Word of the week

..taciturn
demeanour would be interpreted today as at least pathologically reserved, if
not downright stand-offish. His behaviour even seems a little odd in the context
of the era, but perhaps because I missed some of the early series I’ve
also missed the rationale for the apparent chip on his shoulder.
I wasn’t alive then, despite scurrilous rumours to the contrary, but the
hangover from the Second World War lasted well into my early childhood, and
a lot of what I see of this series rings familiar. I also confess I’m
rather taken by Foyle’s young female driver, Sam Stewart, (played by the
rather astonishingly named Honeysuckle Weeks), who despite wearing a drab and
rather uncomfortable looking army uniform and being made-up to look as if she’s
wearing no make-up, manages to capture some essence of femininity that sadly
seems to have vanished from the face of the earth. Another reason to admire
Sam is that she assumes the mantle of an incipient New Age woman with modesty
and quiet confidence, attributes that rarely appear in even the same sentence
these days.
Mind you, I’m talking about the series’ character Sam Stewart here,
and not necessarily the actress (yes, actress) who plays her. It’s
a truism that salesmen are suckers for a sales pitch, and I‘m far too
easily confused between the actors and the characters they play. For instance,
it’s not widely known (because I’m rarely specific about it in public)
that I wrote the song Right Into You about Alison Whyte, whom I’ve
met in person barely the once (a few years ago at The Terminus, her pub in Richmond),
which encounter the song is all about. I felt I already knew her because I naively
assumed she shared some of the characteristics of Emma Ward, the PA she played
in the popular TV series Frontline. Needless to say, some drastic revision
occurred when I later saw her in the play Dinner.
Films, plays, TV series, even musicals, have a whole raft of contrivances aiding
and abetting verisimilitude, and we sometimes forget that as an audience we
have had to learn the technical shorthand in order to believe, or suspend our
disbelief. That’s why today’s audience is proving so proficient
at creating its own entertainment (YouTube, MySpace etc.) now that
the technology is so accessible.
Part of my daily ritual first thing in the morning is to go through some prescribed
movements called kata that I learned when I did a couple of years of
karate some twenty years ago. (Bloody hell! Is it that long ago?) It’s
a bit like tai chi; well, it is at the tempo I do it anyway. I didn’t
get very far with the karate. I was initially motivated by Bill’s
joining a club, but I never got the same enjoyment out of it that he did. I
didn’t mind the kata so much, and I tolerated the fitness side,
but I turned into a raving idiot when it came to combat, even if it was only
pretend, and managed to impale myself on other people’s feet, elbows and
fists with monotonous regularity. In the end I managed to stuff-up both knees,
and after the second cartilage operation I quietly faded off the martial arts’
scene.
It was a bit like my school cricket careeer – I had oodles of style and
looked just the part as I took guard from the umpire and faced the bowler, but
if he was the slightest bit fast my body copped an absolute pounding. I soon
elected to take the optional summer sport of tennis – at which I was equally
hopeless, but at least I didn’t get hurt.
The point I’m trying to make here is that there is a considerable difference
between style and substance. I might be able to bluff some thug into thinking
that I have knowledge of martial arts, but if he so much as slaps me I’ll
turn into the cowardly lion. Equally, it doesn’t matter how ‘real’
it gets in the movies, you know there is a considerable gap between that and
the reality of a violent confrontation involving you. It’s got
a lot to do with the way you feel as your balls seek safe haven back in the
warmth and comfort of your groin – when it comes down to it you instinctively
understand the difference between a splatter movie, repleat with millions of
dollars worth of effects, buckets of tomato sauce and a thundering music score,
and the drunk guy menacing you on the late night tram for a couple of dollars
for a packet of fags.