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Showing posts with the label Fawkes (Guy)

1996, the best year in movie history, pt. 84: The leading man

This movie, unfortunately, is less compelling as a story than as grist for speculation about the artists’ offscreen misdeeds. Which, in a way, is fitting, because it depicts the backstage scuzziness of a high-end theatrical production.

(The theatrical process itself is treated affectionately and accurately. This, I gather, is what critics like about the movie.)

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For nearly two decades, British-born Australian director John Duigan helmed acclaimed but smallish productions, including two longtime favorites of mine – wonderful coming-of-age movies – The Year My Voice Broke (1987) and Flirting (1991).

Alas, his relationship with Flirting’s leading actress, Thandie Newton, was … sinister.

(Allegedly. Newton denounced Duigan in several interviews, including this sobering one for Vulture.)

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Duigan gained international note for the fleshy Sirens (1994), which is about an English cleric and his wife whose mores are loosed when they visit a “liberated” artists’ colony in Australia.

Colonials 1, Mother Country 0.

The sides swap home fields but play similar games in Duigan’s The Leading Man (1996). Another colonial libertine – movie star Robin Grange (Jon Bon Jovi) – travels to London to headline a play. The movie’s opening scene shows Robin peering wolfishly across the Thames at the Houses of Parliament. This may not be enough to evoke Guy Fawkes, but soon Robin is talking of “blowing things up.” Hmm.

(I’m probably making too much of this association.)

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Anyway: Robin, with gusto, wreaks havoc on the production’s backstage intrigues.

One intrigue is conducted along typically dreary upper-middle-class British lines. Established playwright Felix (Lambert Wilson) is miserable in his affair with the ingénue lead, Hilary (Newton – at the time, allegedly, still in Duigan’s thrall). Felix spends evenings in the flat that Hilary shares with other young strugglers and returns late to his wife, Elena (Anna Galienna), for tongue-lashings.

Robin sizes things up and makes Felix an indecent proposal. Out of the goodness of his heart, he’ll seduce Elena: to take her off Felix’s hands, or at least to reduce her moral advantage over Felix.

So far, this is like an Iris Murdoch novel (A Fairly Honourable Defeat, perhaps). The difference is that the movie appears to side with the scheming Robin. It’s as if, in Othello, the patsy Roderigo were the tragic victim, Desdemona guilty, Iago worth cheering for.

This moral repulsiveness swamps whatever craftsmanship, style, and comedy the movie offers – which are not inconsiderable.

The movie is still better than what passes for urbane adult drama nowadays: e.g., The Undoing, with Duigan’s former actors, Nicole Kidman and Hugh Grant.

And so it bolsters my claim for 1996.


P.S. Newton went on to become a star. Duigan went on to make the terrible, pointless Lawn Dogs.

Bon Jovi emerged untarnished.

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.

100 greatest Britons

My little boy turned six months old. See him with his mother:


Ziva is in the background, at one o’clock.

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Do you watch so much British TV that, occasionally, you need to be reminded that you aren’t British?

You may be helped by this BBC poll from 2002 that identifies the “100 Greatest Britons.”

Consider: who was Isambard Kingdom Brunel?

Not only had I not heard of him, the alleged second-greatest Briton (ahead of the likes of Darwin, Newton, Shakespeare, and Elizabeth I); I’d be surprised to encounter five non-Britons who could tell me who he was.

(Reading about him, it’s obvious that he was a tremendous figure. It’s just that, on this side of the Atlantic, the Industrial Revolution looms less large in the imagination.)

I understand the high rating of Diana, Princess of Wales, even if I don’t agree with it. I even understand the inclusion of J.K. Rowling to the detriment of Agatha Christie, Arthur Conan Doyle, and other genre fiction writers. People get fixated upon recent figures.

It’s surprising, though, to see a 17th-century terrorist such as Guy Fawkes rated so well (30th). Not that I object. I think I understand his appeal. But it wouldn’t have occurred to me to make it a criterion for “greatness”; no, not even though I love to watch Midsomer Murders, which is close in spirit to how Guy Fawkes Night is celebrated. (And since Fawkes is included, why not Jack the Ripper?)

The list has no philosophers unless Darwin and Newton are counted as such. Hobbes? Hume? Absent. Locke? Adam Smith? They must have been reserved for the U.S. list.

Blake, not Turner, is the only painter.

No Yeats; no Joyce. Instead: Bono. Pop singers abound.

Actors abound: Richard Burton the actor makes the cut above Richard Burton the explorer. (Explorers abound, too.)

Some remarks upon the recent occasion of my birthday

I thank those who, via Facebook, wished me well upon my birthday, which also is Guy Fawkes Day (or Bonfire Night) and therefore easy to remember.

I especially thank my cousin Andrew for posting a video of our childhood. It received many “likes” and comments. It shows the now-demolished house in Esmeraldas where my family used to live.

I rebuke the as-yet unidentified person who noticed Facebook’s announcement of my birthday and decided to “unfriend” me.

However, I thank those who sent cards and money. I used the money to buy a book about modern art, which was on sale at Barnes & Noble. It appears to be the sort of book that presents each artist and movement in its best light.

I hope to also buy this new book about C.S. Lewis’s philosophy.

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I haven’t yet checked today’s electoral results. I might comment on them in the future.

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It occurs to me that From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, published in 1967, is an urbanized retelling of Walkabout (1959): hence, its fountain-bath episode.