Category Archives: Culture

A LETTER TO WORDPRESS ON ADVERTS

Dear WordPress,

it is a surprise to see adverts on our blog, and apparently their possibility was written into terms since 2006. Perhaps it is a compliment to the little success of a blog last year, with 18000 visits, with adverts clearly tailored to content too, but on the other hand, since we do not all want to turn into the Stepford Wives, you seemed to make much of freedom of speech, and a ban on WordPressers themselves adding adverts. What exactly is your policy? Since we have written to your editors several times to see if you might highlight a blog that was a fight for writers and artists’ voices in publishing, on some very interesting issues too, perhaps you can send us a little cheque to help support us! Not too grumpy in the ‘real’ world, but is not one truth of the Internet that you cannot get the profile and traffic, unless you have the resources to pump up the volume? Perhaps in the spirit of truth you will highlight this blog instead and turn us into an uncapitalised version of The Huffington Post. Actually, since we have given energy, stories, poems and articles completely free, and with no resources but the human, and have just seen an ad for Home Insurance for the Over Fifties, can you please take the bloody things away?

best wishes, Phoenix Ark Press

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DERREN BROWN AND THE SECRET OF LUCK

What a charming and gently bemusing way to end Derren Brown’s generally excellent series ‘The Experiments’. It put the Yorkshire town of Todmorden on the map, with the creation of a lucky dog statue, graced with the touch of staged good chance, and was almost something out of a Paulo Coehlo novel, as the whole town started to talk about it. All the staged elements of luck, although proving that personality and belief are vital to events and interactions in the real world, ended with the doubting Thomas, actually doubting Wayne the Butcher betting his life savings on the roll of a dice, when we were already told the dog itself had no paranormal power, and winning on the third throw.

A supposed psychic weighing in in the middle, among the minor local media frenzy, was especially amusing on vortices of positive energy, but was gently handled too. So to an explosion of fireworks in a town already touched by Brown and Jason Manford. Derren Brown is charming, and essentially a humanist too, but now the irritation is of not knowing if an illusion was involved in the dice roll, and leaves the power and mystery suitably in his court. How would it have ended if Wayne had lost, and what other positive outcome had the producers up their sleeves? It proved too the hypnotic power of celebrity, and Brown was a bit disingenuous to call himself a minor one. We need and want to believe though, as something vital to all our lives, operative in both positive and negative ways, but now we believe Brown will and should be given another series. Will he do something even more ambitious, but with greater elements of seriousness in some of the experiments he enacts? Even a deeper look at some of the more possible roots of coincidence, or the fact so much of it is also about language and concept.

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THE JURY

The BBC produced the best drama in ten years with The Shadow Line but perhaps drama departments across the board are raising the bar, because ITV’s The Jury is both very good and clever. It is a soap opera of jurors, but it is brave to do a week of programmes, to commit us all to the drama, but its intrinsic seriousness too. The connections are constantly intriguing, and remind you of the shadow of a world without such a system. It was also inspired to cast Julie Walters as the defence barrister. The expectation of comedy is constantly redirected towards a raised eyebrow at the ironies of everyone’s lives and compromises and her skill as an actress reminds you that so much is about belief and authority.

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WINSLOW HOMER, FAKE OR FORTUNE AND DEADLOCK

Phoenix Ark Press have it straight from the horse’s mouth that the situation over the Winslow Homer painting featured in Fake or Fotune is still in deadlock. Remember the art, please, and the spirit of artists!

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CHITTI CHITTI BANG BANG TO BRIGHTON!

It felt like it had snowed this morning, along the Kennington Road, or Christmas had come early, as Londoners stepped out of their isolated boxes, stopped to stare and wave and spontaneously lined the 159 bus route. A man on a Penny Farthing came by in a top hat and then, interspersed with our awful, boring modern cars, a succession of the most glorious Chitti-Chitti-Bang-Bangs you have ever seen rattled past. What a wonderful sight, on the way to the shops, of just a snippet of today’s London to Brighton vintage car run. What proof that it’s always difference that makes us smile, like a snow shower, or a turn in the weather. Enthusiasts are their own lunatic breed, these decked out in time appropriate kit, riding some truly remarkable Heath Robinson machines, all polished up as though for an inspection of the Royal Navy – if we had one anymore. But no sour grapes, we have these.

Some of the cars were quite extraordinary, popping and spitting, shuddering and banging, hissing and bone-rattling, especially the one with no front end at all, so that four people sat face to face, two by two, not constrained by the straight-line inevitability of our tedious tarmaced roads. It would have had a field day on the curling drive of some big country house, in search of a spontaneous picnic. Most were open-topped, on a rather grey and chilly morning, but magnificent men and women were sheathed in woollens, flying jackets or barbers, patterned rugs around their knees, and wearing Biggles hats, many complete with fake moustaches. English, Welsh, even a French flag sprouted from the Brassoed fenders and in the middle of London the proud owners were waving back like the Queen. Oh, the glory of the age, although these cars spanned several decades, of those amazing eccentric and incredibly un-environmentally friendly machines and ahead, the wonder of the open road to Brighton. You half expected to see Toad come by, ‘Poop Pooping’, or truly scrumptiously striped fenders to open like magic fans and the whole, wonderful lot to take to the air. ‘Hi-ho vintage London to Brighton – we love you!’

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DERREN BROWN AND THE GUILT TRIP

The real Guilt Trip in the penultimate programme in hyper talented hypnotist Derren Brown’s new series ‘The Experiments’ became watching the thing at all. There were times when it was all stitched together in such a jolly japes way, like those murder mystery weekends you pay for, you either thought the victim, Jody, had to be an actor and the whole thing staged, or he was so ridiculously stupid for not twigging something was up. Especially when the actors around him were swapping plates at dinner, to make him think his memory was playing tricks on him. It’s a vital legal point to talk about guilt and to highlight that thousands every year confess to crimes they have not committed. The sadness of that in real life has much to say about society and the human condition, but it is also one of the reasons for the vital principles of British justice to allow a defence in any circumstance, and one of the reasons for Miranda Rights in the US too, so you do not actually incriminate yourself. Yet again though, seriousness was swapped for entertainment, in all the creaky piano music, the splattered blood and the procession down to the garden to lay the victim on the lawn at night. Again, no new ground was broken, because if Brown has proved hypnosis and suggestion are very real, starting with that remarkable show on ‘The Assassin’, where do you actually go from there? In this case familiarity with the subject is the enemy of an illusionist’s art. It was vaguely moving to see the release from it at the end, when Jody was confessing to a crime he did not commit, the fact that he was safe and didn’t bear a grudge, but it felt strangely empty too. It is a culture that has spread with programmes like Big Brother, or to an earlier generation with ‘You’ve Been Framed’, but people actually love to be involved, perhaps because it lets them experience extremes of emotion they just do not touch normally.

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LOUIS THEROUX AND TRIP ADVISOR!

There could be no greater dis-recommendation for Democracy, and this Internet place, than the documentary about all the little critics on Trip Advisor. Perhaps being bullied at school brings out those gloopy figures, fighting back late in life, so we should teach our kids to fight harder, and earlier on. Perhaps the Internet glories in all the awful voices, but Bukowski was right, ‘there’s enough hate in the average man to destroy you’. William Hague has just advised, at this London Cyber Conference, on the world threat of Internet attacks, but he forgot the enemies within. It’s not that the small hotel review service does not have some useful function, it is the glee with which some self-appointed, self-aggrandizing critics seem to go about it all, and with very little right of come back. At least when it used to be about professional Newspaper Reviews, those little establishments mostly got ignored, or if you wanted to play in a big kitchen, you had no right not to expect the heat. Now anything can be splashed over the net and stay there, written often before the semi-detached flick knifers have even left, while people seem to expect the Ritz at the price of a Camper van. With it goes all that little England indignation about rights and freedoms and the rest. Sure, but go and do something more inspiring with existence.

We think most of the critics should be fed to the ‘exotic’ animals on Louis Theroux’s journey into the half wilds of middle America. It is a pity the documentary could not have added some note about The Muskingham County Farm tragedy, last week, because that lay at the other end of the explosion of private owners – majestic, meant-to-be-wild animals, lying dead in the American mud. Theroux’s big-girl’s-blouse whimsy though got a little irritating, because for a programme like that you need someone who really loves or understands animals, to roll up their sleeves, get in the cages and see if it is all right or wrong. Theroux does not like them at all. Of course, the animal Theroux really studies is the Human one and a weirder bunch of primates you could not have encountered this side of Regent’s Park. Not that that put us necessarily on the side of the critics snarling at animal cruelty either, because at least some of those eccentrics do glory in animals. What they mostly do not like is people, and if they’ve been watching the Trip Advisor show, how could you blame them?

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THE CITY OF LONDON AND ST PAUL’S

The mounting crisis at St Paul’s, with the resignation of the Dean, Graeme Knowles, is becoming almost Shakespearian, but it highlights something about London; the enormous power and significance of The Square Mile. The City of course was once exactly that, and the powers now enshrined by the Corporation of London were historically guarded furiously. It is why that area, bounded by its Dragon statues, has a separate branch of the police force. Now they don’t want tents and the masses on their patch, but they never did. They always wanted commerce. Stand on the hill and look straight down Fleet Street and you will see it runs past Temple Bar, down the Strand, to Westminster and then Buckingham Palace beyond. “What the City loves to earn, Westminster loves to spend” was the old adage, but they too always looked warily at one another and created complex checks and balances to protect their powers.

Around that mile, in Shakespeare’s day, grew up the so-called Liberties of London, like Southwark, South of the river. In Shoreditch was once the biggest collection of slums and brothels in Europe. So too lay the playhouses, the bear pits, and the beer and Pleasure Gardens. Of course, in a different age, it was the Bishop of Winchelsea in Southwark who both purchased his position from the Queen, at £400 a year, and licensed many of those brothels. How times have changed, in this rather haunting crisis of the headless Anglican Church, except that the City’s attitude has always remained the same and always will. It was they who established edicts to drive out rogues, vagabonds and sturdy beggars, whether wearing T-shirts calling for the abolishment of money or not, though in 1572 actors at least, the players, became exempt from those if protected by a Lord or patron, and so the Burbage family could establish London’s first permanent playhouse for purely theatrical performances – called simply, The Theatre. Yet still only on the fringes of that powerful Square Mile, as were The Red Lion, London’s first permanent building, The Curtain, Rose, Swan and Globe.

This may all be high drama, even farce, which is better than real violence, though a more violent farce may ensue, and now the Dale Farm Protestors against Capitalism have joined the merriments too. But it was foolish of St Paul’s to close its doors at all, and this succession of resignations may lead to a mounting tragedy that exposes the confusion in the Church and the powerlessness of people in the face of laws that are practical, even involved with Health and Safety, but also fundamentally designed to support the functioning of a City, and a now world financial system. Money and trade are what matters to London, as to New York. We all know we somehow need that system, which incited the Mail Online to produce a headline like ‘A Rabble Without A Cause’, yet it is the concentration of wealth within that Mile, like some vast piggy bank only those in the know understand, or can really raid, that makes this rather a telling moment, and the physical position of the protestors very interesting too, poised between the House of God and the House of Mammon. It seems to have got far more coverage than protestors traditionally camping outside the supposed seat of Government and legislative power, Parliament. In a world where wool and bushels of corn have become International bank transfers, complex derivatives and deals made far beyond the skirts of the Old Lady of Threadneadle Street, it is purely symbolic, but symbolism is what catches the media eye too and translates so many human aspirations and paradoxes around the globe. All the world’s a stage!

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FRANK GARDNER, TINTIN AND WHAT IS GAINED IN TRANSLATION

I have met Frank Gardiner, and was as shocked by his shooting as I was impressed and moved by how he has fought on as a journalist, now in a wheel chair. His race after the story of Tintin last night was very interesting, though perhaps it lacked a little humour. But Gardiner is a serious journalist, he says inspired to the cause by the books themselves, and it is certainly true that Tintin is the straight man to all the other action. So following the first book, Tintin in the Land of the Soviets, still banned in Russia, was a worthy journey. It was fascinating to see how Herge used real life, up to the minute press stories, and how his own politics was influenced by exposing the evils of the Bolsheviks. He was engaged with his time, on a world scale, and that itself may have justified a young man’s initial silence about the Nazis, in a country under occupation. Remember they tried to suggest PG Woodhouse had facist tendencies too.

But the best bit was learning about that man-woman team who championed the cause and became Tintin’s original translators. Every culture makes great works their own, and of course to us the Tintin books were identifiably British, thus easy to relate to, though with more than a hint of the exotic too. Marlinspike Hall locates it in a British world, though modelled on a French Chateau, but of course that was thanks to translations of characters like Professor Turnasol into Calculus, and Dupont and Dupond into Thomson and Thompson. Above all though in those oddly Belgian books comes Tintin’s great friend and cypher, beyond Snowy, Captain Haddock. The old sea dog’s Red Rackham’s Treasury of colourful swear words were summoned from their imaginations and we owe them a very great debt, by blue blistering barnacles!

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TINTIN AND THE FAILURE OF MOTION CAPTURE?

PRESS RELEASE: Phoenix Ark Press adopts Tintin as Mascot:

They argued it hotly on The Review Show recently, rather condemning Stephen Spielberg’s Motion Capture techniques for the new Tintin, the only possible literary mascot for Phoenix Ark Press! Particularly because Motion Capture deprives the actors of facial emotion. Many kids love it, which is its own vindication, and yet, although classic strip cartoons were in a sense a kind of precursor to movies themselves, they are also far more than that, as are Graphic Novels. Who could forget just one box from Tintin in Tibet, the moment Tintin has his dream and wakes with an explosive sneeze of ‘CHANG‘?

So much is happening, just in that one picture, it might be a movie in itself. The point is that in those marvellous, original and heroic books lies so much more than can be contained in a speedy narrative adventure. The art in enjoying them is not the speed either, it is the slowness, what your imagination has to create and interpret between the gaps, the very point of books, and the joy that you and kids can paw over them for hours and hours on end, rediscovering things all the time. Just study who is looking at who in the picture above.

Some of the female commentators especially said that Tintin never turned them on, like this movie, because it is so lacking in emotion. In fact, the process for a child is learning emotion and complexity through the drawings, and the Tintin series is filled with emotions, from Chang’s rescue, a book that was pennded during a nervous breakdown, and the Yeti’s heartbreak at the loss of the human he protected, to Captain Haddock’s passionate rages, guilts and embarrassments, to the horror of Raskacapak, and the anger of the Gypsy at Marlinspike, in The Castafiore Emerald, that might put you on the side of Dale Farm. Although it is true Tintin never gets a girlfriend. They are also filled with an understudied theme in literature, the role of animals, while they capture some eternal truth about the real world, which is why in King Ottaker’s Sceptre the adventure is spliced between children rooting around on a Third World rubbish tip, at the start and end of a story of regime change. As for the politically correct, that could be complicated, especially during Nazi occupation which Herge admitted part swept him up. But perhaps Tintin in Tibet was a kind of moral redemption for him, after his flirtation with Jungian analysis, while Herge was not only a person of his time, which still allowed the Robinsons Golliwog, he was also an artist who grew all the time, and was constantly on the side of the underdog – with Snowy at his side, of course, pawing over all the marvels. Which brings us to the true story of finding a real Snowy at Battersea Dogs Home recently, but not having signed up early enough to take him home. Woof woof!

The cartoons are from public domain Wikepedia images of Tintin.

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