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1996, the best year in movie history, pt. 71: War of the buttons

In the fifth and sixth grades, in Esmeraldas, I used to join my Room B classmates in the daily battle against the goons of Room A (and, occasionally, those of Room C, although those boys usually took our side). By “battle,” I mean we’d play soccer, fiercely, in the dirt – school uniforms be damned. I knew some of the boys were getting into trouble at home for this.

A rather rougher feud is the subject of War of the Buttons. The boys of Ballydowse and Carrickdowse, in County Cork, attend different schools; they can’t battle during recess, so they conduct after-hours warfare.

A Carrick boy calls a Bally boy a toss-pot. How bad is that word? To find out, the Bally boys bribe a younger child to say “toss-pot” to the priest. The priest chases the child out of the church.

The Bally boys sneak over to Carrickdowse at night and vandalize a billboard. The Carrick boys retaliate. Soon the two sides are taking prisoners and cutting off each other’s buttons, shoelaces, and neckties. This is hard on the Bally boys, who are poorer; the poorest among them are sure to get thrashed at home.

This only strengthens the resolve of one urchin: Fergus, the Bally boys’ brave leader. He instructs his troops to fight naked to avoid losing buttons; when they object, he imposes a fundraising scheme so they can buy more buttons. This tests their loyalty. Some grumble. Some commit treason. The feud, once two-sided, becomes more complex.

The movie begins with children aping grownups. Eventually, the grownups themselves, with their own resentments, which may have initially inspired the children’s conflict, get dragged into the war. Cutesy entertainment becomes dire parable.


The screenwriter, Colin Welland, won an Oscar for writing the great Chariots of Fire. He also won a BAFTA for acting in Ken Loach’s great Kes, playing a teacher who is kind to an oppressed but spirited little boy. There is a kind schoolmaster in Buttons, too, who looks after the downtrodden Fergus.

Welland himself was a teacher, as was Louis Pergaud, the author of the 1912 novel. A pacifist, Pergaud was conscripted in WW1, wounded, captured, and killed when his own side attacked the field hospital where he was convalescing. His novel was hugely popular in his native France. The French filmed it in 1962 and twice in 2011 – once setting it during WW2, with villagers, Jews, and Nazis.

I don’t know if any Irish strove to adapt the parable to their own society. This seems to have been an English endeavor. I don’t think it matters where it’s set. Like Truffaut’s Small Change, this is a tale of Urchins Everywhere, beginning, predictably, with their gusto and pluck and then slyly turning the spotlight upon their suffering – and on the differences between the boys.

Isla Cromartie

My new Chromebook arrived a day early. What with the Scottish TV I’ve been watching, I named her Isla Cromartie.

The good: compared to my previous Chromebooks, Isla is built like a tank.

The bad: she loses power faster. And she has a touchscreen for Samuel and Daniel to interfere with. Perhaps this feature could be disabled.

She is a Dell. I considered naming her Adelle. Also: Philadelphia, after Philadelphia Bobbin, a character in Nancy Mitford’s Christmas Pudding.

It’s unlikely but possible that one day I’ll sire girl-triplets: Philomena (“Mena”), Philippa (“Pippa”), and Philadelphia (“Dee”). Karin hopes not.

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The Drake Passage, in a nutshell (National Geographic).

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An exam from a class taught by Hannah Arendt in 1955. (Click on the image to make it sharper.)


When I was growing up and aspiring to become an academic (among other things), I read a few books from the 1970s and ’80s – whatever I could find in Ecuador – on how to teach in college. These books had sample exams. One basic type was Arendt’s: Here is your chance to demonstrate what you have learned.

For the student who’d learned little, there was nowhere to hide. For one who’d at least absorbed a few key lessons, arriving at a decent launching point for subsequent, mostly unguided study, this was an arena in which to shine.

I was enamored.

This was not what my exams were like in college or graduate school.

If memory serves, just one exam, a take-home from my second semester of college, was remotely like Arendt’s.

Shopping

My Google Chromebook – cracked and dented after two years of harsh treatment (Samuel would use it as a stepping-stool, Daniel as an anvil/discus) – gave up its ghost yesterday, so I am blogging with my phone.

We trekked to Best Buy last night. The children gaped at the huge TVs. The computer salesman, who was urging an older couple to buy a higher-end device, may or may not have noticed us hovering (we were in his section some thirty minutes).

I cornered a worker from a different department. Sorry, he’s the only computer guy, he told me.

Amazing, I remarked to Karin as we left the store.

It’s been that way since COVID, she said.

Oh, dear.

I bought a refurbished machine through Amazon. It should arrive on Friday. Suppliers of refurbished Chromebooks receive very low ratings. The company I bought from has an approval rating of 88% – extremely high.

I don’t know how troubling this ought to be. A lot of “one star” raters complain, misguidedly, that they can’t install a Windows OS. How do you take off the Google, they ask.

One fellow quoted fire-and-brimstone verses, concluding: Vengeance is mine, saith the LORD.

Drafting today’s entry longhand before I tap it out may benefit the prose. Or not. Samuel is fascinated; never has he seen such long blocks of handwriting. He stares at the paper, draping himself over me, pinning down my limbs.

Daniel, who has removed his pants and diaper, races through the house.

A World Cup venue

British tabloids have reported – although, as far as I know, FIFA hasn’t confirmed – that the 2026 World Cup final will be played in Arlington, Texas.

Well, why not. A bloated stadium to cap off a bloated World Cup.

“Is Arlington, Texas, the largest city in the US without mass public transit?

“Yes. …

“Voters have rejected proposals to create public transit three times since 1980.”

Too bad. I guess I’ll have to ride an Uber to the game.




Reading report

Due to all the snow, it’s time to list the most entertaining books I’m reading.

(1) Henry Fielding, Tom Jones. This’ll last forever. I average just one or two little chapters each day. I believe there are over two hundred. Daniel, roughhousing, caused me to drop the unread paperback I’d owned for twenty years; the cover and spine broke. The cover of my replacement copy shows Tom leching. I haven’t gotten there in the story. Tom is still an infant nearly a hundred pages in. He’s clearly on his way to ignominy, due to the circumstances of his birth. I plan to alternate between Fielding and Richardson: Tom Jones; Pamela; Joseph Andrews and/or Shamela; and, finally, the grandmommy, Clarissa. Wish me luck.

BTW, Daniel says dozens of words but just started saying “no!” this week. It’s his favorite word.

Back to the books.

(2) Michael Lewis, Going Infinite, about Sam Bankman-Fried. One chapter per day, most days. It’s a library book, so I can’t dawdle over it indefinitely.

(3) Nancy Mitford, Highland Fling (just completed) and now Christmas Pudding. Delightful. The scenes of old nobles and ex-military shooting grouse are especially compelling. I may race through all these novels and Mitford’s aristocratic histories and then finish reading the journalism and memoirs of her sister, Jessica, which I began some years ago and then put off. I think I’ve got the correct order now. One ought to read Nancy to appreciate Jessica, not vice versa.

(4) H. Rider Haggard, King Solomon’s Mines. I read half of this many years ago. I enjoyed it but am a chronic unfinisher of books. Until I’m not. It can take decades.

(5) Dolores Hitchens, Sleep with Slander. I read Sleep with Strangers in October. This second novel is ten times better. The private eye is hired to track down a young adoptee who may or may not be suffering abuse. The search should be straightforward. But everyone lies to the P.I. – even the people who have the child’s interest at heart. I dread what’s to come.

I regret to say I’m dragging my feet over the not-very-entertaining Coriolanus. It does have this going for it, that although the hero’s friends and enemies alternately tediously praise and condemn him, he isn’t very interested; he shows up, hears some praise or condemnation, and then is like, I’m bored with you morons, and exits. The Shakespeare-hating Sam Bankman-Fried might have enjoyed this. No, probably not.