The other day, I was watching Michael Powell's early masterpiece "The Edge of the World." Inspired by the evacuation of St Kilda, it tells the story of a community torn over the way forward - do they stay and make the best of the only life any of them have ever known, or do they cut their losses and leave?
Of course, Scotland has been gearing up to ask, and answer, a similar question for some time now, with a final agreement reached last year on a referendum for 2014 on whether it should remain part of the United Kingdom. As in Powell's film, there are voices on both sides of the argument, but it is a fairly fundamental question that faces the Scots - stick with the UK, or go it alone; reset the clocks to pre 1707 and forge a new path.
I've always been fairly persuaded that the SNP would lose that vote. But now we have to factor in something else. Europe.
The prospect on a referendum on the UK's future in the EU is a potential disruptor for the unionist cause. If the majority of the UK votes to leave the EU, but there isn't a majority in Scotland, then Scotland would presumably be taken out of the EU along with everyone else, but against the wishes of its population. Scots might presumably look over the border between now and 2014 and wonder what the English are thinking. The unionists have been saying that a vote for independence would be to introduce uncertainty over Scotland's future, particularly with regard to automatic continued membership of the EU. This is a fairly convincing argument. However, if we're now saying that the only way to guarantee continued Scottish presence within the EU (even if there has to be a hiatus while they apply for membership) is a vote FOR independence then the rules of the game have changed slightly. All of this presupposing of course that the Scots are more pro-EU in the first place.
Since devolution a lot of genies have escaped from a lot of bottles, and now that's happening on both sides of the border-that-currently-isn't-a-border. Mr Cameron could be shaping up as the Prime Minister who took Britain out of Europe and presided over the break-up of the UK. Well, it's certainly a legacy.....
Interesting times.
Showing posts with label Scotland. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Scotland. Show all posts
Friday, 25 January 2013
Wednesday, 25 January 2012
Happy Burns Night!
"Titfield. One can't open the newspaper these days without reading about Titfield."
With these exasperated words the Minister of Transport in Ealing Studios' "The Titfield Thunderbolt" wearily resigns himself to the fact that Something Must Be Done. It isn't just going to go away. At the moment, the same can be said about Scotland - and the fact that it's everywhere in the papers at the moment as one side seeks to cut loose, whilst the other searches for elusive positive arguments for why we'd be better off sticking together....
So anyway, given that it's Burns Night, its time to sit down and consider the story of the struggle between a cheery streetwise ginger Scotsman, and his ancestrally Scottish putative overlord up from London with the English accent - yes, Ronald Neame's film of James Kennaway's "Tunes of Glory."
TOG fits perfectly in with the first rule of British cinema - that if it's set in Scotland and was made before about 1965 it's going to be good (the exception, naturally, being Jack Hawkins and David Niven in "Bonnie Prince Charlie"). It tells a complex story of power and identity, that is fairly ambivalent in its presentation of the two protagonists Jock Sinclair (Alec Guinness) and Basil Barrow (John Mills). Indeed, by the end it's difficult to know who you're supposed to be rooting for.
The plot is straightforward enough: Jock, an officer commissioned from the ranks after Alamein, is acting colonel of his highland battalion, garrisoned in a peacetime barracks similar to Stirling Castle. Basil is the 5th generation regimental officer sent up from instructing at Sandhurst to take command over Jock's head.
The antagonism between the two characters provides a window on the eternal questions of Scottish identity, and what is proper behaviour. Jock has his officers dancing reels with gay abandon, hollering and raising their hands above their heads; Basil is convinced that his officers should be dancing "correctly," and orders them to attend remedial dancing classes at dawn with the pipe major. As an aside, as someone who has been given some very stern looks at the Northern Meeting I can confirm these attitudes persist on the 21st century Scottish dancefloor.
Some of it is more subtle - can Basil really be considered Scottish with his English accent, even though he is undoubtedly from north of the border and from an old Scots family? Are the attitudes of his officers to him mirrored in the scorn of the pipe major for the clearly English Regimental Sergeant Major, Riddick? And can any self respecting Scotsman take seriously as his commanding officer a man who will turn down whisky in favour of lemonade?
The officers are an odd bunch. Gordon Jackson is ever-reliable as the adjutant, but then there are characters like Alec Rattray, clearly a bruiser after Jock's heart, and a marvellously malevolent turn from Dennis Price as Major Scott - a man who manages to alienate everyone around him by the end of the film, stealing Jock's lover and completely undermining Basil whilst giving every outward impression of being on his side.
Shot in technicolor, the film is these days a distinctly period piece, but it has some marvellous scenes - particularly of the reeling - and Guinness was never better than in this film: indeed, he saw it as the performance he was most proud of in his career.
Ultimately, it's a study of leadership, and the shifting currents of loyalty within a tightly sealed world. It gets under the skin of the immediate postwar army in a way that perhaps only George Macdonald Fraser's McAuslan stories (interestingly also dealing with a Highland battalion) have matched. It deserves a new audience.
With these exasperated words the Minister of Transport in Ealing Studios' "The Titfield Thunderbolt" wearily resigns himself to the fact that Something Must Be Done. It isn't just going to go away. At the moment, the same can be said about Scotland - and the fact that it's everywhere in the papers at the moment as one side seeks to cut loose, whilst the other searches for elusive positive arguments for why we'd be better off sticking together....
So anyway, given that it's Burns Night, its time to sit down and consider the story of the struggle between a cheery streetwise ginger Scotsman, and his ancestrally Scottish putative overlord up from London with the English accent - yes, Ronald Neame's film of James Kennaway's "Tunes of Glory."
TOG fits perfectly in with the first rule of British cinema - that if it's set in Scotland and was made before about 1965 it's going to be good (the exception, naturally, being Jack Hawkins and David Niven in "Bonnie Prince Charlie"). It tells a complex story of power and identity, that is fairly ambivalent in its presentation of the two protagonists Jock Sinclair (Alec Guinness) and Basil Barrow (John Mills). Indeed, by the end it's difficult to know who you're supposed to be rooting for.
The plot is straightforward enough: Jock, an officer commissioned from the ranks after Alamein, is acting colonel of his highland battalion, garrisoned in a peacetime barracks similar to Stirling Castle. Basil is the 5th generation regimental officer sent up from instructing at Sandhurst to take command over Jock's head.
The antagonism between the two characters provides a window on the eternal questions of Scottish identity, and what is proper behaviour. Jock has his officers dancing reels with gay abandon, hollering and raising their hands above their heads; Basil is convinced that his officers should be dancing "correctly," and orders them to attend remedial dancing classes at dawn with the pipe major. As an aside, as someone who has been given some very stern looks at the Northern Meeting I can confirm these attitudes persist on the 21st century Scottish dancefloor.
Some of it is more subtle - can Basil really be considered Scottish with his English accent, even though he is undoubtedly from north of the border and from an old Scots family? Are the attitudes of his officers to him mirrored in the scorn of the pipe major for the clearly English Regimental Sergeant Major, Riddick? And can any self respecting Scotsman take seriously as his commanding officer a man who will turn down whisky in favour of lemonade?
The officers are an odd bunch. Gordon Jackson is ever-reliable as the adjutant, but then there are characters like Alec Rattray, clearly a bruiser after Jock's heart, and a marvellously malevolent turn from Dennis Price as Major Scott - a man who manages to alienate everyone around him by the end of the film, stealing Jock's lover and completely undermining Basil whilst giving every outward impression of being on his side.
Shot in technicolor, the film is these days a distinctly period piece, but it has some marvellous scenes - particularly of the reeling - and Guinness was never better than in this film: indeed, he saw it as the performance he was most proud of in his career.
Ultimately, it's a study of leadership, and the shifting currents of loyalty within a tightly sealed world. It gets under the skin of the immediate postwar army in a way that perhaps only George Macdonald Fraser's McAuslan stories (interestingly also dealing with a Highland battalion) have matched. It deserves a new audience.
Monday, 23 January 2012
Sleeping your way to a Meeting
Recently, the sleeper service between London and points Scottish has come under the threat of having its funding withdrawn. Whilst this lunacy seems to be diminishing after a rare outbreak of common sense, perhaps now’s a good time to consider why these services are so vital to the wellbeing of their users.
The first thing to say is that I’m not rampantly anti-aviation. I think it would be a good thing if we all took fewer, and shorter flights, but there are times when obviously only the plane will do. In the UK we have the real advantage that nowhere is really all that far from anywhere else. Admittedly, if you live in Truro and get asked to a forty minute business meeting in Inverness then you should probably think twice about whether a conference call might not be a better idea; but there is generally no need to be leaping on the plane for an internal flight every couple of days.
A couple of years ago I was travelling regularly from London to Edinburgh on business, and you got to recognise the same faces standing in the queue for security at 0630 on a Monday morning. I just couldn’t understand how people could keep up this existence for any length of time. Of course, I realise that some people make calculations based on needing to do it – in order to see more of their children and have a workable home life - but it did seem to me that this sort of extreme commuting meant serious compromises in other areas of life, and high levels of stress and exhaustion.
After a while I investigated the possibility of taking the sleeper instead of the plane – I’m generally pretty positive about rail travel anyway, and it seemed to have been the right solution for Richard Hanney….
Quite simply, it was a revelation. Yes it takes longer – London to Scotland and back in 30 odd hours instead of say 14, but it opens up time for much better use than standing in queues or waiting for the transfer bus to a far distant airport car park.
Given my general antipathy to London, the sleeper at least gives me the opportunity to go and have dinner with those of my friends who haven’t yet managed to escape! From the restaurant or bar a quick tube to Euston sees me on the train and in bed by midnight, before being lulled to sleep by the motion of the train as it makes its way out through the northern suburbs and onto the West Coast mainline.
The berths are spartan but comfortable, and if you know the dates you want to travel a decent time in advance then you can usually get a cabin to yourself for about the same price as a business internal flight. When you wake up it’s to the sight of the Pentland Hills rolling past the window, and you’re into Edinburgh in time for a shower, breakfast, and a read of the paper before your nine am meeting. You’re less stressed, better rested, and arguably better able to perform. That night, simply repeat the process with your Edinburgh based friends….
Of course, this sort of thing is made a lot easier if you’re single, and don’t have a partner or family who may be less enthusiastic about you spending more time away than you technically have to, but, if you can get away with it, then it really is the only way to travel.
If the sleeper service was withdrawn tomorrow then the world would still keep turning, and most people would carry on without batting an eyelid, but something that makes Britain ever so slightly more civilised would have vanished; in the long run that would make us all the poorer.
Monday, 21 November 2011
The Last of Scotland...
“I reached the point of thinking there were no more masterpieces to discover, until I saw I Know Where I’m Going!” – Martin Scorsese
A couple of years ago, I went up to Mull for a holiday – I say holiday but it involved 16 of us in a rented house and culminated in two nights of carnage at the Argyllshire Gathering and Northern Meeting…
Although Mull is worth a visit in its own right, it held a special attraction for me as the location of my favourite film – I Know Where I’m Going!
Mention British film to the average man in the street and you’ll get, depending on your respondent, reference to the “kitchen sink” films of Lindsay Anderson, all grim back streets and domestic violence; the Carry On school of tired jokes and more tired actors; or The Full Monty. Occasionally, you’ll strike gold – and someone will mention Powell and Pressburger, Britain’s answer to, well, nobody really. Nothing in Hollywood has ever touched them for inventiveness, storytelling, or the sheer artistry of filmmaking.
Reaching a critical peak towards the end of World War Two with The Life & Death of Colonel Blimp and A Matter of Life and Death, they also found time to knock out more routine propaganda fare like The Way Ahead. But it was I Know Where I’m Going!, made as a black and white quickie while they awaited the colour film stock to produce Life and Death, that deserves to stand as their masterpiece.
The plot is slight enough – Joan Hunter (Wendy Hiller), is a young woman determined to get on in life, travelling to the remote island of Kiloran to marry rich industrialist Sir Robert Bellinger at the end of the war. Bellinger is at least twice her age, but he can give her the money and status this middle class daughter of a bank manager desires more than anything else. Stormbound on Mull, she falls under the spell of Torquil MacNeil (Roger Livesey, possibly the only credible romantic lead in the history of the world to be called Torquil), and is forced to confront what it is that she really wants from life.
Roger Livesey was something of a mainstay of P&P’s films, both as a supporting actor and lead (most notably as the title character in Colonel Blimp), but he was never better in his career than as the cash strapped laird, on leave from Navy, and trying to get home through the storm to his island. Wendy Hiller is a little more grating at first, but soon becomes utterly believable as a spoilt young woman slowly coming to life more than she ever imagined possible.
As usual with P&P, an entire thesis could be written on their use of inventive camera work to convey the dream like world of the Scottish Highlands – from the steam emerging from the stationmaster’s hat at Buchanan Street station, through to the bizarre sequence where she is married off to the factory hooter at Consolidated Chemical Industries by her father who is dressed as a vicar.
But the real power and artifice is in what they don’t show – Bellinger is never anything more than a voice at the end of a telephone, whilst one of the most spell-binding moments comes with Miss Crozier’s description of the Argyllshire Gathering; a lesser filmmaker would have put in some trite sub-Brigadoon ceilidh scene, whereas here it’s all in the description and the way first Crozier’s eyes come alive as she describes the clothes and music, and then Joan’s expression changes in reaction.
Before we leave the subject of eyes, in a film which trades largely on reaction and heightened emotion, one of the most powerful and unsettling pieces of British cinema is surely the end of Livesey’s recitation of Nut Brown Maiden halfway up a step ladder at the Campbell’s diamond wedding(!), where he fixes Hiller with an absolute gaze of steel and says “You’re the Maid for Me.”
The real star of the film is of course Scotland, and P&P write an absolute hymn to a now vanished way of life. The cinematography is superlative (without even going into the fact that Livesay never left Buckinghamshire throughout the shoot - contractual obligations meant he couldn’t travel to Scotland so all his outdoor scenes feature body doubles interspersed with close ups of his face!). From the first meeting with Torquil’s old childhood friend Catriona, silhouetted against the dusk skyline with her baying hounds, to the famous scene at the Corryvreckan whirlpool, this film takes you to the highlands in the 1940s and does its best to leave you there. Although I’ve always resisted the temptation, it would be perfectly possible to get to the end and just start watching it all over again.
As Raymond Chandler said,
“I’ve never seen a picture which smelled of the wind and rain in quite this way, nor one which so beautifully exploited the kind of scenery people actually live with, rather than the kind which is commercialised as a show place.”
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