A Game of Chess

Sad news today, as Ingmar Bergman passed away. I think I assumed for a long time he was in fact already dead, and was surprised to find out not just that he was not, but was still working and being productive.

We saw some of a great season of his works at the NFT. Those seasons are always interesting, and the NFT is one of the things I miss most about London.

One of the things I find intriguing is people's choice of which ones to go and see. For example, as a Bergman novice at the time, I chose Wild Strawberries and The Seventh Seal. The former was adored by some friends, but I preferred the latter, which was remarkable and terrifying in its own way. Choice is really dependent on how well one knows a director, and so more experienced Bergman fans saw things like Persona, Winter Light, and loved them. This lovely short article by Nigel Andrews sums it up, I think, rather well.

I haven't seen a Bergman since, but a retrospective would pose an interesting dilemma: Revisit those utter classics to get a good feel for them, or see unseen ones that deepen my understanding of his work as a whole? I find I feel the same about books, to a certain extent: while I would like to go through the whole works of Dickens, for example, what I really want to do is curl up with Our Mutual Friend, which is now like an old friend and comforts, stimulates and moves me.

When Film Forum, as it undoubtedly will, announces its retrospective we shall see what I end up choosing. I think I would explore a few new, and watch one of my others again. But you never know...

Preemption

Annoyingly, the Observer Music Monthly for July features a vote for the 50 Greatest Cover Versions of All Time (Ever Ever Ever - plus, no question it's All Along the Watchtower by Jimi Hendrix, so a stupid thing indeed). This is akin to the Challenge (TM) set me by Cerebus on Thursday night - to get together a playlist of the most successful cover versions. By this, he and I mean to put together a list of the genre-crossing, unexpectedly great versions. For example, the rather splendid version of The Hounds of Love by the Futureheads will definitely feature...

Which is what I'm going to be doing for the next month or so. Contributions will be gratefully received, although not guaranteed to make the final list...

Americana

I have just finished what is a fairly extraordinary book, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. It is my second Ken Kesey, and I have to say, I am now an enormous fan.

This brings to mind the discussions Cerebus and friends have had about the "great" authors of the twentienth century, and how, as with visual art, this has shifted to the United States. For example, there is Kesey, Faulkner, Roth, DeLillo, Dos Passos, Updike, Auster (although the friends loathe him, but I love him, so tough), Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Bellow... anyone else missing? However, I feel that unlike the art world, what differentiates literature is the shift to post-colonial writers, with some of the most influential and beautiful writers in English not being either British or American, but someone like Coetzee, Rushdie, Naipaul, Achebe, Carey et al.

Kesey I love; I think Sometimes a Great Notion is one of the most wonderful books I have ever read. His description of the inability of two men to ever understand each other was beautiful and stays with me. One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest was simply terrifying: the combination of authoritarian humanity combined with the gradual grinding down of the "rabbits" by wider society... I think one of the starkest moments is when Mack realises that the patients there are there voluntarily; that his mission to gather other patients to buck the system with him simply won't work. His bewilderment, his thrashing struggle to avoid being brought down, was haunting. So obviously there may be more Kesey and his Canadian goose obsession.

Nonetheless, I feel my next "series," if I ever really have one, is to be U.S. authors in general. So, folks, I need recommendations, soon. I have to get through my new bookclubbook first, and then I'm there. So what's it to be? What, or more importantly, who should I read?

Midnight's Children

FINALLY. I have finally finished another from the list, Midnight's Children.

It was extraordinary - ambitious, breathtaking, self-deprecating, playful... I didn't realise how deeply imbued it would be with the traits of magical realism, which was an unexpected joy. What I really loved was that he seemed to embrace and rejoice in the underbelly, the smelliness, the faults, the dirt of Indian living. The book was bustling and alive, and while it didn't mean that I appreciated the aesthetics of the country I feel I understand a bit more about life in India. Although of course that might be a load of old boswellox.

And yet, as often with reading of classics, or must-reads, I feel I have missed something. I now feel I understand a great deal more about the birth of India, or Pakistan, of Bangladesh, although I can't help thinking I would have got more out of the book if I'd known more about that in the first place: some of the references, the jokes, the satire, clearly went over my head. Which proves to me that to truly engage with "great" works on more than a superficial level, you need to really have a sense of history - either of the time of writing of the book itself, or of the time period which the book covers, but history, nonetheless. Something like Demons, by Dostoyevsky, makes a lot more sense when you understand the adventures of the Nihilists; all of Dickens reveals more when you understand the rise of the nouveau riche, the chattering middle classes. Somehow that seems a tad unfair, that it's not just the text but the backstory that matters. Particularly when I'm the ignoramus. This is why crime novels are the gifts that keep on giving... they are almost timeless. Still, perseverance: it's next time for more Ken Kesey, and One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest - yet another cheery one.