Intermission

Monday's post was the one hundredth to Imagined Community; I think you and I both deserve a break...



Gina is singing Le Temps des Cerises, a song closely linked to the Paris Commune and, by extension, to Communist ideology generally. Miyazaki - for it is, surprise, surprise, he - was a union activist, not so surprising when you consider the amount of hard graft involved in animation. The scene comes from his film Porco Rosso, which is set in the final days before Italy became dominated by the fascists; Look beyond the Boy's Own adventure sequences - don't forget, Miyazaki grew up in an aeronautical family - and the unlikely species of the hero, and you find a surprisingly rich film dealing in what it means to be human, and to be free.

Although the red cherries of the song are thought to evoke, among other things, blood spilt in the class struggle, and the red flag itself - images that won't necessarily strike chords with all who read this - listen now, as the valley is adorned with cherry blossom, and the promise of the fruit to come endures. Yes, the windfalls may lie over-ripe and flyblown come the autumn, just as there are plenty who will tell you that Communism is discredited. I don't grieve for the Soviet Union, but as Gracchi recently pointed out, the victory of Capitalism is far from clear, the end of history not yet upon us.

Still, that's a topic for a week or so hence: I'm going to Edinburgh for a few days with the government-in-exile, there will be little activity here until at least May 8. In springtime Japan, the salarymen and office ladies sit out drinking under the trees each night while the cherries are in blossom; this year, the Japanese Meteorological Office had to issue an apology for wrongly predicting the start of the season, causing chaos for planned parties and festivals. Wherever you are, I hope the cherry blossom is abundant.

Ethnie and Modern Nations

I mentioned a while ago that the academic consensus was that what we understand by the term 'nation' only came into being at around the start of the Eighteenth Century. This assertion came as a shock to at least one commenter; I grant I was being slightly mischievous, in that by "we" I meant the members of that academic consensus, but I had also suggested that the Modernist view of nations was incomplete. Truth be told, there is, as yet, no single unifying theory of Nationalism. Today is not a bad day, though, to explore the point that nationalism is always political: the Modernists were making the point that, for various reasons - especially the onset of industrialisation, print-capitalism, and the decline in religious and dynastic legitimacy as a basis for rulers - the Eighteenth Century marked the point at which it began to make sense to assert claims on the basis of one's national identification. Anyone who states that - say - English national identity is or can be apolitical is wrong. Period.

What the Modernists miss is the fairly obvious point that nationalists must have something to draw on in order to shape their programme. It's not a bad day to mention Shakespeare; Tode in his comment referred to the famous speech from Henry V. It's an open question how much significance Henry himself would have attributed to the label "English", but clearly by Shakespeare's time there was a group of people for whom the term not only had meaning, but was capable of attracting their loyalty. You could in fact argue that Shakespeare himself formed part of this discourse, in that he was helping them, and those that read his work later, imagine themselves as English. Self-evidently, you could not be an English nationalist if you did not have some concept of "The English" to draw on.

Academically, this flaw has been neatly bridged by Anthony D. Smith, who co-opted the French word ethnie as a specialist term to describe a pre-national ethnocultural group. He posits six pre-requisites for an ethnie: a collective name, a myth of descent, a shared history, a "distinctive shared culture", an association with a particular territory, and a sense of solidarity. Such entities have existed throughout history, although their persistence is not inevitable. Some such will make the transition into nationhood, others will remain ethnocultural groups; there appears to be no feature which makes it possible to predict in advance whether this transition will take place.

But what does seem indisputable is that the transition is driven by politics. Ethnie exist more or less in a state of unselfconsciousness. Eric Hobsbawm made the point that as soon as movements develop to protect a particular custom or way of life, that proves that there has been a breakdown in continuity, otherwise there would be no need for protection. This point is supported by another Modernist, John Breuilly, who suggests that the cultural differences emphasised by nationalists have been divorced from their orginal purpose in rural communities to become markers of difference in diverse urban environments. Think for a moment of the importance of the rural idyll in almost any nationalist world-view, and the importance of modernisation as a factor in national awareness becomes clear.

And there we have the nub of the problem: just which elements of that cultural heritage do nationalists choose to emphasise, and why? For it is a choice. Smith would argue that there isn't actually that much room to manoeuvre: the myths and symbols that serve to unify an ethnie are so strong that nationalist leaders cannot simply make any assertion they please. This point is fiercely debated, however; on the other side of the spectrum Paul Brass says merely that identities are not infinitely malleable. At this point, we move from the Modernist to, you guessed, the Post-Modernist position: nation is a symbol that can mean - pretty much - anything you want it to mean.

The English are, in one telling, a nation of shopkeepers; Adam Smith was a Scot. A shopkeeper's daughter once sent the country down a particular path that celebrated entrepreneurialism and individuality. It would be relatively simple to build a different narrative based around co-operatives and the Labour movement: still based firmly in recognisably English or British history and traditions, and yet with an entirely different political agenda. There are any number of other narratives that could be constructed in the same way. The most widespread national symbols are empty: I might mean one thing when I fly my flag of St George, but you may read into it something entirely different - there is no agreed symbolism. Hobsbawm again: the English stand for the national anthem, but what does the national anthem stand for?

Set the VCR

... in the unlikely event that you want to see me on your telly. Diamond Geezer, Diamond Geezer, 9pm, ITV1, tonight. I won't be watching, though. Not through any luvvy reluctance to watch my own performance, dahhlings, it's just we threw our telly out. It's a great opportunity for a drinking game, though: a finger of vodka for every Russian cliche you spot. Keep a bucket handy for when you see the bald bouncer ogling the dancers... Coincidentally enough, I've been cast in the doorman roll by lord Nazh, as well.

I don't really hold with drinking games: if you're incapable of reaching or, indeed, going well over, your preferred level of intoxication just in the course of an evening's drinking and conversation, then you're either drinking the wrong things or conversing with the wrong people. However, I have a fondness for the Withnail and I game: simply match the pair drink for drink. Thank god it's not meal for meal, because I would fall at the first hurdle, that appalling breakfast; just how do you induce such a feeling of hungoverness in the viewer? Of course, the drinking is equally fraught - you're only a few minutes in when Withnail turns to lighter fluid, with predictable results. As he retches on the floor - see paragraph 1 - the eponymous "I" tells him "You're a bloody fool." Pause. "You shouldn't mix your drinks." But I still maintain that, even if you can match that concoction, you'll fail once they're in the Lake District. I defy anyone to finish "a quadruple gin and a pint of cider". Eek.

Waiter! More Champagne and Plenty Of Ice

I posted just the other day about the power of music to move you, as well as set you moving; indeed, it's a theme I've touched on before. Thinking about it, I've been clogging up Delicolor's comments on the same subject, as well. I doubt I'll be the only blogger to note it's ninety-five years today since the Titanic went down. Although our collective memory has been cheapened by the sentimental manipulation of the Cameron film - tens of millions spent, and yet they couldn't find a few dollars to spend on a decent script - it remains an extraordinarily evocative myth. I don't know, for example, if I would be so fond of the tune "Nearer, My God, to Thee", were it not for the legend that the ship's orchestra played the hymn in the last moments of the stricken vessel.

I'm clearly not the only one to have been moved by this detail: according to Radio 3's themed programme this morning, postcards bearing the words of the hymn soon went on sale to aid those affected by the tragedy, the charity wristbands of their day. There were also benefit concerts, and at one such in Copenhagen, a piece by the Danish composer Carl Nielsen was premiered, entitled "A Paraphrase on 'Nearer, My God, to Thee.'" As I say, I like the hymn tune, and so I was driving along, enjoying on an intellectual level the appropriately melancholic variations on the melody, but not particularly touched emotionally by the work. For me, music is no good if it only engages the mind, which is why I struggle with modern jazz.

So, like Harry Houdini, I was unprepared for the bodyblow to come: a moment of intense drama and emotion, entirely unexpected, and in stark contrast to the elegiac mood that had gone before. Then, brilliantly, it concludes with a straightforward rendition of the hymn. Ninety-five years later, in the mundane setting of a driver's seat on the M62, I was suddenly in floods of tears, swearing aloud in shock. Can you imagine the impact on the audience at that memorial concert in Copenhagen? It's an extraordinary work, I urge you to seek it out. (If it helps, the Radio 3 programme should be available on "Listen Again" for a week from now - the piece comes just under an hour in.)

The Cossacks and Primitive Democracy

One of the Cossacks' national myths is that their ancestors were pioneers in democracy. The krug (in Russia, especially on the Don) or rada (in Ukraine and the Kuban') had few, if any, analogues elsewhere in the feudal Europe and Asia of the 15th Century on. These gatherings would be convened as needed to discuss important policy decisions, and also met on a regular basis to elect Cossack officials. Despite the different names, the principle was broadly similar: every Cossack male* had the right to attend and be heard, and each man's vote weighed the same. Like mating for spiders, elections could be fraught with danger as well as potential success: an ataman (chief) who had grievously offended the Cossacks, whether by poor decisons, or by egregious corruption, could not only be voted out, he was occasionally lynched.

Note the qualifier "egregious": it was accepted that the elected man would use his office for personal gain, as well as distributing largesse among his supporters both before and after his election: large amounts of vodka were provided by each candidate, as well as other forms of hospitality, in the hope of attracting support during the rada. This initial outlay needed to be recouped in some way.

The rada itself seems to have been a noisy and rather chaotic gathering; although every man present in theory had the right to be heard, in practice a loud voice and/or a chorus of supporters prevailed. There was none of your effete secret balloting, despite the one-man-one-vote principle, elections and decisions were in practice carried by acclaim, which again points up the value of developing a band of supporters to shout louder than the opposition. Inevitably, this framework militated against a subtle elaboration of arguments and in favour of broad brush-strokes - what we would doubtless call soundbites today. (To be fair, this analysis risks missing more sophisticated political manouevring in the run-up to the rada, as the candidates sought to build a power-base.) It also effectively entrenched corruption, as both candidates and their supporters sought enrichment and social advancement.

Nonetheless, in the context of feudal and autocratic European empires, and especially of serfdom in Russia, the existence and persistence of even the crude proto-democracy of the krug and rada was extraordinary. After the dissolution in the late 18th century of the Zaporozhian Cossacks removed one of the two great free Cossack hosts, Peter the Great was able to impose the direct appointment of atamans on the other, the Don Cossacks. The krug was thus effectively rendered impotent, although pale imitations continued to be held.

The Cossacks, particularly the rank-and-file, felt the loss of one of their most important distinguishing institutions keenly and, indeed, this proto-democratic myth retains great power for the Cossack revival: although the main organisation of the Kuban Cossack national movement now names itself the Kuban Cossack Host, it initially (self-)consciously styled itself the Rada, and is still popularly referred to by that name. Ironically enough, given the relatively late creation of the Kuban Cossack Host - and it was created, by Imperial fiat, in contrast to the organic development of the Don and Zaporozhian hosts - its high-ranking pre-Revolutionary officials were all appointed from the centre rather than elected locally. As ever, it is worth taking some time to examine myths, rather than swallowing them whole.

* My use of pronouns in this piece reflects the argument that Cossack national identity implies maleness, which does of course beg a certain practical question...

The End of an Era

One of the first records Mark Radcliffe played on Thursday night was The Pipettes' Pull Shapes, a classic pop tune. I could go all post-modern about how the all-girl harmonies recall the Supremes, but in fact, and for reasons I can't quite pin down, The Pipettes remind me of no-one so much as anarcho-punk-pop-magpies Chumbawamba. That evening, though, I was sitting in the kitchen, contemplating the mess Ms. Dynamite-E-e had made, and wondering just when had been the last time I was pulling shapes on the dance floor myself. And then I was pulled back into 1990s Nottingham, Rock City to be exact. I'd spent a delirious birthday watching Shane Macgowan and the Popes: your man could hardly stay upright, clinging onto the mike for dear life, hands clasped together as though in supplication, and I still don't know what the stand must have been made of for it not to bow. But, man, he was on fire, the Pogues classics ringing round. And, once he'd done, before they kicked us all out, they played the Specials' Too Much Too Young. I've never danced so well as I did during those two and a bit minutes, and I wonder if I ever will again. Now, that song has just the best closing couplet - ever!

Mind the generation gap:
Try wearing a cap

And that, let me tell you, is not a recollection calculated to endear you to an evening spent clearing up the kitchen after your first-born child...

Mark Radcliffe's opening trope for his late-night radio 2 show was always a riff on the line "If you don't like this, you don't like music." His shows have always been a repository of great tunes; whereas the blessed John Peel, from whom he obviously derived a lot of his relaxed style, would seem to delight in the obscure for the sake of their obscurity, Radcliffe managed a pretty good hit rate for the actually listenable. But as that reference shows, the bits between the records were pretty important as well. I was shocked to realise that his late-night show on Radio 1 finished over a decade ago. I missed that last show: I'd elected to go out with some mates, instead, but to this day I wonder if I made the right decision. It's obviously not just me:

His Night time slot is one of the great things that we will be able to look on in the future and we will be able to say that we were there. People of the 60`s had the Beatles, the 70`s had punk, the 80`s quite frankly had nothing but the 90`s was a time when two Manchester men Mark Radcliffe and Marc Riley were the best thing around. It is something great that we were all a part of and enjoyed. Maybe you think that I'm going a bit over the top building Mark & Lard up to almost God like status but in my mind they were Gods.

The show had been the soundtrack to my university days; I even won a video from them: "A Streetcar Named Desire", but never actually received the damn thing. Mark Kermode actually rang me up to discuss it - like that with the stars, me - but still the tape never arrived. Mark and Lard had plenty of other high-calibre guests, too: although - as you know - I'd been on holiday with Simon Armitage - LTWTS, me - I first got to know his work through Radcliffe's show. I still smile, recalling how Armitage was reduced to helpless laughter by Radcliffe playing Wheels under one of his more serious lyrics. Repeatedly.

You do know what Wheels is, it's the track forever associated with bodybuilding: I wasn't even born in the 1960s, when Opportunity was Knocking for Tony Holland, but I instantly knew the association. You see? It's powerful stuff, is music; it can evoke an image or a memory in an instant. But what is not so obvious in our visual age is that a radio show also has its own magic, and Radcliffe should be celebrated as a master. I agree with Sweeping the Nation's verdict that this show was a "Mojo Edit" of the original graveyard shift. But it was still by far and away the best music show on the air, and now that's over, too. He ended his latest run with characteristic modesty: "Thanks for listening over the past three years, it can't have been easy." Bit o' class.

Carnival of Cinema XXV

Great Scott! Carnival of Cinema XXV is back in its regular slot, and contains a portion of cinematic goodness that far outweighs the indigestible dollop offered by yours truly. Maitre D' Scott Nehring has pulled together a fine menu, and runs through it in style:

Paul McElligott is probably the most consistently good movie reviewer I know. We don’t always agree, but he always makes good cases for his tastes. This week Paul pulls a Nietzsche and looks into The Abyss over at CELLULOID HEROES.

"Pulls a Nietzsche"? Sounds painful, but, hey, if it doesn't kill you I suppose it can only make you stronger... Other choice morsels include Gracchi offering a fiery dish prepared to his usual great taste and exacting specifications. Book your table now.

Bring Me Sunshine

The first fifteen minutes or so of 2001:A Space Odyssey make, in your correspondent's humble opinion, one of the finest sequences ever committed to celluloid. Our humanoid ancestors live in fear for their lives, and forage or scavenge for food. But then they encounter the monolith, and the first giant leap of consciousness occurs: weapons = fresh meat, and supremacy over rival groups. The climax of the sequence takes place to the inspired soundtrack of Thus Spake Zarathustra, and the final jumpcut when the jawbone/axe is triumphantly flung into the air, only to turn at its apogee into a spacecraft, is just awesome. Even now, just re-running the scene in my mind's cinema, I have goosebumps. The arc of that jawbone describes the arc of human technological development, and also prepares us for the next evolutionary leap after the second monolith is found. It is a cinematic flourish that I don't believe I have ever seen equalled.

2001 inspires mixed reactions among people, and I have to concur with those who say that the whole thing becomes much clearer if you read Clarke's book. The movie as a whole is flawed: the impenetrable visual effects at the end are a brave, but ultimately unsuccessful, attempt to convey the next step in evolution, but I once saw it in 70mm on the Imax screen in Bradford, and was prepared to forgive much. Incidentally, Mark Kermode has argued that intelligent science fiction like 2001 was killed off by Star Wars; it is not just because Gia has been involved in promoting Sunshine that I am looking forward to seeing the latter.



The start of 2001 is a masterclass in cinema; however, the above excerpt comes pretty close. I have mentioned before how Miyazaki uses opening titles and closing credits to provide prologues and epilogues. The title sequence to Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind is perhaps the best example: where Kubrick took around 15 minutes to set up his film, Miyazaki takes less than two. The conceit of a Bayeux-style tapestry depicting the destruction of man is inspired - entirely plausible as a historical record made in times of medieval-level technology, and, indeed, it makes an appearance as just that in the film proper. The tapestry also introduces the chillingly-named God Soldiers, which I could scarcely watch the first time I saw them devastating the city, I think it's their calm demeanour among the horror which renders them so terrifying.

The holocaust over, the insects take precedence, and that's it: all the back story you need to understand Nausicaa's milieu. The last glimpse we have of the tapestry shows us a winged figure, a hint at the elements of prophecy that, as we will learn, the tapestry contains: sure enough, the tapestry fades, and we're into the clouds and the film proper with another of Miyazaki's trademark motifs, a flying machine. As with the Strauss in 2001, Joe Hisaishi's swelling neo-classical score heightens the impact.

The film itself is an impressive piece of work, no surprise for a Miyazaki piece, with typically strong and complex leading female characters. However, I don't want to analyze Nausicaa further in this post; rather, I've talked about two sequences that I think would stand out among any pieces of film you care to mention, so now it's your turn: never mind the film as a whole, what's the best film sequence, and why?

Yorkshire Sole

I posted an epic review of Frank Walkley's autobiography "Clogs Were My Life" a while ago; one of my biggest questions was about the man's personal life. Now, one possible conclusion was that Frank was gay, but,as he came from a less tolerant generation, he didn't feel able to discuss it in an autobiography. Having said that, I recall reading that for many young gay men, especially from the provinces, national service was actually a boon in that it brought contacts that they would never otherwise have had.

Anyway, while I was in Walkley's clog factory the other day having new rubbers put on my para boot clogs, I asked them what he was like. Turns out he was married five times, and had also had lots of "lady friends". He had several children, one of whom pre-deceased him; another one ended up inside. Sounds like a regular soap opera, and, indeed, that's why he didn't mention his personal life at all: he was worried that it would overshadow his business achievements. Puts a different light on him bringing his secretaries back home to their husbands blind drunk, though.

It also helped explain the gnomic foreword by Sir Ernest Hall: Hall had been involved in the consortium that bought the Clog Mill from Walkley when he sold up. Frank was a straightforward man, and took the consortium at its word. Somehow, he signed everything over before all the payment had gone through. The man leading the consortium promptly witheld the majority of the funds, and poor Frank had nowhere to turn. Apparently, Hall was appalled, and did manage to funnel some money Frank's way. He also felt honour-bound to contribute the foreword to Frank's book, although he wasn't exactly effusive.

But we shouldn't be too upset on Frank's behalf - it didn't stop him from retiring to Spain, where he is still enjoying life in his villa, and long may he continue to do so. I'd like to encourage him to write a second volume, though: My Life wasn't Just Clogs...