A Gallic binge

Subway (1985) with a runtime of 1h 44m, rated 6.5 by 16,000 cinematizens; Le doulos (1962): 1h 48n, rated 7.7 by 12,000; and Ascenseur pour l’échafaud (1958): 1h 31m rated 7.9 by 29,000.

When prowling around streaming outlets I came across these, one after another, during our Cronulla staycation. I watched them in this order.   

Subway has the frenetic energy and mordant wit that director Luc Besson’s films often have. It also has Isabelle Adjani melting the screen.  A tuxedoed thief on the run finds refuge in a Paris Metro station (Châtelet?) where he discovers he is not alone. The plot, which makes no sense, is an excuse for the to’ings and fro’ings.  This is another characteristic of Besson films.  It is all on the surface, but it is fun while it lasts.

Le doulos is Jean-Pierre Melville, the director, out-noiring American film noir. In contrast to Subway this is all serpentine plot. All the threads come together in a downward spiral. Each member of this ensemble is doomed. The moodiness and the movements are compelling in this seedy world of criminals where no one escapes fate.  

By some miracle of city planning there is always a parking place in Paris for the Yank Tanks these villains drive. The title is a slang word for an informer, someone who talks, tattles, through or behind his hat.   

But the best for last is Ascenseur pour l’échafaud, made when the director, Louis Malle, was a boy of twenty-six.  When most that age are making student films of 10 minutes, he directed this feature length masterpiece. Moreover, he did everything against expectations. The elegant, suave, and handsome Maurice Ronet is a reptilian villain, while up and comer Jeanne Moreau is a luminous fallen angel. The close-ups of each of them are unsparing. Sometimes against black backgrounds the characters seem like puppets, and perhaps that is what they are.  Compelled by their own instincts, and unable to control themselves, each, in a different way, is driven to a bad end, along with a pair of innocent bystanders, who are not so innocent by the time the film ends.  

The tension and drama are all the more remarkable because so much of the screen time is confined to an elevator car.  

Moreover, there is a perfect soundtrack from Miles Davis that sets the mood in the middle.  

Did Malle read Somerset Maugham’s Of Human Bondage; it would seem so. 

7 – 11 Life

Convenience Store Woman (2018) by Sayaka Murata

Good Reads meta-data is 163 pages, rated 3.69 by 280,087 litizens.  

Genre: Fiction; Sub-species: chick-lit.  

DNA: Japanese.

Tagline: Irasshaimasé!

Verdict: Meursault with a purpose. 

Keiko didn’t fit in. This fact she had learned in primary school when, during a recess, two boys were fighting and everyone shouted for them to stop.  She stopped them.  A gardener’s spade came to hand and she whacked one of the combatants with it.  End of fight.  She had done what everyone wanted, and now she was the one in trouble. Go figure!  

There were many other ways in which she was an odd duck. She showed no interest in the girlish concerns of clothing, cosmetics, boys, family, and so on.  She just drifted along on the ebb and flow of those around her, having learned to conceal her indifference to these matters and much else, well nearly everything else.  For camouflage she copied the dress, mannerisms, and speech of those around her, but none of it had any inner resonance.  She is an A.I. robot in these ways, programmed from the outside in by the environment.

When she graduated from high school she got a part-time job at Hiiromachi branch of “Smile Mart,” a convenience store, and found her niche.  Here she comes to life with energy, initiative, commitment, interest, and more.  The growth and expression of her symbiotic relationship with the convenience store is the core of the novel, and it is charming, if a little unnerving. (Footnote: See Michel Foucault on life in the social machine.) The store gave her purpose and structure and she dedicated herself to it in return.  She became obsessed with personal hygiene because the store required it.  She ate a proper diet and slept the requisite hours so that her strength was equal to being on her feet during eight hour shifts. She no longer had to decide what wear but happily donned the prescribed uniform. She learned to use morning weather forecasts to stock the shelves, to know when regulars would arrive, how to scan items and make change instantly. 

But most of all she had learned to read the store, to know by the sounds, smells, drafts when something had to be done.  The crinkle of cellophane wrappers might imply a need to restock shelves. A draft of cool air, a refrigerator door was ajar.  A certain click might mean a rack is empty.  The store was mother and child to her and she cared for it in all ways.

She always volunteered for more work, not because she wanted or needed the overtime pay (since she had nothing to spend it on) but because it kept her focussed on what the store needed. The store shielded her from the pressure to conform to the expectations of her parents, her peers, the society,…and life beyond the store and in return she cared for its needs.

Sayaka Murata

It may sound dopey but it is done so well that is only a belated second thought. Meursault of Camus’s L’Étranger would get it. 

Athena investigates

On a nippy Sunday afternoon we took the 428 Bus to the Flight Path Theatre (aka the Sidetrack Theatre) to see ‘Death in the Pantheon’ by James Hartley.  Someone had spiked the ambrosia that makes the gods of the Pantheon immortal and one of them has…died.  Well, it was Hephaetius and that lightning bolt sticking out of his back suggests he was MURDERED!  

The surviving gods don’t know which is worse, mortally or murder, but they do know they need help. 

Who ya gonna call?  The Owl symbol is sent forth and Athena, god of wisdom, is on the case.  She looks. She thinks. She looks some more. She questions. She questions again.  She does move fast this god. 

While she is investigating another god dies and it looks like poison.  

Never one of say ‘No’ the grieving widow Aphrodite remarries, briefly.

These are the Greek gods of Homer: bickering, bored, squabbling, boring, spoiled, none too bright — Except Athena!  Who sets a traps for the murderer, leaves her own false trails…and…!  

***

It is fun, and the governing theme that the gods need worshipers more than worshippers need gods emerges. See Neil Gaiman, American Gods (2001) for the another treatment of that theme, if you like dense and self-indulgent prose.  I commented on this novel on the blog in 2016. Click on for the enlightenment needed.

The performers are each committed to their roles. We enjoyed the energy of the petulant Ares, the Tennessee Williams glamour of Aphrodite, the solemnity of Athena, the insouciance of Zeus, the practicality of Hera, the persnickety Hades, the preening Poseideon, and reeling Dionysius, the sarcastic Hermes whose reading of the wedding apologies was a notable. 

The theatre was chilly but I suppose there is nothing to be done about that.  It is after all a tin shed (which was once an Army tin shed).  The program notes said 75 minutes on one web page and 80 minutes on another without an interval. OK.  The reality was 120 minutes without an interval.  Too long.  That is the more annoying when I realise this play has been staged several times so that the timing should have been fixed.  Grrr.  

Harriet Martineau

Deborah Logan, The Hour and the Woman: Harriet Martineau’s “Somewhat Remarkable” Life (2002)

Good Reads Meta-data is 332 pages rated 0 by 0 litizens.

Genre: Biography

DNA: PhD

Verdict: Indeed, remarkable.

Tagline: Too much is not enough.  

First to the woman, then to the hour.  Martineau (1802-1876) was an influential writer in the Victorian Era.  In that age of reform, she was a REFORMER with the pen. The causes she took up often fell hardest on women, but not all of them.  She was a social analyst, social critic, and social advocate of a high order.  Later in life her admiring readers included Florence Nightingale, Queen Victoria, John Stuart Mill, and others of their like.  

Her Unitarian father owned a factory in Norwich and he encouraged his daughters as well as his sons to get educated.  When his factory later fell on hard times, to make money Martineau made and sold needlework, something she continued to do throughout life, donating the proceeds when she could to the causes, and also took up the pen. Her first foray was Illustrations in Political Economy, where she illustrated economic concepts with stories, combing fiction and non-fiction.  Efforts to secure publication of the first of these by correspondence failed, and she did not even think of using a masculine pseudonym, but rather she did what a man would do.  She went to London to argue her case with publishers face to face. It was difficult but it worked.  She found a publisher desperate enough to take a punt on an unknown writer, an unconventional mixed genre, a provincial, and a woman on a new subject.

The first exemplar was published, and….it sold every well. It was reprinted and distributed further.  That led to eleven more.  The result was more cash money than the family had ever seen, and set her on the a road she never left.  It also gave her a notoriety that was mixed, for publishing was men’s business, and the reviewers let fly with a barrage of ad hominem (or is that ad feminem) attacks that would please an internet troll today. These continued the rest of her life: personal, malicious, threatening, incoherent, ranting, and stupid fulminations.

She continued apace with other social questions, and when money and time allowed she travelled to the United States in the same year that Tocqueville did, 1835.  While he carried letters of introduction from the French government, he went as an ingenue looking for a key to the kingdom of democracy, she went as a social critic to observe the life of both women in this New Jerusalem and of slaves.  She found that women’s world was no different in the US than in the UK.  She also added abolitionist stripes to her colours.  (In the effort to emphasise Martineau, our author rather undersells Tocqueville. See his prophetic chapter The Three Races.)

Needlework for Abolitionist Cause

While she promoted female emancipation, she did not advocate the franchise for women.  She thought that education and autonomy came first, then the vote.  If the vote came prior to social, intellectual, and moral emancipation, it would be manipulated by men who dominated women.  The arguments are clear and logical, but, well, impractical.  It is a variation on that recurrent nostrum: first utopia, then national health.  

She spend years battling the Contagious Disease Act which permitted the seizure of women on the grounds of public health (venereal disease) and imprisoning them.  That the government owned the bodies of women whereas it would never even consider a like possession of men, drove her pen into open warfare.  Not only was the Act wrong in itself, it was misused and abused to subjugate women. The cannibals had at her but she did not flinch.  Yes, there are contemporary resonances here, too.  (Strangely neither Martineau nor our author consider military conscription as a relevant comparison to this point.)  

If all this were not remarkable enough, she did it while enduring a debilitating handicap.  She became deaf at an early age, and thereafter brandished an ear trumpet, and later a walking stick, and suffered extended periods confined to a bed. Yet she soldiered on. (I wondered if this loss of hearing was related to her penchant for writing to communicate?  And how that related to learning French? But no answers did I find.)

This is a book about her life but it is not a chronological biography and rather assumes the reader knows the facts of her life – which I found on Wikipedia.  What it offers is a thoroughgoing analysis, interpretation, and evaluation of Martineau’s intellectual achievements and heritage piled high and deep enough for a PhD.  That means it is hard sledding to a casual reader like this correspondent.  I chose it because I knew her name as a forerunner of Sociology, and while that is here, it is not emphasised.  Did she compile data and present it, as Florence Nightingale did, or not remains unknown to this reader.  Or did she rely on polemic? She translated some of Auguste Comte’s doorstop books but how and why she learned enough French to do this, and whether it was cause or effect of her social interests remains befogged to me.  

The book is divided into 50-page chapters that wearied me, weak reed that I am, and the level of argument at times is as mystical as a priest reading entrails.  Finally, nothing is good enough for Martineau.  Previous writers who have praised her are arraigned for failing to praise her in the right way, for failing to praise her enough, for failing to praise her on time, and so on.  The compound of these features and their kin is overkill.   

She would certainly was a good subject for a ‘Great Lives’ program on BBC4 rather that some of the stand-up comedians that are so common on that once very informative program. That is where I was reminded of her, and that led me to getting this book. 

——-

Thames and more.

Rivers of London (2011) by Ben Aaronovitch

Good Reads meta-data is 392 pages, rated 3.86 by 130,264 litizens.  

Genre: Fiction: Species: krimi. Sub-species: Fantasy

DNA: Brit.

Verdict: Harry Potter with a body count.

Tagline: Mind the undertow. 

Constable guards the perimeter police tape of a crime scene one dreary January night in the cold and mist when an eye witness to that earlier crime appears to him. Training kicked in, Constable opens his notebook to take a statement from this apparition whose address is a graveyard, and he is a ghost as he proves to Constable’s satisfaction and consternation.  

By the time Constable’s partner reappears with coffee, ghost has departed (again).  Copper dares not tell anyone but, how can he not, so he blurts out this confrontation to his partner, who promises not to tell. As if.

Soon this undistinguished constable is selected for a special squad since it seems he has a gift of sight…into the world of ghosts, goblins, demons, spirits, magic, and such. The Met needs all the help it can get and he becomes, duly sworn in, a sorcerer’s apprentice.  

Meanwhile, the bodies keep falling and the plot thickens to curdled cream.  The ride is a mile-a-minute, the prose is crisp, the wit is diabolical.  There is a melody of irony and humour in it all. There is also infanticide. 

Ben Aaronovitch

This world of magic may be crazy, but is reality any less crazy?  There is no easy answer to that when watching the television news.  Plenty of child-murder there, too. 

It all ends where it began, sort of, though the dog reappears, its agent failed to get it the major part it should have had. Toby you can do better! 

It is part of a series.

Of course, what it brings to mind is Wellington Paranormal, which is low key by comparison.  Oh, and Punch and Judy.

Mincemeat

———

Operation Mincemeat (2010) by Ben Macintyre

Good Reads meta-data is 416 pages, rated by 4.02 by 20,290 litizens.

Genre: History.

DNA: Brit.

Verdict: Overloaded. 

Tagline: Tis a far better thing than he had ever done before.

Espionage has many forms and disinformation is one of the principal ones.  To mask the Allied invasion of Sicily in July 1943 a deception plan was conceived, prepared, and launched to confuse the Nazis.  It would be impossible to conceal the fact that Sicily was the next geographically logical target, so the plan was to capitalise on that obvious fact by implying that a feint would be made to Sicily while the real attack would be on the Peloponnese in Greece with the strategic goal of a link with the Soviets via Yugoslavia.

Winston Churchill had often spoken of the soft underbelly of Europe, evidently having never seen the mountains of Italy or the Balkans, and the site would be consistent with that.  But how to do it?  

What would convince the Nazis? Soft intelligence of rumours and such is useful but that takes a lot of time and there was little time for that on this occasion because it was in February when the decision was made to invade in July. Still rumours were planted, but something that would rivet attention would be better. It had to be something that the Nazis found out for themselves and interpreted for it to have credibility with them.  It could not simply be handed to them. So a complicated and roundabout plan was hatched.  

An airplane crash would be faked off the coast of Spain at a place where the local officials were known to be pro-Nazi.  A cadaver would float ashore with a brief case chained to a wrist containing some papers which were vague, but which lent themselves to the interpretation that the next major objective was Greece.  

That sounds pretty simple but the preparation and execution was anything but simple. The imperative of secrecy meant everything had to be done carefully. (Although by launch date at least 50 people or more, by my count, knew the broad outline and purpose of the exercise. The author does not offer this kind of numerical summation.)  

Every step was hard.  In wartime England finding a dead body to use was the first, and in some ways the hardest problem.  One of the good points of this book is the deference and respect accorded to the deceased, one Michael Glyndwr.  Eventually, against an ever ticking clock, a cadaver was found that (1) could be used (no family to claim it, no witnesses to its death, no obvious signs of the real cause of death), (2) of military age, and (3) roughly physically fit enough to have been in the army: Someone who is not going to be missed or sought after. The final difficulty was the identity photograph on his service card.  The dead do look dead. 

Once found, a body would have to be kept for some weeks while the papers and other paraphernalia were assembled and the seasonal tides became right off the Spanish coast. There was no point in preparing the papers and gear if no corpse could be obtained so that only started once the corpse had been secured.

Getting a uniform also proved difficult, since every item of clothing issued had to be accounted for and assigned to a soldier. Most difficult of all, because they were the scarcest of all in wartime England, were underwear!    

Preparing the papers also proved a challenge.  No one was satisfied with the drafts others wrote, and so more drafts were written, each typed with copies by office staff.  Imagine a committee of twelve writing a letter! Impossible.  

Even harder was faking a plane crash. Even getting an RAF plane to fly the body to the right locale proved difficult. One could hardly say we need it for a secret mission to deceive the enemy to the RAF to file flight plan. Instead a submarine did it in such a way that only two intelligence officers saw the body. The crew of 60 certainly knew something unusual was happening. Using the submarine allowed for a more exact placement in the tidal action. (The crash was faked with an explosion on the water.)  

While all this was going on, the cadaver was decomposing in cold storage.  

Apart from these practical hurdles, the toughest nut to crack was pitching the information so that it tapped into the predispositions of the German intelligence analysts.  Not too much, just enough for them to find confirmation for what they already suspected.  

Another key, apart from Churchill’s focus on Southern Europe, was the British presence in the Balkans, mainly with Tito’s partisans, but also a remnant of British troops that had gone to ground in Greece when they could not be evacuated in 1941. These were stirred into some action to support the story.  Meanwhile, in Egypt Greek-speakers were recruited and organised.

He had to be named, and every serving officer was in the Army or Navy Register.  What name to use?  This was a comedy of errors.  The name of dead officer could not be used for reasons both practical and moral.  And so on, and on.  But it had to be a name in a register but who would not be surprised to hear he had died, because his death would be published. Long story on that one. Because once the body was found in due course it would be identified and buried. 

Once the man was in the water, there was a wait to see if the tides had been correctly predicted. Yes.

When the body was recovered would it pass examination by a coroner? Yes, but only just.  In fact, the Spanish medical examiner entered all manner of hedges and qualifications in the written report about the cause of death, how long the body had been in the water, and time of death but this report, by luck, did not accompany either the cadaver or the briefcase thereafter.  

Then would the Spanish hand over the papers to the Germans in Madrid.  No!  Some fool in the Spanish bureaucracy followed correct procedures and locked the papers up, pending release to the British after the body was identified, claimed, and buried by the Brits.  

A contingency plan went into operation to alert the resident Germans in Madrid (there a lot of them — about two hundred — who preferred that posting to the Eastern Front) that the papers existed and were valuable.  This was done by starting word-of-mouth rumours of a British reward for the return of the brief case and contents. Not a colossal amount of money but enough to set the German mind thinking. 

There was a lot of cat-and-mouse in Spain. Once the papers were finally in German hands, the Nazis saw what they wanted to see.  In Spain the resident Germans needed an intelligence coup to make themselves look good to their bosses back home in Berlin so they could stay in Spain. Their willingness to believe was duly noted in London and exploited with the later Normandy deception to come. 

In Berlin the OKW army analysts wanted something definite to concentrate on, and this gave them a target. Despite all the stereotypes of German realpolitik and efficiency what shows here again is the incompetence, disorganisation, and fantasy in much of their intelligence work. Just as bad as S.O.E.

And of course once Hitler accepted the truth of the Greek misdirection, no one else dared criticise, equivocate, question, or hesitate.  When the information proved wrong, of course, Hitler blamed everyone else but himself. This same cycle of incompetence and stupidity was repeated with the deceptions regarding the Normandy invasion a year later.  Once again Hitler was fooled, and that was that.  

In neither case could or would Hitler ever take responsibility for his own mistakes. Now that is genius!

There was another wait once the papers reached Berlin to see if they were examined, and acted on.  Well, after a wait, Field  Marshall Erwin Rommel was sent to Greece. He took with him two fully equipped armoured divisions that were then not in Sicily when the Allied landings occurred.  

The author has amassed a great deal of material, all of which is presented! There are too many back and side stories about the alcoholic intake of the Brits during the war. That may well explain S.O.E.’s catastrophic incompetence. Not so very amusing viewed in that light.   

A strong point is the account of the forensic assessment of the papers and the cadaver.  By the same token I would have liked a little more on the attitudes of the Spanish officials involved.   

I read The Man Who Never Was (1953) by Ewen Montagu (the main architect of the plan) (168 pages, rated 3.96 by 1412 litizens) when a lad of an (un)certain age. When the film of 2021 came around I was reminded of that.  However, I did not go to the movie at the local Dendy since having my ear drums assaulted for 2 hr 8 min after having my patience exhausted by the repetition of Val Morgan ads repeated three times, after having paid the $24 price of admission did not appeal to me.  Curmudgeon that I am. Perhaps one day I will see it on the telly chopped up by imbecilic commercials, but that is what the mute button is for.