The Prelude

 

The Prelude by William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

I felt most deeply in what world I was,

What ground I trod on, and what air I breathed.

High was my room and lonely, near the roof
Of a large mansion or hotel, a lodge
That would have pleased me in more quiet times;
Nor was it wholly without pleasure then.
With unextinguished taper I kept watch,
Reading at intervals; the fear gone by
Pressed on me almost like a fear to come.
I thought of those September massacres,
Divided from me by one little month,
Saw them and touched: the rest was conjured up
From tragic fictions or true history,
Remembrances and dim admonishments.
The horse is taught his manage, and no star
Of wildest course but treads back his own steps;
For the spent hurricane the air provides
As fierce a successor; the tide retreats
But to return out of its hiding-place
In the great deep; all things have second birth;
The earthquake is not satisfied at once;
And in this way I wrought upon myself,
Until I seemed to hear a voice that cried,
To the whole city, "Sleep no more." 

The Children of the Stones

     I think this may be the first time I have written a post about a children's television programme.  It certainly is the first time I have done so about a programme made by ITV. 

      The 'Children of the Stones' is a seven part drama for children - part sci-fi, part occult - made by the now defunct ITV company HTV, which broadcast to the West Country and Wales during the Golden Age of British broadcasting.  (The 'H', by the way, stands for Harlech, after Lord Harlech the Conservative politician and diplomat.) The series was made in 1976, the year of the drought.  Interiors were shot in the HTV studios in Bristol and location filming in the village of Avebury in Wiltshire, which, for those who don't know, sits within the remains of the largest henge monument in the world.  The script was conceived and written by Jeremy Burnham & Trevor Ray, and the producer & director was Peter Graham Scott, the executive producer Patrick Dromgoole.  The composer Sidney Sager wrote the atmospheric, unsettling avantgarde score, which was performed by the Ambrosian Singers.  Apparently, the music alone was enough to scare some of the young audience.  The series was first broadcast in the January and February of the following year, the year of the Silver Jubilee, 1977, with a repeat in 1978.  And it was then, I suppose, I watched for the first time.  It was, if I remember correctly, a chance discovery, but one that fired my imagination.  I have always been fascinated such topics - how could one not been growing up during the Occult Revival of the late 1960s and early 70s?  The Children of the Stones came towards the end of this revival, which, like the whole Hippy schtick, was essentially a cack-handed attempt at re-enchantment.  It is an example of how 'Folk Horror' - an anachronistic term here - was adapted for a wider audience.  Indeed some of the elements found in that seminal film of the genre 'The Wicker Man' of 1973 reappear in The Children of the Stones: the remote and isolated rural community; the charismatic and dominating leader; the invention of folk customs,   It has to remembered though, that the Children of the Stones was made and broadcast at a moment of cultural change in the UK, for 1977 was also the year of Punk, and Derek Jarman's film 'Jubilee'.  'The Children of the Stones' belongs to a totally different era, or so it seems.

       And so to the plot.  The series relates the events that occur in the small fictional village of Milbury somewhere in southern England over one summer, sometime in the mid 1970s.  Into the midst of this isolate rural community arrive the widower Adam Brake and his young son Matthew.  Brake is a middle-class professional, an astrophysicist and is there with his son for thee months to undertake research into the vast megalithic stone circle in which the village rests.  Father and son, however, very soon find themselves amidst some strange and unsettling occurrences that challenge their scientific worldview.  They both, for instance, receive disturbing visions of the future from touching the stones.  In some ways what follows is rather like a classic detective novel - they share the same spatial and numerical finitudes after all - in which the main characters, along with two other outsiders, Margaret Smythe and her daughter Sandra, attempt to solve the mystery.  It gradually becomes apparent that the village is under the malign control of the arriviste Lord of the Manor Rafael Hendrik, like Adam Brake a scientist, a former astronomer at Cambridge no less.

     The cast is exceptionally strong for a programme that was scheduled to be broadcast at 4.30 on a weekday afternoon.  Gareth Thomas & Peter Demin star as Adam and Matthew Brake; Veronica Strong & Katherine Levy as Margaret and Sandra.  The Welsh actress Ruth Dunning plays Mrs Crabtree, the Brake's housekeeper.  And then there are the mysterious Dai (a sort of Holy Fool), played by Freddie Jones, and Rafael Hendrick by Iain Cuthbertson, two charismatic British character actors of great talent.  Cuthbertson in particular dominates virtually every scene he's in; not simply because of the heft of the man but his charisma; managing to project both great charm and a sense of existential threat.

     The strength of this series not only in such a quality cast, but in the script - one that refuses to patronize the viewers, whether they are children or adults. It makes no intellectual concessions, the audience must sink or swim.  The writers seem fully aware of potential adult viewers - parents and the like - by giving the adult characters a 'hinterland', and an emotional and social life of their own (like down to the local pub); Adam and Margaret are even allowed to become fond of each other, to hold out thereby the possibility of a happy ending.

 

Happy day!

     Just after posting this post, it struck me that both the 'Children of the Stones' & Nigel Kneale's 'The Stone Tape', of 1972, imply that the Church's historical role is that of protector of the people from a very real and recurrent evil.  I believe it can be argued that in the case of the 'Children of the Stones' evil has only recured at Milbury because of the de-consecration of the village church.  It's almost as if the old social order of village was its protection.

God's Grandeur

God's Grandeur by Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889)

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed.   Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
 
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

English Cottage interiors

     

    This book originally published in 1989 by Weidenfeld and Nicolson in hardback, as part of the 'Country Series' which may eventually have extended to some 46 titles.  The subsequent publishing history is rather complex.  Then W&N was bought by Orion in 1991 the series was then reissued in paperback under the subsidiary imprint of Phoenix Illustrated.  I believe that the numbering of the books was changed, though I may be wrong.  Eventually the publishing of the series passed to another subsidiary imprint 'Seven Dials Publishing'. 

     Anyway, to the volume in question, the paperback edition of 'English Cottage Interiors', published in, I think, 1991.  The author is Hugh Lander and the photographer Peter Rauter.  Actually, it's never explicitly said who the photographer is; it is merely implied.  While the text is copyrighted to the authors, the photos are copyrighted to the publishers.  For me the photographs make the book.  Whenever possible, Mr Lauter used natural lighting; the results are quite atmospheric.
     It really is a lovely thing, a sort of Coffee table book in miniature.  The interiors featured range from the self-conscious to the utilitarian; the urban to the rural.  It is just the sort of thing that, for both financial and cultural reasons, could not be produced today.

Up on the Downs

Up on the Downs by John Masefield 1878-1967

Up on the downs the red-eyed kestrels hover,
Eyeing the grass.
The field-mouse flits like a shadow into cover
As their shadows pass.

Men are burning the gorse on the down’s shoulder;

A drift of smoke
Glitters with fire and hangs, and the skies smoulder,
And the lungs choke.

Once the tribe did thus on the downs, on these downs, burning
Men in the frame,
Crying to the gods of the downs till their brains were turning
And the gods came.

And to-day on the downs, in the wind, the hawks, the grasses,
In blood and air,
Something passes me and cries as it passes,
On the chalk downland bare.

     As I have done for over a year now, I am beginning the month with a poem.  This month however marks a slightly new tack; previously, using John Clare's 'Shepherd's Calendar', I have been able to couple the poem with the month.  I suspect this will now prove more difficult to do, so I have decided to simply post poems I like.

     I associate this poem with the Uffington White Horse, high upon the downs in south Oxfordshire.  As far as I know there is no other connection other than it was chosen by Sir John Betjeman for his tv anthology 'The Queen's Realm' of 1977, and coupled with aerial shots of the horse, and of other chalk figures.  (The poem was read, to great effect, by the South African born actress Janet Suzman.)  

     I pass the horse a few times a year as I travel between the Infernal city and London, and I try and make the point of looking from the train as we pass.  It is after all the oldest hill figure in Europe.  Twice now I have pointed the horse's presence to groups of American tourists but to little effect.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

Leon Krier

     Over the weekend I got to thinking about the late Leon Krier - it is just a year after his death - and I wondered if there were currently any plans for a retrospective exhibition of his work here in the UK.  A brief internet search drew a blank.  Perhaps you dear reader know otherwise?  If so let me know.

     

     A retrospective exhibition would be very appropriate, I feel, as Krier, architect, town planner, author, and  polemist lived in London for some twenty years from the late Sixties to the late eighties.  He initially worked for James Stirling and then taught at the AA (1972-74) and the Royal College of Art.  He was part of the intellectual life of the city, a key thinker in the emerging Post Modernist/New Classicism movement.  He was active in the Urban Design Group, as was Terry Farrell; and both were habitues of the Leinster Gardens headquarters of Andreas Papadakis's Academy Editions.  It must have been very exciting, very intense time.  During his time in London he published 'James Stirling: Buildings and Projects 1950-1974' 1975; 'Rational Architecture', 1978; 'Leon Krier; Houses, palaces, Cities', 1984.  And of course, it is here in the UK that, with the patronage of the then Prince of Wales Poundbury, was created.

Effi o Blaenau

     An unexpected trip to the Odeon Cinema in Swansea yesterday evening to watch the Welsh language film 'Effi o Blaenau' directed by Marc Evans.  It's all a bit complicated but the script is an adaptation, by the producer Bronwen Cennard, of a one-woman play, 'Ipigenia in Splott' by Gary Owen.  It is based ultimately on Euripides' play 'Iphigeneia in Aulis', but how one gets from Aulis to Splott and then Blaenau Ffestiniog we couldn't work out.  An intellectual leap too far for us - even after having it explained to me via ai it takes some swallowing.*  In fact, I would go so far as to say it is incoherent.  Anyway, the bf liked it very much but I was circumspect in my praise.  I found it interesting.

     My reservations rested almost solely upon the rather cliched imagery - the shot of the main character laying face up in the bath, the ubiquity of the drone shot.  The inert camera. We've seen enough of them by now.  But then, I suspect, this film isn't about setting out a new direction in cinematography.

     The film opens with Effie and her friends preparing for a night out in Llandudno, getting shit-faced on vodka and perhaps pulling.  All three of them are essentially solipsistic hedonists, living from weekend to weekend.  Perhaps there is nothing else to do in Blaenau Ffestiniog - where apparently is is always winter and always wet, but Snowdonia is not Splott.  The urban landscape, the alienation and the grittiness may always be with us, but the rain is not. We can assume they are unemployed, but they can still find the cash for a Saturday night on the tiles.  Effi is certainly no example of the Jungian individuated person, she is self-regarding and callous.  Here is the Meaning Crisis.  The substance abuse is simultaneously both destructive, and a search for transcendence.  

     And then something happens and meaning presents itself to Effi.  In fact, it presents itself three times.  The first time in the form of a former soldier, Lee.  Lee has lost his right leg in either Afghanistan or Iraq.  At this point Effi ' has a sort of epiphany and we see her in a different light.  She is shown as kind, softly spoken and loving.  She gathers meaning to herself in his vulnerability. (I thought that perhaps Lee would be her salvation but realised soon enough that it was too early in the film for this to happen.)  Her second epiphany is during her pregnancy, with another vulnerable body to care for.  Finally, for a third time meaning is presented to her, and this time is not snatched away, in the person of her neighbour's young daughter.  It is in the last place she would look, being on her own doorstep, and the offspring of woman she despised.  Each time she chooses to take on responsibility and find meaning there.

     The acting was excellent; the star Leisa Williams very good at eliciting sympathy for an, at times, repugnant character, Effi, without ironing-out her flaws.  The supporting cast too, is very good; credit in particular to Carys Gwilym as Effi's grandmother, and Owen Alun as the hapless Kev.

     It is at times this compelling film is very raw, and some scenes were particularly affecting.  Effi is no mere sacrificial victim.  She makes choices and she has agency, but she is also feckless.  It is all very well for a middle class reviewer in the Guardian, to see this a 'savage indictment' of the system, but Effi's chaotic life is downwind of the extreme bodily autonomy that the Guardian seems keen to promote.  In the end her life gathers some meaning when she becomes friends with her neighbour.  It's that simple.  When we accept to love and care, to take responsibility, we limit our agency.  What this film presents us with, perhaps, no doubt, unwittingly, is a spiritual journey in which Effi, through the most painful catharsis, learns to place the needs of others above the needs of her own ego and thereby finds meaning.

    Whisper it, but this film is quietly conservative.  Could almost have been written by Jordan Peterson.

     I honestly don't think I'd want a return visit to the Odeon.  Before the film there was half an hour of adverts and trailers.  It wasn't so much the adverts we disliked, but the trailers which seemed designed to discourage attendance.  The worst was that for Christopher Nolan's adaptation of the Odyssey, which looked terrible.  On the strength of the trailer, one to miss, I think.

Effi o Blaenau

2026

Producer:               Branwen Cennard

Director:                 Marc Evans

Cinematographer: Eira Wyn Jones

* None of this mythological framework is at all obvious in the film.  Like many will, and have, I came to this film without preparation.  As Lola Salem has recently said in The Critic, "Art is not about diversity, or access, or urban regeneration. It is not about measures that are ontologically extrinsic to it. Art is first and foremost about art, and the artefact owes us nothing".

Currently Reading......

    ....Gormenghast.

     I am almost two thirds through this massive and extraordinary novel series, having completed 'Titus Groan', and now crawling to the conclusion of 'Gormenghast'.  ('Titus Alone' lies ahead.)  Thy are the work of the artist and illustrator Mervyn Peake (1911-1968) and were written over some fifteen years from the mist of WWII to 1959.  'Titus Groan' was published in 1946, 'Gormenghast' in 1950, and 'Titus Alone' in 1959.  A further novel was attempted but it remained unfinished at his death, to be completed by his wife.  They sort of defy categorization - certainly defy my limited powers of description - beyond saying they belong to a wider literary family of British fantasy writing like Tolkien and Lewis. Though the sequence makes for an uneasy bedfellow with the work of those two titans of the genre.  Harold Bloom thought them superior to Tolkien, rating them so highly that they deserved a place in the canon.  I am no not sure that that has happened and perhaps they are now somewhat neglected.

     All of this is made the more remarkable when one considers how fragile Peake's mental health was during that period of writing - at least two stays in hospital.  Worse however was to come.  By the time of the publication of 'Titus Alone' he was developing Dementia.  Parkinson's followed.  It was a pitiful end.

    All of a sudden I have a social life.  Family lunch Sunday, dinner with friends tonight, and London tomorrow (God willing) for the RIBA TAG summer party on Thursday and a visit to the Zurbaran exhibition at the National Gallery.  See you at the weekend.

    

David Hockney (1937-2026)

     I am writing this an hour or so since the announcement of the death of the British artist David Hockney, and I must that admit that in that time I have been feeling a bit emotional.  Oh, nothing that heavy - no tears, no wailing nor gnashing of teeth, just a sense of loss and the sense of a door closing upon a world.

     His was a very full life beyond the capabilities of most of us.  Not only an artist, in quite a range of media, but a printmaker, a designer for the stage, photographer and occasionally a writer. He leaves behind a large corpus of work for the art historians to mull over in the future; the embodiment of the Protestant Work Ethic.  He was after raised in a Methodist family.  Some of this work is perhaps not as good as other work; there was sometimes a risk of banality.  And I find a lot of the work done in the 80s harsh and rebarbative. And I'd rather pass over the stained glass window he designed for Westminster Abbey.  And yet, with such a voluminous body of work over so many years it could not be otherwise.

     For me his greatest periods (there were two) were, firstly the Late 60s and early 70s when he first discovered California, and his art took off in a new figurative direction, and then brought back to London, not only his then boyfriend & muse Peter Schlesinger, but what he had learned under that bright West Coast Sun and applied it to a slightly shabby, down-at-heel, but culturally dynamic London.  It was the time of Jack Hazan's film 'A Bigger Splash', and Schlesinger's book 'A Checkered Past'.  Of mixing with the Beau Monde.  A time of large canvases -  'Portrait of An Artist' and 'Mr & Mrs Clark and Percy', and at the other end of the scale of a series of ravishing pencil-crayon portraits of friends and lovers that are quite masterly.

    The second is marked, after a long sojourn in California, by his return to England in the 1990s, to the landscape of the East Riding and particularly the Yorkshire Wolds. It sparked a period of creativity that had lasted until his death; one that saw the most exceptional creativity and growth in him as an artist.  The creation of huge monumental artworks both painting and new media, as well as the most intimate, using an i-pod.  His ability to work on both scales was something, perhaps exceptional, as was his ability to find a subject matter everywhere and in everything, which suggest an almost inexhaustible curiosity.  He was also, I suspect, what one might call, an intellectual artist.  I suppose in this post I might have depicted him as an almost Romantic artist in his response to his environment; he was an artist who was always deeply aware of the history of art and the craft of art.

    A few minutes ago I was sitting drafting this post long-hand, sitting at the kitchen table, on which stands a most Hockney-ish object - a vase of tulips.

St Cuthbert's Village II

     I now want to skip over the Pennines to Manchester and this BBC documentary, from 1974, about the redevelopment of the city on the 1960s.  Erroneously, the notes to this video claim it is the infamous Hulme Crescents; it is actually the Coverdale Estate, nicknamed 'Fort Ardwick' by the disgruntled residents.  It was designed by Manchester Corporation Architects Department, in collaboration with Bison Concrete Northern Ltd.  It was constructed, like St Cuthbert's Village, using prefabricated concrete slabs - the 'Bison Concrete Wall-frame System'.  The estate consisted of flats, maisonettes and houses.  As with the other two estates mentioned in this post, its failure was precipitous, and the film presents a churlish council struggling to keep up with the effects of its redevelopment policy, including apportioning blame to its own tenants.  'Fort Ardwick' was finally demolished in 1992

     The local MP Gerald Kaufmann said of it,

     'The scale of the buildings is often daunting. I have in mind Fort Beswick and Fort Ardwick in my own constituency. The design is frequently all too forbidding. That is why the two estates are called "Forts". "I am on the Fort", constituents tell me. Such developments are often unsightly. The approaches are not attractively landscaped and are often strewn with litter and debris.

     'Refuse disposal is too often haphazard and infrequent, and this can lead to the proliferation of insects and vermin which are already fostered by design defects. There was a penetrating article recently in The Guardian pointing this out. The caretaker service often is insufficient to meet the needs, where the service exists at all. Too many developments in my own constituency and that of my hon. Friend have no caretaker service."

     'The despair of some tenants can be summed up in a remark made to me by a lady who lives on Coverdale Crescent, more commonly known as "Fort Ardwick", which is now perhaps the best known deck access development in Britain. A few weeks ago, on one of my visits to see the estate, I had a long discussion with a number of the residents. One of them said to me, "If Labour wins the election, it ought to do two things: abolish the House of Lords, and demolish Fort Ardwick."

  

     We underestimate the complete dislocation that working class people suffered as a result of these schemes.   By the end of the 60s the Post-War vision of the New Jerusalem began to crumble and few years later it seemed that Modernism was itself defeated.  For some on the left, including perhaps the director of Get Carter, Mike Hodges, it caused a cognitive dissonance.  The failure of such estates as St Cuthbert's Village, really wasn't the result of corruption, but an intellectual failure.  I think, that in some respects, it caused the breaking of the social contract.

Ruskin and St Marks, Venice

     Nobody has written so movingly, or powerfully, about architecture as the English critic and polymath John Ruskin (1819-1900).  I read this description of the facade of the Basilica of St Mark years ago and it has stuck with me ever since.  It is superlative.

     'And now I wish that the reader would image himself at the entrance into St Mark's Place, called the Bocca di Piazza (mouth of the square).  We will push fat through into the shadow of the pillars at the end of the 'Booca di Piazza'.  Between those pillars there opens a great light, and in the midst of it, as we advance slowly, the vast tower of St mark seems to lift itself  visibly from the level field of chequered stones; and , on each side, the countless arches prolong themselves into ranged symmetry, as if the rugged and irregular house that pressed together above the dark alley had been struck back into sudden obedience and lovely order, and all their rude casements and broken walls had been transformed into arches charged with goodly sculpture, and fluted shafts of delicate stone.
     And well may they fall back, for beyond those troops of ordered arches there rises a vision out of the earth, and all the great square seems to have opened from it in a kind of awe, that we may see it far away; - a multitude of pillars and white domes, clustered into a long low pyramid of coloured light; a treasure heap, it seems, partly of gold, and partly of opal and mother-of-pearl, hollowed  beneath into five great vaulted porches, ceiled with fair mosaic, and beset with sculpture of alabaster, clear a amber and delicate a ivory, - sculpture fantastic and involved, of palm leaves and lilies, and grapes and pomegranates, and birds clinging and fluttering among the branches, all twined together into an endless network of buds and plumes; and in the midst of it, the solemn forms of angels, sceptred, and robed to the feet, and leaning to each other across the gates, their figures indistinct among the gleaming of the golden ground through the leaves beside them, interrupted and dim, like the morning light a it faded back among the branches of Eden, when first its gates were angel-guarded long ago.  And round the walls of the porches there are set pillars of variegated stones, jasper, and porphyry, and deep-green serpentine spotted with flakes of snow, and marbles, that half refuse and half yield to the sunshine, Cleopatra-like, 'their bluest veins to kiss' - the shadow, as it steals back from them, revealing line after line of azure undulation, as a receding tide leaves the waved sand; their capitals rich with interwoven tracery, rooted knots of herbage, and drifting leaves of acanthus and vine, and mystical signs, all beginning and ending in the Cross; and above them, in the broad archivolts, continuous chain of language and of life - angels, and the signs of Heaven, and the labours of men, each in its appointed season upon the earth; and above these, another range of glittering pinnacles, mixed with white arches edged with scarlet flowers, - a confusion of delight, amidst which the breasts of the Greek horses are seen blazing in their breath of golden strength, and the St mark's lion, lifted on a blue field covered with stars, until at last, as if in ecstasy, the crests of the arches break into a marble foam, and toss themselves far into the blue sky with flashes and wreaths of sculptured spray, as if the breakers on the Lido shore had been frost-bound before they fell, and the sea-nymphs had inlaid them with coral and amethyst.'

John Ruskin, 'The Stones of Venice' Vol II

St Cuthbert's Village I

Apologies, for the version of this article I posted earlier, for some unknown reason an previous draft was published, and not the finished article.  Mea culpa.

     I want to go back now to the Tyneside of the early 1970s and one of the locations used in the film 'Get Carter', the Modernist St Cuthbert's Village, Gateshead.  (I really can't show you the scene in question, not simply because of any reasons of copyright.)  It serves as a prime example of the sort of urban re-development that took in the first three decades after the end of WWII in Britain's major cities, as local and national government tried to solve the housing crisis.  It was miles away, figuratively and physically, from the 'New House Book'.

     St Cuthbert's Village was the work of the local council, and was opened by the Prime Minister Harold Wilson on April 7th, 1970.  It was, I suppose, quite a coup for the local council that the Prime minister should give his support in such a way.
    What was produced, however, was a sort of simulacrum, a stand-in for an actual village, like one of those cream substitutes so beloved of food manufacturers Post-War.  Grey and hulking.  It had neither church nor green, nor school.  Facilities were planned but they were late off the starting block and arrived after the residents.  There was no traditional urbanism.  It was a sort of enclosed community, introverted and not wholly integrated in the warp and weft of the community that surrounded it.  A sort of ghetto.

     The concept belonged to the Borough Architect, A Leslie Barry.  He talked of a 'village community', but all that actually meant in practice is that, like a good many architects and planners of the period, he wanted the strict segregation of pedestrians and motor vehicles.  The site was a steep slope on the south bank of the Tyne, opposite Newcastle city centre, between between Bensham Rd and Askew Rd..  The estate overlooked a rail marshalling yard and the High Level Bridge that carried the East Coast Mainline into the midst of the city.  Historically, the area had been known as Windmill Hills, and before slum clearance in the mid 60s, the site had contained a dense network of terraced housing.

     The actual design was shared, it seems, between Douglas Wise (of Douglas Wise & Partners) and Clifford Tee & Gale, consulting architects to the contractors Stanley Miller Ltd.  The majority of the buildings etc. were constructed of pre-cast concrete sections using the 'Miller Wise Mouchel' system (MWM for short).  The estate consisted of a single tower, or point, block and a dense checker board of four, six & eight storey maisonettes, everything connected by a series of aerial walkways.  It was designed to house 3,500 people. Construction began in 1967, and the cost all in, was, I believe, £3,700,000.  At the time it won a government award for 'Good Design in Housing'.

   1987 View of St. Cuthbert's Court and six-storey blocks
   The University of Edinburgh Tower Block Project

   1987 View of St. Cuthbert's Village
   The University of Edinburgh Tower Block Project

     However there were problems almost immediately - flats were damp and roofs leaked, and it was difficult to heat the flats.  The project limped on for some 25 years, waxing in problems both structural and social, before it was demolished.  Its fate matched that of another council estate of the period, the nearby Clasper Village.

A Red, Red Rose

A Red, Red Rose by Robert Burns (1759-1796)

O my Luve’s like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my Luve’s like the melodie
That’s sweetly play’d in tune.

As fair are thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my Dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my Dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only Luve!
And fare thee weel, a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile!

Caught on a Train

     I had intended to take a break from this blogging lark for a few days, but yesterday, purely by chance, I watched 'Caught on a Train' a BBC television play from 1980, part of the BBC2 Playhouse strand of one-off dramas that ran for 8 seasons between 1974 and 1983.  It was deeply impressive, so much that I've felt the need to commit my thoughts to 'paper'.

     'Caught on a Train' was written by Stephen Poliakoff, produced by Kenith Trodd, and directed by Peter Duffnell.  It was first aired 31st October 1980, and has been repeated a few times on the BBC, and is now available on BBC iplayer (if you live outside the UK you may have difficulties in accessing this remarkable play).  Score, I should add, by Mike Westbrook.
          The play, filmed entirely on location (much of it on the Nene Valley Railway nr Peterborough), is set in a Europe in the mist of The Cold War, haunted also by the fear of terrorism.  The 'Red Army Faction', aka 'The Baader-Meinhof Gang', were then active in the German Federal Republic.  In Italy, these were the 'Anni di Piombo' - 'The Years of Lead' - a perfect storm of extreme left and right violence.  Poliakov depicts the continent in decline; the train is filthy; there are football hooligans; the station in Frankfurt, and then the train, are crowded with young people silent, sullen and resentful; the authorities are jittery.  Into this continent of distrust and fear arrives the young Englishman, Peter (Michael Kitchen).  He is travelling by train from Ostend (in Belgium) to Linz (Austria) - he works in the publicity department of a London publishers and is on the way to a trade fair.  Peter is ambitious and 'full of himself'.  Not an entirely sympathetic character.

     At Ostend, when Peter and the other passengers, especially Lorrine (Wendy Raebeck) with whom Peter fancies his chances, have settled into their seats, an elderly Viennese lady, Frau Messner (Peggy Ashcroft) - stylish, neat, self-contained, quite dreadful - steps into the compartment, and proceeds to demand that Peter give up his seat even though it is not the seat she has booked, claiming; 'I don't think you understand. I have to sit by the window."  An uneasy relationship then develops between them that is the emotional centre of this film. Both actors sparkle, but I think the palm goes to Ashcroft.  One feels that her character always has the upper hand, that she has greater reserves of intellect and guile to draw upon. The narrative, keeping pace with the train, lurches towards disaster when Peter is escorted from the train by the Austrian police.

     At the end of the film Frau Messner sits alone in the restaurant car surrounded by detritus of the journey.  The wreck, one is tempted to say, of European culture at the end of 20th century.

The Whitsun Weddings

      Today is the Eve of Whitsun - Whitsunday - Pentecost.  The day churches celebrate the descent of the Holy Spirit upon the Disciples who were gathered in Jerusalem for the Feast of Shavuot.  It is a moveable feast i.e. its date each year is governed by the date of Easter

     It is also the day of Philip Larkin's poem 'The Whitsun Weddings'.  Published in 1964 by Faber in the collection of the same name. The first poem in the collection, 'Here', describes, in part, a journey to Hull, 'The Whitsun Weddings' a departure; describing as it does a train journey undertook one hot Saturday afternoon from the Paragon Station in Hull to London Kings Cross.  The opening stanza suggests the journey, at that particular time and date, has been made before. One gets the sense of the mundane quality of an oft repeated journey.

     Then, in the third stanza, things begin to change.  At first the narrator pays little attention to the noise on the platforms when train stops; 'and down the long cool platforms whoops and skirls I took were porters larking with the mails, and went on reading.'  But when the train departs one of the unnamed stations he looks up and notices:

'grinning and pomaded, girls   

In parodies of fashion, heels and veils,   

All posed irresolutely, watching us go,

As if out on the end of an event

    Waving goodbye

To something that survived it.'

     His interest piqued, he makes the point at the next station and subsequently of looking out at the platform and the waiting passengers, and wedding parties gathered to see off the newly married on their honeymoons.  Larkin it has to be said is a little pejorative in tone, just as he is in 'Here', however as the train moves toward the capital the subject changes from the particular to the universal.

     One of the reasons I like this poem so much, and it is quite a personal reason, is that the poem talks about things I know; Lincolnshire, the eastern side of England, the East Coast mainline.  My line, which I have travelled more times than can remember or count.  It could be my relations on those platforms. My parents took that line on their honeymoon, spending the first few days in London before taking another train down to Cornwall.

     Here is Philip Larkin reciting his remarkable poem.  Of the two recordings I found on YouTube, the best.

Get Carter

Thy holy cities are a wilderness, Zion is a wilderness, Jerusalem a desolation.

     Saturday afternoon, I'm on the sofa, and in search of a film.  The television has nothing to offer me, so I turn to BBC iplayer, and my eyes light upon 'Get Carter'.  Mike Hodges' brilliant, brutal film of 1971.

     I have watched this film plenty of times.  I'm slightly surprised I haven't blogged about the film before.  It is a hard and uncompromising film.  Brutal and cynical, that has, I think rightly, been likened to a Jacobean Tragedy.  And tragedy it is.  There is a very high body count.

     'Get Carter' was, as far as I can remember, a bit of a cause celebre, when it first came out.  The critic Pauline Kael said of it, 'sadism-for-the-connoisseur [] so calculatedly cool and soulless and nastily erotic that it seems to belong to a new genre of virtuosic viscousness.' It has since then become a cult movie, and also a shorthand for the excesses of early 1970s British films.  It is also a paradox also for being simultaneously a product of the then past decade - the depiction sex, drugs, and pornography - and a criticism of it.  'Get Carter  is, along with two films I have reviewed before on this blog - 'The Ballad of Tam Lin' and 'Straight on till Morning', a prime example of the 'Sixties Hangover Film'.  A rather niche genre, but interesting. And may be important.

     The Carter in question, Jack, works for London organised crime, in the shape of Gerald Fletcher.  He is, as you might reasonably expect, a man of violence.  In an inspired title sequence we travel with Carter back home, to an British unnamed city somewhere in the North of England, to bury his brother Ted.  Carter is already suspicious of his brother's dead, and events confirm his doubts.  The funeral is perfunctory and sparsely attended; Ted's girlfriend, Doreen, arrives late, leaves hurriedly and when confronted by Carter is reluctant to speak.  Jack begins his enquiries.  And this film, in its curious way becomes a detective film, perhaps a dark satire on the English murder mystery, with Jack as amateur sleuth.  He re-enters the dark pit of local organised crime, and then suddenly the film reaches a hinge moment (which, I believe Hodges saw as a 'political' epiphany) and it becomes a revenge movie as Carter, as a destroying angel, goes on a very public campaign of retribution, wreaking havoc upon his enemies.  Though, it has to be said, he seems to be the least qualified person, morally, to do so. 

     The cast is superlative: Michael Caine, as the eponymous Carter, Brit Ekland, John Osbourne, Geraldine Moffat, Ian Hendry, and Kika Markham.  Director Mike Hodges (at his best), Producer Michael Klinger.  Excellent cinematography by Wolfgang Suschitsky, who worked in the British Documentary Movement, and brings an element of reportage to the proceedings.  And then there is score by Roy Budd.  I've heard it said that 'Get Carter' was the the last hurrah of the British arm of MGM.  There a sense that those involved what things to go out with a bang.  And they certainly did.

     Hodges also wrote the screenplay.  It is an adaptation of Ted Lewis's 1970 novel 'Jack's Return Home'.  (Klinger presented it to Hodges in Jan of that year, I believe a month or so before the book was published.)  Ted Lewis (1940-1982) had set the novel in north Lincolnshire where he grew up, in particular in the steel making town of Scunthorpe.  Hodges changed the location to Newcastle upon Tyne.

     I think there may be something in the choice of Newcastle over the less visually exciting Scunthorpe.  The city Hodges chooses to  depict is a wreck, decaying and corrupt.  Filthy and shoddy.  A place of turpitude. There is little glamour and that there is is connected to criminality.  Perhaps some subtle moralising.  The background to this is the then scandal of T Dan Smith, leader of Newcastle city council 1958-65.  A charismatic individual, and a man with fingers in many pies.  The sort of man, who to quote, yet again, the novelist Frank Herbert, 'ought to come with a warning label on the forehead: "May be dangerous to your health."  He was arrested in January 1970 and charged with 'receiving payments to influence local government contracts'.  He was tried in July 1971 and found not guilty.  In 1974 was brought to trial again, and that time pleaded guilty to corruption.  Smith was sentenced to 6 years at Her Majesty's pleasure.

     Hodges indeed saw this film in terms of 'the state of the nation', and he came came to see corruption beneath everything. In a 2016 interview with Adam Scovell he even sounded somewhat like Mary Whitehouse.  I'm stuck thinking that nothing quite fits, that there is something of a gap between Hodges intentions/rhetoric and the finished piece, good as it.  I am put in mind of work of Kurosawa who, for all his talk of being a pacifist, choreographed violence so beautifully.

Get Garter

1971

Producer:               Michael Klinger

Director:                 Mike Hodges

Cinematographer: Wolfgang Suschitsky

Hail Bounteous May: Verse for May Day

Song on May Morning by John Milton 1608-1674

Now the bright morning Star, Dayes harbinger,
  Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
  The Flowry May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow Cowslip, and the pale Primrose.
  Hail bounteous May that dost inspire 
  Mirth and youth, and warm desire,
  Woods and Groves, are of thy dressing,
  Hill and Dale, doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early Song,
And welcom thee, and wish thee long. 

To Violets by Robert Herrick 1591-1674

WELCOME, maids of honour!

        You do bring

        In the spring,

And wait upon her.

She has virgins many,

        Fresh and fair;

        Yet you are

More sweet than any.

You're the maiden posies,

        And so graced

        To be placed

'Fore damask roses.

Yet, though thus respected,

        By-and-by

        Ye do lie,

Poor girls, neglected

Now is the month of Maying by Thomas Morley 1557-1602

Now is the month of maying,

When merry lads are playing,

Fa la la la la la la la la,

Fa la la la la la la lah.

Each with his bonny lass

Upon the greeny grass.

Fa la la la la la la la la,

Fa la la la la la la lah.

The Spring, clad all in gladness,

Doth laugh at Winter's sadness,

Fa la la la la la la la la,

Fa la la la la la la lah.

And to the bagpipe's sound

The nymphs tread out their ground.

Fa la la la la la la la la,

Fa la la la la la la lah.

Fie then! why sit we musing,

Youth's sweet delight refusing?

Fa la la la la la la la la,

Fa la la la la la la lah.

Say, dainty nymphs, and speak,

Shall we play barley break?

Fa la la la la la la la la,

Fa la la la la la la lah.

May Morning on Magdalen Tower

by John William Burgon (1813–1888)

Now ring out all the bells a merry chime;

While the hoarse horn croaks forth, a league below,

The note which doubtless seems the true sublime

To urchins straining might and main to blow.

Ring out, glad bells! and let the sleepers know

That, while they slept, we watched the month of May

Twine the first garland for her virgin brow.

Then bid them rise, for 'tis the prime of day:

And lo, the young Month comes, all smiling, up this way!

Life's May-day by Ben Johnson (1572-1637)

I saw the rustic May Queen, crowned

   With coronel of flowers,

With merry children gathered round,

   To laugh away the hours.

In morning sheen, with stately mien,

   Walked the fair Queen of May;

And little care, or thought, was there,

   Of how time sped away.

I saw the sombre evening come, 

   With train of lagging hours,

The fretful children turned them home,

   Nor brought their faded flowers.

In life's fresh morn, fond hopes are born

   Which fade ere shadows come;

And life's long day, though fair as May,

   May make us sigh for home.

'Checkered Past: A Visual Diary of the '60s and '70s'

But I sat back and looking forward

My shoes were high and I had scored

I'd bolted through a closing door

I would never find myself feeling bored

     I've been neglecting the blog of late, certainly neglecting the visual side of things, not being that happy.  It's all become a bit wordy.  Then lunchtime, for some reason, I suddenly thought of Peter Schlesinger's wonderful book 'Checkered Past: A Visual Diary of the '60s and '70s', published 2003 by Vendome Press.  I discovered this book on Ben Pentreath's Inspiration Blog over a decade ago now, and it has been a firm favourite of mine ever since.  It is a book of a slightly melancholic beauty.  Schlesinger's photographs are ravishing, sometimes possessing an ethereal quality, the result I think of the use of film.

     'Checkered Past' documents the American artist's ten years, or so, living in London from the late '60s to the late '70s.  When David Hockney returned to Britain in 1968, Schlesinger - then his lover - followed.  They settled in the then slightly seedy Notting Hill in w London.  In those days those grand stucco houses were subdivided into flats and bedsits.  It was a life poised between the bohemian and the Beau Monde.  A life that included, amongst a cast of seemingly thousands, such 'Somethingofthechamelon' favourites Cecil Beaton, Patrick Proctor, David Hockney, Min Hogg, Gala Mitchell, and Celia Birtwell; the social, the arts, applied arts and the intellectual. Socialites and plutocrats.  A life partially covered in Jack Hazzan's 1973 film 'A Bigger Splash', which purportedly covers the aftermath of the end of Schlesinger's relationship with David Hockney, and the creation of one of Hockney's most well known paintings, 'Portrait of an Artist'.

     It is a world that is slowly slipping from our grasp.  It essentially ended in the mid-70s after the Oil crises.  I think it was Sir Roy Strong, who moved in the same circles, who said that it was the last social great period, or words to that effect.  Certainly a more colourful world both in terms of the visual but also the character of those depicted.  There was definitely more place for the eccentric and the intellectual.

Checkered Past: A Visual Dairy of the 60s & 70s  Peter Schlesinger, Vendome Press, 2003