On 5 March 1914, The London Group held its inaugural exhibition at the Goupil Gallery, 5 Regent Street, London. You probably haven’t heard of the Goupil, which shifted between several central London locations before it was flattened by a German bomb in 1941. Despite a nomadic existence, The London Group has proved much more durable: it survived the Second World War, decades of changing tastes in the art world and a verbal carpet bombing by bilious art critic Brian Sewell. Dr Richard Cork, Sewell’s predecessor at the London Evening Standard, was much more complimentary when he spoke at a reception at Tate Britain on the 100th anniversary of that first exhibition.
An invitation to an after-hours event at a major London gallery is always exciting. With fewer people around it’s easier to absorb the impact of Caruso St John’s high-profile £45 million makeover of Tate Britain. Entering through the reopened “front door” on the Millbank side, I descended via the stunning new spiral staircase beneath the rotunda, to the pristine white surroundings of the cavern-like Djanogly café, where the reception was held.
Current members, their partners and invited guests heard Richard Cork reflect on The London Group’s early years. It was an era in which the art world was dominated by “isms” (Fauvism, Cubism, Vorticism), and the challenge of conveying wholesale slaughter on the battlefields was taken up by many painters and sculptors. They included David Bomberg, who was part of the Group’s first exhibition and whose painting, In The Hold, was a key work in last year’s A Crisis of Brilliance exhibition at the Dulwich Picture Gallery.
As Cork touched on some of the controversies and described the brutal evolution of Jacob Epstein’s Rock Drill sculpture, I thought about a more recent attempt at emasculation. Brian Sewell’s withering assessment of the exhibition, Uproar! The First 50 Years of The London Group 1913-1963, included the assertion that the Group has been in “irreversible decline” since the end of the Second World War and “ought long ago to have been put down”. Strong stuff. I might be reading too much into the rantings of a grumpy old man, but it sounded as though Brian thought The London Group should have perished in a Luftwaffe bombing raid.
I’m not a professional artist or art critic; I was flattered to be invited to the Tate reception as a result of a blog I wrote last year. Brian Sewell is much better qualified than I am to compare the merit and the impact of The London Group’s second half century with its early years at the cutting edge of the art scene. The first London Group show featured more than 100 works by artists including Wyndham Lewis, David Bomberg and CRW Nevinson. It’s probably too early to say whether any of the current members will be as influential – though Dame Paula Rego’s international reputation precedes her.
But Sewell’s comment that The London Group in its later years “has meant very little to working artists and nothing at all to the wider public” is breathtakingly arrogant and ill-informed. Did he bother to interview any current members before reaching this conclusion? Speaking to them last night and at previous exhibitions, I know that what Sewell dismisses as a “pathetic” Collective is an integral part of their professional lives.
Fortunately, Brenda Emmanus took a more measured approach in this week’s BBC London piece about the The London Group On London exhibition, which continues at the Cello Factory until 12 March. Among the interviewees was 91-year-old Albert Irvin RA, a member since 1965, whose paintings and prints are most often characterised as “exuberant”. (That’s not a description that could ever be applied to Brian Sewell.)
Longevity is not always a reliable guide to the value of work, organisations or individuals. (A certain veteran art critic should have been put out to pasture some years ago.) But enduring links to a pivotal era in 20th-century British art are worth celebrating. Tate Britain holds a fascinating collection of London Group documents, catalogues and photos within its huge (entirely dust-free!) archives.
In the words of its current President, Susan Haire, “The London Group is thriving and we expect to be around for the next 100 years.”
The papers are full of hand-wringing editorials about the overheated property market in London and the South East. Who should we blame for this rocketing house price inflation – vote-chasing politicians or the invading hordes of cash-rich overseas investors, who could obviously give Croesus or Carlos Slim Helú a run for their money?
I blame estate agents. Tennyson once wrote, “In the Spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.” But it’s greed, not romance, that sends London’s army of estate agents into a feeding frenzy at the first sign of springlike weather. With their clipboards, shiny shoes and gigantic bunches of keys, they’re out to seduce you – into a quickie sale.
In the past week, my letter-box has been rattling like a badly installed sash window, as unsolicited mail from local estate agents drops onto my doormat. “I know you are not currently on the market and I’m sure you must be receiving a lot of unwanted correspondence from estate agents in the area,” began once such missive. You’ve got that right. Sadly, after that rare moment of insight, the letter degenerated into the usual mixture of excited claims about double-digit price increases and chain-free buyers who can “move as quick or as slow as is needed”.
I am excited that estate agents now have access to a supply of dual-speed, chain-free purchasers, but it seems to have come at the cost of employing adverbs. This letter did come from Dexters – the apostrophe-free estate agent – so perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised that grammar isn’t a strong point.
It’s greed, not romance, that sends London’s army of estate agents into a feeding frenzy at the first sign of springlike weather.
When they’re not writing letters, estate agents are penning columns and posing for photos in glossy magazines like Absolutely West, one of a raft of publications from Zest Media. According to its website, Zest “produces luxury lifestyle magazines for the ultra high net worth residents of London”. This is property porn: pages of “magnificent, one-of-a-kind” residences to salivate over, just bursting with desirable period features, well-appointed wet rooms and “mature” gardens.
Television has got a lot to answer for too: property gurus like Kirstie Allsopp, Phil Spencer, Sarah Beeny and the unctuous Kevin McCloud have been trampling all over the schedules for the past decade. Watching people buy, sell and attempt to renovate their homes has become one of the nation’s most popular spectator sports. How many times can you watch some dreary couple walk into a master bedroom and say “This is so big!” without feeling the urge to defenestrate them? Rather than knock down any more stud walls, I think someone should take a sledge-hammer to Kirstie Allsopp.
So be warned: if you live in one of London’s property hotspots, you will be bombarded with carelessly drafted mailshots until you give in and agree to a “FREE VALUATION”. From there it will be a rollercoaster ride of open-house viewings, leading to feverish negotiations, sealed bids and possibly a spot of gazumpering or gazundering. Your friendly estate agent collects his commission for doing bugger all. Game over.
To borrow a phrase from Burt Bacharach and Hal David, “A House Is Not a Home” in 21st-century London and it’s certainly not a humble abode in which to relax at the end of a long working day. I’d just like all the estate agents to leave me in peace, so that I don’t feel as though I’m trapped in a reality TV version of the board game Monopoly.
Last night’s Culture Show on BBC2, Lego – The Building Block of Architecture, turned out to be the televisual equivalent of Doctor Who’s Tardis. From the outside (my onscreen programme guide), this promised to be a nostalgic half hour in the company of twinkly Tom Dyckhoff, exploring the enduring appeal of one of the world’s most popular toys. To my surprise, this programme stretched the boundaries of its all-too-brief running time with a magical mystery tour through post-modernism, Meccano and even Minecraft!
The story began in Denmark, a country usually viewed by envious foreigners as a Northern European utopia – though not if you happen to be a cute giraffe named Marius. In the 1930s, an enterprising carpenter from Billund called Ole Kirk Kristiansen decided to switch from building barns to making toys.
It was the era of the Great Depression, and the recently widowed Ole needed to keep his young family afloat. In 1934 his company was named Lego, which is a contraction of the Danish Leg Godt (play well). Things really took off in the 40s, when the firm started experimenting with a plastic injection-moulding machine, and the studded Lego binding brick was born.
Now Lego and its sub-brands – Lego Star Wars, Lego Ninjago, Lego Chima – are so ubiquitous that there are 86 pieces of Lego for every person on the planet. But the essence of Lego is that it’s supposed to be fun and an outlet for creativity, rather than just the three-dimensional equivalent of a jigsaw puzzle. As one of the contributors here said, it’s all about diving into a “big bucket of mess” and seeing what you can create from the myriad of red, yellow, blue, black and white bricks.
Lego had a major rival in Meccano, which originated in Britain in the 1890s. The nuts and bolts Meccano aesthetic gave rise to hi-tech architecture like the Lloyd’s building in London. The “simpler, safer” Lego is said to have inspired post-modernists to get creative with colourful combinations of “circles, cylinders, squares and triangles”, as in James Stirling’s No 1 Poultry. Now Lego fan and star architect Bjarke Ingels is building the company’s new HQ in Billund, in the playful and unmistakable style of its own product.
I’m not sure whether the look of any of these buildings will stand the test of time, but they are a welcome departure from modernism’s obsession with glass curtain walls and dispiriting slabs of grey concrete. These days, budding architects have moved from experimenting with little plastic bricks to the digital playground and unlimited possibilities of Minecraft.
“There are no limits to what you can do,” explained one of Minecraft’s young proselytes, who is just one of 42 million users worldwide. It’s even more collaborative than Lego, because your fellow enthusiasts don’t have to be in the same country, let alone the same room.
Tom (a Minecraft virgin) explained that it’s not just a tool for creating fantasy worlds; architects, town planners and citizens can interact and experiment with ways to improve our built environment. The UN has harnessed the crowdsourcing potential of Minecraft to work with young people in Kenya on urban regeneration projects.
Watching Tom plant some flaming torches under a dark bridge in a simulated version of his East London neighbourhood, I was reminded that the virtual world isn’t immune from fire hazards. Last summer my six-year nephew was reduced to tears after his Minecraft hotel with wooden fittings burned to the ground. Unfortunately he had built it in the path of an active volcano.
Actor Philip Seymour Hoffman has died, aged just 46, and all some people seem concerned about is the future of The Hunger Games franchise. This is both crass and cruelly ironic, given that Hoffman’s filmography was notable more for quality art house hits than cinematic blockbusters.
The first Philip Seymour Hoffman film I ever saw was 1992′s Scent of a Woman, and the last was The Master. Of course, Hoffman was not the star or even the juvenile lead in Scent of a Woman. Martin Brest’s syrupy, overlong drama was a vehicle for Al Pacino, who won an Oscar for his shouty performance as the blind Lt. Col. Frank Slade; the charisma-free Chris O’Donnell played his young “aide” and minder. It’s 20 years since I last saw the film, but was Hoffman’s presence, personality and rather shambolic appearance as the obnoxious student George Willis, Jr. that I remember.
By the time he played cult leader Lancaster Dodd in The Master, Hoffman himself merited that description as an actor with versatility, courage and great sensitivity. To be honest, it was a film that bored and infuriated me in equal measure, though that was largely down to the mumbling Joaquin Phoenix. But Hoffman was menacing and magnificent, and I’m glad that the title of Paul Thomas Anderson’s movie has provided headline writers with a neat way to memorialise one of the greatest screen actors of the last 20 years.
The Guardian has got in ahead of me with its Philip Seymour Hoffman greatest hits package, so here’s my own tribute.
Paul Thomas Anderson directed Philip Seymour Hoffman in five films – Hard Eight, Boogie Nights, Magnolia, Punch-Drunk Love and The Master (2012). Speaking of their final collaboration, Anderson said that as an actor Hoffman had “gotten older and more confident”. He also acknowledged the fragile nature of that craft, “Because you can have it one day, and it’s not there the next . . . “
Boogie Nights saw Hoffman cast as the lovesick Scotty J, one of the large and dysfunctional “family” irresistibly drawn to studly 70s porn star Dirk Diggler (Mark Wahlberg).
Cooper’s Town was the actor’s film and TV production company, which he founded with Emily Ziff. The company’s productions included Capote, The Savages and Jack Goes Boating.
Death of a Salesman – the 2012 Broadway revival of Arthur Miller’s play earned Hoffman a Tony award nomination for his performance as Willy Loman.
Film critic Roger Ebert memorably described the actor as having “a gift for playing quickly embarrassed men who fear rejection”.
Flawless gave Hoffman one of his most flamboyant roles as Rusty, a New York drag queen, pre-op transsexual and mistress of the one-liner.
God’s Pocket, a black comedy drama directed by Mad Men star John Slattery, screened at Sundance last month and was one of Hoffman’s final movies.
Philip Seymour Hoffman was born on 23 July 1967 and died on 2 February 2014. The cause of death was reported as a heroin overdose.
“I liked it all. Yeah.” In a 2006 60 Minutes interview the actor gave a candid assessment of his past relationship with drugs and alcohol.
Jack Goes Boating was Hoffman’s 2010 directorial debut. He also reprised his role from Bob Glaudini’s play as the socially awkward limo driver Jack, who dates Connie (Amy Ryan).
“A truly kind, wonderful man and one of our greatest actors – ever.” A heartfelt Twitter tribute from Mia Farrow.
Lester Bangs, the rock journalist in Almost Famous, was one of several real-life roles played to great acclaim by Hoffman. “The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what you share with someone else when you’re uncool.”
Mimi O’Donnell was Hoffman’s long-term partner and mother of his children, Cooper, Tallulah and Willa. O’Donnell was the costume designer on Jack Goes Boating.
Mike Nichols directed the actor on screen in Charlie Wilson’s War and in the stage productions of Death of a Salesman and The Seagull.
His Oscar win was for his role as author Truman Capote in Bennett Miller’s 2005 biopic, Capote. He was also nominated three times in the best supporting actor category (Charlie Wilson’s War, Doubt and The Master).
As Plutarch Heavensbee, Head Gamemaker in the Hunger Games series, Hoffman had one of his highest profile roles. Parts 1 and 2 of Mockingjay are still scheduled for release in 2014 and 2015. In a 2013 interview he declared himself a fan of author Suzanne Collins and her books.
Quality directors – Mike Nichols, Paul Thomas, Bennett Miller, Spike Lee and David Mamet – are conspicuous on Hoffman’s lengthy filmography.
Rumpled was the word most often used to describe the actor’s off-screen appearance.
Synecdoche, New York saw Hoffman cast as theatre director Caden Cotard, who’s beset by personal problems and obsessed with a painstaking production that recreates his own life inside a huge New York warehouse. Rolling Stone called it a “mind-bender”.
Triple Bogey on a Par Five Hole – Hoffman’s intriguingly titled but little-seen 1991 film debut.
Unfinished projects at the time of Hoffman’s death included the TV comedy, Happyish, in which he was due to star as the creative director of a New York-based advertising agency. Only the pilot episode of the Showtime series had been shot.
Vancouver Film Critics Circle was particularly generous to Hoffman, handing out best actor awards for Capote and 2003′s Owning Mahowny and a best supporting actor prize for The Master.
Worst film? The Robin Williams vehicle Patch Adams earned some terrible reviews, but my least favourite Hoffman movie is Along Came Polly, the scatological “comedy” starring Ben Stiller, Jennifer Aniston and a ferret.
X-rated – the graphic bedroom scene with Hoffman and his on-screen wife Marisa Tomei that opens Sidney Lumet’s 2007 thriller, Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead.
The Yearling, a 1994 TV movie, was a rare family-friendly entry on Hoffman’s CV.
Paul Zara (Hoffman) was the old-school campaign manager outmanoeuvred by his protégé Stephen Meyers (Ryan Gosling) in the 2011 political thriller, The Ides of March.
Either David O Russell is the hottest Hollywood director on the planet, or those myopic voters at the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences really need to get out a bit more.
If I was an actor I would be desperate to get cast in David O Russell’s next film. How desperate? Well, I wouldn’t think twice about turning myself into a walking skeleton or running around in a plastic bin liner in the name of art. That’s because Russell is becoming almost as prolific at piling up Academy Award nominations as the great Meryl Streep.
Russell’s latest movie, the crime drama American Hustle, is loosely based (“Some of this actually happened”) on the FBI’s Abscam sting operation of the late 70s and early 80s. But the real story is that it has 10 Oscar nominations, including best picture, best director and a clean sweep in the acting categories. That’s on top of last year’s eight Oscar nominations for Russell’s “bipolar romantic comedy” Silver Linings Playbook and seven for his 2010 boxing biopic The Fighter.
All of this might lead you think that either David O Russell is the hottest Hollywood director on the planet, or those myopic voters at the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences really need to get out a bit more.
In American Hustle it’s the ever-adaptable Christian Bale who looks twice the man he was in The Fighter. He’s piled on 43 pounds and sports an embarrassing comb-over to play New Jersey dry cleaner-turned-con man Irving Rosenfeld. Look out for the can of Elnett hairspray enjoying a brief cameo in the opening scenes, as Bale shows off his newly acquired paunch, while assiduously covering his balding pate.
Irving and his mistress Sydney Prosser (Amy Adams) have been doing quite nicely with a loan scam in which she poses as an English aristocrat to reel in gullible investors. But then Bradley Cooper’s cocky FBI agent Richie DiMaso catches up with the pair and forces them into an elaborate con, involving a fake Arab sheikh and a scheme to build casinos in Atlantic City. Irving and Sydney are just the bait to catch some much bigger fish, including a New Jersey Mayor played by Jeremy Renner.
I’d never heard anything about Abscam before I saw this movie, but at times it seems like a mere backdrop for other distracting subplots involving sexual jealousy and overweening ambition. Cooper’s coke-snorting DiMaso is a vain, corkscrew-permed ball of energy who alternates between sparring with his mild-mannered boss (played by Louis CK) and putting the moves on Sydney. Equally unstable is Irving’s young wife Rosalyn (Jennifer Lawrence), who almost betrays him to her Mafia lover and has a nice sideline in blowing up kitchen appliances.
As a cinemagoer, I’ve rarely been impressed by movies that come garlanded with multiple Oscar nominations. James Cameron’s Titanic boasted 14 nominations (it won in 11 categories), but I still regard it as a titanic, iceberg-shaped cinematic turd. If American Hustle was a less high-profile production I’d be more inclined to downplay its flaws and simply enjoy the fact that it is a lip-glossed, star-studded slice of largely undemanding entertainment, showcasing some great 70s tunes. Plot-wise it’s not in the same league as The Sting, but it is less narcissistic than the tiresome Ocean’s Trilogy.
But with Lawrence and Cooper getting Oscar nominations for their wildly over-the-top roles here, you have to wonder what Russell was thinking when he cast them. I did enjoy their sparky, old-fashioned romantic partnership Silver Linings Playbook, though it was no masterpiece. In American Hustle it’s as though they’ve been ordered to “turn it up to eleven” in every scene. The result is a mood of sustained hysteria that unbalances the film and detracts from an affecting performance by Amy Adams. I think the voters at AMPAS have been conned.
“There nothing noble about poverty,” declares Jordan Belfort during one of his rabble-rousing speeches in Martin Scorsese’s Oscar-nominated biopic, The Wolf of Wall Street. Of course there’s not a hint of penury or nobility here – just three hours of excessive profanity and boundless greed, interspersed with gratuitous nudity and drug-taking. It’s quite a ride.
The Wolf of Wall Street is based on the 2007 autobiography by superstar stockbroker Jordan Belfort, who is played here by the perennially youthful Leonardo DiCaprio. An ambitious 22-year-old, Jordan makes his Wall Street debut as a lowly “connector” at Rothschild. The catastrophe of Black Monday (19 October 1987) later puts him out of a job, but soon he shows his mettle flogging penny stocks to gullible punters in a crummy “boiler room” on Long Island.
Jordan teams his dazzling sales patter with the equally dazzling dental work of portly sidekick Donnie Azoff (Jonah Hill). Together with some pals they found the Long Island brokerage house Stratton Oakmont, earning zillions of dollars trading worthless stock. Behind the august name is a company built on fraud, but no one cares when there are yachts, mansions, drugs and parties galore, topped off with dwarf-throwing and fish-swallowing shenanigans in the office.
The ultra-macho, high-energy world of brokerage depicted here is a perfect match for a film-maker with Scorsese’s pedigree. If anyone can convey the sheer adrenaline rush of men behaving very badly, it is the man who directed Goodfellas. The intensity of DiCaprio’s performance as the supercharged hustler is quite literally eye-popping. Schmoozing, scheming and shrieking, he moves from triumphs on the sales floor to a bedroom bust-up with his second wife Naomi (Margot Robbie), often looking as though he’s about to burst a blood vessel.
Scorsese also uses DiCaprio’s voiceover to provide a glib and wholly unapologetic commentary on Jordan’s antics. There’s no hint of regret when Wife No. 1 catches him snorting coke off the breasts of (soon-to-be) Wife No. 2 in the back of a limo. Even when the SEC and dogged FBI Agent Patrick Denham (Kyle Chandler) are closing in on him for fraud and money laundering, this Master of the Universe coolly holds court on his yacht.
The Wolf of Wall Street features some memorable cameos, notably from a shockingly gaunt Matthew McConaughey as Jordan’s first mentor, Mark Hanna. His yodelling, chest-beating, coke-snorting pep talk over a liquid lunch makes quite an impression on the wide-eyed young Jordan. As the surprisingly broad-minded Aunt Emma, the always decorous Joanna Lumley brings an unexpected frisson to a park bench scene with Jordan.
The most jaw-dropping scenes here follow an unwise decision to experiment with some out-of-date Quaaludes, which (according to Jordan) appear to mimic the effects of cerebral palsy. Our drooling and incoherent hero ends up exiting a country club on his stomach and almost totalling his car. Yet he’s still able to revive a similarly stricken Donnie, who’s about to choke to death on the kitchen floor.
Over the course of three hours The Wolf of Wall Street delivers slick entertainment and the vicarious thrill of watching people cocking a snook at authority. What it lacks, though, is much in the way of character development or tension. Unlike other Scorsese films, there’s no bloodshed or imminent threat of violence. There’s not much drama either in the way Jordan is finally forced to do a deal with the Feds and accept a short jail sentence. The lawyers and law enforcers remain largely peripheral.
It goes without saying that the women characters get very short shrift in this male-dominated world. Some will revel in the amount of naked female flesh on display here, but I would have liked to see some emotional depth in a film that lasts as long as this one. The one exception is Margot Robbie’s powerful scene with DiCaprio, as their marriage finally breaks down and he faces the prospect of losing his kids. This is raw, ugly and, unlike much of this film, it is not played just for cheap laughs.
The Wolf of Wall Street is stylishly directed and well-acted, but when you strip away the glamour and the thrill of getting away with it for so long, the story of Jordan Belfort didn’t seem that interesting or important to me. This is a minor work in the Scorsese canon, and I wish that he and Belfort had put their undoubted talents to better use.
Who needs frankincense and myrhh round the manger, when you can drop in on the life and death struggles in New Mexico’s cleanest meth lab?
In December I got a Netflix account and decided to have a (Walter) White Christmas by watching all five seasons of Breaking Bad. In case you hadn’t heard, Breaking Bad is regarded as The Greatest TV Show Ever Made by people who divide their time between watching a lot of TV and taking potshots at people who have the temerity to disagree with them.
It is still OK to admire The Sopranos, Mad Men, Game of Thrones, or any of those other dramas previously encumbered with the GOAT (Greatest of all Time) label. But failure to worship at the altar of Breaking Bad means you’re seriously uncool, yo!
The hero (well anti-hero really) of Breaking Bad, is 50-year-old Albuquerque chemistry teacher Walter White (played by Bryan Cranston). Walt, as he’s known to his family, has advanced lung cancer and can’t afford to pay for his treatment. His totally off-the-wall solution is to take up cooking methamphetamine (crystal meth), in partnership with his meth-head former student, Jesse Pinkman (Aaron Paul), who is a Grade A f***-up.
Over the course of five seasons, Walter (aka Heisenberg) and Jesse establish themselves as the equivalent of three-star Michelin chefs when it comes to cooking up their distinctive blue product. But you can’t sell meth without getting into bed (figuratively speaking) with some very bad people. Despite his superior intelligence, Walt becomes so addicted to the pursuit of money, power and revenge that he puts his family in the firing line.
After 62 episodes and around 50 hours of viewing, I concluded that Breaking Bad is the perfect antidote to Christmas TV schedules crammed with saccharine seasonal fare, dim-witted reality shows, and repeats of repeats of repeats. Who needs frankincense and myrhh round the manger, when you can drop in on the life and death struggles in New Mexico’s cleanest meth lab?
In a TV landscape cluttered with shows about lawyers, cops and doctors, Breaking Bad is, in many ways, a breath of fresh air. Instead of endless shots of the New York/LA skyline, we have those barren desert landscapes illuminated by a pitiless sun, where Walter and Jesse begin their meth odyssey, cooking in their RV-cum-mobile meth lab.
This show, created by Vince Gilligan (The X-Files) is intricately plotted and brilliantly acted, especially by the central trio of Bryan Cranston, Aaron Paul and Anna Gunn, as Walter’s wife and partner in money-laundering, Skyler. As thoroughly amoral lawyer, Saul Goodman, Bob Odenkirk gets some of the best lines to go with his hideous shirt/tie combinations. His wardrobe alone deserves a Golden Globe nomination.
A man with as many secrets as Walter White needs a worthy adversary. In Breaking Bad the forces of law and order are represented by the portly figure of DEA agent Hank Schrader, who just happens to be Walt’s brother-in-law. Jovial Hank is played by the magnificent Dean Norris, and I’m afraid my interest in Breaking Bad took a nosedive when poor old Hank bit the dust (quite literally) towards the end of Season Five.
Of course major characters get bumped off all the time in TV Land. My issue with Breaking Bad is that way before the final episodes I’d decided I didn’t care whether Walter White succumbed to The Big C, got buried alive in the desert, or just fell into a really big vat of Methylamine.
That’s not a reflection on Bryan Cranston’s acting, but on the extent to which his character dominated the show at the expense of developing other figures. I’d have liked a lot more of Hank and the fastidious fast-food proprietor/drugs impresario Gus Fring (Giancarlo Esposito). The lugubrious Mike Ehrmantraut (Jonathan Banks) was the one character who saw through Walter’s intellect and sensed the growing threat he posed. His contribution to Season Five turned out to be far more significant than Laura Fraser’s immaculately groomed Lydia Rodarte-Quayle. Was I the only one who wondered why Walt’s teenage son Walt Jr (RJ Mitte) was marooned at the breakfast table, destined never to get any storylines of his own?
Within the narrow scope of its drugs-related plot Breaking Bad often delivered thrills, surprises and very dark humour. But it rarely moved me, even as the death toll mounted and kids were poisoned and murdered. It didn’t have that quality that should have left me feeling bereft as the final episodes ticked away and my time with these characters came to an end.
So despite the awards, the hysteria and the breathless fan-boy bloggers, Breaking Bad was not for me the Greatest Story Ever Told. When the dust settles and all is said and done, it was just another TV show. You may disagree.
Thanks to @wayneley on Twitter for reminding me that 9 December was the 97th birthday of a true Hollywood great, Kirk Douglas. I must admit that I had put off writing about the star of Spartacus, thinking that an obituary might provide the ideal opportunity. But with Kirk marching inexorably towards his centenary, I realise that he’s likely to outlive many of us in the blogging community . . .
After Humphrey Bogart, Kirk Douglas remains my favourite star of Hollywood’s golden era. I’d happily be marooned on a desert island with a boxed set containing Spartacus, Paths of Glory, Out of the Past, The Bad and the Beautiful and Seven Days in May. No other actor has led with his chin with such intensity and for so many years.
There’s nothing wrong with celebrating a Hollywood legend while he’s still with us.
Ace in the Hole was described by its director Billy Wilder as “one of my most sombre pictures”. Douglas’s swaggering portrayal of cynical newshound Chuck Tatum is journalistic hubris run riot in a dusty corner of New Mexico.
Bryna Productions, set up in 1955, took its name from the actor’s mother. The company’s films include Spartacus, Paths of Glory and the 2009 documentary, Kirk Douglas: Before I Forget.
Champion (1949) provided an early pugilistic role for Kirk Douglas, as boxer Midge Kelly.
Issur Danielovitch was his birth name. Kirk’s dad, Herschel, was an immigrant of Russian-Jewish descent, who came to New York not long before Kirk’s birth in 1916.
Eric Douglas, the younger son of Kirk and his second wife Anne Buydens, was an actor and comedian who died in 2004.
Frequent co-star Burt Lancaster appeared in seven films with Kirk, beginning with the 1948 crime drama, I Walk Alone.
Gunfight at the O.K. Corral is the most famous of the Douglas-Lancaster collaborations. Kirk played Doc Holliday to Burt’s Wyatt Earp.
Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer were unlikely roles for Lancaster and Douglas in the 1981 stage play, The Boys in Autumn. The veteran actors played Mark Twain’s much-loved characters as a couple of old-timers, reuniting after 50 years.
“I’m Spartacus!” probably the most famous line from any of his movies and the title of his 2012 book.
Kirk is Jewish, though in a 2012 interview he confessed: “I was not a very good Jew. I never practised what Judaism tells you to do, to teach your kids all about Judaism.” He’s had three bar mitzvahs to date.
Stanley Kubrick directed Paths of Glory and was later hired to replace Anthony Mann on Spartacus.
Loser at the Oscars. Though nominated three times for Best Actor (Champion, The Bad and the Beautiful and Lust for Life), his only success to date was an honorary award in 1996.
Michael Kirk Douglas (born in 1944) is the most famous of Kirk’s four sons. The pair co-starred in the 2003 drama, It Runs in the Family, which also featured Michael’s son, Cameron Douglas, and Diana Douglas, Kirk’s first wife.
US Navy – Kirk served during WWII and was honorably discharged in 1944.
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest – Kirk bought the rights to Ken Kesey’s then-unpublished novel in the early 60s. He played the lead role of Randle P McMurphy in a Broadway production, but it was Michael Douglas who went on to co-produce the Oscar-winning 1975 movie, which starred Jack Nicholson.
Paths of Glory (1957) – Kubrick’s lacerating anti-war drama saw Kirk deliver one of his most heartfelt rants as the idealistic French officer Colonel Dax. After failing to defend his men against trumped-up charges of cowardice, Dax attacks Gen. Broulard: “You’re a degenerate, sadistic old man and you can go to Hell before I apologise to you!”
Richard Quine directed one of Kirk’s lesser-known movies, the 1960 romantic drama Strangers When We Meet, which co-starred Kim Novak.
The Ragman’s Son was his first volume of autobiography, published in 1988. As the title suggests, the book covered his rise from an impoverished childhood as the son of a Russian ragpicker to fame and fortune.
St Lawrence University is the actor’s alma mater, where he gained a degree in English. In July 2012, the Douglas Foundation donated a further US$5 million to a scholarship set up in 1999 for students from disadvantaged backgrounds.
Two Weeks in Another Town (1962) was Kirk’s third collaboration with director Vincente Minnelli. Like The Bad and the Beautiful it was an overwrought Hollywood melodrama, with Kirk as a broken-down actor.
UnAmerican activities was the stick used to beat Hollywood writers like Dalton Trumbo (Spartacus), who refused to co-operate with investigations into alleged Communist influences in Hollywood from the late 1930s. Kirk helped break the blacklist in 1960, by publicly acknowledging Trumbo’s role on the film.
Vincent Van Gogh was the subject of the 1957 biopic, Lust for Life, with Kirk in the title role.
Wrestling was his sport during his college years.
X-rated – Brian De Palma’s thriller The Fury was released in the UK in September 1978 and, like Carrie, featured a teenager with telekinetic abilities. Sam Irvin, an intern on The Fury, remembers star Kirk Douglas as “an incredible professional” who was in “fantastic physical shape” for his all-action role.
Young Man with a Horn starred Kirk as jazz cornetist Rick Martin, a character based on Bix Beiderbecke. Lauren Bacall, who had dated Kirk while at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts, played his wife.
Ground Zero – in 2010 the actor weighed in to the controversy over whether to build a mosque near the site of the 9/11 terrorist attacks, saying it would be “painful” for the families of those who died.
We’re heading into end-of-the-year “gong” season again, and for sports fans that means BBC Sports Personality of the Year 2013 – helpfully shortened to SPOTY. On Sunday 15 December our finest athletes, coaches and managers will brave a barrage of BBC roving microphones and Gary Lineker’s aftershave to review a year of sporting triumphs and near-misses.
Though this is the 60th anniversary of the SPOTY awards, the show’s diamond jubilee will be missing a bit of sparkle. Sue Barker, for so long the jewel in the crown of BBC sports coverage, has opted to “downsize” her commitments and retire from her SPOTY duties after 19 glorious years. (Don’t worry, tennis fans, she’ll still be anchoring the BBC’s Wimbledon coverage and flirting with Tim Henman.) Her place will be taken by glamorous Gabby Logan, whose legs will share the limelight with Gary Lineker and Clare Balding.
After the gold rush of London 2012 there was a risk that 2013 might have fallen as flat as the much-touted Olympic legacy. Nothing could be further from the truth. The England cricket team’s summer Ashes campaign may have been unconvincing, but no one could doubt the quality of Ian Bell’s batting or fast bowler Stuart Broad’s unerring knack of getting up Aussie noses. Justin Rose triumphed at the US Open in June; Chris Froome made it back-to-back wins for Sky at the Tour de France in July.
The crowning glory in another Great British Summer of Sport was Andy Murray becoming the first British male to win a Wimbledon singles title since Fred Perry in 1936. If that doesn’t win him the SPOTY award for 2013, I’ll eat a haggis.
I’ll be giving SPOTY 2013 a miss, for reasons I outlined last year. Instead, I’d like to pay tribute to the sports personalities whose loose-lipped, gaffe-prone, foot-in-mouth antics have kept the headline writers busy over the past 12 months.
Pulling no punches – David Warner
In June 2013 pugnacious Aussie opening batsmen David Warner narrowly escaped being sent home from the Ashes tour, after attempting to punch England’s Joe Root during a bar-room altercation over an improvised wig. Much hilarity centred on the fact that Warner only “caught the outside edge” of the baby-faced Root’s face. Five months later Warner was on target as he delivered the coup de grâce to Jonathan Trott, describing the England batsman’s second innings dismissal in the Brisbane Test as “pretty poor and weak”. He wasn’t being malicious – just honest – but Warner didn’t know that Trott’s batting was crippled by a stress-related condition. Trott flew home; Warner got beaten up in the press by various Aussie legends and England captain Alistair Cook.
Ernests Gulbis – no more Mr Nice Guy
Latvian tennis player Ernests Gulbis has a name that looks like a typo and a penchant for shooting his mouth off. He made headlines during the French Open in May, by condemning the world’s leading stars – Federer, Nadal, Djokovic and Murray – for their boring post-match interviews. He does have a point – these encounters between the press and the “Big Four” are masterclasses in the art of saying nothing controversial let alone confrontational. On the other hand, tennis careers are measured in trophies not bons mots. As this compilation shows, Gulbis (“I never practise that much”) is a top exponent of self-deprecating humour, but he’ll never win a Slam.
Sir Alex Ferguson wields a blow torch
In case you hadn’t heard, Sir Alex Ferguson (aka “SAF”) retired as Manchester United manager after steering the club to a 20th league title in April 2013. Fergie may have hung up his “hairdryer” for good, but he returned to put the boot into his former players with the literary equivalent of a blow torch. “David Beckham will feel like he has been ambushed, mugged and beaten up” claimed one newspaper as Fergie’s imaginatively titled Alex Ferguson My Autobiography lambasted Becks for putting celebrity haircuts before his footballing career.
Why 2013 sucked for Sir Bradley Wiggins
After the glory and adulation of 2012, cycling’s “modfather” Wiggo fell off his pedestal in 2013, losing his titles and his dignity. From his premature exit at the Giro d’Italia in May, to his ignominious retirement at the World Championships in September, Sir Brad was generally out of form and out of luck. As his feud with team-mate Chris Froome rumbled on, Wiggo put the finishing touches on his Annus Horribilis with an ill-timed sex quip at a Barnardo’s charity event. The Firecracker Ball was in aid of victims of child abuse but no one was feeling charitable about the cyclist’s lewd comment to the auctioneer. Sorry, Wiggo, but you’re the one who sucks.
Assem Allam puts his mouth where
his money is
They admire plain speaking in Yorkshire, but Hull City owner Assem Allam’s “I don’t mind them singing ‘City till we die’. They can die as soon as they want,” riposte at protesting supporters went down like a lead balloon. Assam, who’s sunk more than £60 million into the club, believes renaming it Hull Tigers will signify “power” and increased marketability. Perhaps he should take his cues from Chelsea boss Roman Abramovich, who keeps his gob shut when the peasants are revolting and leaves the quips to Jose Mourinho.
HE’S BACK!!! Dominic Sandbrook presents the BBC2 series Strange Days: Cold War Britain, part of a season of programmes examining what the Beeb calls the “superpower stand-off” that began after World War II. “Red Dawn”, the first instalment in this three-part series, was packed with more incident, big personalities and creeping paranoia than your average 13-part blockbuster drama. There was no way this story could be anything less than enthralling. So why then did I find myself fixating on the shortcomings of the production and its presenter?
I had watched Dominic’s earlier series The 70s, so it probably shouldn’t have been a surprise that he’s still busy overemphasising for Britain. His hammy delivery is the TV equivalent of peppering your sentences with italics and capitals and then ending them with a screamer (that’s an exclamation mark!). After a sobering reminder that Britain has been at war for “five of the last eight decades”, Dominic announced “It was a war that FRAMED all our lives!”. Just in case you didn’t get the point, there was the accompanying frame-shaped hand gesture to ram home his point.
You should also know that Dominic’s documentaries are best watched with a mobile device close by, so that you can Shazam the multitude of musical selections and add them to your playlist. Beginning with the silky smooth tones of Julie London singing “Our Day Will Come”, Strange Days kept throwing new tunes into the mix at the rate of about one every two minutes. Presumably, the programme-makers think that viewers have such a short attention span these days that all factual TV must be edited in the style of a YouTube greatest hits packages. That is sad.
From Winston Churchill’s 1946 speech in Fulton, Missouri about the growing threat of the Iron Curtain (“Don’t Fence Me In”), to the Soviet invasion of Hungary a decade later, Strange Days wove together a multitude of storylines. Dowdy postwar Britain was both in thrall to the “special relationship” with glamorous America and living in fear of what Churchill dubbed “the poison peril from the East”.
Not so much Very Reverend as incredibly deluded, Hewlett Johnson “fell in love with Communism in action” in the 1930s.
Then, as now, the British press were quick to turn on foreign visitors who abused the hospitality of our great nation. In November 1945, a tour by the all-conquering Moscow Dynamo football club began with cheers, flowers and record crowds turning up to watch the nimble Russian visitors play Chelsea at Stamford Bridge. But before long the newspapers rounded on these “secretive, surly and suspicious” Soviets, whose rough-house antics on the field were as troubling as their connections to the secret police. The visitors responded by accusing the home teams of being “stuck in the past” tactically. Well some things never change.
While the names of Cambridge spies like Burgess and Maclean are written in infamy, I must admit that I wasn’t familiar with another of the Soviet Union’s biggest fans, Hewlett Johnson. Nicknamed the Red Dean of Canterbury, the white-haired Johnson looked like one of those dotty vicar characters you see in Ealing comedies. Not so much Very Reverend as incredibly deluded, Johnson “fell in love with Communism in action” in the 1930s. He was convinced that the tyrannical Stalin was a benign figure, whose policies promised both economic and spiritual salvation. Johnson’s unwavering support was rewarded with the Stalin International Peace Prize in 1951 and perhaps a one-way ticket to Purgatory.
As a red-nosed Dominic Sandbrook stomps across a snowy Red Square, contemplating the unholy alliance between Johnson and Stalin, “Mad about the Boy” plays on the soundtrack. But to borrow a phrase from another Noel Coward song, I think “Mad dogs and Englishmen” would be a better description of this “strange romance between the Soviet tyrant and the Anglican priest”.