Happy Mondays: The Greatest Hits (4)

Toward the end of the eighties, the well-known British indie band, Happy Mondays, also added a keyboardist / multi-instrumentalist to their line-up, in the person of Bill Bailey. This, however, was not a very successful and long-lasting collaboration - mostly because it never happened.

***

Bill Bailey did, however, happen  (and is still happening); and his keyboard/ guitar/ theremin/ glockenspiel ("Er spielt mit glocken!") skills are very real, as well. The reason why he merits the inclusion in this series of posts is twofold: his narrative comedic style, and his ability to find and to create humor in and through music.

On the first aspect, I would say that in Bailey's case we encounter a combination of attributes not unlike the one that we enjoyed in Dylan Moran's case - wit and intelligence, a fairly well-read and informed mind, and an artistic imagination that is able to roam freely, making connections on the fly, with a special propensity for the surreal and the paradoxical. It is especially this dimension of creativity - not being afraid to go wherever imagination and the feel for the comedic may take you - that sets his narrative comedy apart, and makes it interesting and (let's say) literate. Because, just like in Moran's case, what Bailey is doing is in fact "writing" - but, on the spot, with and for an audience, and through the means of orality. Stand-up comedians are, in fact, writers (most of them) - whether they pick up a pen or a laptop, or not.

The second aspect refers to the way in which Bill Bailey incorporates music as a comedic field, medium and instrument. This means finding the humorous (paradoxical, surprising, incongruous) within music itself, and also being able to express oneself comedically through music. But no, this does not mean some half-baked, three-cord "funny songs;" that would be appalling (unless, of course, it is intentionally stupid). Bill Bailey's musical knowledge and skills are in fact of quite a high level and wide ranging - style-wise, from classical to dub-step; and instrument-wise, from the keyboard to the (aforementioned) theremin (see his special, the Remarkable Guide to the Orchestra, which follows in the very noble and British tradition of Benjamin Britten's The Young Person's Guide to the Orchestra) - which is why his "musical comedy" is also intelligent and interesting.

Now, "Bill Bailey" (which, of course, is not his real name, but a stage name inspired by that famous song) at times also brings other parts of his persona to his comedic work - the persona of the aged hippie, of the nature- and animal-lover (perhaps a bit too much so), of a spiritually interested (with the usual Eastern leanings) but now probably agnostic (or a-religious) bloke - all in all, with all the good and the bad (blind spots, prejudices, some cultural clichés) of his time (born in 1965) and of his place (Brit mainstream culture). But this is where a mature consumer of art should be able to make certain differentiations - between a person's high level artistry (in one domain), and the same person's less than impressive show-up in other domains.

As a side note, it is a peculiar - if understandable - weakness to look at famous people (who are famous because of a particular skill, or simply because of the mechanisms of the market) and to try to see them as life models (fame does not translate to wisdom, and more often than not their private lives are miserable).

So I selected Bill Bailey for this series of posts on excellent comedy - because of his superior, intelligent, and creative comedic artistry. And, since nowadays we have all those commands at our disposal - of Play, Rewind, Fast Forward, Pause, Skip - let us press "Play" for the following bits of baileian comedy:














Speaking of Bill Bailey and Dylan Moran, the two of them (whom I consider to be the two top British - and not only - stand-ups of the 2000s) also worked together in a wonderfully creative, bleak, funny, and smart sitcom (written by Moran & co.), Black Books - which featured the bohemian trio of a misanthropic Irish bookstore owner (Moran), his half-gnomic hippie aid (Bailey), and their perpetually lost and searching, caring yet acerbic woman friend (Tamsin Greig).

Three Scripts by Ingmar Bergman

Through a Glass Darkly; Winter Light; The Silence

The book was translated into English by
Bergman's brother in law, Paul Britten Austin. 

While reading these scripts, one is involuntarily - and voluntarily – thinking about, and making comparisons with, the movies themselves. I saw Through a Glass Darkly a few years ago, thus before reading the script; Winter Light I saw many, many years ago, so I re-watched it after reading the script; and The Silence I have never seen before, so I watched it only after reading the script. I chose to read these scripts (this book) for several reasons: out of curiosity; because I like Bergman (and was in the mood for it); because I find reading scripts interesting and useful; and because I have read a Bergman novel (!) years ago, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. So, a combination of these – this much for the reasons. But I kind of forgot all these initial impulses, once I started reading the book itself.

As said, I have read a Bergman novel many years ago, and I remember liking his writing style very much, and finding it very cinematic, and also curt, summary, brisk (bringing to mind Hemingway or F. Scott Fitzgerald – that interwar style of modern American literature – a style that I am very fond of). Browsing through the book (while deciding whether to pick it up and read it) I noticed that these scripts are formatted not quite like the usual scripts, but in a more easy-to-read, almost novel-like format (or like a play, but more fluid than that). Not like the usual movie scripts – as regular scripts follow very hard, formal rules, which makes them a bit awkward to read (as texts). For example, in these Bergman scripts one can find fairly lengthy descriptions of what characters are thinking or feeling, or of actions, which one would not find in a usual film script. So, I guess the genre employed in this book is something in-between a novel and a script (or viceversa) - and all that makes for an even more pleasurable reading experience. By the way, the script for The Silence has the most and the longest of such descriptions (or indications) – and rightly so, because a significant part of that movie’s “message” is conveyed through the presence of silence (and of related states) - expressed through sounds, through images, and through actions. Since dialogue can not “depict” those states and perceptions, one needs to add lengthier descriptions.

This is also why I found the script itself (for The Silence) the least satisfactory and engaging (as a text) - because it works much better as a movie, with images and sounds. Conversely, Through a Glass Darkly worked better for me as a text, not because the movie would be poor in any way, but because reading the script clarified certain things and in fact made the film more intelligible. And, since I am in the process of classifying (or so it seems), I should add that the script for, and the actual movie, Winter Light, were equally satisfactory - that "it" works equally well, in both mediums.

But what does it mean, that "it" - "works well?” Well, I find that a “characteristic” of Bergman’s movies is that they tend to start slow and somewhat underwhelming – and then, as soon as you are into them, that they grip you powerfully; and I found that this characteristic, which I have discovered while watching his movies, is also present and “palpable” and “working” in the texts, as well. Take Through a Glass Darkly, for example; it starts with a fairly inconspicuous scene of four people (two men, a woman, and a teenager) coming out of the sea, somewhere along the gray coasts of Sweden. (The color palette does not help in these three Bergman movies, as they are all variations of an overcast or closed - or wintry – sky, and of a fairly desolate land; or so one perceives them – remember, the movies are black and white; and Through a Glass Darkly actually takes place in the summer!). So, they might start a bit un-engaging - because what would one have in common with a mid-twentieth century middle-class Swedish family, spending time in these fairly desolate seaside environs? But, very soon, you enter into the meat and guts of the dissection of the human soul – and you are gripped; because Bergman’s movies are about that, about relationships and about our tempestuous and passion-filled inner lives.

And this is the thing at which Bergman is indeed best, masterful even – depicting relationships and inner happenings – the truth of existence in that sense – something one can not help but find gripping, and be gripped by. I have never encountered - not yet – any other director who does this as well as Bergman does (although I also have movies within his oeuvre that I do not like - like Fanny and Alexander, or like Saraband; the latter being especially disappointing, since it is supposed to be a sort of a sequel to Scenes from a Marriage, which is a perfect exemplar of Bergman at his best, and which might well be my favorite Bergman film). So it was surprising to see how this characteristics of Bergman’s films – and this foremost Bergmanian skill – of dissecting and presenting human relationships, and the inner happenings of the human soul, are also present and “working” in the scripts, as texts – just as much as on the screen, in the images-cum-audio medium.

But why is this? Why is the same thing effective both in the movie (the image-and-sound medium) and in the text (a different medium) - in Bergman's films? To understand why we should even ask this question, let’s take another example – say, Tarkovsky’s Andrei Rublev; now, I have not read the script for that movie, nor am I interested in reading it – or, rather, I would be interested, but only on a technical level, of how does one write a script for such a movie (that is, if he actually did use a traditional script). In other words, how could a text, a script, “describe” the poetic sweep of what is presented in Tarkovsky’s movies only through images, movement, camera, sound? The specificity of the medium of cinema is that its main tool of expression is the moving images – to which one ads sound, color etc.; that is what sets it apart, that is what gives it its specificity, that is its language (with its specific powers and limitations).

So what is the specific position (or status) of the word, and of dialogue, in a movie? It is but one component of it - sometimes necessary, but not always; a film is a film because of the moving pictures (with sound); and there have been some exquisite movies that have only used that, the moving images with sound (for example, Into Great Silence). Yes, words are necessary in a specific kind of movies - well, in most types, nowadays; but not in all. So what is then the status of “the word” in Bergman’s movies? Well, if Tarkovsky’s principal mean of expression is the poetic image (images, movement, faces and actions, sounds), in Bergman dialogue (expressing relationships and inner states) is essential (even if as a monologue). And this is not because Bergman would be wordy, or because his films would be “filmed theater plays” (although he also wrote plays), but because his films’ essence is the dissection and unveiling of the deeper realms of the human interiors (heart, soul, mind) - and of the human relationships. And while this can be done – and is done, The Silence comes to mind – through wordless acting, through faces - words, especially by expressing and revealing relationships, are central to what these movies are and do. But, of course, this does not mean, ever, verbosity or cheap loquaciousness; his style is restrained, like his characters (very often) are. (Bergman is no Woody Allen.) But because of the role that dialogue and words play in his movies, both the scripts and the movies work similarly, and in parallel, and we perceive things around similar points in the narrative - both while watching the movie, and while reading the texts (the exception, as said, is The Silence, which works much better as “moving images with sound,” than as text - because we need to perceive “the silence,” whether it is manifested as a street’s cacophonous noise, or as the alien and slightly threatening presence of an unknown building; but all these, we need to see and to hear, and a script can not do justice to these forms of perception).

I mentioned that I really like Bergman’s writing, qua writing (his style). Although these are scripts (or a variety of that genre), the same briskness that I saw used in his novels – get to the point! do not explain too extensively! let actions speak for themselves! let the reader fill out the rest (emotions and images) within himself! – is also a trait of these scripts. But I am repeating myself.

What I did not like, or what I liked less, in these scripts (and movies) were those moments or dialogues (not many, though) which came across as slightly artificial – words that were probably meant to underline something that Bergman wanted us to know, and that were forced in incongruously with the previously built characters and actions. I am referring to moments or words that did not seem to be rooted in, and to follow naturally from, where the given persons were and what they were, and what had gone on before. I include here the concluding words spoken by the boy in Through a Glass Darkly, or the lengthy self-exhibiting diatribe directed by Tomas, the pastor, to Jonas, the farmer, in Winter Light. The latter, for example, would be uncharacteristic for the reserved Pastor Tomas, especially versus a fairly anonymous (in terms of the existing relationship between the two) parishioner. And, in Through a Glass Darkly, those concluding words from Minus... - who talks like that? I guess that my concern is with the groundedness of these episodes in the actual reality of the people, contexts, and actions, as we have come to know them from the film itself - and from our own general understanding of human behavior and of everyday existence (and this groundedness is what I refer to as “realism”).

My answer to this problem is that I think that we should trust the reader (spectator), and his understanding – we do not have to tell him what to understand, but the skill is to shape the action and the characters so that what is to be understood will emerge and will be felt “naturally,” through (and along) the unraveling of the events.

Another technical detail – and related half-question that I would have – regards the fact that the movies themselves (as filmed) follow these scripts very closely (except for very few, very minor deviations); so, I am wondering whether these scripts were (re)written, for publication, after making the movies - or whether Bergman’s movies, as a rule, had to follow their scripts with utmost faithfulness, even strictness. (In other words, this is a question about his directorial style and approach, and about his relationship with the actors.) In any case, I found that the actors followed the attitudes and feelings depicted on paper very faithfully; or, of course, vice versa.

Reading, then, these scripts – or these stories, or these “novelettes” – one finds them gripping and fascinating, mostly for the same reasons that Ingmar Bergman’s movies are thus. A very rewarding reading, therefore.

***

Finally, let me add here a formal or ‘quasi-official’ clarification, namely that these three movies are part of Bergman’s “faith” or “God” trilogy – which one might describe more accurately as stories about the search for, or the lack of, God – or, about spiritual life as experienced in (a fairly desolate) mid-twentieth century Scandinavian country.

Clovis, NM

It was in the second half of the 1600s that Marquis Auguste Coriolan de Lagardiére (or Augustus Coriolanus, Marquis de Lagardiére), together with a company of about 30-40 men, stopped in a fairly unremarkable spot on the staked plains region of what would later be known as the southwestern United States. Tired and dusty after a fairly long haul, they made a fire, drank some wine, ate some dried meat, and went to sleep – and woke up the next day to the realization of the fact that they were being surveyed, from afar, by a small group of natives (Indians) - who left soon thereafter. They had rested along the banks (if one could call them that) of the mostly dried-out Blackwater river (although they did not call it by that name; in fact, for them it did not have a name, nor did they think that it deserved a name, given its meager appearance). That day the Marquis, together with about half of his men, continued the journey, leaving behind 15-20 men, some of whom were sick or had minor injuries, and others with orders to set up a base to which the Marquis and his retinue could return, after having explored further down south. But the Marquis never returned, nor did the men who left with him; those left behind, however, befriending some of the natives (including some of those who had surveyed them during their first night there), were helped to discover a better place to camp, with more grass for grazing, with fresh water (which was scarce all around), and with better opportunities for hunting. This camp became a settlement that was first known by the full name of its “founder,” Auguste Coriolan Marquis de Lagardiére, but then, for some reason, only as Coriolanus / Coriolá – the latter version being used by the Spanish-speaking peasants who also settled there. But the core of the population, those who gave the town its identity and its name, were still the descendants of the Frenchmen from the Marquis’ original retinue. And these people continued to speak French (although they learned, of course, some of the local tongues, as well), and in fact the town used French in most of its official dealings, and in the local school, as well - because, as hard as that is to believe, they did not lose contact with the “homeland;” or, mostly, with the French colonial territories of North America (although even “Louisiana”, that large swath in the middle of the continent, running from north to south, on the left and right of the Mississippi river, which was at a certain point claimed and partially controlled by France, was quite far off). Nonetheless, they managed to stay in contact with “France,” and even to receive some material support (such as books printed in French) and some French people (some clergy, perhaps a teacher here and there, some women, and, of course, some adventure-loving Frenchmen). Thus, the French connection was never broken, nor was the town entirely forgotten by the people in France (or, at least at the royal court in Paris, where they were still listed in the books as a kind of French territory or claim). And all this will become very important later, during the time of the French Revolution.

But before we get to that point, another important moment in the history of the place needs to be discussed, namely when, after the French and Indian War, the territories in North America that used to be under French control, were transferred to Spain's authority. Although the exercise of this authority was quite patchy (as in the case of most European claims on this continent), it so happens that the place we are discussing fell in the way of a Spanish aristocrat’s expedition for new territories, namely in the path of Barón Miguel Cardozo de Salazar, who rode into town one August evening with a retinue of heavily armed men. Long story short, part of them remained there, while the Barón left in order to discover (and claim) other places; unlike the Marquis de Lagardiére. he did return (for a while), before leaving definitively (and disappointedly) for Spain. A part of his men, therefore, together with their wives and households (those who had such things had brought them up from further down south), settled in what they now called (in honor of their “founder,” and clearly in spite of the local French people) “Cardozo”. And so it happened that for some fifty years thereafter the place bore two names, which were used competingly by the two dominant populations, the French (or, rather, francophones) and the Spanish (as in, those related to the original adventuring party from Spain). At the same time, some the simple Spanish-speaking peasants (unrelated to Spain proper) who lived in the area settled the issue by simply referring to the place as “Plano” (perhaps because it is located in the flat high plains?).

What is important here, however, is that the two dominant socio-cultural groups, the French and the Spaniards (to put it simply, because the so-called “French” were only culturally that, since most of them had been born from intermarriages with locals - and soon enough the same was true for the descendants of the original “Spanish” soldiers) still defined themselves in relation to their original European, aristocratic origins (and to their “founders”). And, as it happens in such cases, what had been a natural, lived condition originally (that is, being part of the retinue of a nobleman, and living in an aristocratic, feudal society), became sublimated culturally, embellished, and transformed into a gold-letter tradition that functioned more like an emblem of the given group, than as a social reality. But perhaps it is exactly the fact that there existed two rival social and cultural factions, the “French” and the “Spaniards,” that contributed to the survival of these aristocratic identities, traditions, and cultural frames of reference (as one’s identity is never stronger, and more ardently affirmed, than when it is challenged by a rival identity). And the ways in which these identities were affirmed and maintained were manifold – from keeping alive the memory of the “founders” (for example, by unveiling a portrait of the Marquis de Lagardiére in the house of a prosperous French landowner; or by purchasing an icon for the local Catholic church, which included a depiction of Barón Cardozo de Salazar, kneeling and looking at the Virgin and Child,  as a “donor”  - although it was in fact the current Spaniards who had commissioned and paid for the painting, and who were thus the “donors”), to other practices cultivating this "aristocratic" culture (or, what they felt as pertaining to, or expressing, such a culture). One of these practices was the development among the “Spanish” population of a real cult of Miguel de Cervantes - or, rather, of his hero, Don Quixote – as, ironically enough, representing said aristocratic culture. A “Cervantes club” or parlor was thus formed, which functioned somewhat like today’s cultural or heritage-keeping associations. Although there was no similar club on the French side, in the local school the French language and culture were still being taught and propagated – so perhaps that functioned as the equivalent of such a cultural association.

The next important moment in the history of the town was, as mentioned, during the time of the French Revolution (1790s) – and here, the fact that the ties with la patrie were never entirely broken played a crucial role, namely at the point during those turbulent years when the court and the aristocracy in France were in a febrile search for external allies, support, and ways of escape. As is known, during the harshest and bloodiest persecutions many noble families – and not only – escaped from France to aristocratic England; some of them, however, also went to North America – and it was a descendant of the Marquis de Lagardiére who remembered at that point that there existed in those savage North American lands a settlement that bore (or used to bear) the name of his great-great-great-...grandfather; and thus he took his household and moved, after an adventurous and dangerous trip that lasted about eight months, to  - what? – Coriolá? Cardozo? or just Plano? This move – which represented a lifeline for the Marquis and for his family – was also a boon for the local “French” people, who saw their claims and aristocratic “identity” thus confirmed, reaffirmed, and – they felt – definitively instated.

But another interesting – and crucial - development also took place, as a consequence of the Marquis' arrival and settlement in this town. What is this about? Well, we did not mention earlier the fact that the “original founder,” the Marquis de Lagardiére, was actually a Huguenot, and that part of the determination that fueled his bold ventures in North America (and the reason why he was accompanied by such a large retinue) was that he himself was in the process of escaping the anti-Huguenot policies and sentiment prevalent then in France. His later descendant, however - Louis Marie de Lagardiére, who was in fact a descendant of the original Marquis’ brother – was a fervent Catholic, even more so as he was escaping a regime that persecuted with equal viciousness royals, aristocrats, and the Catholic Church (clergy and believers). His religious affiliation had become thus something assumed both personally, culturally, socially and, why not, politically – and thus a defining trait for him and for his family (who were, therefore, proudly French, aristocrats, and Catholics). However, they had landed in a place where the division between the “French” and the “Spanish” groups also represented the dividing line between Protestants (namely the French, who were Calvinists) and Catholics (the Spaniards). So, although the Marquis, as a French aristocrat, was a boon for the local French population, he did not share their religion, but practiced the religion of the other faction, of the Spaniards.

But this potential source of tension or conflict became, surprisingly, a way of bridging the gap between the two distinct (and long-separated) communities; suffice it to say that the first time that the Marquis, his wife, their two daughters and their baby boy made their appearance in the (mostly Spaniard-frequented) Catholic church, it caused quite an upheaval – but also a kind of a pleasant surprise and relief for the Spanish. (By the way, I know that we are not saying much about the other local populations – the Spanish-speaking peasants, or Mexicans, as they would soon call themselves; or those of Native American origin; or the not-so-many English-speaking inhabitants; I know, but the reason for that is that the socially, culturally and economically dominant - and relevant for the town's identity - communities were the two I mentioned.) During the six months preceding their appearance in church, the Marquis and his family have been having the local priest say mass at their home; after a while, however, they decided that this could not go on any longer – the wife and the girls insisting that they missed going to church on Sundays, and being able to attend daily mass. But, for all the courageousness of the Marquis' initial gesture, how do we get from simply attending mass, to “building bridges between the communities"?

Well, one must remember that in France at this time French history (and French identity) was being re-written and re-thought, with the intention of brushing over (or even erasing) the feudal and Catholic dimensions of that tradition. In response, those opposing these developments accentuated and emphasized exactly those elements of French history that reinforced these aspects; and among these was, of course, the figure of Charlemagne, the great French Catholic emperor – and of Clovis, the first Catholic king of the Franks. Meanwhile, as Spain’s influence was dwindling in North America (and also in Central and South America), and as the new independent state of Mexico was being formed (and will in fact soon form), the local “Spaniards” (i.e. those descended from, and affiliated culturally with, continental Spain) felt somewhat under siege and insecure about their future. This is then the context in which Marquis Louis Marie de Lagardiére‘s aristocratic and Catholic identity came as a boon – for both communities. Thus, although some of the Spanish protested, the Marquis was nevertheless invited, soon after his church visit, to the “Cervantes” parlor, to give a speech on “The State of Politics and of the Faith on the European Continent.” After the speech, although he did not alleviate everyone’s suspicions, a noticeable change of heart and of mood took place among the Spaniards, who now realized that they might have some new allies not only in the Marquis’ family, but also among the local “French” population - at least in what regards their shared aristocratic and ancien régime identity.

Soon thereafter, at the Marquis’ initiative and under his leadership a new parlor was established, named “Clovis”, which was open to both communities (!), being designed to appeal both to the French (Clovis being one of the major figures of French history, and representing a period long before the Reformation) and to the Spaniards (Clovis as a Catholic, ancien régime monarch). Furthermore, the Marquis arranged for some of the meetings to take place in the refectory of the Catholic church, alternating with meetings and soirées held in the shade of the trees of the now-expanding orchard situated on the Marquis' property. Although not all “Spaniards” joined or attended the new club, it was regularly and most pleasurably attended both by the French and by the Spanish, and thus it enjoyed a great success. Overall, the Marquis soon became a most beloved figure both for the French (for whom he represented France, aristocracy, the ancien régime, and their very founder) and for most of the Spaniards (for the reasons explained above, and also because he reminded them of their own ardently Catholic founder, Barón de Salazar).

In 1828 the Marquis died, aged 65, leaving behind six children (three born in North America), a second wife (a Spanish Catholic woman! - the first wife, whom he had loved very much, dying eight years after their arrival, after a brief but severe illness), and a general population – “French” and “Spanish”  - for whom he had become a guiding light and a pillar of the community. As mentioned, at this point the place still bore several names - mostly referred to as Coriolá-Cardoso by outsiders and neutrals – but now the grieving town decided to settle the matter, once and for all, renaming it in honor of their beloved deceased Marquis. However, since they could not name it (again) Lagardiére, and given that “Clovis” had become the “meeting ground” for both groups, and a source of renewal for their (shared) aristocratic and European identity - and also honoring in this manner the decisive impact that the Marquis had on the life of the town - they decided to rename the place “Clovis” (thus affirming, once and for all, that this town’s identity was European, aristocratic, and – broadly speaking – Christian).

Of course, many things happened in the two centuries that followed after the town received its new name of “Clovis”. Among the more noteworthy events that one could perhaps mention was the arrival of a small group of French aristocrats (of a different kind, most of them being liberals and Freemasons) during the 1830s-1840s, who were also the last “immigrants” from either France or Spain. After that, other groups also settled, but in smaller numbers – mostly Mexicans and Anglos, but also some Irishmen and Germans. Of course, as time passed, fewer and fewer people spoke French or continental Spanish – so that by 1920 there were only English-language schools in town (while the Mexican children learned their language at home or at church).

But what is the situation today? Well, even today certain things remain – one still has the Cervantes Club (for a short while called the Don Quixote Club, but that did not really catch); although the Clovis parlor stopped meeting soon after the death of the Marquis, the Clovis “spirit”, and the name of the town, obviously survived; there is a small garden dedicated to the Lagardiére family, where there are always fresh flowers; and, importantly, other clubs and associations have formed, disbanded, and re-formed, over time, all with the goal of maintaining and cultivating this European, aristocratic, and (now very broadly) Christian identity (for example, one such association was, I kid you not, the “Medieval Knights of Clovis”). One can notice, therefore, in various places in Clovis, buildings constructed or adapted so as to reflect this identity, and where clubs meet or events are held in keeping with these traditions (such as the short-lived Renaissance Festival) – even if, as said, nobody speaks French anymore, and those who speak Spanish are in fact the local Mexican-Americans.

However, these remain the defining traits of the place – and that is quite something, given the fact that Clovis, NM is located in the heart of the rural, agricultural region of the dusty staked plains (“llano estacado”) of the Southwestern United States (not far from the border with Texas).

The seat of the Cervantes Club today; also a medieval-themed restaurant.

This granary was used for the Renaissance (later Medieval) Festival
(as a venue & for "capture the castle" competitions) 

           

This water tank is owned by the Lagardiére Water Co.
(the name is painted on the opposite side, facing the railways)

This was built (adapted) for a short-lived (re)incarnation of the "Clovis parlor";
now it serves as the meeting place for a French-affiliated Freemason club

***

This, then, is the alternate history of Clovis, New Mexico.

Bric-à-brac for January 2020

1. The World's Oldest Olive Tree
... as far as we know, is located in the village of Ano Vouves in Crete (Greece), and is about 3000 years old (or more). Durable and enduring as all olive trees are (which is why they have been cultivated for thousands of years throughout the Mediterranean), this tree continues to produce fruit - and to live. (You can learn more about the Vouvos tree on this blog and in this article.)

In the video below you can see some drone-filmed images of the tree, with its ancient, contorted, and now mostly hollowed-out trunk. Looking at it, and thinking about it - and learning that is used to be surrounded, millennia ago, by a cemetery - brings to mind the sun-scorched ages of man in the Mediterranean, the lives and the societies that surrounded - and used - this tree, the length of time that preceded us - days that were not shorter nor longer than ours; a "present," then, that was equally a "present time," as is our own "present;" in short, duration, or, in fact, human duration (always the same, and always equally oblivious of its own past).

In any case, enjoy:



And, since you asked about the process of making olive oil out of the fruits of the tree, here is a primer that presents both the traditional and the modern methods of production.



2. The Aftermath of Le Corbusier
Le Corbusier is, of course, the father figure of a school of architecture and urban planning that represents, in many ways, the quintessentially Modern vision - namely, the idea of designing and implementing ("on" human beings) a masterplan for their lives that is guided by (purportedly) the most "enlightened" and "humanist" ideals, but which is also far removed from, and even disdainful of, the lived messiness of human existence, of its floral diversity, gregarious needs - and of its actual history.

It does have a certain charm, or so I find, this "brave" vision of a new future, which combines hopefulness (i.e. naive idealism) and hubris, reflecting that typically Modern combination of half-digested Enlightenment ideas with the promise and enticing power of the empirical sciences (that we will "measure" the world and take complete control of it - Die Vermessung der Welt, the French encyclopedists). Of course, from similar hubristic-yet-well-intended metanarratives resulted also the catastrophic ideologies of the twentieth century...

Part of Le Corbusier's philosophy was the creation of "machines for living" that were designed (in total disregard for architectural traditions, heritage, and context, but) following rationalist and utilitarian principles - pure and angular geometric forms, made mostly using exposed concrete, and following rational rules about what the human beings want and need. In other words, a top-down vision about designing human habitation that rejects all things "organic" and messy, and aims for pure rationality (rationalism, in fact) and utility (utilitarianism, in fact). If this does not sound all too friendly or appealing, well, perhaps you have to be taught how to live (by these buildings). (At the other end of the pendulum swing, but perhaps with quite a few similarities, would be Gaudi, whose "organicist" architecture isn't terribly "human," either; just as the jungle is the not the friend of man.)

I would note here that I do find Brutalism, as an architectural style, to have its own charm, in isolated exemplars and reduced quantities. In other words, I would not say the same thing about the aforementioned principles of urban planning, nor of habitations made entirely of Brutalist buildings, streets and squares. (Of course, this idea of teaching people how to live, and of forcibly re-making the world, still holds appeal - the remains of the days of Modernity.)

But, as much as we want to re-make existence based on pure, rational, measurable principles (all for the "higher good"), life takes over, life flows beyond the human-set bounds; it turns out that we will not measure, categorize and put in neat boxes the entire world, all of existence; it seems, then, that time and life win, and win, over and over again. It does not help either that concrete is an ugly construction material, especially when affected by said passing of time and by the elements.

One of the major projects in which Le Corbusier was involved, which gave him relatively free reign both in urban and in architectural design, was the planned city of Chandigarh, the capital of the Indian states of Punjab and Haryana (a planned city like Brasilia, the capital of Brazil). (See more info on Chandigarh here - but do watch the video, as it is more instructive than the text itself - and one has to see it.)

Given what was said above, I find the video below quite poetic; it is of a building in Chandigarh, and, if modernist architecture is inherently futuristic, this video seems to express a post-apocalyptic version  - and also the organic denouement - of said vision. Quite ironic and quite poetic, I find.




3. Sport & the Arts
At the commemoration of 70 years since the dropping of the atomic bomb on Nagasaki, the local football team, V-Varen Nagasaki (playing in J-League's second division) launched a dedicated “Pray for Peace” kit that featured an origami crane (a symbol of peace) and an image of Seibo Kitamura’s Peace Statue (statue located in Nagasaki's Peace Park, and which is meant to symbolize both the atomic threat and the mercy and peace of God).

Here are the jerseys:

UK Soccer Shop

On the brighter side of the same topic of sport & the arts (and, in fact, of football and the arts), some creative minds decided to start awarding the Fallon d'Floor award (the name is a spoof on the prestigious Ballon d'Or award), for the best "dive" (faking a foul, and following that with a spectacular fall) of the year. Although such dives can indeed be artistic, that is not the aspect that brought this issue under this sport & the arts heading, but the fact that in 2014 the same creative minds spiced up the awards by creating mock film posters for each dive (also spoofing in the process the titles of major movies).

Here are a couple of examples, and you can find more at this link. Regarding the first poster, a bit of context: it makes reference to the incident at the World Cup when Argentinian player Luis Suárez (whose most recognizable physical characteristic is a significant overbite) bit (!) Italian defender Giorgio Chiellini on the shoulder (!!), and then pretended that it was the Italian player who actually hit him in the teeth (!!!) with the shoulder (and I ran out of exclamation signs).

4. Morricone on the Streets, courtesy of Italo Vegliante
... and featuring a variety of instruments (or instrument sounds). The esteemed street artist featured in the video, signor Italo Vegliante, besides being a minor (Internet) celebrity today, was an Italian B-movies star (in the 80s), and is, most obviously, a talented musician / guitarist / entertainer.

The Theban Plays, by Sophocles

Antigone; Oedipus Tyrannos; Oedipus at Colonus

It is interesting to note that, while the chronological order of the events (if we take these three plays as part of one overarching story, of the Theban royal family - of Oedipus and of his daughter Antigone) would be Oedipus Tyrannos, Oedipus at Colonus, and then Antigone, the order in which these different moments or themes were treated by Sophocles during his lifetime was, in fact, Antigone first, then sometime later Oedipus Tyrannos, and (I think toward the end of his life) Oedipus at Colonus.

Amazon  - I like this translation

And now to the plays. Why is one still surprised to “discover” how “contemporary” any true artist (of any age or period) is and “sounds" to our "modern" experience? It is indeed somewhat frustrating to still catch oneself being (if ever so slightly) “surprised” by such a "discovery." As if the human experience would not be the same, both in its highest and in its lowest aspects, throughout human time! And as if those who came before us would have been in any ways more “naive” or "innocently ignorant" (now these are some infuriating prejudices)! 

At such moments of apparent “discovery" and "surprise” about the "modernity" of an author I like to remind my students - for example - of the sheer, bone-on-bone brutality of the hand-to-hand combat that was typical of most wars, throughout history, before modernity; and also how in the “ancient times” the outcome of a conquest was usually the general massacre of all adult males, and the enslavement of all women and children – and the complete burning down of the given city. I remind them of these when we discuss Socrates, for example, informing them also that Socrates was a recognized and honored veteran of such wars, and thus that “philosopher” did not mean (and does not mean, or should not mean) some ivory-tower, impractical, aloof, removed from reality fuddy-duddy; if anyone knew brute reality, and human nature at its worse, then it was Socrates. 

Well, all this is to say that one should not be surprised to find hints and indications about some of the most perverse aspects of human nature, in Sophocles - aspects that we might feel are only transparent to a specifically modern awareness; and one should not be "surprised" to find in Sophocles expressions of emotions and dilemmas that are all too familiar to us “moderns." But perhaps one of the explanations for such modern biases (notice also that the adjective “modern” is implicitly understood as having a positive connotation... oh, my!) is that in terms of style art was indeed more bound to certain restraints (regarding expression) and to stricter coordinates of form, before contemporaneity. This formality of style, then, and this restraint of vocabulary, for example, did not mean however - in the case of the true artists - that their vision was dimmer, that they did not see, know, and express (through their specific means) the worse, most monstrous, and best, of the human condition. Furthermore, now that we have loosened or got rid of most or all formal bounds and expressive restraints, does that mean that we have "better" (or even more truthful) art? Well, it is enough to look around, to realize that that is not the case.

The Theban plays, then, deal (among others things) with some eternal conundrums which, being unchanging, i.e. belonging to the human condition qua human condition, are also "modern" ones. One such persistent dilemma of the human condition also determines the main conflict in Antigone, and it is the clash between one's duty to the “invisible” (or, let’s say, transcendent) norms or truth, and the interests and norms of the visible (surrounding) society. In a satisfactory fashion, Antigone ends with the transcendent (eternal) truth being justified – not before and not without wreaking havoc on all those involved - on all sides.

Wreaking havoc - indeed, another thing that stands out from these plays is the intensity of the passions, of the action, of the conflicts described. We need to remind ourselves that these are indeed “plays,” that they were written to be performed, and not as literary works designed for private, silent reading. Writing for public performance, the dramatist needs to know how to grab the attention, and how to stir the emotions, of the audience – and Sophocles knows indeed how to do all this, and does it very, very effectively; no wonder that he won so many theatrical competitions. The other aspect to be noted is how fast and intense is the action in these plays: it keeps moving, it keeps going; well, as said, the playwright does need to take and to keep hold of the audience’s attention and involvement. Oedipus at Colonus might be slightly “slower,” in this sense – but it is by no means "slow," and the action really picks up once Creon makes his appearance. (At the same time, I found the same play, Oedipus at Colonus, to be among the most rewarding  of the three, due to the richness of its dialogue.)

However, due to its powerful theme (the aforementioned clash between the order of Truth, and the “civic” or political order) and also to its strong central character, Antigone might be my overall favorite, among the three plays. Also in Antigone one can find a wonderful little dialogue between Creon and his son, Haemon - which moves from a somewhat formal exchange, exhibiting all the necessary codes of filial respect, to a conversation laced with irony, a biting and furious exchange that, again, sounds so truthful and (that dreaded word!) “modern” in the way it depicts the frustration of the young with what appear to be the slow, old (and, in this case, wrong) ways of the parent. An exchange that could be part, in its gist, of Death of a Salesman.

Oedipus Tyrannos is for me the play that seems “most remote,” specifically because of the “fated mechanisms” at play: the way in which the wheels of the gods, impersonal, it seems, shape the overall action. On the other hand, this play is maybe the most action-packed of all; the conflict starts right away, and it really helps that Oedipus is such a strong and violent (in his passions) character – he does drive the conflict.

In fact, each of these plays has a central protagonist whose character is defined by violence (of emotions, passions), rashness (of decisions, impulses), and arrogance (haughtiness). In this sense it is interesting that, if Creon comes across as the voice of balanced reason in Oedipus Tyrannos (as opposed to the rash and haughty Oedipus), in Oedipus at Colonus the relationship will be reversed (at least to a degree), Creon being the violent one, while Oedipus less so; meanwhile, in Antigone Creon is simply the "bad guy," with all the corresponding negative traits. Yet one could not say that Oedipus is entirely changed, even in Oedipus at Colonus; his volcanic temperament subsists, underneath, and it manifests itself at occasions, in small fits and starts, but it is much tempered and slowed down by Oedipus's blindness, old age, and (presumably) the sufferings and humiliations he'd endured.

As a general note, perhaps the main reason why these plays leave one with the impression of having encountered outstanding, memorable works of art is their inner unity and balance. This has to do, among others, with the author’s economy of means – by which I am referring to how the length and pacing of the action fits the story to be told (don’t say more, and don’t say less, than what the story absolutely needs!). This briskness, which does not fall into heedless rushing along because it fits the inner logic of the action of the story – and, in fact and overall, the harmony between the form and the content  - is indeed why you leave the texts knowing that these are full, well-rounded, complete works of art. (Compare this with Aristophanes’ “all over the place” style, at least in The Clouds - which reminds me of what happens in some of Adam Sandler’s movies.)        

Speaking of briskness, amusingly enough there are several instances in which characters either announce that “I will have to be short in my speech, for once,” or ask their interlocutor “to be short in what they have to say, this time;” for me, it is as if Sophocles is giving himself leeway, allowing himself the “foreshortening” of the speeches; because, indeed, some of the speeches do have a tendency to be a bit too baroque, too rich and lengthy (mostly, perhaps, in Oedipus at Colonus).

But the intensity of the passions driving the protagonists; the strong characters; the fierceness of the conflicts; the implicit (but also explicit) violence (although most of the physical violence happens off-stage); Sophocles’ undoubtable technical skills as a playwright; and, overall and foremostly, the aforementioned harmony of form and content - all these contribute to making these plays memorable and thoroughly engaging - and to making us desire to see them staged as well. 

Indeed, reading these plays one itches to go to an amphitheater and to see them being brought to life – but in their original form and intent. Or, one would also be interested in seeing them in a contemporary staging – but hopefully not in a needlessly “modernized” one.

Happy Mondays: The Greatest Hits (3)

Very few people know about the “French period” of the UK band Happy Mondays, which was the avantgarde phase of their work. Indeed, very few people know about it, because there is no such thing.

The absurdist stylings of Rémi Gaillard

One of the things that I admire about Rémi Gaillard is the courage with which he takes his craft “to the brink.” I am referring to the courage with which he takes what lies at the heart of the comical (namely, the paradox or the clash between what seems to be and what actually is) to its utmost. This is why the absurd is comical (e.g. the absurd theatre of Eugène Ionesco) - because it exposes and it narrates this paradox, or at least one of its dimensions.

I also like how committed, faithful and earnest Rémi Gaillard is in following the central idea of the gag. “What if?”, he asks - and then he does it, with hilarious results. There is an anarchic and riotous quality to his act, that is also very engaging.

But does not the act veer sometime almost into cruelty? Perhaps, and those are not his best moments.

But when it works, when all the right elements line up, the paradox made visible creates laughter. When it all works, then what he does becomes an artistic act – artistic by virtue of this inner consistency with the idea.

"Persepolis," by Marjane Satrapi

I am not familiar with the world (or the genre) of graphic novels. Furthermore, I might have a slight bias against them, due to their (but is there a “their”? is there an all-encompassing group sharing the same "nature"?) association, in my mind, with the “comic books” genre (which, for me, is somewhat synonymous with superficiality and childishness – surely enjoyable during one's childhood, but unsatisfactory for the adult).

[Amazon]

So I discovered this “graphic novel” almost accidentally; one day I was at the library and, to fill my time with some lighter reading, and because I have heard of it previously (and of the movie made by its author, based on it), I picked up this graphic novel, Persepolis – and it ”caught”. I returned later, during the following days, to continue the reading, and to finish it - which proved to be a very rewarding experience.

The (drawing) style employed in this graphic novel is very simple, simplistic even – but it is not artless, by any means. In fact, it has a specific artistry by virtue of this approach. It is in black and white, which I think fits its content – it somehow fits the early 70s period it describes, it certainly fits the period of the Islamic Republic, and it fits, why not, the disheartening adventures of Marjane in the West (in Austria), during her teen years.

But what is this book about? As the name might imply, it is about Iran, more precisely about a young woman in the Iran (Persia, by its ancient name) of the Shah (before the Islamic Revolution), then during the Revolution and the ensuing Shi’a Islamist regime (in 1979 and in the 80s), and then about her time in the West (more specifically, Austria - in the 80s).

[source]

Why did I like this novel? Why did it resonate? And how did it resonate? Well, the sections of the book dealing with her life in Iran (which do form most of the book) are the most appealing and the most relatable, for me. This has to do with the historical and cultural period that they describe (the 70s and the 80s), to which I can certainly relate – and also with her and her extended family’s (and her friends’) life of muted dissidence versus both regimes - the authoritarian one of the Shah, and the totalitarian one of the Islamic Republic. I can relate to that, as well, because there are similarities between that and my own experience under a totalitarian regime, in Central Europe - also during the 80s. So I find that her experience of 80s rebellious teenage culture – manifested, for example, through the adoption of elements of Western pop culture, like music and dress items (e.g. jeans) – against (and in a minor key undermining) the existing authoritarian or totalitarian regime, is indeed similar in many ways with my experiences of the 80s anti-regime teenage culture. And not just the “teenage culture” – her middle, or middle-upper class family, of secular intellectuals, resonates with many similar families I have known, who faced and opposed, in their own small and imperfect ways, an oppressive regime.  

But this is not to say that this novel is about “regimes,” or about politics. To the contrary: its charm and attractiveness lie in the fact that this is a personal story, and that it is her voice, talking about her life, that we hear throughout.

I mentioned the fact that the part of the book dealing with her years in a Western European society, in the 80s, were, how to put it, disheartening; and that is true, and how strange that it is so! But let's try to explain what this means. To start with - as mentioned, her family was Iranian middle-upper class, belonging to what we could call the "technical intelligentsia” (her father was – what? – an architect, if I recall correctly; and I think that her mother was a teacher; so they might also be classified as part of the Bildungsbürgertum, the "educated bourgeoisie"). I know this type of family very well.

[source]

And here a parenthesis is due, to explain the Iranian cultural context. Contrary to uninformed clichés, which might come from associating the Iranian society with its current regime, and from assuming that if a regime (the ruling institutions and leadership) is of a certain kind, then the people are of the same kind – the society and culture of Iran is not the same as the regime currently in power there; instead, the society and its culture is very much modern, developed, and secularized (especially its middle classes). To express it more synthetically, the society of Iran during the Shah’s regime (i.e. before the Islamic Revolution), and especially the middle and upper classes thereof, was the same or very similar as most Western societies (e.g. France in the 50s and 60s). Furthermore, the Iranian (Persian) culture is, in itself, very, very old. First of all, it is not an Islamic culture. Persia, as we know, was an ancient empire, and one of the most ancient cultures, which left us some of mankind’s major cultural artefacts, products of a rich and developed civilization. In fact, when Islam arrived there, in the 7th century AD (or thereabouts), it actually had to contend with and to solve significant tensions arising from its inadequacy with the existing, and already millennia-old, Persian culture (poetry, art etc.). Of course, the Persians are not Arabs, either, which also added cultural and linguistic obstacles.

Anyway - and to return to our topic – uninformed Western eyes often tend to confuse a political regime (which might have been instated through violence) with the actual reality of the underlying society. And this is another reason why I found the portions of the book dealing with the clash between this established middle class culture, and the authoritarian / totalitarian regime (of the Shah or of the Ayatollah), relatable and partially familiar – as Central and Eastern Europe experienced a similar (albeit not identical) thing, in which an (in this case) culturally alien regime was imposed by force, and in which the bourgeois culture, which had its own norms of civilized life, clashed with this “primitive” political regime. And this is also where the issue of the emptiness of the time Marjane spent in the West, compared with her time in her Iranian middle class environment, comes up. Because it is strange, isn’t it, that the ”emptiest time" (in terms of human and civilizational values), among the periods covered in the novel, was the one spent in early 80s Austria? Wouldn’t it be expected, and couldn’t we expect, that the time spent in the West would be the most flourishing among the ones described in the book? And yet it is in fact the opposite. Mind you, she does not express this, as such, directly; and I am not sure that she fully acknowledged it to herself, in the end; but for us readers it is apparent - and somewhere underneath she must, she surely knows this; after all, she “escaped” the Austrian existential disarray by returning to Iran – yes, the Iran of the totalitarian regime of the Ayatollah. And yet, this does not mean that that regime was better than the liberal democracy and the capitalism of Austria – to the contrary, obviously. But what she returned to was not the “regime,” but the slightly and slyly dissident, oppositional culture of her middle class family and of her environment – who head to sneak around to avoid the all-powerful and all-controlling tentacles of the regime, just to have a dance party, or to have some drinks. And this is where it’s at – that what gives that time meaning, the time she spent in the Iranian environment, is perhaps exactly the fact that one of the effects of oppressive regimes, especially on those who oppose them (perhaps simply by keeping to their own cultural and social “marching orders”) is to “purify” their lifestyle and norms, to force them to cling to (and to redefine and reassume, over and over again) a set of norms and guidelines about how one should live “normally," "in the right way," comme il faut – so as not to be swallowed by said regime. Thus there is a lot of talk in Marjane's family about what one should or should not do, what one does and what one can not do; by contrast, the period she spends in Austria is defined, if by anything, then by a dissolution of norms and guidelines – and, in fact, by a dissolution of all meaning, by a drifting around and a sliding downwards, all of which she does not take well, eventually (although I think that she will keep a part of what she has “learned” there, with her) - and from which she will seek refuge, as said, by going back to her family in Iran (even if she hated, as they all did, the regime there). But, as said, it is not to the regime to which she goes back, but to a life of bounds and direction (and purpose, inherent) – compared with the meaninglessness and the adriftness of her life in Austria. (Certainly the fact that she was a teenager, while she was in Austria - i.e. at a time when one is at a loss, anyhow, to a degree - might have contributed also to the scatteredness and purposelessness of her life there.)

[source]

In any case, talking about these issues is not in fact the main purpose of the book - it is not her purpose, when narrating the story. No; as said, this is her story; that is, it is a personal narrative, or the story of a person – and that is what makes it so charming and engaging, The things discussed above are the impressions of the reader - of a reader who enjoyed this book, especially in those sections and aspects where he found familiar or similar experiences, and which gave insight into a specific society, a social class, and the culture of (modern) Iran.

(For similar experiences, for similar encounters with all the facets of Iran - of this modern Iran, and in order not to confuse Iran proper with the idiotic regime ruling it - I heartily recommend Iranian cinema, which is one of the great cinema traditions of the world. And, as said, Marjane Satrapi also made a movie out of this graphic novel – an animated movie, with similar aesthetics as the graphic novel; an award-winning movie, by the way, but which I have not had the chance to see as yet.)

Speaking of aesthetics, and as it was mentioned in the beginning, the black-and-white palette seems very suited to her narrative style and to the periods that she covers. Also as said, this style has a simplicity, well almost a childish simplicity to it – the way the people are drawn, and even in its choice of a black-and-white palette. All this gives her narrative a kind of directness - just like a story told by a child might be simpler and more straightforward; and yet what she talks about are at times grave and weighty matters. Nevertheless, this simplicity of style should not be mistaken for artlessness; no, it is a style, a style developed into a specific language. This is most evident if and when one pays attention to the framing, to the mis en scène used in various panels; or to the ways in which she uses this very basic color scheme to create symbolic communication (expressing a lot with a scarcity of means; yes, symbols are more expressive, and expressive of a richer content, than a straightforward description; also, sometimes the complexity and impact of reality, and one’s experiences and feelings about it, can be best described through symbolic means.)

All in all, then, this was a delightful find. One also got to know, through this, a very likable person – likable not because of certain traits, or not just because of those (her overall sensitivity and her artistic bent, for example) - but lovable simply by being a human being; namely, as any or most human beings would be, if one would get to know their story directly, in all its genuineness. Because this is what strikes us most, or remains with us most, I think, from this novel – its genuine, simple, direct storytelling; its personal tone and narrative; it being, in a way, “the story of a soul.” Needless to say, a person and a story with lights and with shades, with good and with bad, with things that we agree with and with things that we disagree with – with all that, this is an occasion to encounter a person directly, and to make a friend, as it were; and that is (perhaps) what draws us into and to this novel, and what remains with us thereafter: a genuine encounter with a real human being. (And so we leave off the novel worrying and thinking about what happened to her next – after she went to Paris etc.)

“Maltaverne,” by François Mauriac

I was surprised to discover, upon reading this book, how much it affected me, or how much it spoke to me; I mean, in comparison with previous books I’ve read from Mauriac. It also was not what I expected it to be – it was not a dark and brooding, as if "framed" portrait of a mid-nineteenth to early-twentieth century bourgeois household. I am making reference here to the vague memories I have of Thérèse Desqueyroux or The Knot of Vipers. Then again, each book might have a corresponding “age” or state, when we connect the best, or the most, with it, and when it makes most sense to us. Which does not exclude perennial “matches” between book and reader – in terms of subject, theme, tone etc. In any case, this book came seemingly at a good time, and it also exhibited an overall tone that - as said - was a bit unexpected.

[Amazon]

Perhaps the part of the novel that spoke to me the most was the beginning, with its description of the hopeful and clear-eyed adolescent, Alain (who is the main character of the novel, and in whose voice we hear the narration, retrospectively) - namely, of a certain character and age which I can identify all too well, and which also hearkens to other favorite readings of mine. Alain is the young intellectual and person of faith, who thinks and who sees the world perhaps more wisely than the adults (and, partially, that is true; and, partially, life will teach him later how much he does not know, in fact). And this is also the young man who sees the whole world, and his future, through those intellectual-spiritual prisms, with much hope, and with many plans (which will also change, partially - but not essentially, as he himself  - and we ourselves - can not change, essentially). 

After this initial stage, the novel moves on to a darker territory, more familiar to readers of Mauriac. Let’s not forget, Mauriac’s vocation as a writer was (as he seemingly acknowledged) to examine and to reveal the truth of the darker recesses of the human heart, and of the human existence. The world of sin – but not the glittery, commercially-sold sin, the glamorized one – but of everyday sin, of our daily failings - and also of the much, much darker undergrounds of what at the surface is common existence – in brief, of the human being’s capacity for evil. In many ways, what he talks about in his works is the “bourgeois sin" – which is no less dark, no less terrible, than the most glamorous and public ones, as no economic or social class is excepted and excluded from carrying both the darkest and the brightest dimensions of the spiritual condition of man. Envy, lack of love, misunderstanding – these are the true dark elements of our daily lives, these are the areas of shade in our everyday existence - and not the strident and glittery “bad things,” “bad words” and “bad thoughts” bandied about in the public discourse, or in the noise of the media, social or otherwise.

Because the initial part of the novel reached me on a personal level, I was already invested personally in the main character, Alain, by the time we moved on to the next stage of the story. This is why I found it somewhat irritating and unpleasant to have to bear the weight of the Mother figure throughout most of the book – as I could not relate to it (unlike with the initial part of the book), and as I found it suffocating.

The final turn(s) of events of the novel, however, changed yet again the tone and meaning of the events and of the book, and changed the impact and meaning of the Mother figure as well – for the better. It also clarified and, perhaps, humanized the figures populating the book, and the dynamic between her and Alain. The events affecting Jeanette Séris (the “Louse”) added yet another layer of meaning that, yes, further humanized the characters (including that of the Louse) - while also fleshing out the interstices of human existence in a very realistic and truthful way.

And this, this truthfulness, the accuracy with which life is reflected and described, might be one of the strengths of the novel, and why it stayed with me – because Mauriac is a real writer, a writer pur sang, who can but write, and whose writing is in the service of presenting the truth of life, in all its ugliness, and also with its shining edges. This everydayness of existence that actually constitutes our existence, but which – surprisingly – is scarcely talked about, at least in the public discourse, or in the cultural products consumed and distributed en masse - or, why not, in what passes for our everyday conversations.

The writer as a worker in the service of the real, of existence as it presents itself, morning, noon, and later toward the end of the day.

But it is hard to write this way, because we are so quick (and keen) to slide into commonplaces, clichés, into superficial exaggerations and haughty shortcuts, into “ideas” and “principles” - instead of “life as it is.” Because it is easier that way.

Since the writer, while writing, is churning out in fact his own existence and being, real writing, Mauriac’s sort of writing, is a painful process - of facing one’s own mortality and frailty and cowardice and dark shades, and all that one and one's existence actually is. 

(Yet this, this is the reality that is, or is not redeemed. More often than not, and perhaps even most of the time, we try to redeem reality by covering it with a sheen or veil of interpretations, phantasms, omissions, forgetting, or wishful thinking. But it is the everyday that is redeemed, and it is there that we need to seek and to find the redemption, and the Redemptor – there, or nowhere.)

Because there is redemption in this novel, and at the end of the story – and there is also hope, and there are also plans for a future. Which might be another reason why it appealed to me.

"Happy Xmas", by Eric Clapton (album)

(2018, Surfdog / Polydor)

This is Eric Clapton’s first and only Christmas-themed studio album; the question then emerges, why this album, and why now? But let’s discuss that later. For now, let’s take a look at the album.

Produced by long-standing partner Simon Climie, together with Clapton himself, the album features a number of “usual players” – i.e. musicians with whom EC has worked and toured many times, and for many years now; these include Doyle Bramhall Jr. on guitar, Nathan East on bass etc. The album also features (on some of the tracks) a choir (backing vocals - by Metro Voices) and a string orchestra (I am not sure whom they contracted for that). Furthermore, it seems that Eric Clapton’s two young daughters also contributed their voices on some of the tracks (maybe on Jingle Bells?).

Since we talked about the presence of a string orchestra, and about Simon Climie, I would note that, at least at times, the album does hearken back (for me at least) to (one of my favorite albums) Pilgrim (1998). But since we are on the topic of style, let’s talk a bit about the overall style of the album at hand. From what I understand, Clapton’s main goal was to take certain songs - standards, i.e. Christmas, jazz, or blues standards - and to inject them with a bluesy inflection (if they did not possess that already, that is); in other words, a bluesy take on more-or-less standards, which is aimed overall (one would assume) at the general public. Indeed, that is - in general – what happens on this album.

As a whole, the album is a pleasant and enjoyable listen. At the same time, what stands out most for me is how it reflects both the wide and open horizons of Clapton’s musical interests and tastes, as well as his overall musical versatility.

Let’s look then at the particular styles "represented" on this album, remembering nonetheless that as a whole the album is indeed unified by that bluesy inflection we mentioned, and that it is (most probably) aimed for general consumption.

Broadly speaking (and categorizing), one groups of songs is represented by what could be called Christmas standards with that bluesy tinge. This group includes actual seasonal standards, such as Away in a Manger, White Christmas, or Silent Night, as well as a song by William Bell and Booker T. Jones, Everyday Will Be Like a Holiday. The latter is also one of the most sing-able songs on the album, with a very catchy refrain.

On the other hand, Silent Night is for me the least satisfying song on the album (maybe together with Jingle Bells, discussed below) –  mostly because in my view this song requires, by its very nature, a light-yet-solemn, dulcet and meditative, dare I say pious approach - and most often a choir, to achieve that. Instead, we have here a steadily-paced version, with a band and backing vocals, over which Clapton ad-libs “Silent night... etc.”. It is still light, and sweet in its own way, but overall it sounds too common, and much less interesting than it could have been (and, as mentioned, less true to the nature of the tune, as I see it).

The second category of songs could be called perhaps mainstream blues-pop. This group includes For Love on Christmas Day, composed by Clapton (with Climie and Dennis Morgan); the feel and lyrics of this song (“dying a little more each day / dying for love on Christmas day”) send us back to the melancholy-blue love songs of the album Pilgrim. A lovely piece, which is also the only original, Clapton-authored song on this particular album.  

I would include in this same group two tracks that are both covers of songs written, published and sung originally by Anthony Hamilton (and that appeared on Hamilton’s 2014 Christmas album) – namely, Home for the Holidays, and It’s Christmas. Interesting choice to remake songs that have been published so recently – but another indicator of how attuned and attentive Clapton is to contemporary music and musicianship, and to younger artists. And these are well-written songs which, one must say, are better produced and sound better on EC's album, than on the original. The style of these songs is closer to contemporary R&B and soul, and reminds me of Clapton’s collaborations with Babyface in the 90s (pointing out, again, at his openness toward this genre of music - soul - as well). Home for the Holidays is also one of the catchiest songs of the album - and the one that will imprint immediately, from the first listen.

The third group of songs leans more toward a pure, raw blues feel. This includes Christmas Tears (by Sonny Thompson and R.C. Wilson), which reminds me a bit of Clapton’s mid-to-late 80s discography – especially of his live albums. It is an enjoyable electric blues piece, which I would happily listen to at a bar. Merry Christmas Baby is, of course, a classic rhythm and blues song (by Lou Baxter and Johnny Moore) - a standard within its genre, which gets here a very bluesy approach, with a distort guitar etc. But perhaps the most “bluesy” song on the album is Lonesome Christmas (from Lloyd Glenn and Lowell Fulson, exponents of the West Coast blues), which is also the most “acoustic”-sounding piece on the album. Another thing that stands out about this song is its piano-intensive instrumentation, (which I greatly enjoyed); this might be explained by the fact that it was arranged by, and features at the piano, well-known Tulsa blues pianist, Walt Richmond (now aged 72).

Another category of songs, which I’d call EDM (yes, electronic dance music!), contains only one entry, namely Jingle Bells. Jingle Bells is probably one of the most challenging songs for a musician - namely, in terms of how it can be made “new and interesting” again. This is why an EDM approach could be just what the doctor ordered; I mean – go wild, if anything! Unfortunately, this dance version is much too tame, and somewhat blandly repetitive. Yes, EDM songs are repetitive in themselves, as genre - being made of programmed beats and chords, and their repetition (broadly speaking); however, this is exactly why all EDM songs are also spiced up by certain rhythm accelerations and drum swells that create a sort of "musical peaks", and that provide them with that exciting "plus factor".

What this version does have as a special feature is the presence (sampled? actual contributors? producers?) of African artists Salif Keita and Mafila Kante. But don’t be fooled – it is not as exciting as it sounds; it’s just that they provide certain African inflections and hooks. Another interesting aspect of the track - although not related to its musical features - is that the song is dedicated to the EDM artist Avicii, who died in 2018.

Overall, and nonetheless, this song does witness to what I was discussing earlier – namely, Clapton’s wide-open interests and wildly diverse (in the best sense) musical endeavors. (I have to mention here the entire album (!) of EDM (or electronic) music that Clapton seemingly published, under a pseudonym (and I guess working again with Climie), sometimes in the 90s or early 2000s; album that I could never find, or find more about, but which I would very much like to have and to hear.)

Another group of songs could be called jazz standards – not in the sense that all these songs are themselves so well known, as to be called "standards;" but because of their “style” - of “standard classical jazz”. Both songs (as well as one included in the “bonus tracks” category below) remind me especially of the Folks Who Live on the Hill track from the Old Sock album. (Unsurprisingly, because that song - "Folks..." - is in fact a jazz standard from Oscar Hammerstein II.) Again an indicator of the EC’s wide range of interests, musically.

This choice of genre also confirms for me a certain image of Clapton, today; that of the country (rural) gentleman, living out his life, at a settled pace, in Surrey, UK. I find this image (which I think is accurate) very comforting and reassuring.

From this album, I would include in this "jazz standards" group the not very Christmas-oriented, but overall holiday-fitting love song, Sentimental Moments (yes, that famous song, by film composer Friedrich Holländer). The other song in this category would be Christmas In My Hometown, which is a cover of a song by classic country artist Sonny James; but which, with the steady, settled pace of the version on this album, fits this “Jack and Jill, the folks who live on a hill” category.

A category perhaps closely related to the above-discussed jazz standards, and including only one song from this album, could be called orchestral pop, represented here by an arrangement of the standard Have Yourself aMerry Little Christmas. In fact, in this arrangement I could easily see it on a movie's soundtrack, perhaps over the final credits of a romantic comedy.

Finally there are – or there aren’t – two bonus tracks. There aren’t, because the US version of the album does not contain them, but they can be found on the European version, and also online. As usually with bonus (unlisted) tracks, less resources were spent on producing them, which means that they are less studio-polished, which – however - can confer them a certain directness and “realness” that is attractive. The first one, ALittle Bit of Christmas Love, is a “Christmas adaptation,” lyrics-wise, of a very upbeat and enjoyable hit by Roscoe Gordon. The second song would be a good fit (as mentioned above) in the "jazz standards" category (if I wouldn’t have included it in this “bonus tracks” category). I am talking about You Always Hurt the One You Love, which is a most enjoyable and pleasant song, originally from Allan Roberts and Doris Fischer.

This being the musical content of the Happy Xmas album (and what a British title!), the question arises, again – why this album? and why now? Was it released because Clapton had something specific to say? or was it because he is bound by contract to release a certain number of albums within a certain number of years (as it often happens); or is it because he wants to release albums periodically, just as such? or was it just a tool to make money? Or is it perhaps a combination of all these reasons and factors? After all, Christmas albums are in general a surefire way to sell albums!

The thing is, I am not really interested in the answer to this question. Moreover, I find frowning over work that an artist produces “in order to live” terribly hypocritical – raising expectations from artists that we ourselves do not meet, in our own professional lives and choices. 

Why would the artist have to starve (I am not talking about EC here - but in general), especially given today’s starvation-prone artistic climate? I am talking here about the overall situation in which real musicians find themselves nowadays, with so few venues and outlets, and so little exposure available. (This, of course, is not applicable to the handful of mass-produced and industrially-promoted pop superstars. No, I am talking about real artists - blues, jazz, classical musicians.) 

Such a dismissive attitude also betrays a deep lack of understanding of the condition in which artists have always found themselves, in fact throughout history (and I am not referring only to musicians). Underlying an artist’s creative peaks and extraordinary achievements (if any) is and was the daily struggle to make a living – to find clients interested in paying for the (always expensive) artistic endeavor, and to obtain a daily source of income. This was true for Michelangelo (and the arduous fight and trials related to obtaining and maintaining the costly commissions, that had to support him for decades, and that allowed for the production of one or two of the masterpieces that we know today), as well as for Haydn (Count Esterhazy’s court musician!): for Mozart, as well as for all those musicians that you hear playing night after night at the Memphis or Nashville bars (some of the few fora actually available nowadays for earning that daily bread). There is a certain romantic view of artists as starving bohemians on the banks of the Seine – which might have been true of the Impressionists, but is not a status that any of us aims for personally – well, not for the duration. In short, the “journeyman” quality of the life of the artist is also part of that specific artistic condition (Journeyman is, by the way, an Clapton album from the 80s). This is why - to make a long story short – I am not tremendously interested, right now, in the question of “why” he made this album.

Although it does remain true... that we inherently expect from music and from art to be “true”; yes, I do expect that, as well. And music that has something to say, through which the artist intends to communicate something personal and genuine, will always occupy an elevated place, and will remain with the listener, long after the album was played - and for years to come. This closeness of art, as a means of human expression, to truth – our desire for that – remain. But, at the same time, to ignore – as said – the “journeyman” dimension of the life of the artist, comes across as both ignorant and arrogant. So let us leave it at that.

What interests me here, in this case, of Clapton’s Happy Xmas album, is (1) that this is an enjoyable album; that (2), if not filled with memorable pieces, it has a few that one listens to, over and over, with pleasure (e.g. Home for the Holidays etc.); and (3), how it reflects Clapton’s musical versatility and multifariousness (which is an aspect of him that I greatly enjoy).

Finally - and as an afterthought, almost - I do appreciate that this album contains both purely "secular" songs (i.e. holiday- and love-themed), and songs that do express and make reference to the “Christ” dimension of Christmas. This aspect is also reflective of a certain wisdom, earthly and spiritual, which I think Clapton has accumulated - and is now living on, in his settled, calm family life, in Surrey. And I like that, as it is not often that one finds (even earthly) wisdom in the realms of stardom (to the contrary, more often than not what one finds behind the glittering doors of fame is misery and tragedy). So it is somehow comforting to find – as I think it is the case – someone who has survived the turmoil and tragedies of the life in the limelight (and EC’s life has had its significant share of these), and was able to settle in a wiser, better life, while remaining an artist.

With such (perhaps) comforting thoughts, a Happy Xmas to all!