James S. Baker

The uppercuts keep me on my toes.

[grickle14]

Vader’s new management style was initially met with some confusion, but it ultimately made the Empire stronger and led to the quiet dismantling of the Rebellion.

[j4m3s-b4k3r]

are WE the baddies?

In Mitchell & Webb’s classic comedy routine from 2006, a couple of Nazis begin to wonder if they might be the bad guys? This sketch has become a meme in recent years, as more and more people begin to ponder the same thing.. Could the systems that we participate in actually be the problem?

"Are we the baddies?"

Some ‘baddies’ lack empathy, are indifferent to the suffering of others, and may even derive satisfaction from it. They know that what they are doing is wrong, and that actually might be part of the thrill. But most do not. For an entire country to get swept along by madness, even ‘average’ people must be involved in the evil. How does this happen?

“The most horrifying things about the Nazis was not that they were so deviant but that they were terrifyingly normal.” - Hannah Arendt

Self pity is a powerful drug, especially when combined with self righteousness. If people can point to a wrong that has been done to them in the past, this can be used as a justification for retribution. It is natural to feel sympathy for someone who has been mistreated, but when it becomes the justification for continually harming others, the sympathy is being weaponised.

Many people who’ve been abused actually tend to be more empathetic and are less likely to abuse. Some studies have found that less than a third of abuse victims become abusive themselves. However, the minority who do not break the cycle, are in danger of perpetuating it, then the abused become the abusers. 

“Bad people, in one sense, know very little about badness — they have lived a sheltered life by always giving in. We never find out the strength of the evil impulse inside us until we try to fight it.” - C.S. Lewis

The more complete is our demonisation of the person/type that hurt us, the more at risk we are of perpetuating abuse ourselves, and could become the next abuser, of a third party. It is important to ‘do the work’, and release that burden, rather than repeating this cycle, and passing it on.

Psychologist Albert Bandura theorised that most people who do evil have justified their actions to themselves. There are several ways that allow even those who see themselves as ‘good’ to be involved in abusive behaviour, becoming ‘baddies’ without even realising it:

Euphemistic Labeling: Using sanitising language - such as "collateral damage" instead of “civilian deaths” - to disguise harmful practices. 

Advantageous Comparison: Comparing  to something even worse to make one's own actions seem less harmful. 

Displacement of Responsibility: Blaming one's actions on a higher authority - “I was just following orders”  - attempting to lessen individual blame because others are also involved. 

Dehumanization: Stripping victims of their humanity -  labelling them ‘monsters’ and ‘animals’ - making it easier to harm them and justify mistreatment. 

Attribution of Blame: Blaming the victims for their own suffering. 

Individuals and groups may genuinely believe they are doing the right thing, perhaps for a greater cause, seeing their actions as justified. Rationalising their own harmful actions as heroic. The desire to maintain group cohesion and/or devotion to a cause can lead to individuals engaging in behaviours that they wouldn't otherwise. Becoming incapable of questioning the immorality of their own actions, despite clear evidence. 

People involved in evil behaviour can lack the self-awareness to acknowledge the harm that they cause. Given this fact, it is important to periodically self-diagnose - ARE WE THE BADDIES? 

"The sad truth is that most evil is done by people who never made up their minds to be or do either evil or good.” - Hannah Arendt

It is said that ‘everyone is the hero of their own story,’ but each of us must take great care not to be the villain in someone else’s.

[j4m3s-b4k3r]

wrong side of the bed

In my whole life before that night, I hadn't remembered many dreams, and those few that I did remember were the barest of smudges.. Just impressions. Nothing solid, and certainly no narrative to speak of but, that dream.. Well, it was like a movie. With a plot and everything. The weird part is that I wasn't me in this dream. I was my wife.

Other dreams I’d ever remembered had played from my point of view, but in THIS dream I was looking at the world through my wife's eyes. I was her. I was aware of her feelings as being my own and yet I still had my own reactions to those feelings. I was her but seperate. Like a stowaway inside her mind. It was weird.

As for me - the real me, the one talking to you now - I was in the dream too, as a supporting character, and here's the thing.. I was a complete arsehole. At least, that's how I seemed when viewed from my wife's eyes. In the dream I - and by that I mean my wife - didn't like me - and by that I mean ME - at all. 

She liked this other bloke, and was looking forward to cheating with him, behind my back. To a disturbing degree.. All the more so because I was inside her thoughts while she looked forward to it. It was horrifying to be enjoying cheating on myself. It really did a number on my head, I can tell you that much. But the true terror was yet to come. My wife and I had sex in the dream. 

To be having sex with myself was unspeakably horrifying. If you think it's tough to hear yourself on voicemail, or to see yourself on video, well.. Just try shagging yourself for a new perspective on self loathing. From my wife's eyes I saw 'myself' sweatily bearing down on myself. While she looked forward to being with her lover, I felt her palpable disgust for me. 

I have to say that my wife and I were on the same page on that one. I was just as disgusted as she was. Although I was hurt that she was disgusted, if you can understand that. I was caught in a feedback loop of repulsion and hurt. The emotional noise of it probably woke me up.

Needless to say, when I opened my eyes I was in queasy frame of mind. I was on my wife's side of the bed, with my head on her pillow. She often tosses and turns in her sleep, but on this occasion I must have moved over too. Rolled over in my sleep and hijacked my wife's dream. At least that was the best explanation I came up with. 

I looked over the side of the bed to see my wife, half on the bed and half on the floor, and still asleep. She was cuddling Harry, who smirked at me, the evil little bugger. Holding my gaze, he disentangled himself from her embrace and stood up. Then, with a contemptuous flick of his tail, Harry turned and padded out of the room.

Nobody gets in your head quite like a black cat..

[j4m3s-b4k3r]

Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell

During a recent rewatching of old faves (BABE, COLUMBO, AMADEUS, etc) we again enjoyed JONATHAN STRANGE & MR NORRELL, a BBC mini series from 2015. It was based on the debut novel of Susanna Clarke from 2004, a historical fantasy where magic is reawakened in Regency England.

In this early 1800s alternate reality, magic once flourished in England, and was brought to its apex under the reign of the Raven King. He disappeared 300 years ago, and with him magic itself. Some say that he will return, but at the time this story begins, magic has been absent in England for hundreds of years, and magicians are simply scholars who study the theory of magic (much as Latin is studied today). 

The story centres on two competing magicians, using real practical magic, and their very different characters. Mr Norrell, a fussy scholar, and the impetuous Jonathan Strange, who discovers that he has a natural aptitude for magic, despite never having studied it. These two men manage to rekindle English magic at the time of the Napoleonic Wars, and in fact their magic is used as a new technology in that struggle.

The key to the most powerful magic in this story is via striking deals with fairies. Not the cute fairies of Disney movies, but malicious trickster imps. They live side by side with humans, though unseen. Hidden in England, there is a mysterious and foreboding fairyland, accessible behind any mirror, and Jonathan Strange finds his way there.

The TV adaptation is wonderful, but cannot fully convey the richness of the novel. Its many footnotes conjure up a rich backstory that can only be hinted at in the show. Lost too in the dramatisation is the wry wit of the narrating voice, which at times evokes M.R. James, Jane Austen or Charles Dickens.

The book is divided into three sections: the first covering Mr. Norrell, the second, Mr. Strange, and the third, John Uskglass - the Raven King. The narrative takes its time to get going. Even readers who went on to love the book, confess that it took them a while to truly enjoy the story. Perhaps starting the book focussed on the fussy and somewhat unlikable Mr Norrell is off-putting for some. Watching the mini series first is a good gateway to the book.

"I saw the BBC production of Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell before I finally got around to reading Susanna Clarke's novel. In both cases, I loved the book and I loved the adaptation. It does not need to be one or the other. You might prefer one over the other, but you can still enjoy the hell out of both." -George RR Martin

Susanna Clarke worked on the manuscript for 10 years, while editing cookbooks for Simon & Schuster, and occasionally publishing short stories that came from the world she was creating for her debut novel.

“If I had known it was going to take me ten years, I would never have begun. I was buoyed up by thinking that I would finish it next year, or the year after next." -Susanna Clarke

The novel was published by Bloomsbury, the same publishers as the HARRY POTTER series, and was a worldwide hit, remaining on the New York Times best seller list for 11 weeks. Fans eagerly await a sequel, but Susanna Clarke’s second novel was the equally wonderful Piranesi.

[grickle14]

Happy Halloween, everyone!

[j4m3s-b4k3r]

The Observer Effect

I've seen many of the sights you are supposed to see out here in the abyss. You know, the stuff the guide books tell you about. Some of it is spectacular, but a lot was spoiled long before I saw it. That’s the thing about tourism - the simple act of looking changes everything. I guess quantum mechanics was right about that..

After aimlessly wandering around and jumping from system to system, I finally met a humanoid girl I liked, in one of those enormous gravdance clubs on an orbital out in the edge territories. She really stood out. In fact, she was glowing in the dark. At first, I thought it was just body paint or holo-flesh or something, but she could naturally do that. She looked pretty cute, in her slippery tentacle-y way. 

She took to me immediately. I figured alien rowdy water was making her talk so much - certain species have trouble with recreational chemicals - but learned later that she was just a natural chatterbox. ‘I think humans is most cutest sentients in this galaxy’ she said. Humans were a rarity out that way so we were seen as ‘exotic’ back then. Except that, according to her, ’The human feets is weird.’ (I made sure to keep my socks on after hearing that).

I fell for her pretty hard, and when I told her that, it made her glow. Like, really glow. Her colour changed with her emotions, and her shape too. She could even make herself look exactly like a human. I’d always wanted a transmorph girlfriend! I know, I know.. it’s creepy to want that, but what can I tell you.. I was even shallower back then than I am now. 

We became ‘an item’, and traveled together. Sometimes staying someplace a while, if we found temp jobs. Suddenly, life was much better being with someone else. It was one of the happiest times of my life.

I'd had girlfriends before who took a while to get dressed & put on their makeup and whatnot but she took it to a whole new level, locked in the bathroom for ages. I knew she was an aquatic, and needed to replenish fluids or whatever, but I admit it drove me nuts. She’d be in there for hours, then come out looking just the same as when she went in..

When I asked about her species, she’d shut me down. I looked up various transmorphs in my guidebook; A Tarsik? No. A Blasstoid? No. A Grommelphung? No! She laughed off all my guesses, and when I suggested we visit her home-world she said ‘No, not a good idea for you’ and changed the subject as easily as she changed colour..

So yeah, she could be stubborn and had quirks, but was a sweetie. Goofy too, but I liked that. I’d been kinda lonely and culture shocked, and tired of traveling around on my own. She was too. Apparently, she was even farther from her home planet than I was from mine. Anyway, I was happy to finally connect with anyone, but especially with her. 

Until I finally found out what she really looked like when she hadn’t locked the bathroom door.. I only saw a pulsating part of her.. and.. well.. It was just the ghastliest, most disturbing sight. I’d already seen many strange and even repugnant lifeforms on my travels. No problem. But what I saw that day was so revoltingly.. other. The merest glimpse of a tiny bit of her true form, seen in a mirror when I attempted to use the lavatory, brought on a shattering tsunami of existential nausea, and a full body PURGE.

My very soul needed to vomit, and rid itself of unclean & putrified reality. A feeling like the worst case of food poisoning combined with extreme suicidal anguish, creating a horror that was palpably physical, and a sickness that was deeply spiritual. The sight of that squamous & abominable creature was so unreal that I was about to claw through my own face and silence my brain.. when, thankfully, I had a heart attack instead..

——————

Years later, I awoke in a MediCenter as an atrophied mess with grey beard down to my knees. The MediBots explained what had happened. After seeing a multidimensional species - whose very existence violates norms of reality upon which most sentient psyches are built - my mind had recoiled & retreated to a fugue state, where it struggled for years in a vortex of insanity.

Or, put another way, I’d taken time to work through some shit. IE: the sight of my amorphous & eldritch alien girlfriend. The form I fell in love with wasn’t even her real form, which was a shapeless blasphemy of reality. No wonder she’d concealed her true nature. She was only hiding what I was incapable of knowing. 

Apparently, the human mind cannot make ‘sense’ of this species in its true form. Full sight of its abominable multidimensional ghastliness cracks open our sense of what can be real. I only survived because I didn’t see all of my alien girlfriend’s loathsome natural form, and what little I did see was reflected in a mirror.

Some advanced sentients apparently seek out such an ordeal deliberately, as a mind-altering religious experience, but the psyches of most sentient biologicals will be turned inside out upon seeing this species. Even Class-A mechanicals suffer severe logic-chip damage upon perception of this hideous & indescribable entity. 

She’d made sure I got the care I needed but had gone by the time I awoke. Of course she had. Why would you wanna be with someone who foamed at the mouth and got the fear-shivers at the sight of just a part of the real you? We could never be the same after that. Plus, clearly I wasn’t up to it.. The disgust and fear are still crippling. She warped my mind in ways that I didn't know were possible.

I looked into a memory-wipe to erase the pain & horror of that moment, but it would destroy happy memories of her too. I didn't want to lose those. So I just gotta live with the messy feelings, and endure the occasional spontaneous memory-puke. Somehow, through it all, I still love her. I don't even understand it myself.. The human heart is a strange little organ isn't it? Love is something I'm still learning about, and I am human. I wonder what she made of it..

Sometimes, I replay holos of us both together, in happier times. Though watching makes me violently ill - physically & spiritually - requiring both meditation & molecular deep-cleaning of my capsule afterward. That's the thing about reality - the simple act of looking changes everything. When you look into the abyss, it looks into you too. I guess philosophy was right about that..

I've learned.. to respect boundaries. That it's best not to ask questions if you don't have the psychological equipment to handle the answers. Sure, truth might 'set you free', but only after kicking your arse first. And always KNOCK whenever entering the bathroom..

Originally published at https://www.james-baker.com

[dutchs-blog]

Flower Art

[j4m3s-b4k3r]

BABE

Recently, we’ve been REwatching films that we’ve enjoyed but haven’t seen for a while. This feelgood retro-fest was kicked off with 1995’s BABE - the story of a pig who’d rather be a sheepdog than Sunday dinner (and the farmer that believes in him). I’m pleased to say that it held up very well.

“This is the story of an unprejudiced heart.” - The Narrator

BABE is in that genre of films where someone resists the role that society imposes on them (like BILLY ELLIOT, or BEND IT LIKE BECKHAM). Many such class-struggle parables come from Britain, and though this film was made in Australia the book it was based on, THE SHEEP-PIG by Dick King-Smith, is indeed a British story. 

George Miller learned about the book from one of his children 10 years before the movie came out, then searched for a way to bring the many talking animals in this barnyard fable to believable life on screen. What he eventually settled on was a combo of real trained animals with CG animated mouths (by Rhythm & Hues & Animal Logic) and animatronic puppets (handled by the Jim Henson company).

Many people assume that Miller directed it. Although it was his brainchild and he co-wrote it, the film was actually directed by Chris Noonan, who'd worked on several TV mini series produced by Miller's production company (VIETNAM, and THE COWRA BREAKOUT). Sadly, Miller and Noonan fell out during the making of this film, but it is undeniable that Noonan had a huge influence on what the film became.

“From the very first draft of the script that we’d produced, I had absolute and utter faith in it.” - Chris Noonan

A common film structure-trope is a charmingly flawed protagonist who has an epiphany (as in every film I’ve ever worked on). However, in this film the protagonist-pig is a sweet little person who doesn’t change himself, but changes everyone else. The epiphany thus begins not with Babe, but with Farmer Hoggett, charmingly played by James Cromwell, in a largely non-verbal performance.

BABE was filmed in Robertson, a town in the Southern Highlands of New South Wales. Vehicles drive on the right side of the road, and actors speak in a semi-American dialect, creating a mishmash of OZ and the USA (this fairytale every-land concept was pushed even farther in the sequel). Because baby pigs grow so fast, 48 piglets were used for the role of Babe. Each with distinctive toupee & makeup applied for continuity. Animal wrangling was a huge part of the logistics of this film.

“The animals were unbelievable. The trainers—the trainers!—the woman who did the sheep was so brilliant. Of course that was the highlight. I loved every day.” - James Cromwell

The Noonan vs Miller tussle appears to have been partly over credit. Noonan’s name was barely mentioned in the post-release PR, when Miller hogged all the pig-cred. Which is somewhat standard, sadly. The bigger name always gets all the press. 

(George) had done Road Warrior and all these pictures, but he thought “Oh, if it doesn’t really work, I’d rather not take the heat, so I’ll give it to Chris Noonan.” But then as they got rushes and they saw how wonderful this thing was, I think George wanted it back. -James Cromwell

BABE starts with our hero’s entire family being eaten. He's under constant threat of being eaten too, even by his pal the farmer, who at one point has Babe in the sights of his shotgun. Farmer Hoggett is the closest thing to a true antagonist - in that he's always on the verge of eating our hero - and yet he is the closest thing to a mentor - in that he allows Babe to fulfil his dream. Weirdly, Hoggett is both Obi Wan and Darth Vader at the same time. This story has both light and dark, but Miller and Noonan also battled over which tone would dominate, and where.

“Chris’s humanity and his heart and his sweetness, his vision, was really imprinted on the way he shot that pic­ture. George thought there should be more edge [to Babe].” - James Cromwell

None of the grim realities of barnyard life are swept under the rug, and the dark themes don’t end with Babe. His canine surrogate mother, Fly, has all her puppies taken from her. Rex the sheepdog is suffering post traumatic stress. Ferdinand the duck (hilariously) pretends to be a rooster simply to dodge the dinner plate. Despite all these grim undercurrents, Noonan’s deft touch prevails, and we leave the theatre feeling uplifted. As if the irrepressibly cheerful little pig had directed the film himself.  

So the sheep went toward me and into the gate, and I pushed the gate closed, and you could actually hear the lock go “Cloink.” And the crowd, just like in the movie, erupted. I mean, it was fabulous. - James Cromwell

The simple climax of a pig walking a few sheep through a gate had me wanting to stand up and cheer in the cinema. I didn’t though, as I was on a date. By the way, my date absolutely hated the film. “Why would anyone make a movie like that?!” She spat with utter disgust as we left the theatre.. Happily, her sourpuss attitude was not the prevailing opinion, and BABE was a big hit. So much so that USA pork sales dropped by 20% in the year after the movie came out. BABE received many OSCAR nominations, and won for special effects. It was also nominated for best PIGture but lost to BRAVEHEART.

James Cromwell was nominated too, as supporting actor. At 6 ft 7 in (2.01 m) he was the tallest actor nominated for an Academy Award. He was already a vegetarian but went the whole hog after working on BABE, and became vegan. A jobbing actor for many years, Cromwell's career really took off after BABE, with major roles in LA CONFIDENTIAL, and STAR TREK: FIRST CONTACT. His fee for BABE was a mere $50,000 for 171 spoken words of dialog (plus some singing) but, thankfully, he got a bigger check for the sequel. 

“I had such a sweet time on that picture. I adored everyone.” - James Cromwell

Miller got his wish for more darkness when he directed BABE - PIG IN THE CITY. I’m one of the few people I know that enjoyed the sequel. Not as much as the first certainly, but more than most. People cry - “It’s so DARK!” Please go back and watch the other one, the film you love. BABE is shot through with darkness too - as all good fairy tales are - but people seem to forget this. 

The earlier Miller vs Noonan PR-battle was won by Miller, but Noonan decisively won the war. BABE cost $30 million and made an impressive $254 million, with a dazzling Rotten Tomatoes score of 97%. Whereas BABE-PIG IN THE CITY cost $90 million and made a paltry $61 million, with a meh Rotten Tomatoes score of 65%. Some critics praised it (both Siskel & Ebert rated it highly) but in Hollywood, money has the deciding vote, and heads rolled in the executive suite at Universal..

“But fate turns on a moment, dear ones, and the pig was about to learn the meaning of those two cruel words of regret: ‘if only’…” - The Narrator

———

This recent revisiting of old faves was partly inspired by Joel Morris’ COMFORT BLANKET podcast, where his guests talk about the movies, TV shows, books and music that they’ve come back to again & again throughout their lives. Recently, many TV shows and films that are frankly excellent have unsettling undercurrents. Angsty post-apocalyptic stories. Tales of rapacious zombies & vampires. Or holidays in hell. Given that real life has an uneasy vibe at the moment, some lighter fare now & then leavens all that grim stuff.

[j4m3s-b4k3r]

David Robert Jones

The first time I became aware of David Bowie it wasn’t as a singer but as an actor. In early 1978 I was 13 years old and my friend Phil’s mum suggested we go to the drive-in to watch a sci-fi film. Hoo-boy, I was excited! The film was THE MAN WHO FELL TO EARTH. 

It wasn’t a kid-friendly movie by any means, but a weird artsy fartsy flick. During one memorable moment, Bowie took his own eyeballs out, then goes on to remove his hair, and his cock & balls too, revealing that he was actually an alien. This prompted his girlfriend to piss herself on camera. None of this was what any of us expected. I remember we turned to one another in the car with "WTF?!" expressions. However, Phil's mum was intrigued enough to let us stay till movie's end (Phil's mum was cool).

This must have been in the wake of STAR WARS and CLOSE ENCOUNTERS, when the manager of the local drive-in probably figured that a good way of cashing in on the buzz was to show anything at all with a sci-fi slant. 

I didn’t know then that the alien with the detachable genitals was actually a singer, but figured that out a few years later, and was deff a Bowie fan by my last few years of high school. It was the dawning of the MTV/rock video era, and Bowie made a splash with his promo videos. I especially remember those for the album SCARY MONSTERS. 

There is an amusing anecdote about the video for the hit single ASHES TO ASHES. Bowie was being filmed walking up a beach dressed in the pierrot outfit he wore on the cover of the SCARY MONSTERS album, when an old man and his dog walked into shot. The crew yelled at him, to get out of the way. Gesturing at Bowie, the director said to the old codger “Do you know who this is?” The old guy looks Bowie up and down and replies “Of course I do. It’s some çµn† in a clown suit.” Bowie later said “That was a huge moment for me. It put me back in my place and made me realise, yes, I’m just a çµn† in a clown suit. I think about that old guy all the time.” 

Across the other side of the world however, a certain 16 year old was actually impressed. To me, Bowie was an enigma in a clown suit, and I was curious enough to find more of his records. Each album had a new musical style, with a new persona for Bowie to strut around in. These frequent costume & character changes were lampooned brilliantly by FLIGHT OF THE CONCHORDS in their hilarious BOWIE episode. Some people found this Bowie as chameleon shtick alienating, feeling that he wasn’t committed to anything other than his own fame. However, I loved this approach, and absolutely everything Bowie did in the 1970s - his GOLDEN YEARS.

Some of my fave albums were all of the “Berlin Trilogy” - LOW, “HEROES” and  LODGER. I recently read that the cover photo for the album “HEROES” was taken by legendary photographer Masayoshi Sukita exactly 48 years ago in April 1977. Learning that fact prompted this post, and a tribute drawing:

The Thin White Duke’s strung out early 1970s appearances on TV chat shows fostered his early image of other-worldly weirdness. Hard to say if that was simply PR posturing, or drugs (or both) because he became a charming and witty talk show guest in later decades, serving up many funny anecdotes.

Maybe that crotchety old bugger on a cold British beach had a lasting impact on Bowie, as his music definitely changed after that encounter. The early 1980s saw some of his biggest hits but (for me) he creatively sputtered throughout the rest of the decade. In 1983 I saw Bowie - who was but a tiny figure in the distance - in concert, for the SERIOUS MOONLIGHT tour. I stopped following his music around that time. However, his earlier work that I first fell in love with, has been in constant rotation on my Walkmans, iPods and home music systems ever since.

It is hard to say why some celebrity deaths are more affecting than others - after all, I don’t know any of these people personally - but learning that Ziggy had turned back into Stardust did affect me. Even though I’d not followed his work for many years, the news of Bowie's death left me surprised and saddened, and had me devouring his records & videos constantly for weeks thereafter. Amazingly, there was fresh material. While quietly battling cancer during his last years, Bowie had enough energy to make a musical play and a new album, which was released at the time of his death. A consummate showman, David Robert Jones knew that memorable exits are just as important as entrances for an unforgettable performance.

[jollyfurydragonballer]

[j4m3s-b4k3r]

Tana French

Born in America but raised all over the world, the author Tana French has a wonderful ear for the rhythms of dialog generally, and the snark & lilt of Irish patter in particular. Trained as an actor, she went to college in Ireland and now makes her home in Dublin. Though known as “The First Lady of Irish Crime” her stories are only about crime on the surface. At their core they are explorations of different types of human relationships.

Author Tana French.

The first of her stories that I read was THE WITCH ELM, a standalone novel, unrelated to her other book series. At the time, I was on a Stephen King binge and read that he recommended this story in a review in the New York Times. This crime novel is not written from the viewpoint of a detective, but a victim. Beaten to a pulp by burglars in his own home, he awakes in hospital with a badly battered body and an equally bruised memory. 

Detectives appear in this story as alpha predators. Grinning wolves snapping at someone wounded by a traumatic crime. Eventually, it becomes two crimes, with the discovery of a body hidden within a tree in the garden of the family home where he recuperates. Partly inspired by the true story of a body discovered hidden in a tree, this novel also questions the role of of detectives themselves:

“I definitely think that it’s a good movement within the mystery genre, to acknowledge that the detective’s point of view is not the only one, and is not necessarily the crucial one, and is not necessarily the heroic one.“ -Tana French

The next Tana French books that I read were the DUBLIN MURDER SQUAD series, which are the novels that she is most famous for. Typically, these kinds of stories follow one detective, but instead this series follows an entire department. Thus, someone who is a secondary character in one novel will be the protagonist in another. With the exception of the first two novels (which are interconnected) they can be read in any order. 

The first book in this series was IN THE WOODS, Tana French’s award-winning debut novel from 2007. Told from the point of view of detective Rob Ryan, who becomes obsessed with a case that is related to a crime he survived as a child. This book is notable for its portrayal of the friendship between Rob and his detective partner Cassie. They are both damaged souls and kindred spirits, who understand each other like no-one else can. Will their relationship stay platonic (like Steed & Peel?) Or will they screw it up by, well, screwing (like Mulder & Scully?) You’ll have to read the book to find out.. 

“I come from an acting background. So for me, the natural thing is to see characters as three-dimensional as possible and to try to bring the reader to the point where they’re seeing this world through the characters’ fears and needs and biases and objectives. So that’s where I start from.”  -Tana French

THE LIKENESS was the second book, told by Rob’s partner, Cassie Maddox, and likewise involves a case of hidden identity and subterfuge. Julia & I just finished watching a TV adaptation of these first two books in this series (which combines the plots of the first two books in a way that I’m not yet sure if I liked).

"I have always been caught by the pull of the unremarkable, by the easily missed, infinitely nourishing beauty of the mundane." -Tana French

Often, there isn’t total clarity at the end of a Tana French novel. In the final scene, her detectives do not call everyone into the drawing room to melodramatically explain the mystery, step by step. The case at the centre of the story might have a few unanswered questions. Or, if there is a conclusion to the core mystery, there will be spiky, unresolved emotional issues around it.

The puzzles in her stories are more about the characters themselves than the crimes.. the effects of trauma and obsession. The how and why of people doing what they do. Tana French doesn’t plan her books in advance but writes straight ahead, then rewrites based on the characters she discovered as she creates. Her stories can be long winded and rambling at times, but at their best, they have surprising plots, with deep character writing, and insightful observations, rendered in absolutely glittering prose.

“I’m always worried because I don’t plan in advance—what if I dive in there and there’s no book and the threads never tie up? But fingers crossed. It’s always been okay so far.“ -Tana French

Her most recent series is the CAL HOOPER stories, about a Chicago policeman retiring to a cottage in rural Ireland, then becoming embroiled in the intrigues of this little community. Originally intended as a standalone alone story, instead it became a series with a third book on the way. These are perhaps my faves of any Tana French books that I’ve read so far. 

Many of her stories have at their centre a bunch of strangers forming a family of sorts. Sometimes it feels dysfunctional, obsessive, or cultish (THE LIKENESS, THE SECRET PLACE) but here I was rooting for Cal, and his neighbours Lena & Trey, to rise above the limitations of their character flaws & respective situations, and form a new family unit.

“There is this expectation that closure or a happy ending must involve reconciliation in some way with your blood family. And I think it’s ridiculous, because that’s not how the reality works. There are situations where the only closure is via division, via literally closing that door forever.” -Tana French

The audiobooks of THE SEARCHER & THE HUNTER are read by Roger Clark, an Irish American actor who can effortlessly shift between American and Irish accents. All of Tana French's audiobooks that I’ve listened to so far have been narrated by Irish actors. It is a pleasure to hear her beautiful prose with Irish narration, that captures the musical rhythms of Irish speech.

“The Irish wit and humor and quick banter—I know this is a cliché; I know that Ireland has a reputation for this, but it is true. It’s one of the major currencies. Here the ability to go quickfire back and forth with your friends shows everything from hierarchy to affection to conflict. Everything is filtered through this lens of humour.“ -Tana French

[j4m3s-b4k3r]

KAT and TELLY

Being the adventures of a small black cat in white underpants, and its pal the magical TV.

Being the adventures of a small black cat and his magical television.

A mini-comic for APE 2009, in San Francisco. Hope to draw more of these guys someday.

[j4m3s-b4k3r]

deadpan & deadly

A recent TV favourite is the Australian crime comedy MR INBETWEEN. About a night club bouncer who is embroiled in underworld shadiness on the side. While also raising his ’tween daughter, dating, and caring for his terminally ill brother. 

The 'hitman as everyman' is by now a tired trope, and I wasn’t expecting to like this show as much as I did. However, I was quickly on the hook. Constantly marvelling at the balancing act this series manages, between laughs, and grim spectacles of mortality & dread. A dreadpan comedy. This show manages to be funny, terrifying, and even (surprisingly) poignant. 

All 26 episodes in the 3 season run were written by Scott Ryan, who also stars as Sydney crim, Ray Shoesmith. Every episode was directed by Nash Edgerton, one of the founders of Blue Tongue films. I first became aware of this collective of filmmakers via their short films SPIDER, BEAR and I LOVE SARAH JANE. They’d started making shorts a few years earlier, to support each other and expand their skills. Going on to make several highly regarded feature films (including ANIMAL KINGDOM).

Nash Edgerton started his career as a stuntman on such films as TWO HANDS (a personal fave) and Hollywood blockbusters shot in Australia (like the MATRIX trilogy and STAR WARS prequels) while directing rock videos & short films. Including the one that got him noticed, 1997’s DEADLINE. 

In 2005, Edgerton saw an early 30 minute cut of THE MAGICIAN. A mockumentary following a Melbourne hit man on the job. Scott Ryan wrote, directed, and starred in it himself, on a budget of $3,000. Edgerton helped expand it to feature length, getting it a cinematic release in 2005. Ryan & Edgerton then developed the film into a TV series, and took it to networks. All balked at a show starring the unknown Ryan. 

Then, in 2018, the FX network took a chance on MR INBETWEEN. Perhaps because by that time Edgerton’s stock had risen, having directed feature films THE SQUARE, GRINGO, and several high profile rock videos. Ryan had never been on a professional film set before working on MR INBETWEEN. He'd only done odd jobs. Driving taxis and delivering pizzas since last being in front of the camera, over a decade earlier.

So it’s perhaps understandable that networks hesitated. Assuming that he couldn’t carry a series. However, I’m glad they finally took a chance, as Scott Ryan gives the performance of a well seasoned actor. With range to deliver brilliantly timed deadpan comedy, deadly rage, and even existential sadness.

Being embroiled in the everyday lives of antiheroes is one of TV’s most familiar setups. A ‘way in’ to a loon's life, allowing the average non-psychopath to empathise with (if not exactly like) the main character. We learned to understand Tony Soprano (the prototype for all these recent ‘everyman’ goons) when introduced to him via his therapy sessions. It was hard not to feel for Walter White, as he dealt with his financial & medical emergencies. 

Similarly, when Ray talks about unicorns with his daughter over ice cream, or reads her a children’s book, of course we’ll see the softer side of the hardened crook. But for me, 'getting' Ray, began when he took the blame for his buddy Gary’s porn stash. Discovered by Gary’s wife. In taking a bullet for his mate, and willingly copping naked contempt for it, I began to actually like Ray, and his personal no mate left behind warrior code.

Some early reviews complained that the basic idea for the series was nothing new. It's true that we do see Ray in anger management classes, and other such familiar scenes (entertaining though they may be). However, the series evolves, and by season two I found the stories to be uniquely thrilling affecting and funny. Critics who stayed with the series agree.

The 19-25 minute episodes are miracles of narrative compression. They swoop in, set their explosive timers, and get out. Just like Ray on a mission. Some are purely funny. Focusing on bickering between Ray and his crim cohorts. Or verbal sparring with his daughter & brother (the bogan poetry of my people bantering was, for me, a constant pleasure). There are also brief, existential meditations. Other episodes are barely verbal - action movies distilled to a white knuckled twenty minutes. Taken as a whole, the series is a crime comedy that evolves into something more. A smorgasbord of brilliantly written, acted and directed short films - serving laughter, horror, thrills, and heartbreak.

---------

Nash Edgerton’s most recent directing was for the Irish black comedy thriller BODKIN on Netflix. Scott Ryan is apparently writing new stuff, but has kept a low profile since MR INBETWEEN. That great series had a long gestation, and the next one might too. I'll gladly wait as long as it takes for him to deliver his next gem.

[j4m3s-b4k3r]

unnecessary nudity

In wintery London, I was made to strip naked and stand in a white-tiled room with about 10 other shivering applicants. Each huddled, with ‘nads cringing against the cold like baby birds. After a long wait, a couple of white coats entered and went down the line, one by one. Prodding & poking at our wedding tackles with a popsicle stick, and writing assessments of the puckered wonders they’d just beheld.

I'll never forget the look of utter disdain on the face of this bloke. As he kneaded my scrote this way & that with his little wooden spatula thingy. His pinched expression made it absolutely clear that he hadn’t got into that line of work for lusty gratification. No, he wasn’t enjoying it at all. With lots of arching of nostril and curling of lip he looked like.. well, exactly like someone might look when obliged to stare-down 10 frigid todgers.

I was never clear on what these medicos were looking for. Venereal disease? Crabs? That we were genetically male, as had been checked on our immigration forms? Who knows.. Surely such things could be better resolved with blood tests and whatnot anyway.

Then again, unnecessary nudity is often part of the medical process. You can be in a top-of-the-line facility, surrounded by high-tech & multimillion dollar equipment, but if a robe is supplied, it will be a flimsy paper smock with your arse hanging out. In this case, we didn’t even have that. 

It’s a fact that people are less likely to backchat when bereft of their clothes. There are those rare folk who can be intimidating in the nude, but I’m not one of them. Even though my Celtic ancestors supposedly went into battle naked, I’m much less likely to be stroppy when deprived of my pants.

Bureaucracies thrive on docility & humiliation. Especially the medical & immigration bureaucracies. Oh yes. And I was at the mercies of both of them. Ah, the glories of a Green Card Medical Exam. 

I was already in the USA on a work visa, when informed that my application for a Green Card had moved to the next phase, and had to fly to London. For an assessment at the US Embassy. Only to discover that, for the final judgement, Uncle Sam wanted.. to check the angle of my dangle?

Adding to the weirdness of this process is the fact that it doesn't happen to everyone. I know of people who acquired their Green Cards without having to perform the striptease & floorshow. Some folk even claim that it is too freaky to be believed, and is merely an urban legend. 

Well, I am here to tell the doubters that, verily, I am that legend. That immigration unicorn - the lucky person randomly (?) chosen for the naked VIP treatment. Suffice it to say that, despite decades living in the USA, I am not ready for whatever demeaning rigamarole is required for American citizenship. When just getting a mere Green Card was such a load of bollocks.

[j4m3s-b4k3r]

The Australian Crawl

When living nearby, I used to swim at the North Sydney Pool. One of the most spectacular swimming pools in the world. As you swim in one direction you face the iconic LUNA PARK, and in the other direction is that famous ‘coat hanger’ - the SYDNEY HARBOUR BRIDGE.

Swimming laps at the North Sydney Pool

Though I came to love it, my introduction to swimming was fraught with drama. While kick-boarding in an ocean rock pool at the age of 6, my board was flicked from my hands when a wave came over the sea wall. I went from misplaced confidence to abject terror within two gulpings of sea water. Thankfully, Dad spotted me going under and ran along the sea wall, dived in, and fished me out. 

I was wary of the water afterward. This wasn’t helped by my maternal grandfather ‘teaching’ me how to swim by literally throwing me in at the deep end a few times. Amazingly, this did not result in spontaneous swimming skills. Quite the opposite - I became allergic to the water. However, near the end of high school, after years of avoiding the pool, I became fed up with myself and wanted to learn to swim. 

My childhood friend John Dillon was an all around athlete, and offered to meet me at the town pool in the early mornings, and teach me. Mentally, I prepared for gruelling water boarding torture. However, under JD’s patient guidance, I was swimming within no time at all. Seriously, within a few days. Something that had intimidated me for so long was suddenly doable, and I threw myself into it. By the time I lived near the North Sydney Pool, I was a decent swimmer. Doing laps a few times a week.

——————

Later, when living & working in Tokyo, swimming at a pool near Takadanobaba Station was part of my daily routine. A little swimming in the sea happened too. My girlfriend Shoko arranged a summer vacation in Shimoda, a popular beach town. I was amazed at the density of the crowds on the sand, as anxious lifeguards patrolled the shoreline, warily watching the equally crowded surf. 

I wanted to show people at home in Australia what a crowded beach really looked like, so we walked up to the heads to take a photo. As I did so, I saw some little children playing with kick-boards in the deep water below us. No sooner was I reminded of the time that I lost my kick-board at about the same age, when suddenly, one of the kids was caught in the backwash off the rocks. A wave stole her kick-board, and she went under. 

Nearby, people screamed in alarm, and Shoko urged them to run & tell the lifeguards, as I slid down the steep rock face and into the sea. The moment I hit the water, I regretted not first removing my shoes & clothes. Which instantly became waterlogged, and extraordinarily heavy. Thankfully I was swimming a lot in those days, in good shape, and reached the little girl within seconds. 

The next problem was how to get her out of the sea. The way I’d come was an almost vertical sheet of rock, so I headed for the shore. Holding her out of the water while swimming backwards, as I’d seen on TV shows & movies. About halfway, I was met by a lifeguard who took her off my hands, checked that I was OK, then struck out powerfully for the beach. 

I swam to an accessible spot on the rocks, where Shoko anxiously waited. The little girl’s dad approached, and thanked me profusely, in a jackhammer blur of rapid bowing. Then scurried away, red faced with embarrassment. Shoko thought that the family had been distracted from their kids by a drinking party. We’d seen several such jolly family gatherings on the sand..

It felt good to help that little girl, and does to this very day. I was grateful that my pal John had taught me to swim. Otherwise I couldn't have helped, and the lifeguard wouldn't have reached her in time from the beach. 

——————

A few years later, in San Francisco, I joined the Chinatown YMCA, and became a regular user of their pool. Swimming a mile 3 times a week after work. Or at lunchtime at a pool in the Mission District with a trio of coworkers (with office gossip on the drive to & from our swim). This was the period when I swam the most devotedly. Actually thinking about swimming, and looking forward to it. After much trial and error, I eventually figured out how to do proper tumble-turns. Allowing me to maintain a sustained rhythm without interruption.

The laps would be difficult at first. Awkward. Tiring. Eventually though, something interesting happened. A coordinated rhythm kicked in, seemingly automatically. Almost as if my body worked on its own. The hypnotising quality of hearing nothing but my own rhythmic breathing calmed me. I could focus intensely on this metronomic beat, like a mantra. Or let my mind wander, onto random thoughts, or the problems of the day. I’ve never meditated, but from hearing people talk about it, probably the closest I ever came was when engrossed in lap swimming.

Eventually in my late 30s, I stopped swimming due to shoulder trouble. A physical therapist explained that by not swimming any other stroke than the Australian Crawl, I’d caused a muscular imbalance. I should have mixed in backstroke and breaststroke, so that a variety of muscles were worked equally. So I did her exercises, and stopped the regular lap swimming. Replacing it with working out at the gym. Running on the treadmill had some similarities, but for me, nothing has quite replaced the mental clarity of lap swimming.

——————

Nowadays my body is an absolute mess of paralysed & palsied bits & pieces. My onboard gyroscope is busted, and I’m beset with twitching spasticity. Such that the synchronised elegance of swimming is beyond me. The coordination of even simple tasks takes extraordinary effort. Getting in and out of a bath is extremely awkward. Let alone entering a pool, and doing something so balletic as swimming. However, I do fantasise that someday I might head back to the pool for some physical therapy. Who knows, maybe even a spastic lap or two of Australian crawl..

[j4m3s-b4k3r]

CREEPY Steve

2024 is the 50th anniversary of Stephen King’s first published novel, CARRIE. The story of a bullied telekinetic teen, who gets blood-soaked payback at her prom. Since then, he's written 65 novels, 200 short stories, and 5 nonfiction books. A freakish feat, almost worthy of one of his supernatural characters.

King’s first published story was when he was 19 years old. He continued selling short stories after graduating from the University of Maine, and while teaching English at a public high school, all later collected in NIGHT SHIFT. He's averaged more than a book a year since 1974. Many of his novels were initially released under a pseudonym, lest their sheer number dilute his ‘brand’. I became aware of King via the early movie adaptations of his books. CARRIE, THE SHINING, and THE DEAD ZONE. A great introduction, as those early films were all good, whereas most adaptations of his work are terrible, sadly. 

During one of the Halloweens in the covid era, Julia & I got into a CREEPY STEVE frame of mind. Watching the better film adaptations, and listening to audiobooks. Those narrated by Will Patton were faves, as he really brings the characters to life. The Bill Hodges trilogy - Mr MERCEDES, FINDERS KEEPERS and END OF WATCH - were all marvellous, and introduced the wonderful character Holly Gibney. Who then appeared in further stories of her own. 

There are 10 Stephen King short story collections, and all that I’ve read contain several gems. JUST AFTER SUNSET has the terrifying (yet somehow hilarious) tale of a man trapped and left for dead in a capsized porta-potty. DIFFERENT SEASONS contains the stories that inspired THE SHAWSHANK REDEMPTION and STAND BY ME. Donald Sutherland starred in a great film entitled Mr HARRIGAN’S PHONE, taken from IF IT BLEEDS. Which also contains another great Holly Gibney story. 

ON WRITING: A MEMOIR OF THE CRAFT, is an engaging book, narrated by the author himself. Part memoir and part how-to instructional. Reminding me of William Goldman’s ADVENTURES IN THE SCREEN TRADE, in that it can’t truly deliver the secrets to making the magic that it promises, but serves up entertaining & revealing autobiographical anecdotes instead.

We are now used to seeing vampires in contemporary settings, so some of the 1970s impact of SALEM’S LOT has been lost. But both the book and its movie adaptation have many indelible images. Such as a vampire child hovering at the window.. (an inspiration for John Ajvide Lindqvist perhaps?)

After listening to book after book of King’s, and loving their brilliantly observed characters, and wonderful dialog, DARK TOWER was conspicuous for not having the elements that are normally intriguing in his books. Maybe I’ll give this series another shot someday, as friends swear it gets better. 

We read THE SHINING and its sequel, DOCTOR SLEEP, watching & enjoying both movie adaptations. King apparently despises Kubrick’s version of THE SHINING - "The book is hot, and the movie is cold; the book ends in fire, and the movie in ice. In the book, there's an actual arc where you see this guy, Jack Torrance, trying to be good, and little by little he moves over to this place where he's crazy. And as far as I was concerned, when I saw the movie, Jack was crazy from the first scene.” 

After reading the book, I understand King’s critiques, and agree with his second point. Jack Nicholson seems already about detonate on his drive to the hotel. Whereas King’s Jack was driven to madness by the malignant spirits within it. However, Kubrick’s film is so indelibly stamped into my mind, that I cannot unsee it. Nor unlike it neither (sorry, Stephen).

“Plot is, I think, the good writer’s last resort and the dullard’s first choice. The story which results from it is apt to feel artificial and labored.” - Stephen King.

I work in storytelling too, but in my biz it’s the dullard’s choice all the way - everything plotted & discussed, ad infinitum. King apparently starts with the merest idea, then writes straight ahead, surprising himself as he goes. A magician pulling a string of goodies out of his own head. At his best, this approach produces stories that feel naturalistic, with surprising twists and turns. 

At his worst, it can be rambling, meandering and self indulgent. Especially when he struggled with addiction. Apparently, King was so out of control in the late 1980s, that he was confronted by an intervention after finishing the TOMMYKNOCKERS manuscript. A pity then that the editor wasn’t given more latitude in tidying up that waffling mess before it went to print..

Stephen himself agrees - “I mean, The Tommyknockers is an awful book. That was the last one I wrote before I cleaned up my act. And I’ve thought about it a lot lately and said to myself, “There’s really a good book in here, underneath all the sort of spurious energy that cocaine provides, and I ought to go back.” The book is about 700 pages long, and I’m thinking, “There’s probably a good 350-page novel in there.”

We enjoyed the screen adaptations of IT, CHRISTINE, 1922, THE MIST, and 11.22.63. After soaking in worlds King has created, on page & screen, it became clear that the recent NETFLIX hit, STRANGER THINGS, is merely glorified Stephen King fan fiction. By the end of the pandemic, we’d chewed through many stories, yet only a mere fraction of The King Catalog. 

King is thought of as a master of the paranormal, but his real genius is for the everyday. Some of my favourites King stories are his straight crime fiction, or stories about real life. Even his famous horror stories are grounded by settings in relatable blue collar situations.. The writer Peter Straub even compared King to Dickens: “Both are novelists of vast popularity and enormous bibliographies, both are beloved writers with a pronounced taste for the morbid and grotesque, both display a deep interest in the underclass."

How does a man who’s been a millionaire for decades, with a very recognisable face, keep an ear for dialog patterns of common folk? Does he wear a disguise, and lurk in truck stops, diners, dive bars, and greyhound bus stations, taking notes?

 “He's one of the first people to talk about real Americans and how they live, to capture real American dialogue in all its, like, foulmouthed grandeur... He has a deadly ear for the way people speak... …Surface-wise, King's work is a bit televisual, but there's really a lot going on." - David Foster Wallace

Lately, we’ve embarked on yet another quest to chip away at the KING oeuvre. Having already fallen in love with Bill Hodges & Holly Gibney, it was fun to watch the Mr MERCEDES TV series. Even though the filmmakers took liberties with the characterisations. Rather than the shy, smoking, middle aged, OCD woman of the novels, the TV Holly is a perky & cute 30 something. An autistic variation on the manic pixie dream girl trope. (sigh..)

Taken from a short story collection entitled EVERYTHING’S EVENTUAL, the gripping movie 1408, starring John Cusack & Samuel L. Jackson, is the creepy story of a skeptical paranormal investigator, whose cynicism is challenged by spending a harrowing night in an actual haunted hotel room.

In THINNER a selfish fat lawyer is cursed into anorexia by a gypsy. Entertaining, in 'the guy deserves everything he gets' manner of a parable from the Twighlight Zone. It seems to have inspired Sam Raimi's DRAG ME TO HELL.

GERALD’S GAME seemed like a story written on a bet, or an author’s exercise - “write a novel where the protagonist never leaves their bed for most of the story.” To me it felt like it might have worked better as a short story. When King fails (for me, anyway) it's when there hasn't been enough editing.

King has apparently said that PET SEMATARY was his book that scared him the most, and it is extremely creepy, but for me, MISERY was even more terrifying. I'd already seen the film, and Kathy Bates’ Oscar winning performance, but the book is even scarier somehow. There’s nothing paranormal about this story. There is utter horror, but it is the worst kind that there is - the twists & turns of the human mind.

Despite, or perhaps because of, King’s great popularity, literary critics long damned him with faint praise. In 2003, when he received the National Book Foundation’s ‘Medal of Distinguished Contribution to American Letters’, some became openly hostile:

"The decision to give the National Book Foundation's annual award for "distinguished contribution" to Stephen King is extraordinary, another low in the shocking process of dumbing down our cultural life… ..What he is is an immensely inadequate writer on a sentence-by-sentence, paragraph-by-paragraph, book-by-book basis." - Harold Bloom

Bloom is dead, so King gets the last word - “A lot of today's reviewers grew up reading my fiction. Most of the old critics who panned anything I wrote are either dead or retired".

In 1999, Stephen King was flattened by a vehicle while walking along a highway - "After the accident, I was totally incapable of writing. At first it was as if I'd never done this in my life. ...It was like starting over again from square one." As someone who was been flattened too (but in a very different way) one of the many inspiring things about King is how he recovered from that terrible accident, to do some of his very best work.

CREEPY STEVE is a one-man multimedia idea engine, keeping the publishing & Hollywood machines running. We are still enjoying poring through the King library (listening to THE INSTITUTE now) so if any of you have further recommendations, please let me know in the comments!

[j4m3s-b4k3r]

Universal Exports

This is supposed to be Sean Connery from the 1964 film GOLDFINGER (although I’ve accidentally drawn him wearing David Byrne’s too-big 1980s suit). The line-drawing was started back in September 2013, and since then I've reworked the drawing a few times, adding detail, and finally watercolouring it just this month. It was while drawing this sketch that I began thinking about watching the JAMES BOND movies when I was a child, leading to a blog post in October 2013.

GOLDFINGER’s tuxedoed Sean Connery smoking a ciggie in a night club is one of those iconic 1960s images, like Marlon Brando astride a motorbike was to the 1950s, or a rifle-toting cowboy John Wayne was to the 1940s.

When the BOND movies hit in the early 1960s, Britain had only just recovered from its postwar rationing and life among bombed-out WW2 ruins. Though a victor in WW2, Britain was left essentially bankrupt, and learned that it was not the power it once was. The 1960s BOND films (and the 1950s BOND books before them) took place in exotic locales that the average Briton wouldn’t afford to visit till the 1970s, and reassured them that although British influence appeared to have gone, secretly Britain still pulled the strings that made the world operate (and  secretly its cars were still cool, and secretly its gadgets actually worked).

Just as we now, with the advantage of hindsight, see 1950s Hollywood monster/alien invasion films as America processing its Cold War fears, the 1960s Bond films seem now to represent Britain grappling with diminished global political relevance and the sting of Empire gone forever.

The suave, elegant, and deadly BOND spanked a variety of anxiety-inducing types (conniving lefties, oily continentals, scary ladies, cat lovers, and judo dudes) while offering condescending help to the current world policeman, the USA. BOND’s relationship to Felix Leiter and the CIA is a variation on Sherlock Holmes’ relationship with Lestrade and Scotland Yard; the USA gets the credit but we know that Britain has really solved the case behind the scenes. (“Couldn’t have done it without ya, James”).

The British power fantasy in the BOND films caught on globally and played a part in the 1960s “British Invasion” of popular culture, ironically making Britain internationally relevant again via its own fantasies, compensations and yearnings. Though the political clout of Britain was reduced, its cultural clout was perhaps even stronger than before.

I’ve always had a fascination for Britain in the 1960s and its cultural icons of that era, and sometimes wonder whether deep in my subconscious there are submerged memories of that place & time. Although I was tiny when I was there (just over a year old when my parents and I returned to Australia) and have no conscious memories of my visit in the 1960s, the look and feel of 1960s Britain may have made an indelible impression on my young mind, who knows?