Alan Bennett

[diggedy derek]

With a load of British-treasure type programmes ready to hit the screen, what's the OTF verdict on Alan Bennett?

I can understand people finding his stuff rather solipsistic, but I really like his minute discussion of modern live. He writes these diaries in the LRB sometimes, and his discussion of what sandwiches he likes and why are great, these sort of subtle existential victories you get with our own EIM, say.

I don't think his stuff is particularly rose-tinted, British heritage type stuff, either, it's quite tough and fatalistic in places.

I guess a criticism could be that it's too fatalistic, you know, it reinforces the status quo.

Still, I like it.

[Ibn Pickthall]

Alan Bennett

I don't think he's rose-tinted at all, is that a common perception?

We read some of Talking Heads way back when I was at college. I'm certain Hyacinth Bucket was modelled on the protagonist of "A Lady of Letters". I found it a bit difficult to get into, I couldn't quite see his points or the purpose, but later realised that that was just me being a bit wet & daft.

Recently I read the History Boys. I'm not much for profanities or debauchery, so my sensibilities were jarred in places. That aside, the characters are brilliant and his ideas on the purpose and changing nature of education are penetrating and relevant. I had a bit of a problem trying to pinpoint precisely what Hector's motives were for teaching as he did, and, therefore, his methodologies, but this was made a little clearer in watching the film.
There's a great bit on Niall Ferguson in the introduction.

******************Possible SPOILER********************
The film and the written version don't have the same ending. The film is less glib.

[Tony C]

Alan Bennett

Firstly, I absolutely love Bennett.

Secondly, did anyone catch Thora Hird's performance in last night's 'Talking Heads' repeat? If so, can you possibly tell me of an example of better screen acting, because I can't think of one.

[hobbes]

Alan Bennett

One can't mention Alan Bennett without reposting this absolute gem from our own Ian.64

ian.64
Member
Member # 122

posted 01-07-2003 13:29
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Alan Bennett’s Alien

The Nostromo’s engines thrummed and bubbled, a little reminiscent of Auntie Madge’s old boiler, which sounded much like an amplified upset stomach. We’d just finished traipsing around the strange craft we’ve found on the grim planet we’d been directed to. Not a place you’d like to lay out a full picnic, sad to say. All wind and fog, and sluggish Blackpool beach conditions, and not a spot of greenery or sprouting leylandii. My mother, one who looked for shafts of sunlight like a prospector scours for gold, would never have tolerated it. The craft, a great big thing you could never envision being useful for group trips along the Pennines, resembled a large croissant, albeit left out on the back porch for a month. Didn’t go out there myself. Who wanted to trudge around bleak chambers when soft slippers and a nice game of patience afforded its own avuncular invitation?

Anyway, Kane came back with what looked like a butcher’s shop on his face. Awful thing, and you’d never catch me wearing it down the high street just in case I’d flounder in the sea of critical disapproval that would head my way, mainly from ill-tempered old ladies who never expected to see such a thing on first step out of the local fishmongers. Went back to my Just William collection, an oasis of slightly archaic hi-jinks to offset the hubbub, while Ash and Dallas, never ones to appreciate the simple, rural genius of Richmal Crompton, set about getting the ugly thing loose.

Acid for blood, they said. Turn up for the books, I thought. If it cut itself it could clean off the rust on pipes in dusty cellars. Mr. Kenworthy at the bicycle shop would have approved of such handy household practicality.

Lunchtime. Appropriately awful cuisine – stringy noodles which remind one of the rubber bands under the desks in history class. Being in outer space, no-one embraces the warm, homely taste of steak-and-kidney pie, accompanied by the aromatic heaven of mashed potatoes, or the deep, rich pleasures Dundee cake brings. It’s all laughs and merriment around the table – even though everybody ignores my Stanley Holloway impersonation. Kane is a bit better, very chirpy and sober. Parker says something ribald to Lambert which he would never have gotten away with on bingo night at St. Aubrey’s Church Hall. Ash is watchful and calm (I don’t like him. When I tried to engage him in conversation about a Joyce Grenfell skit, he eyed me suspiciously. Not the warmest of souls, all told).

Then there’s trouble. Kane starts to lurch upwards and begins to scream and shout, like a fishwife going through a particularly difficult labour. My Aunt Jilly had three kids and walked around like John Wayne for a year. Everybody holds him down and the resultant struggle brings a cup of vinegar down on my lovely clean overalls, thus dissipating the lemony-fresh smell of the fabric with its own pungent odour. Then everybody starts as a sausage-in-batter with teeth (base description, but I was never one for dithering with detail) thrusts up out of his chest, squeaks and bolts off down a corridor. “That’ll take up an awful lot of Vileda.” I suggested, looking over the mess caused by our new arrival. Needless to say, my Stanley Holloway impersonation, an attempt to provide levity during these trying times, failed miserably.

The Funeral. Faces as long as the hours. “Anybody want to say anything?” says Dallas. He ignores me as I say, “he was good at Scrabble” with all the solemnity the occasion requires, and thrusts Kane’s body out into the black void. God’s soil is embracing and permanent; it was like watching a toy soldier being slung out into a ravine. Shame.

Now they’ve concocted a contraption to capture the sausage-in-batter. Best to let them get on with it. Industry in the face of tragedy is a good way of getting on with things. For me, there’s a copy of Treasure Island, its pages yellow as old skin, waiting for me to indulge in adventures of piracy and intrigue. They’re wasting their time if you ask me. All you need, as my dad said to me when trying to quell a troublesome rodent, is cheddar for bait and an upturned laundry basket for the moment of capture. Whatever happened, I pondered as I clasped my hot water bottle, to common sense?

[nefertiti]

Alan Bennett

Thora's on I-playerfor the next few days. I've started to watch it. She is pretty extraordinary. Anyone would think she's been doing it for a while.