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Showing posts from November, 2024

1996, the best year in movie history, pt. 81: Midsomer murders: The killings at Badger’s Drift

[D.S. Troy:] “Why would they want to kill her? Unless it was adultery. I suppose it could have been ass bandits.”

[D.C.I. Barnaby:] “What?”

“In the wood.”

“You mean homosexuals, Troy?”

“Well, that’s what I said.”

“You are as politically correct as a Nuremberg rally.”

∙∙∙

[Mrs. Barnaby:] “Was that Sergeant Troy just now?”

[D.C.I. Barnaby:] “Yes.”

“I’d like to meet him one day.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”
Poor Detective Chief Inspector Tom Barnaby (John Nettles) must fight on three fronts: professional, domestic, and, of course, criminal. Bucolic Midsomer County is “the deadliest county in England.” People aren’t just murdered there: they’re speared with pitchforks, beheaded with guillotines and swords, poisoned with mushrooms, locked in freezers, tied down and then bludgeoned with wine bottles launched from catapults. Motives include: incest, ancestral loyalty, class hatred, religious mania, orchid covetousness, and every flavor of vengefulness. One outwardly mild killer, bored with England, murders while hallucinating that he lives in the Old West.

The first episode, “The Killings at Badger’s Drift” (1997), is based on Caroline Graham’s novel. A kindly old spinster, searching the woods for orchids, stumbles upon a person or persons in flagrante delicto. Horrified, she flees … is pursued … is dispatched. Barnaby and young Troy (Daniel Casey) are called to the scene. Troy is eager to conclude that the death was accidental. But a neighbor suspects foul play, and a nosey parker blackmails the killer. Bodies soon pile up.

Barnaby studies a connection with a previous death, the (allegedly) accidental shooting of the first wife of a rich landowner. This odious man is now engaged to his much younger ward (Emily Mortimer), whose casual untruthfulness piques Barnaby’s interest. Her brother, an artist (Jonathan Firth, Colin’s brother), is quarrelsome and perhaps slightly unhinged. But he’s less alarming, and certainly less revolting, than the smarmy undertaker who drives a too-expensive car and lives too harmoniously with his mother. Familial relations in the County are, as a rule, either discordant or perverse.

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It’s with some relief, then, that we also view Tom Barnaby’s utterly bland home life. His daughter, the winsome Cully (Laura Howard), is an aspiring theatre actress who bounces from gig to gig (and, in other episodes, from boyfriend to boyfriend). Tom’s wife, Joyce (Jane Wymark), engages in cultural pursuits of virtually every form. Tom is the casualty of Cully’s and Joyce’s hobbies. In this episode, he complains of the daintiness of Joyce’s cooking: she serves him quail instead of chicken.

Unsurprisingly, then, he relishes eating out of the house – in the pub or police canteen – or would relish it, were he free of that obnoxious greenhorn, D.S. Troy.

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Barnaby – English for Barnabas – means something like Son of Encouragement. Grumpy as Tom can be, the name is apt. Barnaby treats suspects with respect, and he gives Troy his due. In time, Troy will earn Barnaby’s trust – and a promotion to Detective Inspector, away from Midsomer County.

Other young sergeants will come and go. (How many of them will fall for Cully?) Tom and Joyce will age into curmudgeonliness. After thirteen seasons, Tom will retire; John, his cousin, will replace him as Detective Chief Inspector. John’s family will replace Cully and Joyce. The parade of sergeants will continue. (Medical examiners, too.)

The body count will rise.

The show has now aired for twenty-four seasons and in twenty-seven different years, lampooning/​celebrating every English trope under the sun. Boys’ schools? Check. Pagan ritual? Check. C. of E. bellringing and grave-tending? Check. River punting? Racehorse breeding? Pub-keeping? Landscape painting? Check.

There’s the occasional sequence in Wales or on the Continent, but the scenery is overwhelmingly Southern English. Picture-postcard settings are preferred. (In the show’s first scene, the doomed spinster happily pedals by a sign commemorating Badger’s Drift’s “best kept village” status.)

Off-camera, cast and crew would rise early and ride trains to far-flung locations. Fed-up regulars would leave the show to escape the grind.

Meanwhile, the nation’s best actors would take turns as guests. Anna Massey, Toby Jones, Joss Ackland, Olivia Colman, agèd Bond girls, members of the sprawling Fox family: all lent their talents to this show, this national institution.

Midsomer Murders is a showcase for cottages and pubs and manors, for lawns and fields and forests, for customs respectable and insane; but also for actors trained in old-fashioned, theatrical, British craft.

Meritocracy isn’t a realistic aspiration

How are penalty takers selected? Conversion rate can’t be the whole story. Messi and Cristiano, who miss often enough, will always be their teams’ first-choice shooters.

We Ecuadorians are no wiser. We keep sending Enner to the spot. Sheer sentimentality, I suspect. It’s been years since he dispatched cleanly.

Mbappé and Salah missed penalty kicks this afternoon for Madrid and Liverpool. The commentators pretended to be surprised. Why? I’ve seen other horrendous misses by both players; everyone has.

Liverpool’s best taker by far, Mac Allister, was playing brilliantly and had already scored. He wasn’t considered for the penalty.

Salah is a good shooter, but Mac Allister is near-automatic.

I’d’ve assigned Madrid’s kick to Lucas Vázquez, another inspired player (he’d won the foul). He routinely delivers in the clutch. The weedy fellow has won five Champions Leagues, for goodness’s sake.

It’s his utter professionalism – in addition, perhaps, to his seniority and nationality – that earns Vázquez the captaincy when he comes off the bench. (Carvajal is injured.)

Anyway, I wouldn’t let Mbappé, that bundle of nerves, near the spot – not with the game on the line.

Ancelotti is no fool. His specialty is “team chemistry.” Stock me with talent, no matter how egotistical, he says, and I’ll combine the elements so they don’t clash. But his wizardry has limits. Madrid’s vaunted strikers can’t all function at once – not yet, anyway. Mbappé, the newcomer, is dead weight. His confidence has plummeted.

I believe that it was for this reason – or, perhaps, to prevent a tantrum or sulk – that Ancelotti allowed Mbappé to take the penalty. Not to maximize the likelihood of immediate success, but to promote the squad’s long-term success.

Even so, what I saw today, and have seen in many other games, shows that pro sport, so often celebrated for meritocratic purity, is in fact far from pure. If cutthroat Madrid and stats-savvy Liverpool defer to their Big Cheeses in big games, what are the prospects for meritocracy in a nation as a whole?

Painful anticipation

Not nice for expectant dads, really not nice for expectant moms: prodromal labor.

When Karin’s contractions started, I cleaned the house and packed supplies; I thought we’d soon leave for the hospital. Well, days have elapsed. We’re still at home. The house is a mess, again, and I’m running out of clothes.


We went to church and received diapers, gift cards, and well-wishes. The pastor & his wife put out a tray of delicious Walmart cupcakes in our honor. Few adult congregants partook. Those who did, were shy to. The pastor, bless him, has slimmed down this year, conspicuously enough that he must work the theme into his sermons. Gluttony is as sinful as lying, he said last week.

Well, I suppose it is. And so this morning our church stood around the cupcake table, not eating, remarking that sugar fuels cancer.

A few of us ate with gusto. The frosting turned our lips and teeth blue.



Colombia 0, Ecuador 1

I recant.

We are AWESOME.


This is the best goal that Enner has scored for Ecuador.

We made a very good Colombian team look ordinary. We did it with the ball, the first half-hour – and without it the last hour, sans one player.

The Colombians created opportunities; but it was evident, early on, that they were going to have “one of those nights.” I sat back and watched them miss their tap-ins, point-blank shots, potshots … every kind of shot.

(I prayerfully sat back.)

We’ve conceded just four goals in twelve games.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Karin and Samuel are ill. Daniel and “Pip” and I aren’t – yet.

The first snow fell last night. It’s time to start my winter reading:
  • Dostoevsky, various
  • Kafka, The Castle
  • Jack London, various
  • Christiane Ritter, A Woman in the Polar Night
I already have begun reading The Long Winter from the “Little House” series. The Ingallses endure a South Dakotan blizzard … in October.

Body-text fonts, pt. 33: Century Old Style

The “Century” fonts – ITC Century, Century Expanded, Century Old Style, Century Schoolbook, etc. – aren’t as similar as one would expect. This is explained by font-writer Allan Haley:

Century Old Style (this month’s fêted font)
has more character and personality than the other Century designs. It is the red-headed, freckle-faced member of the family.
And why is that?
Not really an Old Style design [the other “Century” fonts aren’t, either], … it does have … angled serifs in the lowercase and a flavor of Old Style traits.
Ah, yes, I see what Halley means. The font is hardly Centaurish (for instance), but it’s also not abjectly un-Venetian.

Also notable is Century Old Style’s wonky uppercase “C.”

The font’s general plainness and its quirks ensure that it
almost cannot be used in an inappropriate application, and it virtually cannot be overused. Where other typefaces, which have a similar range of abilities, can become commonplace or unexciting (sort of typographic vanilla), Century Old Style maintains a personality and a presence (more like French vanilla).
I couldn’t have put it better myself.

Some pulpy Vintage Black Lizard crime novels (e.g., by Jim Thompson) are set in Century Old Style. Alas, I can’t find a worthy specimen to post here.

Instead, here is a page from a book of old British commercial art. (The author is Robert Opie, the son of those marvelous antiquarians, Iona & Peter.)

Enlarge, please.


And here is a page from a children’s bible.


Different companies issue darker and lighter versions of Century Old Style. I’m partial to this new (absolutely free!) version. Weary of Times New Roman? Use this instead.

Ecuador 4, Bolivia 0

With an eye on their upcoming home match against Paraguay, the Bolivians rested almost all of their starters. They brought a team of youngsters to Ecuador.

One of them committed an atrocious handball in the penalty box.


Not a good strategy in the Era of VAR.

Red card.

Penalty kick converted – barely – by Enner Valencia … who, two minutes later, assisted Gonzalo Plata.

Game over.

This was a cakewalk for us. I’ve never seen a game handed over quite so blatantly.

“Not a real game,” said the Peruvians who narrated my broadcast. I agree.

I had prayed for an anxiety-free contest. Boy, wasn’t it ever. It was dull.

After the fourth goal, and with half an hour remaining, we brought on a handful of subs who ran around like headless chickens, trying to score. They didn’t.

It could have been five, six, seven goals.

We’ve played eleven games; scored only ten goals (four of them last night); stayed comfortably within the qualification zone. Failed to inspire. I’ve yet to enjoy any of our matches. Our defenders are superb. Our attackers are bottomless wells of disappointment. The coaches tried too hard to defend early in the cycle, and we never got into a goalscoring groove.

We’ll play in Colombia on Tuesday. That might be our hardest remaining contest.

“Pip” flips

“Pip” is upside-down, so that’s a relief.

Apparently, he has lots of hair. The latest ultrasound even showed his eyelashes.

Now, we wait. …

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R.I.P. our wonderful church sister, Donna – another driving force behind our adult Sunday School. She was ninety-two and quite spry, physically and mentally, until this year.

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Tomorrow, in Guayaquil, Ecuador will play a crucial World Cup qualifier against Bolivia. We’re shorthanded; the Bolivians, more so.

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Lest I neglect them – and before they lose to 2nd-ranked Ohio State – the 10–0 Indiana Hoosiers are ranked 5th in the land, in football. They lead the conference. They’ve brutalized every foe but one (the defending national champs).

Their stadium is packed every week. Their uniforms are simple and good.

I’m glad.

But it is a sign of the Apocalypse.

Nesting-time

From a friend’s Facebook page:


Yeah, well, Trump and Vance reside in counties that went to Harris. So there. 👅

Life goes on. “Pip” is due to be born in three-and-a-half weeks. Fellow churchgoers have been giving diapers and other tokens. At home, the task of the season – instinctive for Karin, imperative for me – is “nesting,” i.e. reconfiguring one’s living quarters for the baby. The most urgent time for this appears to be 10:00 or 11:00 p.m.

Anyway, that’s why I didn’t post last night – I was busy “nesting.”

Physically, things are progressing well, except that “Pip” still needs to flip upside-down. Karin lays frozen veggies on herself to goad him.

My take

Who do you want?

Barabbas!



(24 Hour Party People)

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Happy birthday, yesterday, to me. I watched Liverpool torch Leverkusen. Guy Fawkes fireworks exploded all game long. People like that sort of thing, you know?

My mother was unwell but still brought me a cake.

The weather was how I prefer it. At night, I put on I Know Where I’m Going! for more of the same. The boys wouldn’t let me finish it.

November’s poem

“The Nomad Harvesters,” by Marie De L. Welch:

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
The nomads had been the followers of flocks and herds,
Or the wilder men, the hunters, the raiders.
The harvesters had been the men of homes.

But ours is a land of nomad harvesters.
They till no ground, take no rest, are homed nowhere.
Travel with the warmth, rest in the warmth never;
Pick lettuce in the green season in the flats by the sea.
Lean, follow the ripening, homeless, send the harvest home;
Pick cherries in the amber vallies in tenderest summer.
Rest nowhere, share in no harvest;
Pick grapes in the red vineyards in the low blue hills.
Camp in the ditches at the end of beauty.

They are a great band, they move in thousands;
Move and pause and move on.
They turn to the ripening, follow the peaks of seasons,
Gather the fruit and leave it and move on.
Ours is a land of nomad harvesters,
Men of no root, no ground, no house, no rest;
They follow the ripening, gather the ripeness,
Rest never, ripen never,
Move and pause and move on.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

I came by this in Carey McWilliams’s book, Factories in the Field: The Story of Migratory Farm Labor in California.