'The River'

     More than likely in common with many other households in Britain we have a little ritual every evening after dinner that consists of sitting ourselves down in front of the television picking up the remote control and/or the Radio Times then complaining about the lack of something intellectually, emotionally engaging to watch. The word 'crap' is used. Repeatedly. Night after night, faced as we are by a never ending stream of mediocrity. Invariably we watch a repeat rather than 'live' TV. For months now we have been working the Doctor Who back catalogue. It is a cause of small wonder to me that a series that at times is so dreadful inspires such devotion.

     I really have little sympathy for the 'Defund the BBC' campaign, what after all would replace it? I was lucky enough to grow up during the Golden Age of broadcasting and it has left an indelible and welcome mark on my cultural and intellectual life. I'm looking to revive not remove. However I do wonder if its demise in now inevitable, along with say the mainline Protestant churches and the Universities - particularly the humanities departments. They really are, frankly, fucked. Some museums, newspapers and, here in the UK, the National Trust seem to be heading the same way. All of these organisations have positioned themselves as 'Blue Church'*. The recent BLM debacle post-Covid is not the real agent of this change, but the symptom of a greater cultural decline, which is a failure of purpose rooted in the collapse of narrative and in particular the collapse of religion. We are in the midst of a meaning crisis and Identity Politics, as Douglas Murray as so convincingly argued, is an attempt to establish a new metaphysics, a new meta-narrative. Yet another one, and one (I would argue) that has only intensified the crisis.

     Anyway enough with the pontificating, last week the bf came to the rescue and helped slough off the ennui with this wonderful film directed by Jean Renoir and based on the eponymous novel by Rumer Godden (1907-1998). It is a delight. Engrossing and visually rich. It seemed to me rather like the contemporary work of Powell and Pressburger, a feeling enhanced by the presence of actor Desmond Knight who appeared in a number of the latter's films.

     The setting is India during the British Raj, the time the early 1920s - the aftermath of WWI. Important that. The film is, essentially, the evocative  re-telling of Godden's own admittedly idyllic childhood. Not that it doesn't contain an iron fist in that velvet glove, but to explain that would be to reveal too much of the plot. It does however contain a familiar theme in Godden' work: the emergence from childhood of a young woman, with all its blind rages, joys and losses. A process here initiated by the arrival of a wounded American soldier, who inadvertently brings conflict in his wake as three characters vie for his attentions. The political situation in India as the independence movement gathered pace is handled tangentially. (It does not occur at all in the book.) 

     This will, no doubt, annoy some - but ignore the ire of the woke with all their simplistic puritanical censoriousness. (Intellectually its all pretty fraudulent in any case). Sit back and enjoy this quiet masterpiece. Of the two cinematic adaptations of her work - the other being 'Black Narcissus' - this apparently was Godden's favourite.

* for a definition of the 'Blue Church' and its opposite the 'Red Religion' see the work of Jordan Hall and Rebel Wisdom

The River                                                                                                               

1951

Producer:                 Kenneth McEldowney, Jean Renoir
Director:                  Jean Renoir
Cinematographer:  Claude Renoir

St Cadog, Llanspyddid

     On our journey back to the Infernal City we stopped briefly at Llanspyddid, between Brecon and Sennybridge (that whole valley of the Usk being some of the most beautiful countryside in Britain) so that I could photograph the church having noted, every time we pass by in the car, how beautifully it sits in its surroundings. An ancient place, dedicated to an early abbot of the monastery at Llancarfan in the Vale of Glamorgan. That picturesque quality is aided, I think, by the yew trees in the graveyard - the Ancient Yew Group has a system for classifying old yews: Ancient, Venerable and Notable and according to the The New Naturalist Library 'Brecon Beacons' edition (2014) Llanspyddid has one example of each. I didn't count how many yews are currently growing there (7/8 apparently), but there were once more: Edwin Poole in 'The Illustrated History and Biography of Brecknockshire',1886, mentions fourteen.

     Alas, on closer inspection it was all a bit of a disappointment - the church an orchestral player not a soloist. Its interest scenic rather than architectural. The graveyard is a mess - a visitor would be hard placed to find the pillar stone of the 7th-9th century AD that is traditionally said to commemorate Aulach, father of Brychan the founder of the ancient kingdom of Brycheiniog. And, to be honest, the church is somewhat lacking in interest. Not only was it closed but had the air of being abandoned. That said the porch, which by the looks of it was originally all of timber, and the little Victorian bell turret make a nice composition, but on the whole the church is somewhat dull. A simple unicameral structure like a Medieval church in rural Scotland. I suppose you could make the argument that St Cadog is a good example of how an ancient building, grown up in harmony with its surroundings, can fall foul of Modernity, and be left reeling. It suffered a restoration in 1886 at the hands of Charles Buckeridge of Oxford, though Edwin Poole praised it highly enough. Buckeridge who restored quite a number of churches in Breconshire, about twelve in all, was a pupil of George Gilbert Scott and heavily influenced by George Edmund Street, so you would think he might know better, though judging by Street's assault on North Luffenham church, perhaps not. The odd bit of research on the internet suggests that it did retain its Tilestone roof until the second half of the 20th century when it was replaced with artificial plain tiles. Artificial!! Buckeridge deserves some credit therefore for its retention at the time, when he could have easily swept it away and replaced it with slate. I suppose in its previous state the church must have resembled, somewhat, St James in Kinnersley. Buckeridge's bellcote is fine, but as for his east window the least said the better. And now, with the continuing decline in religious observance, indifference is completing the work. 

     I'm not a fan of comprehensive restorations - they tend to sweep too much away in the process, and after all an ancient structure such as this is an accretion of things, a layering of history, in which for good or ill each part has as a role to play. However here I would be willing to make an exception seeing Llanspyddid as a place that needs an 'unrestoration', a careful unpicking of Modernity.

     Richard Hall, (1817-1866), the local poet is buried in the churchyard.