Watch Jeremy Clarkson’s show about the Victoria Cross: where it comes from, how it’s made and who makes them, and who deserved to win them.
The sting will come in the tail.
Then watch the sorta-sequel, of the greatest raid of all.
We are not worthy of men such as these.
I see with great regret that the peerless travel writer Bill Bryson is closing up his inkwell for good.
In an age when cheap airfares and package tours — not to mention online “visits” through media such as Gurgle maps and InstaGram — could have made travel writing about as relevant as toenail clippings, Bryson’s refreshing, no-nonsense style has defied the trend.
I first encountered the man through his Lost Continent: Travels In Small-Town America. I found in Bryson a kindred soul because at the time, Longtime Buddy Trevor Romain and I were doing very much the same thing, albeit on a smaller scale: once a year we would take a long weekend off work, pick a part of the U.S. that we’d never visited before, and fly in (he from Austin and I, at that time, from Chicago). Then we’d rent a car and set off, destination unknown and only the return flight’s departure time as a deadline. The Golden Rule: No Interstate Highways. Even major U.S. roads with only two digits (e.g. U.S. 30 or Route 66) were treated with suspicion, and we’d get off into the back country roads with alacrity.
We were often asked why we did this — and we did it for nearly a decade — and our reply was simple. We did it to remind ourselves why we had both left our country of birth and settled in this new, this wonderful and this dauntingly-large and diverse land.
To say that we met interesting people would rank among the great understatements of the century: in New Orleans, Queer Tom and Opera Kate (an out-of-work opera singer working as a barmaid); the lady in a little town outside Portland who collected frogs of all descriptions (stuffed, porcelain, wooden, whatever) and displayed them all in her restaurant; the huge guy in New Hampshire who, when we asked him if he’d ever played football lisped: “Nope. I got weak kneeth”; and the slightly-batty breakfast diner owner in Rhode Island who wore the most eccentric earrings we’d ever seen, a different pair every single day; these, and many, many others were encountered in our travels, and gave us both dinner-party conversation topics and “Remember when?” reminiscences that survive to this day.
And during every single trip, Trevor and I fell in love with America all over again.
So when reading Bill Bryson’s books, it was like reading about one of our own “Blue Highways” trips (the name taken from the title of William Least Heat Moon’s book of the same ilk). And when Bryson settled in Britishland, it gave rise to works like the astonishing The Road To Little Dribbling and Notes From A Small Island — books which, because I’d been to the U.K. often myself, made me nod my head because I too had been to Little Dribbling, only it was called Upton-Under-Wold, Thirsk or Lesser Foldem.
I cannot recommend his work highly enough, because he is an extraordinary writer who sees everything through a pair of clear-sighted lenses and not rose-tinted ones. Never one to suffer fools or stupid things, he still talks about them with affection covered by incredulity. If you’re looking for a reading project for the winter, you could do a lot worse than read everything Bill Bryson has ever written.
And Bill: good for you. While I am distraught at your retirement, I am forever grateful to you and your wonderful works.
As to why he’s getting out:
“I would quite like to spend the part that is left to me doing all the things I’ve not been able to do. Like enjoying my family, I have masses of grandchildren and I would love to spend more time with them just down on the floor.”
I can think of no better reason. Give them each a hug from me.
Over the past weekend I watched Trumbo, the story of the Marxist screenwriter blacklisted by Hollywood during the Red Scare back in the 1950s. To say that I watched it with a jaundiced eye would be a very big understatement, because I suspected (just from the trailer) that the movie would just be one big blowjob for both Dalton Trumbo and his merry little band of Commiesymps who infested Hollywood back then.
And it was. Needless to say, the movie made villains of the conservatives who opposed the Marxist infiltration: people like John Wayne and Hedda Hopper in particular, Wayne because Wayne, and Hopper because she had a son serving in the U.S. Navy during the Korean War. Of course Wayne was made out to be a bully and Hopper a vindictive bitch — and the Senators and Congressmen who haled the Commies in front of the Senate and House Un-American Committee (HUAC) were depicted as ideological purists who saw Communists behind every bush — even though, in the case of Hollywood, there were Commies behind every bush at the time.
Of course, much was made of the fact that being a Communist wasn’t actually illegal (then, and now), and Trumbo made a great show of this being a First Amendment issue — which it was — and how these Commies all wanted to improve America, but of course there were evil right-wingers like Wayne, Joe McCarthy and HUAC harassing them at every turn.
The execution of the traitors Julius and Ethel Rosenberg got a little puff piece in the movie, which didn’t — couldn’t — actually say they weren’t not guilty of treason espionage, so it was brushed over with the throwaway that it was the first execution for esionage in peace time, as though peace time should give espionage a pass. And if that wasn’t enough, the Rosenberg children were paraded around as sympathy magnets — as they still are — because Communists have no problem using children to serve their own purposes.
Anyway, it all ended well because a few courageous moviemakers flouted the blacklist and finally posted Trumbo’s name in the screenwriting credits for Exodus and Spartacus.
Which brings me to my main point. I think we can all agree that blacklists are iniquitous — essentially, blacklists mandate the suppression of people’s livelihoods just for holding unpopular opinions or beliefs. It’s a good thing that Trumbo never wrote the word “nigger”, “queer” or “lesbo” in any of his screenplays, or else his work would be on another blacklist, this time drawn up by the humorless and wokey censors that are everywhere prevalent in show business, academia, government and corporations. (That these sensitive, censorious souls are proud to call themselves Communists — I’m sorry, democratic socialists or anti-fascists — is an occasion for mirth, irony and satire, but of course ideologues, Marxists most of all, are characterized by a singular lack of a sense of humor.)
So here we are, in a full circle: people are denied consideration for employment for their political beliefs; employers get rid of people with contrary political beliefs; and institutions are being forced to implement policies that parrot the “party line” or The Narrative (take your pick).
But here’s the essential difference between the 1950s-era blacklist and that of the 2010s. When people fought back against Communism encroachment into the American polity and culture, it wasn’t because they were “fascists” or “right-wingers”; it was because the truths of life under Communism were everywhere to be seen: gulags and the KGB in the Soviet Union, poverty, murder and corruption in socialist Third World countries, and rampant misery in all — all — the countries behind the Iron Curtain. There was a very good reason to prevent Communism from taking hold here.
Now? There are no examples of actual “fascism” in America, and to any Black person from the 1880s through the 1950s, the wokeist accusations of modern-day “systemic racism” would cause loud laughter and a shaking of the head. The only ills that modern-day Communism would seek to cure are largely imaginary, a product of a mindset that demands “safe spaces”, “freedom from hate” and “Black(-only) Lives Matter”.
One thing that does interest me, purely as an intellectual exercise: would the late Dalton Trumbo agree with what’s going on with the modern-day blacklist? If he didn’t — assuming he could see the parallels between his predicament in the 1950s with “wrongthinkers” of today — I would hope that he’d employ the same passionate arguments and his legendary scorn against today’s blacklist as he did for his own.
If, however, Trumbo didn’t come out against today’s blacklist and even supported its aims, then I would suggest that his blacklisting in the 1950s was fully justified.
Earlier this week I talked about the benefits and/or wisdom of having all your favorite movies on DVD, against the possibility that they could be “canceled” (i.e. censored or maybe worse, bowdlerized) by The Usual Suspects.
So here’s the first part of a list of movies I think one should have in one’s video library, or the stars / directors thereof, just on case they appear on some lefty’s Enemy Of The People list.
Actors:
Clint Eastwood — pretty much any or all his movies (even Bridges Of Madison County , but not Paint Your Wagon ) because a) Clinty and b) the Left hates him for being a conservative.
John Wayne — ditto, except for the appalling The Conqueror (Genghis Wayne? No.)
Lee Marvin — ditto, except for Paint Your Wagon as noted above, and especially The Dirty Dozen.
Steve McQueen — yeah, he was a wife-beater. So he’ll be on someone’s list sooner or later.
Paul Newman — as an Eastern liberal, he’s probably not going to be “canceled” anytime soon, but everyone should have The Sting, Butch Cassidy, Hud and The Hustler on their shelf anyway.
Directors:
John Frankenheimer — just about all his movies, but especially The Manchurian Candidate, Birdman Of Alcatraz, Grand Prix and Ronin. Quite possibly the best action-movie director ever.
John Milius — we all know him from Red Dawn, of course, but there’s also Conan and Flight Of The Intruder.
Clint Eastwood — he’s already up as an actor, but his solo (non-acting) directing shouldn’t be ignored, either. Think of Bird, Sully and American Sniper.
We’ll talk about specific must-have movies in the next part of the series.
Feel free to add your favorite “bodies of work” in Comments. Leave specific movies till next time.
Apparently, Villanelle is self-conscious:
Killing Eve star Jodie Comer might be one of the most successful actresses in the world, but she admits to having insecurities on set. The 27-year-old said she struggles playing sexy characters and admits she feels most at home playing a character while make-up free.
Just so we’re all on the same page — Killing Eve was a nice surprise; I thought it was going to be dire — so, as a public service to any Readers who haven’t seen the show, let’s examine the evidence. Here’s Jodie all dressed up and looking sexy:
…and here she is in her preferred style:
Lovely, both ways.
I have often heaped scorn on adults who still read comic books and watch movies based thereon, but as with all things, there are exceptions to this.
One of them is the peerless Asterix series of comic books, created by the now-deceased French writer/illustrator team of Rene Goscinny and Alberto Uderzo, translated into English (and improved) by the late Anthea Bell and Derek Hockridge. (I’ve read them in both French and English, and the English ones are funnier to Anglophones because the French dialog often references obscure French customs and idioms.)
The reason that the Asterix books are so funny is that while on a superficial level, the story is aimed at children and can be enjoyed by them (Gauls beating up Romans, and the hero Asterix getting involved in all sorts of escapades), the real humor is in the writing. This is not child’s play at all, because one needs a real knowledge of Latin, some Greek, and huge dollops of classical history for much of it to make sense. (Older TV cartoons — Bugs Bunny, Mickey Mouse etc. — are similar in that while there’s a lot for kids to enjoy, the humor is often very adult, in the traditional sense.)
What often causes me to break out in howls of uncontrollable laughter are the names: the Gauls (Asterix, Obelix, Cacafonix the bard, Impedimenta the chief’s wife, Unhygenix the fishmonger and his wife Bacteria, Postaldistrix the mailman, etc.), the Romans (Spurius Brontosaurus, Gluteus Maximus, Surplus Dairyprodus, Crismusbonus, Dubious Status, Nefarious Purpus, etc.) as well as other nationalities (Ekonomikrisis the Greek/Phoenician, Wotzisnehm the Indian fakir, Mykingdomforanos the British chieftain, Edifis the Egyptian architect, etc.).
Likewise, Uderzo’s depictions of all these characters are wonderful: full of expression and action, they make the Marvel-type of cartoon drawing look like the work of children. Here are just a few examples:
And then there are the ladies:
But they all pale into insignificance when there’s fighting:
And cultural differences are always a source of entertainment, whether it’s just beer:
…sexism:
…a Roman orgy:
…or just a sly dig, so to speak:
…and occasionally, there are some guest appearances:
I could go on all day about this wonderful creation, but there’s a decent Wikipedia entry (for a change).
I’ve read the first twenty-four (the “true” Asterix books) in the series, and maybe a couple of others. I have only a few in my library, because they’re expensive when bought Over Here. But to re-read them is a very definite item on Ye Olde Buckette Lyste.
Oh, and to bring this all (very) up to date: in Asterix And The Chariot Race (published in 2017), Asterix’s main competitor is named… Coronavirus.