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Frédégonde, La sanguinaire, vols 1 and 2, by Virginie Greiner and Alessia de Vincenzi

Second paragraph of third page of vol 1:


"I never bin asked for so many flowers!
Seems like the new queen's crazy about them."
"Anyone seen 'er?"
"I saw 'er, a real princess!"
Second paragraph of third page of vol 2:


Frédégonde (very pregnant): "Come in!"

I got this because I had greatly enjoyed the six-volume series about Eleanor of Aquitaine (1+2, 3+4, 5+6) also published as part of Delcourt's Reines de Sang (Queens of Blood) range, looking at historical women rulers with reputations for ruthlessness, and I also wanted to educate myself about the Frankish kingdoms in this part of the world between the fall of the Roman Empire and the foundation of the Holy Roman Empire. This is the story of Fredegund, subtitled "the Bloody", set between 560, when her royal lover Chilperic of Neustria marries the Visigothic princess Galswintha, and 584, when she finally kills him off, having killed off numerous others in the meantime (including Galswintha). I thought the characterisation was impressive: more often than I would like, I have problems telling characters apart in graphic novels, but Virginie Greiner's script and especially Alessia de Vincenzi's art was very good at giving the women characters in particular their own voice in the sixth-century urban and rural landscape. (A shout out to Brunhilda, who gets some good lines and action.)

Fredegund has a very bad press historically, mainly because the only primary source about her is Gregory of Tours, who makes no bones about his personal grudge against her. It would have been interesting to get a feminist reinterpretation of the historical record from Fredegund's point of view. That's not what we have here; Greiner's Fredegund is motivated purely by personal lust for power, and in due course for the succession of her children. The first volume is well-paced, dealing with the Chilperic / Fredegund / Galswintha triangle, but the end of the second book in particular feels rather rushed – Fredegund lived another 15 years, and Brunhilda another 29 until her gruesome execution in 613; but we end in 584, with Chilperic being murdered off-stage – why has he not spotted that people who annoy Fredegund keep winding up dead? It seems a bit of a wasted opportunity.

Still, if you want, you can get vol 1 here and vol 2 here.

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Is There Life Outside The Box? An Actor Despairs, by Peter Davison

Second paragraph of third chapter:

The following morning, we meet early to drive to a TV interview happening just up the road, and I'm thinking about making it back to the hotel in time for breakfast. I'm forgetting that this is Australia, a big country, and just up the road is actually a two-and-a-half-hour drive in the heat to the Pinnacles, admittedly a beautiful alien landscape, where they have put a three-quarter-size TARDIS which I can't stand too close to for fear of exposing its lack of stature. The next day I fly to Adelaide for more interviews, and then our first show in the Entertainment Centre. The production team are ahead of me, working hard, and I arrive only two days before the show, in time to meet with Paul Bullock who's directing the Spectacular, to see if he'll agree to my Adelaide 'jokes'. We did the Symphonic Spectacular tour last year, and I think we make a pretty good team.

I met Peter Davison and his wife Elizabeth Morton at Loncon in 2014, and was just a bit starstruck. This was at the pre-Hugo reception, where he was attending in case The Five(ish) Doctors Reboot won (I had voted for it, mainly because it is very enjoyable but partly because I am briefly visible in it at about 08:03, but it didn't win).

I chatted to them for a few minutes, and then Elizabeth's phone rang; it was David and Georgia, who had been dropped at the wrong end of the ExCel building, so I went off to get them.

I've read a lot of celebrity memoirs, including Doctor Who memoirs, by now, and this really is one of the most entertaining of them. There are some major surprises as well, of which the first is that his father was black – or anyway, mixed-race, from Guyana (then British Guiana). Obviously his English mother's genes won out in terms of skin and hair colour, but you can clearly see the resemblance from the pictures below.

The book is told as a series of flashbacks in chronological order, as seen from a tour in 2015-2016. Young Peter Moffett did appallingly badly at school – “Perhaps my greatest triumph was managing to fail CSE woodwork. As my teacher, Mr Bidgood, said in his state of shock: ‘All you have to do is recognise wood.’” He studied at Central, but it took a long time for his career to get going; a brief appearance in The Tomorrow People was followed by a dry spell, and then suddenly in 1978 he hit the big time as junior vet Tristan Farnon in All Creatures Great and Small. The extent to which this was cult family viewing in the late 1970s and early 1980s cannot be exaggerated; as the world around us appeared to be going to hell, here was a lovely nostalgic visit to a gentler past, where young Tristan was frequently brought up short by his older brother Siegfried (as played by Robert hardy), genially observed by James Herriot (Christopher Timothy).

When he was named as the fifth Doctor in November 1980, it was the first item on the BBC news that evening, ahead of some bloke called Reagan being elected to something or other. It did not last; after Doctor Who, and the subsequent successes of A Very Peculiar Practice and Campion, he had a very slack decade and a second divorce, and his personal life and career only really picked up again around 2000. But now, particularly with the renewal of fannish interest in his earlier years, it sounds like things are on track again.

The anecdotes are great fun, told with a combination of acute observation (mostly sympathetic) of his fellow actors, and self-deprecation (sometimes brutal). When we met in 2014, I asked if he had written anything other than The Five(ish) Doctors Reboot, and he said that the only other script he had done was for his video message to Gallifrey 22 in 2011:

I don't know if that was completely true then, or if it's still true now, but based on those dramas and this book, I hope he tries some more writing. It's good stuff, and you can get it here.

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Sybil, or the Two Nations, by Benjamin Disraeli

Second paragraph of the third chapter:

The Greymount family having planted themselves in the land, faithful to the policy of the founder, avoided the public gaze during the troubled period that followed the reformation; and even during the more orderly reign of Elizabeth, rather sought their increase in alliances than in court favour. But at the commencement of the seventeenth century, their abbey lands infinitely advanced in value, and their rental swollen by the prudent accumulation of more than seventy years, a Greymount, who was then a county member, was elevated to the peerage as Baron Marney. The heralds furnished his pedigree, and assured the world that although the exalted rank and extensive possessions enjoyed at present by the Greymounts, had their origin immediately in great territorial revolutions of a recent reign, it was not for a moment to be supposed, that the remote ancestors of the Ecclesiastical Commissioner of 1530 were by any means obscure. On the contrary, it appeared that they were both Norman and baronial, their real name Egremont, which, in their patent of peerage the family now resumed.

This is one of the many novels of Benjamin Disraeli (1804-1881), published in 1845, two years before he was elected to Parliament, seven years before he became Chancellor of the Exchequer for the first time and 23 years before the first of his two terms as Prime Minister of the UK. The only other British prime minister that I know published any novels was Churchill; I am fairly sure that the combined tally of all the others must be rather less than Disraeli’s 16 or so. The political sentiments of the novel are very interesting, and completely worn on its sleeve. Since the revolution of 1690, Britain has been run by the corrupt Whigs and their successors, out only to enrich themselves. The ancient and noble aristocrats, and the poor working classes, have both been exploited by the nouveaux riches and it’s jolly well time that they got their act together. The working respectable poor live in horrible conditions, exploited by the Whigs and their own local bigwigs. The Catholic church (rather to my surprise) is a strong potential unifying factor, partly because the Whigs hate it but mainly just because. Egremont, noble both in blood and spirit, dares to openly state in Parliament that maybe the Chartists have a point and pays a social price. Sybil, whose father is a leader of the misguided but well-intentioned Chartists, orbits around Egremont and then it turns out – spoiler! – that she too has noble blood as well as noble sentiments. The establishment defeats the Chartists; yet nothing can ever be the same again.

The characters are paper-thin, but there’s nice interplay within Egremont’s own family (his stuck-up elder brother, his manipulative mother) and the political fixers Tadpole and Taper are quite good fun – as is Mr Hatton, fixer of family trees. I was also surprised by the number of memorable one-liners:

On Ireland in the eighteenth century: “to govern Ireland was only to apportion the public plunder to a corrupt senate.”

About an MP with a bee in his bonnet about foreign policy: “he had only one idea, and that was wrong.”

An old-fashioned lord harumphs: “pretending that people can be better off than they are, is radicalism and nothing else.”

Advice to a trainee lobbyist: “be ‘frank and explicit;’ that is the right line to take when you wish to conceal your own mind and to confuse the minds of others.”

Most surprisingly, on page 415: “Resistance is useless!” (Had Douglas Adams read this?)

Not everything stands the passage of time. “Slowly delivering himself of an ejaculation, Egremont leant back in his chair.” Errrr….

I picked this up (after a long time) mainly as a result of F.R. Leavis’ recommendation in The Great Tradition. My main conclusion is that I wonder what he was on, recommending this ahead of most other novels of the nineteenth century? It’s entertaining for a glimpse of the political atmosphere of 1845 (with the glaring absence of Ireland), but it really isn’t Great Literature. You can get it here.

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Tuesday reading

Current
The Nannies, by Brian Killick
The Bastard of Istanbul, by Eilif Shafak
Luck and the Irish, by Roy Foster

Last books finished
Sybil, by Benjamin Disraeli
Frédégonde, la sanguinaire, Tome 1, by Virginie Greiner and Alessia de Vincenzi
Is There Life Outside The Box? An Actor Despairs, by Peter Davison
Frédégonde, la sanguinaire, Tome 2, by Virginie Greiner and Alessia de Vincenzi
Be My Enemy, by Ian McDonald

Next books
Normal People, by Sally Rooney
The Computer Connection, by Alfred Bester

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The letters of the alphabet

Latin Aa and Cyrillic Аа come from Greek Αα (alpha). Like Hebrew א, Arabic ﺍ and Ge'ez አ, the root is the Phoenician letter ‎ (Aleph), meaning ox. (NB that א, አ and are consonants.)
The root is thought to be the Egyptian hieroglyph , meaning the head of an ox.

Latin Bb and Cyrillic Бб and Вв come from Greek Ββ (beta). Like Hebrew ב, Arabic ﺏ and Ge'ez በ, the root is the Phoenician letter ‎ (Beth), meaning house.
The root is thought to be the Egyptian hieroglyph , meaning house.

Latin Cc and Gg and Cyrillic Гг come from Greek Γγ (gamma). Like Hebrew ג, Arabic ﺝ and Ge'ez ገ, the root is the Phoenician letter ‎ (Gimel), meaning throwing stick (some think camel but I am not convinced).
The root is thought to be the Egyptian hieroglyph , meaning throwing stick.

Latin Dd and Cyrillic Дд come from Greek Δδ (delta). Like Hebrew ד, Arabic د and Ge'ez ደ, the root is the Phoenician letter ‎ (Daleth), meaning door.
The root is thought to be the Egyptian hieroglyph , meaning door.

Latin Ee and Cyrillic Ее, Єє, Ээ come from Greek Εε (epsilon). Like Hebrew ה, Arabic ه and Ge'ez ሀ, the root is the Phoenician letter ‎ (He), meaning window (NB that all the Semitic letters are consonants).
The root is thought to be the Egyptian hieroglyph , meaning happy (or a happy person).

Latin Ff comes from archaic Greek Ϝϝ (digamma). Like Hebrew ו, Arabic ﻭ and Ge'ez ወ, the root is the Phoenician letter ‎ (Waw), meaning hook – also the ancestor of Uu, Vv and Ww.
The root is thought to be the Egyptian hieroglyph , meaning mace.

Latin Hh and Cyrillic Ии come from Greek Ηη (eta), even though it is a consonant and the other two are vowels. Like Hebrew ח, Arabic ح and Ge'ez ሐ, ኀ, the root is the Phoenician letter ‎ (Heth), meaning wall, courtyard.
The root is thought to be the Egyptian hieroglyph , meaning enclosure, which also had the right pronunciation.

Latin Ii and Jj and Cyrillic Іі and Јј come from Greek Ιι (iota). Like Hebrew י, Arabic ي and Ge'ez የ, the root is the Phoenician letter ‎ (Yodh), meaning hand. (NB that all the Semitic letters are consonants, pronounced like English y or German j.)
The root is thought to be the Egyptian hieroglyph , meaning arm.

Latin Kk and Cyrillic Кк come from Greek Κκ (kappa). Like Hebrew כך, Arabic ﻙ and Ge'ez ከ, the root is the Phoenician letter ‎ (Kaph), meaning palm of a hand.
The root is thought to be the Egyptian hieroglyph , meaning hand.

Latin Ll and Cyrillic Лл come from Greek Λλ (lambda). Like Hebrew ל, Arabic ﻝ and Ge'ez ለ, the root is the Phoenician letter ‎ (Lamedh), meaning goad.
The root is thought to be the Egyptian hieroglyph , meaning whip.

Latin Mm and Cyrillic Мм come from Greek Μμ (mu). Like Hebrew מם, Arabic ﻡ and Ge'ez መ, the root is the Phoenician letter ‎ (Mem), meaning water.
The root is thought to be the Egyptian hieroglyph , meaning ripple of water.

Latin Nn and Cyrillic Нн come from Greek Νν (nu). Like Hebrew נן, Arabic ﻥ and Ge'ez ነ, the root is the Phoenician letter ‎ (Nun), meaning snake.
The root is thought to be the Egyptian hieroglyph , meaning snake.

Latin Oo and Cyrillic Оо come from Greek Οο (omicron). Like Hebrew ע, Arabic ع and Ge'ez ዐ, the root is the Phoenician letter ‎ (Ayin), meaning eye (NB that all the Semitic letters are consonants.)
The root is thought to be the Egyptian hieroglyph , meaning eye.

Latin Pp and Cyrillic Пп come from Greek Ππ (pi). Like Hebrew פף, Arabic ف and Ge'ez ፈ, the root is the Phoenician letter ‎ (Pe), meaning mouth, well.
The root is thought to be the Egyptian hieroglyph , meaning mouth (actually pronounced 'r').

Latin Qq and the archaic Cyrillic Ҁҁ and Фф come from the archaic Greek Ϙϙ (qoppa). Like Hebrew ק, Arabic ﻕ and Ge'ez ቀ, the root is the Phoenician letter ‎ (Qoph), meaning the eye of a needle or possibly the nape.
The root is thought to be the Egyptian hieroglyph , meaning monkey.

Latin Rr and Cyrillic Рр come from Greek Ρρ (rho). Like Hebrew ר, Arabic ﺭ and Ge'ez ረ, the root is the Phoenician letter ‎ (Res), meaning head.
The root is thought to be the Egyptian hieroglyph , meaning head.

Latin Ss and Cyrillic Сс come from Greek Σσς (sigma). Like Hebrew ש (which is the root of Cyrillic Шш), Arabic س and Ge'ez ሠ, the root is the Phoenician letter ‎ (Shin), meaning tooth.
The root is thought to be the Egyptian hieroglyph , meaning bow, but frankly it looks much more likely to me to have been , a pond with lotus flowers, which looks similar and has the right pronunciation.

Latin Tt and Cyrillic Тт come from Greek Ττ (tau). Like Hebrew ת, Arabic ت, ث and Ge'ez ተ, the root is the Phoenician letter ‎ (Taw), meaning mark.
The root is thought to be the Egyptian hieroglyph , meaning mark.

Latin Uu, Vv, Ww and Yy, and Cyrillic Уу, come from Greek Υυ (upsilon). The root is the Phoenician letter ‎ (Waw), discussed above under Ff.

Latin Xx and Cyrillic Хх come from Greek Χχ (chi) even though the Latin letter is pronounced differently from the other two. Like Hebrew ו, Arabic س and Ge'ez ሰ, the root is the Phoenician letter ‎ (Samekh), meaning tentpeg.
The root is thought to be the Egyptian hieroglyph , a mystical symbol based on a column of reeds. Frankly I'm not hugely convinced.

Latin Zz and Cyrillic Зз come from Greek Ζζ (zeta). Like Hebrew ז, Arabic ز and Ge'ez ሰ, the root is the Phoenician letter ‎ (Zayin), meaning weapon.
It's not clear which hieroglyph it came from. Some say , meaning two. I'd have thought , meaning dagger, more likely.

Several letters which were used by the Anglo-Saxons have since been dropped from the English version of the Latin alphabet. This post in in English, so I will look at them too.

The origin of Ææ (æsh or ash) is pretty obvious, and likewise Ðð (eth or edh).

The archaic Ȝȝ (yogh), pronounced in various ways, is derived from Gg. (Sometimes it has survived as a Zz, which is why "Menzies" is pronounced as it is.)

But the letters Þþ (thorn), pronounced th, and Ƿƿ (wyn), pronounced w, were not derived from Greek or Phoenician at all, but from the ancient Germanic runes ᚦ (thurisaz) and ᚹ (wunjo).

Personally, I þink we should revive þ at least. Þere's a lot of scope for it. It is still used in þe Icelandic language.

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What happened to the 1944 Retro Hugos?

As previously discussed, this year's Worldcon administered (1, 2) and awarded 11 Retro Hugo Awards to honour the sf that fans might have honoured if there had been a Worldcon and Hugos in 1944.

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We did our best to identify copyright holders during the nomination process, but it was not easy, and (as noted previously) only one author's estate authorised us to use their material for a Retro Hugo voter packet (I will reveal that it was Fritz Leiber), so we did not proceed with that.

I'm glad to say that we did have a few designated acceptors in the room on the night. Apart from those noted below, Betsy Wollheim was on hand in case her father Donald won (unfortunately he lost in all three categories where he was nominated); June and Naomi Rosenblum were there for their father-in-law/grandfather J. Michael Rosenblum; Stephanie Breijo was there for her great-grandfather Oscar J. Friend; and Harper Collins sent a rep for C.S. Lewis. So, for 66 finalists, we had acceptors on hand for 10. Future Worldcons might like to bear that in mind when planning whether or not to run Retro Hugo Awards.

This is what happened with the trophies, in increasing order of the difficulty we had in dealing with them.

1) Best Novel: Conjure Wife, by Fritz Leiber

The agents for Leiber's estate, Richard Curtis, designated Patrick Nielsen Hayden to accept the trophy at the ceremony, and we shipped it to Richard Curtis's office.

2) Best Short Story: "R is for Rocket" / "King of the Grey Spaces", by Ray Bradbury

Jason Aukerman of the Center for Ray Bradbury Studies at Indiana University attended the ceremony and accepted the trophy; we shipped it to him at the Center.

3) Best Professional Editor, Short Form: John W. Campbell jr

Campbell's grandson John Hammond attended the ceremony and accepted the trophy; we shipped it to him, but it was mistakenly delivered to Richard Curtis due to a label mix-up (for which I must take responsibility); Richard Curtis kindly sent it on to the correct destination.

4) Best Novella: The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

We contacted the office of the Succession Saint Exupéry-d’Agay in Paris, and they agreed to accept the trophy, so we shipped it to them.

5) Best Fan Writer: Forrest J Ackerman

Kevin Burns of Prometheus Entertainment handles Ackerman's literary estate and accepted the trophy.

6) Best Professional Artist: Virgil Finlay

I managed to track down his daughter in Florida, and we sent the trophy to her. She had not yet been born in 1945.

7) Best Fanzine: Le Zombie, edited by Wilson "Bob" Tucker

After some digging it turns out that his literary estate is managed by Curtis Brown, so we shipped the trophy to them. They also manage the literary estate of Ursula K. Le Guin, so uniquely received both a 2019 trophy and a 1944 Retro trophy.

8) Best Novelette: "Mimsy Were the Borogoves", by Henry Kuttner and C.L. Moore

I managed to track down Moore's stepdaughter in California, and we sent the trophy to her. She was already an adult when her father married C.L. Moore in 1963.

9) Best Graphic Story: Wonder Woman #5: Battle for Womanhood, by William Moulton Marston and Harry G. Peter (DC Comics)

We had had good connections with DC's New York publicists; it took a bit longer to get the right contact person in DC's actual HQ in Cailfornia, but we got there in the end and the trophy will be shipped to them as soon as we have corrected an unfortunate spelling error on the plaque. I slightly regret that we did not try to track down the family of William Moulton Marstonwife had two children and he fathered another two with their partner, and there surely must be descendants still around. But our existing contact with DC, who had been pretty proactive about reaching out to us, was a bird in the hand.

10) Best Dramatic Presentation, Short Form: Frankenstein Meets the Wolfman, written by Curt Siodmak, directed by Roy William Neill (Universal Pictures)

Even though Universal won a 2019 Hugo for The Good Place, we could not get a response from them on the Retro Hugos. Eventually I tracked down Curt Siodmak's family, and the trophy will be sent to his 85-year-old son in California.

11) Best Dramatic Presentation, Long Form: Heaven Can Wait, written by Samson Raphaelson, directed by Ernst Lubitsch (20th Century Fox)

Again, there was no response from Fox despite trying to reach them by various means. We also tried to reach the Lubitsch family through several channels, but again heard nothing back. Finally we did get a response from Samson Raphaelson's family, and the award will be shipped to his son (who is 91) in Chicago.

All of this was quite a lot of effort. Again, future Worldcons might like to bear that in mind when planning whether or not to run Retro Hugo Awards.

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Lawrence of Arabia, and The Seven Pillars of Wisdom

Lawrence of Arabia won the Oscar for Best Picture of 1962 (the first time the award had that precise title, which it retains to this day), and picked up another six: Best Director (David Lean), Best Original Score (Maurice Jarre), Best Cinematography, Best Art Direction, Best Film Editing and Best Sound. Peter O’Toole and Omar Sharif were nominated for Best Actor and Best Supporting Actor, and Robert Bolt and Michael Wilson for Best Adapted Screenplay, beaten in two of those three cases by To Kill A Mockingbird.

The other Best Picture nominees were The Longest Day, The Music Man, Mutiny on the Bounty and To Kill a Mockingbird, of which I have only seen the last. On the two IMDB ratings, Lqwrence of Arabia is second on one of the two IMDB rankings of 1961 films, and fourth on the other, To Kill A Mockingbird ahead of it in both cases and Harakiri and Lolita ahead of it on one. I have seen both To Kill A Mockingbird and Lolita, and also Dr. No, and I think possibly Five Weeks in a Balloon. In the end I think To Kill A Mockingbird is a better film, but perhaps the Academy voters preferred the story of a white saviour to an account of racism in the Deep South. That year’s Hugo Award went again to The Twilight Zone. Here’a a trailer for Lawrence of Arabia:

You will surely be aware that the film is the story of the Arab Revolt; how towards the end of the first world war, T.E. Lawrence persuaded the feuding Arab tribes to unite and smite the Turks, leading to the creation of independent Arab states in the Middle East. As usual, I’m going to start with the actors who are returning from previous Oscar-winning films. Here’s a nice scene with Jack Hawkins (Allenby), Claude Rains (Dryden) and Alec Guinness (Faisal), all of whom we have seen before. According to legend, people in the street mistook Guinness for the real King Faisal while filming on location. This seems improbable, as the real Faisal had been dead for almost thirty years, but the likeness is impressive.

Jack Hawkins was in both Bridge on the River Kwai five years ago and Ben-Hur three years ago. Here he has shaved the front of his head, and dyed the rest of his hair, to look a bit more like the real Allenby.

Claude Rains, of course, was in Casablanca almost twenty years ago:

And Alec Guinness was also in Bridge on the River Kwai, for which he won an Oscar of his own.

OK, the big thing to notice about this film is the almost complete gender fail. There is not a single woman among the credited cast, which is apparently unique among Oscar-winning films and unique for any film of this length. This is way worse than the book, which at least features a few women in the background as well as Gertrude Bell off-stage and precisely one named woman on-stage. Literally the only visible women in the film appear less than ten minutes from the end, European nurses in the Turkish hospital of Damascus. (There may be women in some of the Arab crowd scenes earlier, but completely invisible if so, and I’m not quite sure about the black attendants in the conference scene immediately after the hospital scene.)

Peter O’Toole and his character are both the best thing about the film and provided the point of greatest dissonance for me. I really found the amount of make-up slathered onto his face a bit of a distraction.

We haven’t seen this much make-up on a leading man since the very first film in this sequence, Wings, thirty-five years ago:

Though I have my doubts also about Laurence Olivier in Rebecca, aged 33 and playing a character at least ten years older:

The film is basically a character study of how Lawrence transforms himself from out-of-place British army officer to Arab commander, and it is tremendously well done, also showing that he is already a damaged person who is perhaps bringing that damage to others. O’Toole isfantastic in it, and the scene where he admires his own reflection in his dagger is particularly effective.

At the same time, it’s not exactly critical of the white saviour narrative. And technology is portrayed as a brutal interruption of the noble savages’ way of life, starting with the German plane buzzing the Arab encampment, and culminating with a couple of attacks on the alien trains sullying the desert. (This is a huge contrast with the book, a lot of which is about blowing up trains.) Actual details of geography and wider strategy are skipped over.

It’s interesting that even if Guinness is regrettably browned-up as Faisal, a number of the other Arab characters are actually played by Arabs or at least by non-white actors, most notably Omar Sharif (who was Egyptian) as Sherif Ali.

The flip side of the absence of women is that this is probably the gayest Oscar-winning film so far. There’s a very clear bromance between Lawrence and Sherif Ali.

And the friendship between Lawrence’s attendants Daud and Farraj is obviously close, if not as obvious as in the book (incidentally the actors were Brazilian and Maltese):

Well, the second best thing about the film is the cinematography. The desert scenes are truly gripping, and the film as a whole must have been a major inspiration for Frank Herbert’s Dune, the first part of which was published in December 1963. There are also some very clear resonances with a later Alec Guinness film, Star Wars. The sounds made by the camels are particularly memorable and have surely inspired desert creatures in many a subsequent film.

The absolute best thing about the film is the music of Maurice Jarre (father, of course, of Jean-Michel). Really, he manages to make the desert scenes memorable and support the drama of the other scenes, and turns the whole film into an epic experience. Give it a listen.

I’m struggling with where to place Lawrence of Arabia on my list. It looks and sounds fantastic. But it’s difficult to ignore the fact that it doesn’t just marginalise women, it erases them completely; and the White Saviour theme, and general approach to race, are impossible to ignore. So I’m putting it exactly half-way down my list, in 18th place out of 35, between Gigi and Marty. You can get it here.

Next up is Tom Jones, based on a classic novel which I read some years ago.

I went back and re-read The Seven Pillars of Wisdom,. The second paragraph of the third chapter is:

This people was black and white, not only in vision, but by inmost furnishing: black and white not merely in clarity, but in apposition. Their thoughts were at ease only in extremes. They inhabited superlatives by choice. Sometimes inconsistents seemed to possess them at once in joint sway; but they never compromised: they pursued the logic of several incompatible opinions to absurd ends, without perceiving the incongruity. With cool head and tranquil judgement, imperturbably unconscious of the flight, they oscillated from asymptote to asymptote.

I first read it in 2008. I wrote then:

This is the story of how Lawrence helped the Arabs revolt against the Ottoman Empire in 1917-1918. Its greatest stength is its vivid description of the landscapes of Arabia, Syria and Palestine; I’ve never been to the desert, and apart from one long weekend in Jerusalem I don’t know that part of the world at all, so I found this tremendously compelling. I was left a bit more ambivalent about the human side of the story: on the one hand, Lawrence is aiding a subject nation to throw off their oppressor; on the other, his heroism is undermined – according to his own account, it should be said – by the brutality of the campaign, by his awareness that his British masters will certainly break their word to their Arab allies, and by the casual racism he himself displays toward them.

It’s a very manly book, for values of “manly” that overlap with “gay”. In the very first chapter, we have Arab lads “quivering together in the yielding sand with intimate hot limbs in supreme embrace”. It is a constant theme, and manly love merges intriguingly with Lawrence’s affection for the landscape. There is I think precisely one woman character of note, an old lady who Lawrence rescues from a train wreck (he blew up the train). Apart from her, there are several other memorable female personalities, but they are all camels.

The book falls rather neatly into two parts, the first half being the desert campaign starting from Mecca going up the coast to eventually capture Akaba (=Aqaba), the second half covering operations more closely linked to Allenby and culminating in the taking of Damascus and consolidation of a new Arab regime. I found it very odd that although Lawrence says he was present at the capture of Jerusalem, he reports almost nothing about this key event apart from an argument between the French diplomat Picot (of Sykes-Picot fame – Sykes too makes an appearance) and the British. Of course, he was not impressed by Jerusalem:

…a squalid town, which every Semitic religion had made holy. Christians and Mohammedans came there on pilgrimage to the shrines of its past, and some Jews looked to it for the political future of their race. These united forces of the past and the future were so strong that the city almost failed to have a present.

My grandfather, who was there about the same time for similar reasons, had a similar reactionmore impressed.

For all its faults (some mentioned above, but I’ll add another: it is too long) I found the book also tremendously enlightening in understanding the roots of today’s politics in the region. Lawrence himself is very aware of the contradiction between his responsibility to his country and his moral obligation to his Arab friends and allies, and his personal dilemma can be read also as a comment on the wider international situation. The ruling family of Mecca, who Lawrence helps put in charge of Syria, now rule Jordan (having also had a go at Iraq in the interim). The boundaries of states were mostly drawn at the convenience of the Great Powers, possibly even more arbitrarily than in Africa; it’s not surprising that they are perceived as having shallow roots.

Anyway, a bit of a slog in places (rather like the campaign it describes), but I’m glad I read it in the end.

Compared with the film, we get tremendous detail of geography and strategy, and also a lot more modern technology (he seems to spend most of the book blowing up trains). I was a little unfair about the lack of women in the book, especially in contrast with their absence from the film – there are actually quite a few others apart from Ayesha, daughter of Jellal el Lei, of Medina, the old lady on the train, though none of them is named, and the two other women who are identified by name are either elsewhere (Gertrude Bell, in Iraq) or dead (Tarfa, who “died the year of samh, in the Snainirat, of a puff-adder”). A soldier suffering from an eye inflammation is described as looking “feminine and tearful; a little, said Lloyd, like an abducted nun”. Yuck.

I was intrigued to see if Lawrence and my grandfather had ever been in the same place at the same time. My grandfather was the C.O. of the 6th Battalion of the Royal Dublin Fusiliers, part of the 10th (Irish) Division which in turn was part of Chetwode‘s XX Corps which was part of Allenby’s Egyptian Expeditionary ForceHareira) during the Battle of Gaza and related campaigns in early November; at that time Lawrence was at the far east of the line, blowing up a train. The 6th Dublins participated in the capture of Jerusalem, where Lawrence says he missed the military action but was there for Allenby’s ceremonial entrance into the city on 9 December. Lawrence then mentions the Ottoman counter-offensive in late December, which my grandfather referred to as his final battle (“Our last stunt, when we counter attacked during Turks attempt to recapture Jerusalem, was I think our best effort”). So they probably never spoke to each other, but must have passed each other in the street or in the corridors of headquarters; my grandfather was promoted to lieutenant-colonel just before arriving in the Middle East in September 1917, and Lawrence reached that rank a few months later, in January 1918.

Anyway, it’s a long book, but you can get it here.

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Winners of the Oscar for Best Picture

1920s: Wings (1927-28) | The Broadway Melody (1928-29)
1930s: All Quiet on the Western Front (1929-30) | Cimarron (1930-31) | Grand Hotel (1931-32) | Cavalcade (1932-33) | It Happened One Night (1934) | Mutiny on the Bounty (1935, and books) | The Great Ziegfeld (1936) | The Life of Emile Zola (1937) | You Can’t Take It with You (1938) | Gone with the Wind (1939, and book)
1940s: Rebecca (1940) | How Green Was My Valley (1941) | Mrs. Miniver (1942) | Casablanca (1943) | Going My Way (1944) | The Lost Weekend (1945) | The Best Years of Our Lives (1946) | Gentleman’s Agreement (1947) | Hamlet (1948) | All the King’s Men (1949)
1950s: All About Eve (1950) | An American in Paris (1951) | The Greatest Show on Earth (1952) | From Here to Eternity (1953) | On The Waterfront (1954, and book) | Marty (1955) | Around the World in 80 Days (1956) | The Bridge on the River Kwai (1957) | Gigi (1958) | Ben-Hur (1959)
1960s: The Apartment (1960) | West Side Story (1961) | Lawrence of Arabia (1962) | Tom Jones (1963) | My Fair Lady (1964) | The Sound of Music (1965) | A Man for All Seasons (1966) | In the Heat of the Night (1967) | Oliver! (1968) | Midnight Cowboy (1969)
1970s: Patton (1970) | The French Connection (1971) | The Godfather (1972) | The Sting (1973) | The Godfather, Part II (1974) | One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1975) | Rocky (1976) | Annie Hall (1977) | The Deer Hunter (1978) | Kramer vs. Kramer (1979)
1980s: Ordinary People (1980) | Chariots of Fire (1981) | Gandhi (1982) | Terms of Endearment (1983) | Amadeus (1984) | Out of Africa (1985) | Platoon (1986) | The Last Emperor (1987) | Rain Man (1988) | Driving Miss Daisy (1989)
1990s: Dances With Wolves (1990) | The Silence of the Lambs (1991) | Unforgiven (1992) | Schindler’s List (1993) | Forrest Gump (1994) | Braveheart (1995) | The English Patient (1996) | Titanic (1997) | Shakespeare in Love (1998) | American Beauty (1999)
21st century: Gladiator (2000) | A Beautiful Mind (2001) | Chicago (2002) | The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (2003) | Million Dollar Baby (2004, and book) | Crash (2005) | The Departed (2006) | No Country for Old Men (2007) | Slumdog Millionaire (2008) | The Hurt Locker (2009)
2010s: The King’s Speech (2010) | The Artist (2011) | Argo (2012) | 12 Years a Slave (2013) | Birdman (2014) | Spotlight (2015) | Moonlight (2016) | The Shape of Water (2017) | Green Book (2018) | Parasite (2019)
2020s: Nomadland (2020) | CODA (2021) | Everything Everywhere All at Once (2022) | Oppenheimer (2023)

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David Copperfield, by Charles Dickens

Second paragraph of third chapter:

Peggotty had a basket of refreshments on her knee, which would have lasted us out handsomely, if we had been going to London by the same conveyance. We ate a good deal, and slept a good deal. Peggotty always went to sleep with her chin upon the handle of the basket, her hold of which never relaxed; and I could not have believed unless I had heard her do it, that one defenceless woman could have snored so much.

I thought that this was one of the Dickens books that I had read many years ago, but in fact it was all completely new to me – I guess that the characters of Mr Micawber and Uriah Heep are so familiar that I thought I must have read the book. It's not my favourite Dickens – that is A Tale of Two Cities – but it is still pretty enjoyable. It relies a bit too much on coincidence (central London must be a very small place) and the Murdstones and Uriah Heep are gruesomely irredeemable, but in general it's an interesting Bildungsroman which is obviously autobiographical to an extent. The subplot that was both the most painful and the most compelling to read was Copperfield's first marriage to the gormless Dora. The detail that jumped out at me was the "Roman" bath near the Strand in London, which I must go and look at next time I am in that part of the world.

To my surprise, I discovered a link with Blake's 7:

Anyway, you can get it here.

This was the top book on my shelves that I thought I had read and not reviewed online (though as it turned out, I hadn't read it at all). Next on that list is The Three Musketeers, by Alexander Dumas.

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The Triple Knife, and other Doctor Who stories, by Jenny T. Colgan

Second paragraph of third story (“Into the Nowhere“):

This was a good sign. Definitely boded well. I risked cracking open an eyelid.

Five stories by Jenny Colgan, three of which I had already read in other collections but two new to me. Nice to have them gathered together like this. They are all good. My favourite I think is the title story, which takes Ashildr to the time of the Black Death in 1348; I also very much liked “Picnic At Asgard” with River Song and Eleven. The other three all have Clara, one with Eleven and two with Twelve. You can get it here.

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The Tiptree/Otherwise Award, Peter Handke’s Nobel, The Sparrow and Mountain Ways

The James Tiptree Jr Award, “encouraging the exploration & expansion of gender”, has announced that it is changing its name to the Otherwise Award, based on feedback received after the similar decision of Dell Magazines to change the John W. Campbell Award to the Astounding Award (also in the context of the 2015 decision a couple of years ago to redesign the World Fantasy Award so that it no longer looked like H.P. Lovecraft). It’s their decision, of course; I think it is regrettable.

I understand the hurt and discomfort felt by disabled people who felt that it was wrong to commemorate a carer who killed the person that they were caring for. But first, it’s not completely clear that that is a fair interpretation of what happened in the case of the Sheldon household; and second, Alice Sheldon never urged anyone else to kill their disabled spouse or themselves, whether under her own name or under the Tiptree pseudonym. In fact she did her best to maintain a sharp distinction between the private life of Alice Sheldon and the public literary identity of James Tiptree Jr. The award was the Tiptree Award, not the Sheldon Award.

In contrast, John W. Campbell Jr used his editorial platform to push his own racist political agenda under his own name. H.P. Lovecraft’s stories, also published under his own name, include massive bigotry against immigrants. (And in his letters he made clear what he thought of the Irish.) For me that’s a crucial difference.

This isn’t a question of censorship; people are free to buy and read and discuss the works of Lovecraft, Campbell and Tiptree. It’s a question of who we commemorate and how. The administrators of the Tiptree Award have ended up in a different place to where I think I would have done; it is, of course, their right to do so, just as it is my right to pass comment.

This controversy ties in also to the discussion about the award of the Nobel Prize last week to Peter Handke, who is an apologist for the regime of Slobodan Milošević and for the genocide committed under Milošević’s watch. I had some pushback on Facebook yesterday for reposting a piece by Edi Rama, Albania’s prime minister, regretting this decision in the strongest terms. In brief, I think that this was a very bad decision.

It is ridiculous to assert that the Nobel Prize for Literature is – or should be – seen as a pure literary assessment. Quite apart from the commonplace truth that the political context of the day informs all such decisions anyway, the Swedish Academy has often made blatantly political awards. Is there really anyone who can seriously assert that the most worthy writer of 1953 who did not already have a Nobel Prize was Winston Churchill? Never mind 1974, when the Academy decided to award the prize to two of its own members who were unknown outside Sweden. (And the Academy’s recent internal travails have been very well chronicled.) So it is entirely legitimate for a political decision to be criticised on political grounds. Anyway, this is a case where Handke’s political views cannot be separated from his art; they inform each other.

Again, this is not about censorship; it’s about whose name goes on a list created by a political process, and who gets a million dollars in prize money.

As it happens, I’ve just finished reading the Tiptree winners for 1997, The Sparrow, by Mary Doria Russell, and “Mountain Ways”, by Ursula K. Le Guin. The second paragraph of the third chapter of The Sparrow is:

Sometime during the night, a delivery van had provided the last little bit of weight and vibration that could be withstood by a nineteenth-century street paved over a medieval bedroom constructed from the walls of a dry Roman cistern, and the whole crazy hollow thing collapsed. The road crew managed to extricate the van but hadn’t gotten around to putting up barriers around the hole. John, hurrying as usual, almost walked right into it. Only the odd echo from his footsteps warned him that something wasn’t right and he slowed down, his foot in the air, stopping just short of a historically interesting broken neck. This was the kind of thing that kept him constantly on edge in Rome but that he made comical in his messages home. His entire experience in this city sounded better than it lived.

I read The Sparrow way back at the start of the century, and like many others I was blown away by it. It is one of only two novels to have won the Tiptree, BSFA and Clarke Awards (the other being Air, by Geoff Ryman). It was a little jarring to re-read it and realise that the parts of the book set earliest in time, when astronomers in Puerto Rico (and elsewhere) detect signals from an alien planet, are actually set in early and mid 2019, in a future where Turkey has collapsed into bloody anarchy but humanity has mastered the technology of asteroid mining. The book is told in double flashback, the core narrative being the preparation of an interstellar mission by the Jesuits, framed as the account of the lone survivor of the mission, a Puerto Rican Jesuit who witnessed the horrible death of the rest of his team and was then subjected to horrible abuse before the next mission rescued him.

Coming back to it now, almost twenty years on, the book’s flaws are more apparent (and weirdly they became more apparent with the publication of the sequel, Children of God, which somehow failed to develop the success of The Sparrow). The physics of interstellar spaceflight is pretty implausible, and the grim abuse to which the protagonist is subjected seems over the top. On the other hand, the book’s earnest exploration of faith and religion, and a clash between two world systems of intelligent beings that are not ready for each other, still seems very timely; and the characters in general are vivid, memorable and believable. I would still rate it as a classic.

The Sparrow won the Tiptree Award for 1997 jointly with “Mountain Ways”, a novelette by Ursula Le Guin. A very long “short List” was also published, consisting of another five novels and another five short stories; also published was an even longer “long list”, including another 28 novels and 17 short stories! Angela Carter was also given a special award by the Tiptree jury. Full details here. That was the year that the Hugo went to Blue Mars by Kim Stanley Robinson, and the Nebula to Slow River by Nicola Griffith. For the “other” John W. Campbell Award, The Sparrow came third, Blue Mars second and Fairyland by Paul J. McAuley won (it had also won the Clarke Award the previous year).

It was not until the following year that The Sparrow was published in the UK, so it won the BSFA Best Novel Award for 1997 (awarded 1998) and the 1998 Arthur C. Clarke Award. The other shortlisted novels in each case were completely different. BSFA voters had the alternatives of Earthquake Weather, by Tim Powers; Jack Faust, by Michael Swanwick; Signs of Life, by M. John Harrison; and A Son of the Rock, by Jack Deighton. The Clarke judges also chose Days, by James Lovegrove; The Family Tree, by Sheri S. Tepper; Glimmering, by Elizabeth Hand; Nymphomation, by Jeff Noon; and Titan, by Stephen Baxter. I have only read one other in each list, Jack Faust and The Family Tree, and The Sparrow is definitely better than either.

The second to fifth paragraphs of the third section of “Mountain Ways”, by Ursula Le Guin:

“What is it? what is it, my dear love?”
“You’ll go away. You’re going to go away!”
“But not now—not soon—”
“You can’t stay here. You have a calling. A resp—” the word broken by a gasp and sob—“responsibility to your school, to your work, and I can’t keep you. I can’t give you the farm. I haven’t anything to give you, anything at all!”

I had not read “Mountain Ways” before – it is in the Birthday of the World collection, but also available online. It’s a fascinating tale of a society where the standard marriage, endorsed by religious custom and practice, includes two men and two women, with sex forbidden between two of the potential opposite-sex pairings, but expected between the other two opposite-sex pairings and also between the same-sex pairings. I have whined a bit about some of Le Guin’s work that she sets up interesting societies but doesn’t often look at those who do not fit in those societies’ rules. In this case, she has two women deeply in love with each other, one of whom fills a vacancy in the other’s four-way marriage by pretending to be a man. For such a complex idea, it’s very economically worked out, yet with great emotional depth. I feel that the Tiptree jury made two very good calls that year (I am not familiar enough with the work of Angela Carter to say whether it was three out of three).

“Mountain Ways” was also on the 1997 Hugo final ballot for Best Novelette; it came third, beaten by Bruce Sterling’s “Bicycle Repairman”, which won, and “The Land of Nod” by Mike Resnick. Fourth place went to “Beauty and the Opéra or The Phantom Beast”, by Suzy McKee Charnas, and fifth to “Age of Aquarius” by William Barton. The Nebula in that category went to “Lifeboat on a Burning Sea”, by Bruce Holland Rogers; unusually there was not a single shared finalist between the two ballots. The other short fiction categories went to “Blood of the Dragon”, by George R. R. Martin (Hugo Novella); “The Soul Selects Her Own Society: Invasion and Repulsion: A Chronological Reinterpretation of Two of Emily Dickinson’s Poems: A Wellsian Perspective”, by Connie Willis (Hugo Short Story); “Da Vinci Rising”, by Jack Dann (Nebula Novella) and “A Birthday”, by Esther M. Friesner.

Next in this sequence of reviews will be The Calcutta Chromosome by Amitav Ghosh, which won the Clarke Award in the year that The Sparrow won the Tiptree.

You can get The Sparrow here, and read “Mountain Ways” here.

Arthur C. Clarke Award winners:
The Handmaid’s Tale | The Sea and Summer | Unquenchable Fire | The Child Garden | Take Back Plenty | Synners | Body of Glass | Vurt | Fools | Fairyland | The Calcutta Chromosome | The Sparrow | Dreaming in Smoke | Distraction | Perdido Street Station | Bold as Love | The Separation | Quicksilver | Iron Council | Air | Nova Swing | Black Man | Song of Time | The City & the City | Zoo City | The Testament of Jessie Lamb | Dark Eden | Ancillary Justice | Station Eleven | Children of Time | The Underground Railroad | Dreams Before the Start of Time | Rosewater | The Old Drift | The Animals in that Country | Deep Wheel Orcadia | Venomous Lumpsucker | In Ascension | Annie Bot

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Tuesday reading

Current
Sybil, by Benjamin Disraeli
Is There Life Outside The Box? An Actor Despairs, by Peter Davison
Be My Enemy, by Ian McDonald

Last books finished
The Sparrow, by Mary Doria Russell
Seven Pillars of Wisdom, by T.E. Lawrence
The Triple Knife, and other Doctor Who stories, by Jenny T. Colgan
David Copperfield, by Charles Dickens

Next books
The Bastard of Istanbul, by Eilif Shafak
Frédégonde, la sanguinaire, Tome 1, by Virginie Greiner

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Mission to the Unknown

The 1965 single-episode Doctor Who story Mission to the Unknown is unique in a number of ways. It is the only single-episode story of Old Who. It is the only episode of TV Doctor Who ever in which none of the then current TARDIS crew (then William Hartnell as the Doctor, Peter Purves as Steven, and Maureen O’Sullivan as Vicki) actually appears, though William Hartnell does get credited as the Doctor. Less unusually, it is one of the episodes that was wiped from the BBC archives; it was never shown abroad, so there is little chance of an copy appearing in some forgotten store in Nigeria or Cyprus, and no footage at all survives (which is true of only two other stories, Marco Polo and The Massacre).

I’d previously listened to the BBC release of the audio with Peter Purves narrating, and also watched the Loose Cannon reconstruction (the original sound track with still photos and a few new bits of animation), so I was familiar with how it sounded. The University of Central Lancashire have now done their best to recreate the original broadcast, shot for shot. It was launched last Wednesday, 54 years to the minute after Mission to the Unknown was first broadcast. Well worth a look, book-ended with words from Edward de Souza, who played Marc Cory, the lead role, in 1965.

There’s also a nice “Making of” feature, including more Edward de Souza and also Peter Purves:

My conclusion is that this is a very interesting experiment that probably succeeds as a didactic exercise but maybe doesn’t quite come off quite as well as the lost original may have done. The point that jumped out at me is that the 2019 actors are much younger – Marco Simioni, in the lead role, graduated last year so must be about 22; Edward de Souza was 33 in 1965 (he is 87 now). Dan Gilligan, playing Lowery, the second astronaut, is a year older than Marc Simioni; Jeremy Young, who played Lowery in 1965, is two years younger than Edward de Souza. (He also played Kal the caveman in the very first Doctor Who story, An Unearthly Child, and was married to Kate O’Mara.) So the relative ages are a bit jarring.

It is also notable that the actors of 1965 had developed an instinct of how to stay in shot in a small camera field on a small set. The 2019 actors start off OK but get a bit relaxed towards the end and drift off screen a bit. And the climax of the episode, Cory’s final desperate fumbling with the crucial tape recording before the Daleks exterminate him looked a bit under-rehearsed. It’s a labour of love, rather than great art.

My preference is still for the Peter Purves audio narration, which inevitably doesn’t show but does tell, with Purves’ sympathetic tones explaining what was going on onscreen.

In addition to the Loose Cannon animation, which also features Edward de Souza at a sprightly 68, I’ve found a three-part animation starting here which I haven’t yet watched in full; it seems rather adventurously colourised.

I also found a 2010 graphic novel version of the entire story of Mission to the Unknown and the Daleks Master Plan, produced for Children in Need by Richard Lundeen. It’s a tremendously loyal piece of work – difficult to get hold of, but worth the effort.

Anyway, it’s great to see Old Who still provoking creativity, and perpetually being retold.

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Dordrecht part 2: a Biblical robot, more Art, history and food

As mentioned yesterday, we spent last weekend in Dordrecht, enjoying the art and environment of this Dutch city.

One thing I didn't mention about the Grote Kerk is that it has been commemorating the 400th anniversary of the Synod of Dordrecht, and the consequential commissioning of the Statenvertaling, the Dutch authorised text of the Bible. In the courtyard of the Hof, a former monastery where the Synod moved after its opening sessions in the Grote Kerk, a robot is writing out every word of the Statenvertaling. When we got there it was on 2 Maccabees. The ambition was to finish the whole Bible by the end of this month, but if it hadn't quite got to the end of the Old Testament by last weekend (having started in November 2018) I don't think it will meet the deadline.

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The Hof is now part of the Dordrechts Museum where we spent the Sunday morning. I'm not normally a huge fan of art museums; maybe it was the mood I was in (wedding anniversary weekend, so some celebration) but I saw a lot to like here. The pictures of the art are not mine, mostly from the museum's official website. There were several temporary exhibitions on, two on individual artists which didn't do much for me but also a brilliant one about fish in art. Here's an erotic fish market by an unknown artist around 1597 adapting from an earlier picture by Joachim Beuckelaer (1533-1575):

And here's a brilliant 1613 Tobias catching the fish, the archangel Raphael cheering him on, by Pieter Lastman (1583-1633):

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The main collection has some more vivid biblical scenes. I love the exchange of looks between the two principals in The Call of Matthew by Arnold Houbraken (1660-1719):

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And in the Adoration of the Magi by Benjamin Cuyp (1612-1652), one of them has brought an elephant.

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Benjamin Cuyp was the uncle or cousin of Aelbert Cuyp (1620-1691), one of Dordrecht's two best known painters, commemorated with this rather odd 2006 monument by Maria Roosen:

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Cuyp went in for rather dreamy landscapes; the one I liked best was this study of the ruins of Rijnsburg Abbey.

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I also liked his portrait of Pieter de Roovere and son, founding the Dordrecht salmon trade:

Going forward in time a bit, I loved the light illuminating the Reading Woman at the Window by Abraham van Strij (1753-1826), the Grote Kerk visible behind her:

Apart from Aelbert Cuyp, Dordrecht's other famous painter was Ary Scheffer (1795-1858), who moved to France and made it reasonably big. He too gets a statue in one of the squares, by his admirer Joseph Mezzara (1820-1901), a model for it in the museum:
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Scheffer was one of the two artists featured in a temporary exhibition and on the whole I wasn't convinced. However his Heavenly and Earthly Love amused me – the two look rather into each other (or perhaps Heavenly wants a nibble of Earthly's snack):

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As opposed to the 1911 treatment of the same subject by Jan Sluiters (1881-1957) where they both look pretty bored:
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While I'm on art, the breakfast room of the place where we stayed (Oranjepark B&B at Toulonsestraat 81) had this somewhat disturbiung version of the print Sing Little Bird Sing by the Dutch artist Fake (1980-):

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The Hof, where we saw the Bible-writing robot, is now a history museum which features a rather good video re-enacting the 1572 First Assembly of the Free States, a fundamental moment of Dutch history. It sends shivers down the spine and I think for Dutch people it would bring a lump to the throat. Here's the trailer – in Dutch only, but worth watching for the cinematography:

At the end of the film the screen rises to show you that you are literally in the room where it happened:

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The rest of the museum had a series of artifacts from Dordrecht's history:

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And a not hugely functional touch-operated personalised information system:

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At the end you are invited to sign up to the same principles as the Assembly of 1572: an independent country where you are free to think what you think, believe what you believe and be who you are:

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A couple of notes on food to finish off with. Our Sunday lunch was at Pim's Poffertjes and Pancakes, which is adorned by this little train running around just below the ceiling:

We got there just after it opened at 1pm, and it filled up rapidly. The pancakes and poffertjes were indeed yummy.

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And for dinner on Saturday we had a traditional rijsttafel at the Mulia Indonesian restaurant:

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I should also say that we called in to Kees and Angelique van Toorn on the way home, as they live in the neighbourhood, and finished the weekend with a fannish twist. A good time.

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Dordrecht part 1: public Art, the Grote Kerk and the Biesbosch

We went on a wedding anniversary trip last weekend to Dordrecht, a lovely old town in the Netherlands, a bit less than two hours' drive north of here. Here's the Grote Kerk, seen from one end of one of the canals.

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One of the locals was waiting anxiously for his master to come home.

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The street architecture is interesting and varied. Here's the former home of the Fishermen's Guild:

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And a former cinema with Art Nouveau reliefs of the Muses:

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There is a street named after an annoying duck.

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Some of the public art is striking – here are a speaking (or singing, or shouting?) head and an ear, facing each other along a canal:

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Here's a statue commemorating local boys Johan and Cornelis de Witt. Johan de Witt more or less ran the Netherlands for almost two decades from 1653, and Cornelis commanded the 1667 raid on the Medway recorded so memorably by Samuel Pepys. Eventually politics turned against them, and they were literally torn to pieces by a lynch mob in the Hague in 1672 (see the opening chapters of Alexandre Dumas' The Black Tulip, which I read at an impressionable age). As Dordrecht's most famous sons, they are honoured in their own country.

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Some of the public art is less beautiful. ("The closer you are to Dordrecht, the lovelier it gets.")

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Some hasn't yet been unveiled – a statue of William the Silent was to be inaugurated the day after we left.

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Almost the first public sculpture we saw was this war memorial in Merwestein Park, by Hans Petri, a great Dutch sculptor of whom I had not previously heard, born a hundred years ago this year. (Not my first such artistic encounter of the weekend.)

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We got interested in Petri after seeing this and then his sculpture of Job in the Grote Kerk.

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Here is Jonah in the Whale, also by Hans Petri, on the wall of a school to the east of the city centre.

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His wife Greetje Petri-Eyskoot was a scupltor as well (not mentioned in Dutch Wikipedia, surprise, surprise), and her five-stemmed candlestick is also in the Grote Kerk:

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The church also has a memorable set of icons by Wasili Wasin, this being the Last Supper:

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The 17th-century choir stalls are remarkable too; here is a dragon coming to an untimely end:

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And here is a mural of the legend of St Sura, who founded the Grote Kerk despite being inconveniently martyred by three rogues. She was brought back to life, and asked the Pope to free them on promise of good behaviour. (I failed to note the name of the artist.)

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What really makes the Grote Kerk are the stained glass windows, this from the 1930s:

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And this more contemporary:

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The view from the top is spectacular despite the flat landscape – here's the first shot at the top of this post, taken from the other direction.

And in the other direction is the iconic bridge between Dordrecht and Zwijndrecht.

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More art in another post tomorrow. On the Saturday afternoon we went to the Biesbosch nature reserve right beside Dordrecht, a massive wetland filled with wildlife. We would probably have been better to go there in the spring, but it was a pleasant walk.

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More tomorrow, on art, history and food.

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Cloud and Ashes, by Greer Gilman

Second paragraph of third chapter of third section:

In the green dark of another morning, Annot rose. She laid aside her mantle and her gown of black for petticoats of green, May mourning; mirrorless, she combed her leaf-red hair, and as she braided it all down her back, she sang beneath her breath. “ … and a thought come in her head to run in the wood … ” She left my lord’s ring and my lady’s baubles—though she traced the earrings with a finger, half-regretfully: her chains became her well. She left her needle in her work, too nearly done: the one unfinished sleeve. “ … to pull flowers to flower her hat … ” A smock to be bedded in, a shroud. Too fine for the greenwood, to sully and snag. But she wore her old ring that had been her grandam’s, her namesake: that she kept.

Lots of people loved Cloud and Ashes; I didn’t. Its a dense fairy tale set in northern England, with lots of sex (not at all titillating) and magic (which may or may not work). Maybe it will reward readers who put in the effort to understand who the characters are and what is going on. I read for relaxation and escapism, and this was too much like hard work for me. It won the Tiptree Award in 2006, along with the first two volumes of Ōoku: The Inner Chambers, which I enjoyed (one, two). You can get it here.