I'm sure Waterhouse would've approved, 'sfunny even though I probably feel the same about Billy I'm more inclined to feel sympathetic towards him than Holden.
Anyway, it's been ages since I read either of these, so it'll be interesting to re-read them again just to see if my recollection of the works hold up.
Friday, 24 May 2013
1478
| Norman Drainwangle sits alone in a corridor, he's a man like very much like you or I, except Norman has broken the law and awaits his sentence in a court of justice. A court with judges, barristers and lawers going about their business, an every day drama acted out in a thousand such institutions all over the world. But this is no ordinary world, this is world where nightmare tiptoes into the daylight and says, 'Boo' a world where reality and fantasy mingle like the fruit topping on the ice cream you bought your girlfriend at Mr. Whippy's. Tell her to eat it now before it starts to drip on her blouse because now you're about to take a peek through my -- DeadSpiderEye. |
It had to happen eventually I suppose, they caught me out, god I thought I was safe over breakfast just goes to show how much effort they put into catching you.
I've not had a licence for some time now, probably about six years, I don't miss it, X-Factor, Coronation Street, the endless trivia and white noise. The only thing I still do occasionally miss is the racing, football, Jeremy Clarkson's banter and his colourful prose. Of course it's not a licence any more, it's officially been a tax for a number of years, they still call it a licence in public though. I suppose they're shying away from the word even though they're eager to embrace the benefits of the licence's status as a tax, evading the licence is now a criminal offence. I admit I don't abstain completely from activities that require the licence, I'm usually careful to avoid situations that would cause me liability though. Avoiding the licence legally is becoming increasingly difficult, if you've got a computer or mobile phone they're after you, there's even talk of you having to prove you use these devices exclusively for purposes other than that covered by the licence fee. I suppose if they just taxed you being alive or having a head on your shoulders that be too reminiscent of Mrs. T's Pole Tax.
They send you threatening mail regularly if you don't have a licence, not the corporation itself mind you, their proxy in the licence fee collection business. They need to have suitable distance between the corporation and the issuing of threats to innocent member of the public, you see how that works? Quite why the licence fee and the attendant coercion is tolerated in what's supposed to be a liberal democracy is a mystery to me. Perhaps it's just a lack of perspective, it's always been there, there's a blind a spot within public perception, a bit like people disappearing when they reach thirty in Logan's Run, if it's all you've ever known it would seem normal.
'Norman Drainwangle!'
Oh that's me, here goes...
Twenty seven minutes later
...oh well that's not so bad, £700 fine, not the maximum, I think that's about £2000. The judge warned that If I'm caught again, it's a custodial sentence I can't risk that especially considering what I was caught doing last time, Dam it, if only I hadn't read the back of that cornflake packet as I sat down for breakfast -- and aloud too, what was I thinking? I suppose I'd better get my Reading Licence now, don't want the BPC, the bloody British Publishing Corporation jumping on me for reading the mail when I get home.
| And so Norman Drainwangle leaves the court chastened, branded a criminal for reading without a licence. An activity that you and I would take for granted in our world, criminalised with offenders and the innocent alike hounded by a ruthless bureaucracy. Take comfort with the knowledge that this could never happen here -- or could it? That's a question to ponder till the next time you dare to peek beyond the veil, through my -- DeadSpiderEye!!!! Doo doodoodoo..... |
Wednesday, 22 May 2013
Man in a suitcase -- The girl who never Was
I think Man in a Suitcase is one of those television shows that resonates quite strongly with those from my generation but is almost unknown to anyone else. It was one of those detective dramas from the sixties by ITC, produced with an eye towards the American market. From what I've learned it was the direct successor to Dangerman (Secret Agent), utilising the production crew after McGoohan left to pursue The Prisoner project. The style of the show went even further down the hard boiled route than Dangerman, our hero, McGill, played brilliantly by the uncompromising method actor Richard Bradford, was laconic and moody, morose even. A disgraced former US intelligent agent, McGill was man cast adrift from his former life, living from job to job, a man who rarely slept under the same roof for more than a week, a man in a suitcase. His exploits often placed him in peril and presented moral dilemmas more complex than is usual for a typical hero. He was as likely to find himself in conflict with an unscrupulous client as was to be exchanging blows with heavies in a darkened alley. There's a good chance, I think, that the show took its cues from popular American fiction, there's a definite Mike Hammer feel to McGill but just as the unjustly maligned Spillane's character never found a popular audience in US television, Man in a Suitcase also fell on unwelcome shores and was cancelled after the first season.
Whether the show's failure to find an audience in the US was a result of audience reaction or the manoeuvrings of TV execs is uncertain, what is clear is that television in the US was moving into less dangerous territory. Successful shows like The Man from Uncle were being softened up, partly through the influence of mid-sixties camp, partly through concerns over the depiction of violence. McGill's world of casual violence and moral ambiguity might be too grim for a nation seeking respite from the reality of the Vietnam war, who knows?
The single episode that really stick is my mind is, The Girl Who Never Was, this episode features Bernard Lee in a fantastic role. He plays a retired army man, Kershaw, I'm not sure what rank but his character's affectations suggest a Warrent Officer. Kershaw's character is brilliantly and succinctly conveyed in the script by Lee's performance. He's a man with his best years behind him, who misses the status and respect his rank afforded him. He's one of two antagonists in the story, the other, Gilchrist is an art dealer played by Annette Carell, while not exactly unscrupulous, Gilchrist is callous and devious and betrays both Kershaw and McGill in like manner.
The plot revolves around a painting looted from Italy during the war by a mentally disturbed British soldier and the efforts to recover it. McGill's character moves through the narrative like the wind or the tide, a force of nature, not a typical protagonist motivating the narrative, he just does his job. What makes his character sympathetic is his ethical code and his personal integrity. He doesn't meter out justice or arbitrate between good an evil, he's just trying to make an honest living while making as small a wake as possible through a sea of troubled humanity. As you might guess the resolution of the plot is not straight forward but the final scene is one of my favourites of any tv drama.
Whether the show's failure to find an audience in the US was a result of audience reaction or the manoeuvrings of TV execs is uncertain, what is clear is that television in the US was moving into less dangerous territory. Successful shows like The Man from Uncle were being softened up, partly through the influence of mid-sixties camp, partly through concerns over the depiction of violence. McGill's world of casual violence and moral ambiguity might be too grim for a nation seeking respite from the reality of the Vietnam war, who knows?
--
The single episode that really stick is my mind is, The Girl Who Never Was, this episode features Bernard Lee in a fantastic role. He plays a retired army man, Kershaw, I'm not sure what rank but his character's affectations suggest a Warrent Officer. Kershaw's character is brilliantly and succinctly conveyed in the script by Lee's performance. He's a man with his best years behind him, who misses the status and respect his rank afforded him. He's one of two antagonists in the story, the other, Gilchrist is an art dealer played by Annette Carell, while not exactly unscrupulous, Gilchrist is callous and devious and betrays both Kershaw and McGill in like manner.
The plot revolves around a painting looted from Italy during the war by a mentally disturbed British soldier and the efforts to recover it. McGill's character moves through the narrative like the wind or the tide, a force of nature, not a typical protagonist motivating the narrative, he just does his job. What makes his character sympathetic is his ethical code and his personal integrity. He doesn't meter out justice or arbitrate between good an evil, he's just trying to make an honest living while making as small a wake as possible through a sea of troubled humanity. As you might guess the resolution of the plot is not straight forward but the final scene is one of my favourites of any tv drama.
Sunday, 19 May 2013
Sheridan's Toadstool
About this: Some of the themes here are a bit touchy, it's not graphic
or anything, there's no violence or real unpleasantness but it might not
be suitable for light reading.
Better, worse, who knows? It's all just for fun anyway, have a gander at the first version here if you're interested.
I never lost the accent, the one I acquired in early childhood in Middlesex, well not completely anyway, the memories linger longer than they ought -- too. One of these recollections concerns an incident that occurred close to the time I left the area. Sheridan's Garage was the kind of establishment that's been extinct for some time now, a town garage nestled between retail premises. Entrance from the street was through a pair of large blue painted doors, arranged in what's known as a wicket gate, the door on the right as you faced them from the street, had a smaller door inset into it for the convenience of pedestrians and the proprietor. Even then, Mr. Sheridan's business was less than thriving, there would be the occasional cyclist with a punctured tyre the odd jalopy, the kind of car that inhabited the roads back when you could travel in the country for hour at night without dipping your lights.
The seemingly permanently closed doors of Sheridan's is one of my most prominent recollections from the period, those first few years in Talbot Road. We're just around the corner from where Christie lived, the serial killer who's earlier crimes had been attributed to an unfortunate who paid with his life for the incompetence and bigotry of others. In fact one of Christie's later victims had worked in our grocers shop for a while, her disappearance had caused the finger of suspicion to levelled at my father. Wagging tongues had taken their toll on his relations with my mother. I imagine that's one of the reasons he developed a strong streak of Anglophobia in his later years. He was a short man, a Lithuanian emigre who arrived in England during the war, whether he was in flight from German or Russian occupation I never knew. He spoke English badly, it wasn't that he had trouble with the language, he was an intelligent man who'd aspired to be an engineer in his youth but he was always trying to mask his accent.
A little further down the road from the Sheridan's, on the opposite side of the street is a basement flat, the home of another one of my father's occasional shop staff. The reason why this particular lady's noteworthy is somewhat less tragic. Her daughter, a little older than me, has become the focus of my very first romantic interest although that's no particular reason for notoriety. What is interesting, though only mildly so to anyone except myself. is what became of her. She became a model and with good reason, she grew up into an extremely attractive young woman, not that I ever clapped eyes on her again, aside from her appearance in things like the Pirelli calender. I would have been blissfully ignorant of such if wasn't for the intervention of my darling sister, who took great delight in pointing the fact out to me in my tender youth.
Father wasn't well suited to retail, didn't have the patience or absence of thought to cope with the tedium, mother was much better at it and the business soon folded after she left him. She'd often recall tales to me in later years, how she'd mollify customers, pass a bar of chocolate to their kids as they paid for their groceries with a, 'Say thank you to the nice lady' never noticing that the price of the gift had been added to their bill. She'd tell of my father's incompetence with money, on one occasion, she even recalled how they first met, she'd answered the door to him as he was calling on a lady of a certain profession, who lodged in the same house. Not something anyone really needs to know about their family history that -- but she's forgiven, her mind lost a lot of sharpness as she aged. I never asked why she should be lodging in the same building either.
I don't recall the words exactly, not all of them but they were loud, my father ended his diatribe with, 'Get out -- go and stay with that Jew Sheridan next door'. Not quite sure what logic lied behind that particular exclamation, Sheridan was an old man, but the anti-Semitism expressed was genuine and my mother complied with his wishes promptly. It wasn't long before I found myself passing through Sheridan's blue threshold, my mother's hand tightly grasping mine. Inside we were greeted with tea and platitudes. Sheridan it seemed was a man of meagre means, his living space was cramped and cluttered. Mother's lips pursed at the unaccustomed taste of sterilised milk as she drank her tea. I'm not sure what I drank, probably orange juice if he had any, maybe it was just water. I was too interested in the terra incognita that was Sheridan's home, strangely he had a large pile of comics, you know the kind we used to have so many of then, The Valiant, Lion, Victor, The Beano and The Dandy too, My reading skill were basic but the four colour process of the covers was too alluring. I wonder what suspicions a man like Sheridan hoarding such reading materials would arouse today. Whether such suspicions were not such a concern then or if was because of some other imperative I'm not sure but Mother soon left and I found myself alone in the company of Mr. Sheridan. Don't worry, Sheridan's not a nonce so this is no tale of childhood trauma.
Mother left quite discreetly while I was busy with the pile of comics. I was a child used to the absence of parental supervision, being left in the care of my sister on many occasions. A sister who happened to be latterly diagnosed as psychotic though, she disappeared at the first opportunity, probably to entertain the local west indian youths who were populating the area in increasing numbers. Even so if it hadn't of been for the distraction of the comics I would probably have complained, as this day had been marked by more stress than was usual.
Sheridan Himself had left the room, happy it seems to leave me with his comics. I became quite engrossed, the illustrated war stories, populated with have-a-go stereotypes and Germans hiding under dark helmets was successfully holding my attention. After a while, something a little different caught my eye, it was a book, not a comic and I noticed it because of its colourful spine, as it sat amongst Sheridan's modest library of books on a shelf. Emboldened by the spirit of discovery I didn't hesitate to prise it from its resting place. The cover struck me as strange, the comics seemed prosaic by comparison, it was something quite surreal. There was something immediately unsettling about it, with its lurid green and yellow lettering executed in a stylized script. The illustration depicted some objects that I couldn't quite make out but I could see they had faces on them. The only thing I'd encountered like them before was the Homepride men or the Tate and Lyle Mr. Cube. Despite my sense of unease I promptly opened the book and was greeted by a curious musty odour, the illustrations inside though, where quite pleasant to view. They depicted various scenes, usually with some adults accompanied by one or two children. The text accompanying the pictures was very strange, it was quite dense and set in what seemed to me to be a rather baroque typeface.
Just then, Sheridan entered in the room, he was quite disturbed when he saw me reading or rather examining the book and he spoke to me sharply enough to get my chin wobbling. Something that took me by surprise, since he'd been rather sanguine about my interest in his comics. None the less I complied immediately with his request to 'Put that book down' and retreated, my interest in his collection of printed work curtailed. That's probably when I noticed my mother had left and I started to feel a little vulnerable, to his credit Sheridan picked up on my mood rather quickly and apologised for his outburst. That's probably the first time any adult had ever done that, said sorry to me, there's precious few occasions that adults ever express any feeling of genuine regret, to anyone let alone a child. We only say, sorry because we're coerced or we feel we have something to lose, lets face it, do most adults even have any genuine regrets when they injure or cause distress to others?
I responded rather well to Mr. Sheridan's contrition, well enough to give my curiosity free rein and ask him few questions: 'What's that picture on the front?'
The answer, 'A grotesque caricature' wasn't a great deal of help to a person with my vocabulary.
'What's this word say?' I asked pointing at the script on the cover.
'Toadstool'.
I was still the none the wiser and I could see the patience borne through his contrition was wearing thin, so I opted to forgo the request for a definition and ask the pertinent question, 'Mr. Sheridan -- why shouldn't I read that book?'
He answered me directly 'That book's evil, I would burn it, a child should be reading it?' his words seemed contradictory to my ears, he continued, 'It's propaganda.'
'What's propaganda?' I asked, I pronounced the word as if I was querying about a male goose.
'It's a weapon, a weapon used to do bad things, used by bad people to turn others like them, make them the same as them.'
The concept of a weapon was something I could understand even in my immaturity. The comics I had just examined had been full of heroes and villains employing diverse examples of such: rifles, machine guns, knifes but the idea that a weapon could turn your foe into an ally seemed potent indeed to my young mind. I wasn't exactly sure how such a device could reside between the pages of a book, so I set my mind to discovering its secrets and chanced one last question, 'How can I get a propaganda?'
'Those comics you're reading, they have heroes in them -- those heroes have guns I suppose, what they do with them?'
'They kill the baddies.' I said triumphantly.
Then he looked at me in the eye, 'That's what weapons are good for boy, death'.
Of course a child has a limited concept of death, it's something that happens to people, you know that much. In the comics the heroes had won out and survived, as the they always do in a fantasy. Sheridan's lesson hadn't fallen on fertile soil, 'Kill the baddies, kill the baddies' I exclaimed joyously, I'm sure he must have winced at my hubris but I'm speculating, just then mother returned. She probably been gone less than an hour, she thanked Sheridan and we left.
Better, worse, who knows? It's all just for fun anyway, have a gander at the first version here if you're interested.
I never lost the accent, the one I acquired in early childhood in Middlesex, well not completely anyway, the memories linger longer than they ought -- too. One of these recollections concerns an incident that occurred close to the time I left the area. Sheridan's Garage was the kind of establishment that's been extinct for some time now, a town garage nestled between retail premises. Entrance from the street was through a pair of large blue painted doors, arranged in what's known as a wicket gate, the door on the right as you faced them from the street, had a smaller door inset into it for the convenience of pedestrians and the proprietor. Even then, Mr. Sheridan's business was less than thriving, there would be the occasional cyclist with a punctured tyre the odd jalopy, the kind of car that inhabited the roads back when you could travel in the country for hour at night without dipping your lights.
The seemingly permanently closed doors of Sheridan's is one of my most prominent recollections from the period, those first few years in Talbot Road. We're just around the corner from where Christie lived, the serial killer who's earlier crimes had been attributed to an unfortunate who paid with his life for the incompetence and bigotry of others. In fact one of Christie's later victims had worked in our grocers shop for a while, her disappearance had caused the finger of suspicion to levelled at my father. Wagging tongues had taken their toll on his relations with my mother. I imagine that's one of the reasons he developed a strong streak of Anglophobia in his later years. He was a short man, a Lithuanian emigre who arrived in England during the war, whether he was in flight from German or Russian occupation I never knew. He spoke English badly, it wasn't that he had trouble with the language, he was an intelligent man who'd aspired to be an engineer in his youth but he was always trying to mask his accent.
A little further down the road from the Sheridan's, on the opposite side of the street is a basement flat, the home of another one of my father's occasional shop staff. The reason why this particular lady's noteworthy is somewhat less tragic. Her daughter, a little older than me, has become the focus of my very first romantic interest although that's no particular reason for notoriety. What is interesting, though only mildly so to anyone except myself. is what became of her. She became a model and with good reason, she grew up into an extremely attractive young woman, not that I ever clapped eyes on her again, aside from her appearance in things like the Pirelli calender. I would have been blissfully ignorant of such if wasn't for the intervention of my darling sister, who took great delight in pointing the fact out to me in my tender youth.
Father wasn't well suited to retail, didn't have the patience or absence of thought to cope with the tedium, mother was much better at it and the business soon folded after she left him. She'd often recall tales to me in later years, how she'd mollify customers, pass a bar of chocolate to their kids as they paid for their groceries with a, 'Say thank you to the nice lady' never noticing that the price of the gift had been added to their bill. She'd tell of my father's incompetence with money, on one occasion, she even recalled how they first met, she'd answered the door to him as he was calling on a lady of a certain profession, who lodged in the same house. Not something anyone really needs to know about their family history that -- but she's forgiven, her mind lost a lot of sharpness as she aged. I never asked why she should be lodging in the same building either.
I don't recall the words exactly, not all of them but they were loud, my father ended his diatribe with, 'Get out -- go and stay with that Jew Sheridan next door'. Not quite sure what logic lied behind that particular exclamation, Sheridan was an old man, but the anti-Semitism expressed was genuine and my mother complied with his wishes promptly. It wasn't long before I found myself passing through Sheridan's blue threshold, my mother's hand tightly grasping mine. Inside we were greeted with tea and platitudes. Sheridan it seemed was a man of meagre means, his living space was cramped and cluttered. Mother's lips pursed at the unaccustomed taste of sterilised milk as she drank her tea. I'm not sure what I drank, probably orange juice if he had any, maybe it was just water. I was too interested in the terra incognita that was Sheridan's home, strangely he had a large pile of comics, you know the kind we used to have so many of then, The Valiant, Lion, Victor, The Beano and The Dandy too, My reading skill were basic but the four colour process of the covers was too alluring. I wonder what suspicions a man like Sheridan hoarding such reading materials would arouse today. Whether such suspicions were not such a concern then or if was because of some other imperative I'm not sure but Mother soon left and I found myself alone in the company of Mr. Sheridan. Don't worry, Sheridan's not a nonce so this is no tale of childhood trauma.
Mother left quite discreetly while I was busy with the pile of comics. I was a child used to the absence of parental supervision, being left in the care of my sister on many occasions. A sister who happened to be latterly diagnosed as psychotic though, she disappeared at the first opportunity, probably to entertain the local west indian youths who were populating the area in increasing numbers. Even so if it hadn't of been for the distraction of the comics I would probably have complained, as this day had been marked by more stress than was usual.
Sheridan Himself had left the room, happy it seems to leave me with his comics. I became quite engrossed, the illustrated war stories, populated with have-a-go stereotypes and Germans hiding under dark helmets was successfully holding my attention. After a while, something a little different caught my eye, it was a book, not a comic and I noticed it because of its colourful spine, as it sat amongst Sheridan's modest library of books on a shelf. Emboldened by the spirit of discovery I didn't hesitate to prise it from its resting place. The cover struck me as strange, the comics seemed prosaic by comparison, it was something quite surreal. There was something immediately unsettling about it, with its lurid green and yellow lettering executed in a stylized script. The illustration depicted some objects that I couldn't quite make out but I could see they had faces on them. The only thing I'd encountered like them before was the Homepride men or the Tate and Lyle Mr. Cube. Despite my sense of unease I promptly opened the book and was greeted by a curious musty odour, the illustrations inside though, where quite pleasant to view. They depicted various scenes, usually with some adults accompanied by one or two children. The text accompanying the pictures was very strange, it was quite dense and set in what seemed to me to be a rather baroque typeface.
Just then, Sheridan entered in the room, he was quite disturbed when he saw me reading or rather examining the book and he spoke to me sharply enough to get my chin wobbling. Something that took me by surprise, since he'd been rather sanguine about my interest in his comics. None the less I complied immediately with his request to 'Put that book down' and retreated, my interest in his collection of printed work curtailed. That's probably when I noticed my mother had left and I started to feel a little vulnerable, to his credit Sheridan picked up on my mood rather quickly and apologised for his outburst. That's probably the first time any adult had ever done that, said sorry to me, there's precious few occasions that adults ever express any feeling of genuine regret, to anyone let alone a child. We only say, sorry because we're coerced or we feel we have something to lose, lets face it, do most adults even have any genuine regrets when they injure or cause distress to others?
I responded rather well to Mr. Sheridan's contrition, well enough to give my curiosity free rein and ask him few questions: 'What's that picture on the front?'
The answer, 'A grotesque caricature' wasn't a great deal of help to a person with my vocabulary.
'What's this word say?' I asked pointing at the script on the cover.
'Toadstool'.
I was still the none the wiser and I could see the patience borne through his contrition was wearing thin, so I opted to forgo the request for a definition and ask the pertinent question, 'Mr. Sheridan -- why shouldn't I read that book?'
He answered me directly 'That book's evil, I would burn it, a child should be reading it?' his words seemed contradictory to my ears, he continued, 'It's propaganda.'
'What's propaganda?' I asked, I pronounced the word as if I was querying about a male goose.
'It's a weapon, a weapon used to do bad things, used by bad people to turn others like them, make them the same as them.'
The concept of a weapon was something I could understand even in my immaturity. The comics I had just examined had been full of heroes and villains employing diverse examples of such: rifles, machine guns, knifes but the idea that a weapon could turn your foe into an ally seemed potent indeed to my young mind. I wasn't exactly sure how such a device could reside between the pages of a book, so I set my mind to discovering its secrets and chanced one last question, 'How can I get a propaganda?'
'Those comics you're reading, they have heroes in them -- those heroes have guns I suppose, what they do with them?'
'They kill the baddies.' I said triumphantly.
Then he looked at me in the eye, 'That's what weapons are good for boy, death'.
Of course a child has a limited concept of death, it's something that happens to people, you know that much. In the comics the heroes had won out and survived, as the they always do in a fantasy. Sheridan's lesson hadn't fallen on fertile soil, 'Kill the baddies, kill the baddies' I exclaimed joyously, I'm sure he must have winced at my hubris but I'm speculating, just then mother returned. She probably been gone less than an hour, she thanked Sheridan and we left.
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