Film Review – The Long Good Friday

I will admit I hardly recognised the name of the director John Mackenzie when I recently heard his obituary while driving. I will also admit his film The Long Good Friday had passed me by, unnoticed, both in the late 80s and ever since – despite it, apparently, being quite well known. However the obituary did make this film sound quite intriguing and the sort of thing I might find interesting. It promised (not in exactly these words) a gritty comment on Thatcherism and all its horrors. So something that now seems very modern, what with the current financial crisis, government meltdowns, and hard right wing cost cutting agendas. I wonder why I never noticed this film before? All I can claim, in mitigation, is that I looked upon Bob Hoskins, who plays the lead role here, as, shall we say, overrated.

Before we get to the above film lets have a little aperitif. I first watched Just Another Saturday. This was part of the BBC Play For Today series, in 1975, and written by Peter McDougall and directed by John Mackenzie. There is not much of a plot: a young protestant lad goes on an Orange order march in Glasgow with his lodge band; he encounters some protestant verses catholic violence and becomes disillusioned; at the end he desires to escape Glasgow. Still it shows a slice of working class life and has both humorous and gritty moments. In the film's final scenes father and son talk of how these conflicts divide and rule the lower orders. I agree with the political point being made here but felt it was put across in a far too didactic form. Even so a film worth watching.

So after all the hype what was The Long Good Friday like? It's not a bad film, watchable, but overall a bit of a disappointment. It started with a long menagerie of disconnected scenes where you're not quite sure what is happening. Having such an opening is not in itself a problem; it's just here it goes on too long before the main story starts.

Also the film appears to have no protagonist with which the viewer is supposed to identify. Who is the protagonist? If it's Harold Shand, the character played by Bob Hoskins, are really supposed to root for this gang land thug? Having an despicable character as the lead can make for a good film, but when there are no, absolutely zero, characters with redeeming features then you have a grim time of it as a viewer.

Again Bob Hoskins as an actor is allright but I did not find him that exciting. He only appears able to play himself which leaves this character somewhat insubstantial.

I wish I could say better of a film I watched as a result of hearing an obituary. It wasn't a bad film, better than many, possibly better than most, but hardly a great film. Of these two films you should only watch Just Another Saturday.

Blue Sky of Death

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Switch it off and on again.

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International Socialism 131

The latest issue of the International Socialism Journal is largely taken up with the current situation in the class struggle both in Britain and on the wider world arena.

Alex Callinicos, in his introduction, gives an overview of the state of the world economy and discusses some of its unresolved problems. He also examines the aftermath of the recent May local elections in Britain.

The balance of the class struggle in Britain today is looked at in detail by Martin Smith. He first sets the scene with a recap of how trade unionism was eroded with the defeats of the Thatcher government and subsequent downturn under the Tories and Labour administrations. He then goes on to look at how the rank and file movements can start being rebuilt during the current onslaught by Cameron and the coalition. One key aspect of this is how the working class can overcome the weakness of the trade union bureaucracy as well as take advantage those trade union leaders who suggest – but often fail to organise – some kind of fightback.

Knowing what your class enemy is thinking and planning is important in knowing how to respond to their attacks. Richard Seymour dissects the current state of the Tories and updates his book The Meaning of David Cameron written just before the election.

Book Review – Dubliners by James Joyce

The blurb for Dubliners describes these short stories as “candid, controversial and often disturbing.” Well maybe... that might have been true in Ireland before the First World War when these stories were written. But by modern standards this blurb is, shall we say, highly misleading.

In many ways these are not really stories at all. Not in the conventional sense of having anything as extravagant as a plot; you know, beginning, middle and end and all that paraphernalia. Really they are snapshots of life in Dublin. Though there is nothing necessarily wrong with that; why should every work of fiction follow that boring old convention?

The first group of stories are shorter and less satisfying. The later stories are longer and more interesting. Whether this is because they are in some kind of chronological order or Joyce was not so good at the very short short story form is unclear. There are no dates given for individual stories.

For me the most interesting story was Ivy Day in the Committee Room. A description of election canvassers returning at the end of the day and waiting to be paid. The cynicism was quite amusing.

Also of interest was A Mother. A story of someone protecting her daughter from being cheated by some concert promoters.

The story Grace somehow does not appear to end. You are just left there not knowing the outcome. As if one or more scenes for the story are missing or Joyce just could not be bothered to finish it off.

I can see why The Dead was made into a film. The fact that it is by far the longest story in the book is only a minor part of the explanation. More important is that it is the most conventional story in the collection. Also it inhabits the well-to-do world of balls and pretty dresses. It's not a bad story and can easily be turned into mush by any film producer. Ivy Day or A Mother would have made a better film.

The truth is, while these stories are of some interest, Joyce did not spring into the world as a fully formed or developed writer. If it was not for his later work I guess these stories would have been long forgotten. So: there might be hope for the rest of us.

The Cathedral

Malcolm had, at last, made it up the hill alongside the Anglican Cathedral and was on the long straight road behind. Ahead his car and sanctuary was at the furthest end of the road. The few times Malcolm went to the city he parked his battered Volkswagen behind the cathedral. He usually found a spot there and it was still totally free; unlike the extravagant fees demanded nearer the shopping centre. But he only parked here when he was well and truly alone. It was a bit of a walk to the main city centre shops and passengers did not always appreciate his ingenuity or economy.

It had been a frustrating trip. Of all possible vices the one Malcolm hated most was shopping. And city centre shops on a Saturday were the worst iniquity of them all. Today was no exception and he trekked back to his car disgruntled and empty handed. So the necessity of some birthday present for his father had suddenly arrived; he only remembered this detail because of the constant nagging by his mother and only pride stopped him giving in to her offer to provide the necessary. The pride however would have to be swallowed as Malcolm was still empty handed as well as being fed up and totally disgruntled. Leaving everything to the day before the monumental day was not his best inspiration. Nor was having no idea of what his father might like; everything had seemed either tacky, useless or far too expensive – and often all three.

The side of the road opposite the back of the cathedral was dominated by once flourishing Georgian houses. Here they were clumped together ensconced in the tiniest of gardens, all due to the demands on city centre real estate. Once they had been the proud status symbols of the city's merchants. Now they were broken up into student flats and serviced the nearby university.

Standing, all alone, on a corner ahead was the prettiest girl Malcolm had ever seen, deliciously cute in a simple light blue print dress. As he walked he stared, almost stumbled, and again stared ahead intently. As he got closer the features of her small angelic face enchanted; the most beautiful face he had ever seen and clasped within short cropped black hair. The notion of 'love at first sight' was for trashy fiction. But... this was a unique and new experience. As he approached her incredible beauty only became more adorably enhanced.

Malcolm looked on and it almost appeared as if she stepped towards him. A delicious shudder of the most delightful electricity shot down his spine. He had never been in a situation remotely like this before. He was completely dumb struck. She would have to break the silence. The beautiful face looked up.

“Business?” she said quietly.

Another shudder ran through him, only this time of disappointment. Turning away, and without saying a word, he walked briskly onwards towards his car. He did not look back, he should have looked back.

Back safely among the cheep plastic and tin Malcolm composed himself. He regretted not having the courage to accept the offer. But was also pleased he didn't.

Then the thought crossed his mind: how amazingly convenient, two vices so very close together, the cathedral and 'business'.

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The Interrogator

Shiny, shiny shoes, a dead giveaway, I knew straight away nothing was right. In the fading light, among the desolate rubble, I looked closer, he was almost right, but not quite right enough. Those shoes, buffed, black, expensive, so diligently polished, they just glared at you. Then, immediately above, were the dirty jeans, tatty; those ill fitting, workman's jeans. The dirt somehow wrong, studied, applied, with freshly laundered patches showing through.

Then he started to speak, a Liverpool accent that was just a bit too studied. An actor's scouse learnt from B movies of sixty years ago. He was trying just that bit too hard. I never would have noticed were it not for those shoes. Those pristine shoes, those shiny, shiny shoes. On the surface he's chatty, friendly, your best mate, salt of the whole dam earth. Underneath so obviously hard, ex-army, maybe, maybe not, something similar, worse, manipulative, determined, on a mission, and what a mission. I know his mission.

I try to ease away, keep chatting, friendly like, slowly ease away without revealing anything. Above all, remember, don't turn your back, never run and never, ever, turn your back. Just ease away, pleasant like, into the shadows, facing, always facing, him. He kept on talking; would keep talking. Following me. Talking, quietly talking. Can't get rid.

What if... The Interview

There were tears rolling down her face. All day the press had been hounding her; asking impertinent questions. Deliberately taunting her; taunting her would you believe it; didn't they know who she was? And then in this TV studio, in the Early hours, the interviewer was goading her; so much for impartiality; it had all been too much, she just could not take any more. She had done what she feared. She had broken down; started to blubber; to cry uncontrollably. Here right in the middle of the interview. Right when when she should have stood up straight and walked out; in as dignified a manner as she muster. But no, here she was blubbering and the cameras were rolling; live on air. It was all so undignified; and the tears kept rolling.

Where had it all gone wrong? She had started out wanting to change history, wanting to change the country. It had seemed good at first; difficult, she expect that; difficult and good. Then came the crisis and she grabbed at the chance. The Falklands had seemed such a noble idea; a point of principle; a moral crusade. And a war can boost your popularity; especially if it's a quick one and you win; such cynics.

Then that lucky missile; striking the supply ship like that; it was always a possibility, a risk. But foolishly the Argentines were going more significant vessels. Then that lone pilot went for the easy target. The hit on the supply vessel necessitated taking the risk with the aircraft carrier; and the rest, as they say, was history. That got his; not sunk but disabled; unusable for aircraft. That was it, the war ended in disaster, the task force had to retreat.

All this only seemed to worsen her position at home; made her look week; made her unpopular. And the miners recognised this. The pickets getting stronger. The she had no choice; her hand was forced; she did not want to but she had to give in; give in to the militants.

And that had forced her to call a snap election. So here Thatcher was, in the middle of the night, in a TV studio on the day of the election. The press having hounded her all day. And crying, having lost the election. A broken woman blubbering.