Claude Debussy’s Prélude à l’Après-Midi d’un Faune (1894)

When I was a boy I got some piano lessons from my grand­ma, whose creaky piano had been a fea­ture of her back room for as long as I could remem­ber, and although my progress was lim­it­ed (and per­ma­nent­ly arrest­ed at age thir­teen when I dis­cov­ered the gui­tar), I retain some vivid mem­o­ries: my grand­ma singing the music hall favourite Two Love­ly Black Eyes in her trade­mark falset­to, as well as Edel­weiss from The Sound Of Music and the mil­i­tary march song Men Of Harlech (after which, for a peri­od, she would address me as Dai Bach, or ‘lit­tle David’ in Welsh, as if recall­ing famil­ial roots that nev­er exist­ed). I would faith­ful­ly learn these songs on the piano, whilst leav­ing the unique singing to her.

Anoth­er piece of music I recall prac­tis­ing in those years was Claude Debussy’s Clair De Lune. No doubt every erst­while piano stu­dent does. It’s a haunt­ing and love­ly tune, for sure, and lat­er I was to learn that Debussy was a ver­i­ta­ble mas­ter of the haunt­ing and love­ly tune. He had an aston­ish­ing abil­i­ty to trans­late the nat­ur­al world into sound for orches­tral and solo piano music. Lis­ten to La Mer, for exam­ple, one of many pieces Debussy wrote about water: it’s easy to dis­cern the ‘sound’ of the play of light on water. The evoca­tive musi­cal imagery cap­tured so clev­er­ly in such com­po­si­tions as Rêver­ie, Images, Préludes, Études and Noc­turnes led him to be dubbed the first Impres­sion­ist com­pos­er, the musi­cal equiv­a­lent of Mon­et, Cézanne and Renoir (he was none too hap­py with the term by all accounts, but I’d have tak­en it).

My favourite evo­ca­tion, though, as a fan of the pas­toral and bucol­ic, is Prélude à l’Après-Midi d’un Faune. Based on Stéphane Mallarmé’s sym­bol­ist poem of the same name, the Prélude con­jures up a dream-like world of idyl­lic wood­land thick with sum­mer haze, in which sprawls a lethar­gic faun, wak­ing from rever­ie. If you don’t know it from its title, you’ll know it when you hear it from the excerpt below (it’s been used all over the shop). Oh, to be a faun in a mytho­log­i­cal Greek sum­mer land­scape! Beats work­ing…

Claude Debussy

Saturday Night Live’s More Cowbell Sketch (2000)

The Amer­i­can late-night live tele­vi­sion sketch com­e­dy show, Sat­ur­day Night Live, has been a launch­pad for many a career since its first broad­cast in 1975. Although it’s not the sta­ple here in the UK that it clear­ly is in the States, we are very aware of its cul­tur­al sig­nif­i­cance and we can mar­vel at the names that have passed through the ranks of its cast: John Belushi, Dan Aykroyd, Gil­da Rad­ner, Chevy Chase, Bill Mur­ray, Eddie Mur­phy, Bil­ly Crys­tal, Christo­pher Guest, Dana Car­vey, Mike Myers, Chris Rock, Adam San­dler, Norm Mac­don­ald, Will Fer­rell, Sarah Sil­ver­man, Tina Fey…

The clas­sic sketch­es that the show has spawned over the years are as many and var­ied as its exten­sive cast list, and it’s fun to peruse Rolling Stone’s “50 Great­est Sat­ur­day Night Live Sketch­es of All Time”. My num­ber one is Rolling Stone’s num­ber nine but let’s not quib­ble: More Cow­bell is com­e­dy gold, how­ev­er you rank it. The sketch aired on 8th April 2000 and it’s safe to say that the stars aligned that night.

The sketch was writ­ten by reg­u­lar cast mem­ber Will Fer­rell who was inspired by an episode of VH1’s Behind the Music doc­u­ment­ing the band Blue Öys­ter Cult and their 1976 record­ing of their biggest hit, (Don’t Fear) The Reaper. Fer­rell reimag­ines the scene, with Christo­pher Walken as fic­tion­al leg­endary music pro­duc­er Bruce Dick­in­son, him­self as fic­tion­al cow­bell play­er Gene Fren­kle, and with oth­er SNL cast mem­bers (Chris Par­nell, Jim­my Fal­lon, Chris Kat­tan, Hor­a­tio Sanz) play­ing the real Blue Öys­ter Cult mem­bers. What fol­lowed was to go down in SNL his­to­ry.

Christo­pher Walken’s char­ac­ter intro­duces him­self as Bruce Dick­in­son (“Yes, the Bruce Dick­in­son”) and tells the band that they have “what appears to be a dyna­mite sound”. The band are in awe of him, and he doesn’t do too much to dis­pel the belief that he is indeed a leg­endary pro­duc­er: “Easy guys, I put my pants on just like the rest of you, one leg at a time…except, once my pants are on, I make gold records!”. Walken’s deliv­ery is sub­lime.

The first take seems to go well but the band stops play­ing due to being dis­tract­ed by Gene’s overzeal­ous cow­bell play­ing. Dick­in­son, to the sur­prise of most of the band, asks for “a lit­tle more cow­bell” and urges Gene to “real­ly explore the stu­dio space this time”. Gene’s exu­ber­ance in fol­low­ing instruc­tions only caus­es more dis­trac­tion and the band aborts anoth­er take, but Bruce dou­bles down on his insis­tence that “I got­ta have more cow­bell!” and the absur­di­ty con­tin­ues hilar­i­ous­ly.

The char­ac­ters, the tim­ing, and the dia­logue are all to a tee, and even the actors’ attempts to avoid corps­ing dur­ing the sketch add to the thrill — just watch Jim­my Fal­lon shov­ing his drum­sticks into his mouth to (vain­ly) cov­er his gig­gles! Enjoy the sketch (in 2 parts) below…

More Cow­bell

 

Canaletto’s The Mouth Of The Grand Canal Looking West Towards The Carità (1730)

If you vis­it London’s Nation­al Gallery’s Room 38 you will see a fine col­lec­tion of paint­ings by Canalet­to (Gio­van­ni Anto­nio Canal, 1697–1768), the Ital­ian artist famed for his vedute of Venice (a vedu­ta is a high­ly detailed, usu­al­ly large-scale paint­ing or print of a cityscape or some oth­er vista). He was born in Venice, the son of anoth­er painter, Bernar­do Canal, hence his mononym Canalet­to, or “lit­tle Canal” (and noth­ing to do with the Venet­ian canals that he lat­er depict­ed). Canalet­to was appren­ticed to his father whose main career was in the­atre set design, so he got to work on paint­ing the­atri­cal scenes for operas by the likes of Vival­di, Scar­lat­ti and oth­ers. How­ev­er, it was when, in around 1723, he began to paint the dai­ly life of Venice and its peo­ple, that he found his true call­ing.

Canalet­to sold many of his grand scenes of the canals of Venice and the Doge’s Palace to Eng­lish­men on their Grand Tour, and his career real­ly took off when he began his asso­ci­a­tion with Joseph Smith, an Eng­lish busi­ness­man and col­lec­tor liv­ing in Venice who was to become British Con­sul in Venice in 1744. Smith became the artist’s prin­ci­pal agent and patron, and was instru­men­tal in intro­duc­ing Grand Tourists to his work and arrang­ing com­mis­sions. He also acquired near­ly fifty paint­ings and one hun­dred fifty draw­ings from Canalet­to, the largest and finest sin­gle group of the artist’s works, which he sold to King George III in 1762.

In the 1740s, the War of the Aus­tri­an Suc­ces­sion led to a reduc­tion in the num­ber of British vis­i­tors to Venice (war can do that) and thus dis­rupt­ed Canaletto’s mar­ket, and so in 1746 he moved to Lon­don, liv­ing in Lon­don’s Soho dis­trict and suc­cess­ful­ly pro­duc­ing views of Lon­don and of his patrons’ hous­es and cas­tles. He remained in Eng­land until 1755 and returned to Venice where he con­tin­ued to paint until his death in 1768. His con­nec­tion with Britain had been sealed, how­ev­er, and now you can find his paint­ings not only in the Nation­al Gallery but in Buck­ing­ham Palace, the Wal­lace Col­lec­tion and indeed there’s a fine set of 24 in the din­ing room at Woburn Abbey.

Here is just one from the Roy­al Col­lec­tion, The Mouth of the Grand Canal look­ing West towards the Car­ità (1729–30), and then a view of the exquis­ite Woburn Abbey din­ing room.

Canalet­to, The Mouth of the Grand Canal look­ing West towards the Cari­ta, c.1729–30,
Woburn Abbey
Canalet­to

Cole Porter’s You Do Something To Me (1929)

There’s a scene in the 1972 movie Sleuth, where­in eccen­tric mil­lion­aire crime writer Andrew Wyke (Lau­rence Olivi­er) has invit­ed his wife’s lover, Ital­ian hair­dress­er Milo Tin­dle (Michael Caine), to his man­sion, under false pre­tences, and pro­ceed­ed to shoot him dead in what he believes to be the per­fect mur­der. He struts self-assured­ly around his kitchen, busy­ing him­self in prepa­ra­tion of a cel­e­bra­to­ry cham­pagne-and-caviar sup­per to the strains of Cole Porter’s song You Do Some­thing To Me piped in from a dis­tant gramo­phone. Now, the movie itself deserves a blog all to itself, since it is a grip­ping and bril­liant­ly-writ­ten piece of dra­ma with bravu­ra per­for­mances from the two afore­men­tioned greats of the sil­ver screen, but this is not about the movie but the song.

The song is typ­i­cal of Cole Porter (1891–1964), Amer­i­can com­pos­er and song­writer not­ed for his wit­ty, urbane lyrics and writer of many a song that would find suc­cess on Broad­way in the 1920s and 30s, and become part of what we now call the Great Amer­i­can Song­book. His songs trip off the tongue: You’re The Top; Let’s Do It, Let’s Fall In Love; Any­thing Goes; I Get A Kick Out Of You; Begin The Beguine; I’ve Got You Under My Skin; Let’s Mis­be­have; Ev’ry Time We Say Good­bye; Who Wants To Be A Mil­lion­aire? et al. His songs have of course been cov­ered by, well, everyone…and so I attempt­ed to find out which artist had record­ed the par­tic­u­lar ver­sion that we hear in Sleuth (below)…

Sure­ly a straight­for­ward google-able task? But not so: hav­ing failed to find the iden­ti­ty of the artist from the obvi­ous sources, I was led instead and cir­cuitous­ly to this forum of musi­cal sound­track enthu­si­asts (below). Start­ing in 2006, one “glo­ri­ot­s­ki” kicks off the thread with the same ques­tion that was on my lips, but “coma” sets the ensu­ing tone with “I’ve checked all avail­able sources but nobody real­ly seems to know”.

Oth­er ama­teur musi­cal sleuths, deter­mined to crack the mys­tery, steam in, with the sug­ges­tions rolling in: Fred Astaire, Al John­son, Mel Tor­mé, Al Bowl­ly, Pat O’Malley, Sam Browne (indeed, vir­tu­al­ly every­one except Mar­lene Diet­rich)? But the years tick by, and one by one each con­fi­dent sug­ges­tion has been debunked, right up to 2021 when we seem to have got no fur­ther:

Per­haps we’ll nev­er know…but I can live with that (in fact, I’m rather glad that the mys­tery has endured) because in the course of my research I came across this won­der­ful ver­sion record­ed by Har­ry Reser’s Clic­quot Club Eski­mo Orches­tra, with vocals by Har­ry “Scrap­py” Lam­bert. Enjoy!

Cole Porter

Matthew Arnold’s Dover Beach (1867)

Matthew Arnold (1822 – 1888) is some­times called the third great Vic­to­ri­an poet along­side Alfred, Lord Ten­nyson and Robert Brown­ing, although, unlike those two full-time mon­eyed poets, he actu­al­ly had a prop­er job too, earn­ing his liv­ing work­ing as an inspec­tor of schools for thir­ty-five years. He was the son of the cel­e­brat­ed head­mas­ter of Rug­by School, Thomas Arnold (who was a neigh­bour and good friend of William Wordsworth, unsur­pris­ing­ly a strong influ­ence on the young Matthew), and it was at Rug­by where Matthew Arnold received most of his edu­ca­tion before win­ning a schol­ar­ship to Bal­li­ol Col­lege, Oxford.

In 1849 (the year before Wordsworth’s death), Arnold pub­lished his first book of poet­ry, The Strayed Rev­eller, and fol­lowed that up in 1852 with his sec­ond vol­ume of poems, Empe­do­cles on Etna, and Oth­er Poems, coin­cid­ing with the launch of both his school-inspect­ing career and his mar­riage. Much out­put would fol­low and not just in poet­ry: Arnold wrote in prose too and was an influ­en­tial lit­er­ary, polit­i­cal and social crit­ic. Between 1867 and 1869 he wrote Cul­ture and Anar­chy, set­ting his High Vic­to­ri­an cul­tur­al agen­da, and famous for the term he pop­u­larised to denote a cer­tain sub-set of the Eng­lish pop­u­la­tion: “Philistines”, i.e. name­ly that class of per­sons hav­ing a dep­re­ca­to­ry atti­tude towards art, beau­ty, spir­i­tu­al­i­ty and intel­lect. He would have felt at home here at OGOTS Tow­ers, I feel sure!

These days, Arnold is per­haps best known for his poem Dover Beach. The poem’s speak­er (whom we may assume is Matthew Arnold him­self) begins by describ­ing a calm and qui­et sea out in the Eng­lish Chan­nel. He is stand­ing on the Dover coast and look­ing out across to France, where a small light can be seen briefly and then van­ish­es. Through­out the poem Arnold crafts visu­al and audi­to­ry imagery of the sea reced­ing and return­ing to land. At this point in time, though, the sea is not return­ing; it is reced­ing far­ther out, and we realise that Arnold is equat­ing it with the diminu­tion of reli­gious faith amongst his com­pa­tri­ots.

This was, after all, the post-Dar­win era, when reli­gious faith was being pro­found­ly chal­lenged, and Arnold was known to bemoan the creep of mate­ri­al­ism and, in his eyes, its atten­dant philis­tin­ism. For him, truth and beau­ty were in retreat, like the tide, and, apart from the fact that he has his mis­sus beside him (“Ah, love, let us be true to one anoth­er!”), there’s lit­tle light at the end of his tun­nel, and the poem remains pes­simistic to the end. It’s prob­a­bly a bless­ing that Arnold is not around today: I sus­pect he would con­sid­er his pes­simism to have been under­stat­ed!

The sea is calm tonight.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of Eng­land stand,
Glim­mer­ing and vast, out in the tran­quil bay.
Come to the win­dow, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Lis­ten! you hear the grat­ing roar
Of peb­bles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremu­lous cadence slow, and bring
The eter­nal note of sad­ness in.

Sopho­cles long ago
Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought
Into his mind the tur­bid ebb and flow
Of human mis­ery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hear­ing it by this dis­tant north­ern sea.

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright gir­dle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melan­choly, long, with­draw­ing roar,
Retreat­ing, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shin­gles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true
To one anoth­er! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So var­i­ous, so beau­ti­ful, so new,
Hath real­ly nei­ther joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor cer­ti­tude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a dark­ling plain
Swept with con­fused alarms of strug­gle and flight,
Where igno­rant armies clash by night.

Matthew Arnold

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s Faust (1808)

Johann Wolf­gang von Goethe’s great trag­ic play, Faust (1808), tells the noto­ri­ous tale of Dr Faust and his deal with the Dev­il, a theme that we see recur­ring in West­ern art and lit­er­a­ture time and time again. Dr Faust is the learned Ger­man schol­ar who is dis­il­lu­sioned by his inabil­i­ty to dis­cov­er life’s true mean­ing despite his mas­tery of the sci­ences and the tra­di­tion­al and con­ven­tion­al modes of thought. In des­per­a­tion, he con­sid­ers resort­ing to the arts of mag­ic to resolve his frus­tra­tion, and this attracts the atten­tion of the demon Mephistophe­les who will tempt Faust into sign­ing a con­tract in blood: a life­time of the Devil’s servi­tude in exchange for Faust’s immor­tal soul.

There’s plen­ty to unpack here and sev­er­al inter­est­ing avenues we can go down. First of all, what of this epony­mous char­ac­ter, Dr Faust? Well, he was based upon a real per­son, one Johann Georg Faust (c.1480 – c.1540), who was an obscure Ger­man itin­er­ant alchemist, astrologer, and magi­cian. In the decades fol­low­ing his death, he became the sub­ject of folk leg­end, trans­mit­ted in so-called chap­books, begin­ning in the 1580s. Chap­books, rather than being books for chaps (at least, not exclu­sive­ly), were actu­al­ly short, low-bud­get street lit­er­a­ture that were very pop­u­lar with the pub­lic through­out Europe (this was before Water­stones).

The leg­end of Faust was seized upon long before Goethe: Christo­pher Mar­lowe adapt­ed the per­sona into his play The Trag­i­cal His­to­ry of the Life and Death of Doc­tor Faus­tus in 1604, and the Faust­buch brand of chap­book sur­vived through­out the ear­ly mod­ern peri­od. Thus, when Goethe wrote Faust, he was drama­tis­ing a long-estab­lished tra­di­tion.

How about the char­ac­ter of Mephistophe­les? Here too, we find Mephistophe­les appear­ing for the first time in the ear­ly Faust­buchs; he is not the Dev­il him­self but a demon work­ing on behalf of the Dev­il, and in fact, since he was invent­ed by the anony­mous author(s) of the Faust­buch, he is sole­ly a lit­er­ary char­ac­ter and doesn’t form part of the tra­di­tion­al hier­ar­chy of demonolo­gy. In Goethe’s hands he is not only cold-heart­ed and cyn­i­cal, as you’d expect, but also supreme­ly wit­ty, and has all the best lines (hence we are remind­ed of the mod­ern-day obser­va­tion that “the Dev­il has the best tunes”).

And the deal itself? The dev­il and his fiendish temp­ta­tions have been a lit­er­ary sta­ple ever since Eve bit the prover­bial apple, and mankind has always been grim­ly fas­ci­nat­ed by the trope of trad­ing one’s soul for wealth or super­hu­man pow­ers, from Oscar Wilde’s The Pic­ture of Dori­an Gray to Ter­ry Gilliam’s The Imag­i­nar­i­um of Dr Par­nas­sus. In the case of Goethe’s Faust, the whole is a sym­bol­ic and panoram­ic com­men­tary on the human con­di­tion, writ­ten in verse through­out, and a clas­sic of Euro­pean lit­er­a­ture. To the Dev­il his due…

Eugène Delacroix, Faust and Mephistophe­les
Goethe

 

Ludwig van Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9 in D minor (1824)

Beethoven’s Ninth (Sym­pho­ny No. 9 in D minor) was his last com­plete sym­pho­ny but it also hap­pens to be regard­ed by many musi­col­o­gists as his great­est work and one of the supreme achieve­ments in the his­to­ry of music. Not bad for a last major work, con­sid­er­ing how many artists gen­er­al­ly peak at some point ear­li­er in their careers and tail off some­what towards the end. It was com­posed between 1822 and 1824 and was the first exam­ple of a major com­pos­er using voic­es in a sym­pho­ny. The final move­ment fea­tures four vocal soloists and a cho­rus, with words adapt­ed from the poem by Friedrich Schiller, Ode to Joy (lend­ing the tune its famous com­mon name).

There are a num­ber of anec­dotes about the pre­miere of the Ninth, at the The­ater am Kärnt­ner­tor in Vien­na on the 7th May 1824, based on the tes­ti­mo­ny of some of the par­tic­i­pants. There are sug­ges­tions that it was under-rehearsed and a bit scrap­py, but regard­less it was an enor­mous suc­cess. In any case, Beethoven was not to blame, since he was by now deaf and although he was osten­si­bly con­duct­ing so as to be present for the audi­ence, it was actu­al­ly co-con­duc­tor Louis Duport whose baton was fol­lowed by the musi­cians. Vio­lin­ist Joseph Böhm recalled:

“[Beethoven] stood in front of a con­duc­tor’s stand and threw him­self back and forth like a mad­man. At one moment he stretched to his full height, at the next he crouched down to the floor, he flailed about with his hands and feet as though he want­ed to play all the instru­ments and sing all the cho­rus parts.”

When the audi­ence applaud­ed Beethoven was sev­er­al bars off and still con­duct­ing, so con­tral­to Car­o­line Unger walked over and turned Beethoven around to accept the audi­ence’s applause. Accord­ing to the crit­ic for the The­ater-Zeitung, “the pub­lic received the musi­cal hero with the utmost respect and sym­pa­thy, lis­tened to his won­der­ful, gigan­tic cre­ations with the most absorbed atten­tion and broke out in jubi­lant applause.” The audi­ence gave him five stand­ing ova­tions; there were hand­ker­chiefs and hats in the air, and raised hands, so that Beethoven, who they knew could not hear the applause, could at least see the ova­tions.

Here’s an excerpt from the Ode to Joy played by the Chica­go Sym­pho­ny Orches­tra.

Lud­wig van Beethoven

Oliver Postgate’s Noggin The Nog (1959)

Per­sons of a cer­tain age (and per­haps per­sons of any age, giv­en the endur­ing pop­u­lar­i­ty of his cre­ations) will remem­ber with affec­tion the voice of ani­ma­tor and pup­peteer Oliv­er Post­gate (1925–2008). He was the cre­ator, writer and nar­ra­tor of such pop­u­lar and charm­ing children’s TV pro­grammes as Bag­puss, Nog­gin the Nog, Ivor the Engine, Clangers and Pogles’ Wood. All these shows were made by Small­films, the com­pa­ny he set up in 1959 with col­lab­o­ra­tor, artist and pup­pet mak­er Peter Firmin, in a dis­used cow­shed near Peter’s home in Blean near Can­ter­bury.

They were a great team: Post­gate came up with the con­cepts, wrote the scripts and did the stop motion film­ing whilst Firmin did the art­work and built the mod­els. As Post­gate voiced so many of the pro­duc­tions, his dis­tinc­tive voice became famil­iar to gen­er­a­tions of chil­dren. Small­films was able to pro­duce two min­utes of TV-ready film per day, which was many times more than a con­ven­tion­al stop motion ani­ma­tion stu­dio of the time, with Post­gate mov­ing the (orig­i­nal­ly card­board) char­ac­ters him­self, and work­ing his 16mm cam­era frame-by-frame with a home-made click­er.

They began in 1959 with Ivor the Engine, a series for ITV about a Welsh steam loco­mo­tive who want­ed to sing in a choir, and fol­lowed it up, also in 1959, with Nog­gin the Nog, their first pro­duc­tion for the BBC. These two pro­grammes estab­lished Small­films as a safe pair of hands to pro­duce chil­dren’s enter­tain­ment and they went on to pro­duce mate­r­i­al for the BBC right up to the 1980s. Every­one will have their favourite (in a 1999 BBC poll Bag­puss was vot­ed the most pop­u­lar chil­dren’s TV pro­gramme of all time) and for me it was Nog­gin the Nog.

The sto­ries were based around the cen­tral char­ac­ter of Nog­gin, the good-natured son of Knut, King of the Nogs, and his queen Grun­hil­da. When King Knut dies, Nog­gin meets and mar­ries Princess Nooka of the Nooks, and becomes the new king, at the expense of arch-vil­lain Nog­bad the Bad, who is for­ev­er try­ing to claim Noggin’s throne for him­self. Oth­er char­ac­ters includ­ed lazy Cap­tain of the Roy­al Guard Thornog­son, eccen­tric inven­tor Olaf the Lofty, and Grac­u­lus, a big green bird. The names and themes are very Scan­di­na­vian and saga-tinged and Post­gate must have been very famil­iar with the Nordic folk­loric tales of old such as the Ice­landic Eddas, but of course it’s children’s TV so it’s all just won­der­ful­ly made-up fun.

The pair brought in com­pos­er Ver­non Elliott to cre­ate atmos­pher­ic musi­cal sketch­es for the pro­grammes and he did so with great effect using the bas­soon, harp, glock­en­spiel and, in the case of the Clangers’ dis­tinc­tive voic­es, the swa­nee whis­tle. Speak­ing of Clangers, Firmin once said that the show’s sur­re­al­ism had led to accu­sa­tions that Post­gate was tak­ing hal­lu­cino­genic drugs: “Peo­ple used to say, ‘Ooh, what’s Oliv­er on, with all of these weird ideas?’ And we used to say, ‘He’s on cups of tea and bis­cuits’ ”. So very British!

Enjoy this nos­tal­gic selec­tion of open­ing seg­ments from Nog­gin the Nog, Clangers, and that “sag­gy, old cloth cat, bag­gy, and a bit loose at the seams”, Bag­puss

Oliv­er Post­gate and Peter Firmin

P G Wodehouse’s Carry On, Jeeves (1925)

PG (Sir Pel­ham Grenville) Wode­house (1881–1975) was an Eng­lish author who was one of the most wide­ly read humourists of the 20th cen­tu­ry. A pro­lif­ic writer through­out his life, Wode­house pub­lished more than nine­ty books and would often have two or more books on the go at any one time. His prose style and sub­ject mat­ter was light and breezy and, in his own words, he want­ed to spread “sweet­ness and light”. Just look at those titles: Noth­ing Seri­ous, Laugh­ing Gas, Joy in the Morn­ing. With every sparkling joke, every gen­tly inno­cent char­ac­ter, and every far­ci­cal tus­sle, all set in an ide­alised world of the 1920s and 30s, Wode­house whisks us far away from our wor­ries.

He had many fans among the great and the good, includ­ing for­mer British prime min­is­ters and many of his fel­low writ­ers such as George Orwell and Eve­lyn Waugh; I seem to remem­ber read­ing that Lem­my of Motor­head used to read him on his tour bus, post-gig! Although Wode­house wrote sev­er­al series of books about var­i­ous char­ac­ters such as the Bland­ings Cas­tle set, the unruf­flable mon­o­cle-wear­ing Old Eton­ian Psmith (with a silent P), and the tall-tale-telling Mr Mulliner, most peo­ple will know him for the com­ic cre­ations, Jeeves and Woost­er.

Bertie Woost­er is the mon­eyed young toff who cares lit­tle about any­thing oth­er than fash­ion­able socks, frip­pery, and top­hole soci­etal high jinks, whilst Jeeves is the saga­cious valet who clear­ly has the brains that Bertie lacks and who steers his mas­ter through many a social storm. The Jeeves canon con­sists of 35 short sto­ries and 11 nov­els, and a won­der­ful start­ing point is 1925’s col­lec­tion of ten short sto­ries, Car­ry On, Jeeves.

My own intro­duc­tion to Wode­house, like many peo­ple, was the 1990s TV series Jeeves and Woost­er, with Hugh Lau­rie as Bertie and Stephen Fry as Jeeves. Jeeves and Woost­er was a week­ly escape into a jazz-age won­der­land of art-deco apart­ments, pan­elled gentlemen’s clubs, “tis­sue-restor­ing” cock­tails and buf­fet break­fasts, all serv­ing as a back­drop to a series of predica­ments for Bertie from which he would invari­ably be extri­cat­ed by Jeeves. The dra­ma was always held togeth­er by fizzing dia­logue, pep­pered with bons mots and not a few neol­o­gisms from Wodehouse’s pen.

As befit­ting a man whose char­ac­ters and sit­u­a­tions had such light­ness of being, Wode­house didn’t take him­self too seri­ous­ly either, as this rejoin­der to a crit­ic below shows:

A cer­tain crit­ic — for such men, I regret to say, do exist — made the nasty remark about my last nov­el that it con­tained ‘all the old Wode­house char­ac­ters under dif­fer­ent names’…he will not be able to make a sim­i­lar charge against Sum­mer Light­ning. With my supe­ri­or intel­li­gence, I have out-gen­er­alled the man this time by putting in all the old Wode­house char­ac­ters under the same names. Pret­ty sil­ly it will make him feel, I rather fan­cy.”

Here’s a typ­i­cal scene from the TV series where­in Bertie finds him­self embroiled in a secret love tri­an­gle in high dan­ger of immi­nent expo­sure and it’s down to Jeeves to pull off a suit­ably clever res­cue.

P G Wode­house

Will Ferrell in Elf (2003)

Any­one seen Elf again recent­ly? I have, and although I came late to the par­ty, some years after its 2003 release, it’s a Christ­mas sta­ple in our house. It’s just a joy to watch, with great per­for­mances from Will Fer­rell as Bud­dy the human-who-thinks-he’s‑an-elf, and a strong sup­port­ing cast includ­ing James Caan and Zooey Deschanel (great comedic actress lat­er to star in Amer­i­can sit­com New Girl). It’s just a charm­ing, sil­ly fam­i­ly film but a sub­lime­ly-made charm­ing, sil­ly fam­i­ly film. The direc­tor was Jon Favreau, who is known for films as diverse as rom­com, musi­cal dra­ma, adven­ture and sci-fi, and includ­ing sev­er­al of the Mar­vel Stu­dios movies.

The first script for Elf was writ­ten way back in 1993 by Amer­i­can screen­writer David Beren­baum, with Jim Car­rey in mind to play Bud­dy. How­ev­er, as the project took years to get off the ground, Car­rey went on instead to pro­duce that oth­er fes­tive favourite in 2000’s How The Grinch Stole Christ­mas, and Will Far­rell joined the project instead. If you haven’t seen it, it’s about a human baby, inad­ver­tent­ly brought back to the North Pole in Santa’s sack, who is brought up as an elf, and who lat­er tracks down his bio­log­i­cal father in New York. As an “inno­cent abroad”, there is none so inno­cent as this.

While you might assume that a lot of com­put­er trick­ery was employed to make Will Fer­rell look big­ger than his fel­low actors in the North Pole, Jon Favreau favoured cam­era tech­niques and trick­ery to cre­ate the illu­sion. He used the con­cept of “forced per­spec­tive”, along with the build­ing of two sets, one small­er than the oth­er, with one raised clos­er and small­er and one big­ger and fur­ther away. With the two sets mea­sured and lined up, the direc­tor could have one per­son on one set appear to be much larg­er than a per­son on the oth­er set. The only CGI in the film was some snow­ing.

The scene with Peter Din­klage is riotous­ly fun­ny, and is best viewed with­out food or drink in your mouth. The scene is set in the board­room of the children’s book pub­lish­ing house that Buddy’s father works for, under pres­sure to come up with the next best-sell­er. Din­klage plays a paid exter­nal children’s book wun­derkind come to bail out the com­pa­ny with his great ideas. Dinklage’s char­ac­ter, like Din­klage him­self, has dwarfism and the jux­ta­po­si­tion of inno­cence and offence that ensues, when Bud­dy enters the room and thinks he is see­ing an actu­al elf, is bril­liant. For the view­ing audi­ence it is a case of see­ing both sides…and it’s very, very fun­ny, so Mer­ry Christ­mas!

Will Fer­rell as Bud­dy the Elf

 

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