M J Johnson
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It strikes me that people have got an awful lot to say about books!

30/1/2014

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A few weeks back at a family afternoon tea in honour of the ninetieth birthday of my mother in law, an avid lifelong reader, she suddenly announced to all that she had now read my second novel Roadrage for the second time and thought it was truly excellent. I felt genuinely touched and must admit to a feeling of pride swelling in my chest. The points she has made about the book after each reading were interesting and insightful; and says she particularly enjoyed the dialogue I'd created for my characters. My wife and I were rather bemused by our slightly puritanical reluctance to let her have a copy of the book initially - for her own good, of course, just in case its dark plot-lines upset her too much! Ha -flippin'-ha! After ninety years, a World War, eight children and having read literally thousands of books - at least one a day - I doubt there's much in any book that's going to shock her.

Anyway, it was jolly nice to get Mary's praise in the week of her birthday and it's definitely something I'll treasure. I have no doubt that someone will come along sometime and say less flattering things - inevitably!

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I have just read my very first Barbara Vine novel, A Dark Adapted Eye, and I took a quick peek at some of the reader reviews that have been posted for the book on Goodreads. They are fascinating and insightful, again driving it home to me that a reader's experience with a novel, though in some part down to mood and situation, is often a matter of whether or not the book (assuming the work itself is basically sound!) finds the audience the author hoped to reach.

I understand A Dark Adapted Eye was Barbara Vine's (who of course wrote  the Inspector Wexford series as Ruth Rendell) first outing. This is a hauntingly dark, psychological crime novel, a story about the repercussions of a murder upon a family, and its secrets. It is extremely well plotted and the writing itself is unquestionably very skilful. At times I felt that Vine's habit of providing the reader with minute detail about a room's wallpaper, a hat that is worn, or the description of the cover of a book once spotted lying on a shelf, can get a little tedious - but this is probably just me! The book is well worth reading and the family history and roll-call of names the reader has to become acquainted with is worth the effort.


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Porthcawl

23/1/2014

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PictureGrandfather with Mam at Porthcawl (c. 1930)
My father in true Welsh fashion loved nothing better than a humorous tale with a touch of the grave about it. He could tell a story marvellously; there was one I heard him relate many times, and no matter how many times it got told, I always received it with great appreciation. It's feasible that he embellished it a little over time; but be fair, what story worth its salt can't bear a touch more seasoning?

This story took place sometime in the late forties/early fifties, before I was actually born.

Dad's uncle John was old, he had been a widower for some years and now lived with one of his two sisters in our hometown of Aberdare in the Cynon Valley. It had been one of those grim winters, cold, damp and endlessly grey, the sort where all you can do is grit your teeth and battle on. By the end of it, Uncle John, physically lugubrious by nature, was looking thinner than ever and pale as a ghost. His loving sisters implored him to take an early holiday, and listening to their good advice, he booked himself a week at Porthcawl.

I should perhaps say something about Porthcawl here. It sits on the Glamorganshire coast, faces out towards the Atlantic and is renowned for its bracing sea air. My parents, who didn't know a package holiday until they were in their fifties, loved Porthcawl, as indeed did most of their friends and contemporaries. In our valleys home in those days, grimy, dark and polluted from the coal industry, its lifeblood, the seaside town of Porthcawl, its air bursting with ozone, had a reputation bordering on the mythic. A visit there was the standard treatment for any respiratory ailment. My mother was a Porthcawl defender to the death; she absolutely loved the place - to Mam's mind spending a week there would tune and tone up anyone. Two weeks would get you into tip-top condition; three weeks and it wouldn't have been too great a stretch of the imagination to expect blind men to see or the lame to walk. Yes, Porthcawl was a tonic!

Anyway, Uncle John booked his week at Porthcawl and as anticipated, returned thoroughly refreshed. Unfortunately, shortly after his return he was taken ill, and having a dicky heart and a bad chest after his life as a miner, suffered a very serious heart attack and sadly died. My father, as a loving nephew and also in his capacity as secretary of the chapel, went along to the house to pay his respects. He took a cup of tea and the sandwich offered in the room the family used for meals and for all its daily negotiations. They talked warmly of Uncle John and reflected on his kindness and generosity and the good times they'd all shared. Then my father's aunts invited Dad into the 'front room' - this room was sacrosanct in those days, kept only for important occasions - and it was here that Uncle John had been laid to rest in his coffin, chapels of rest being considered cold, uncivilised affairs in Wales back in those days. My father, bearing the appropriate gravitas for a deacon stood beside the sisters to pay his last respects.

Dad said the undertaker to his mind had been a little too free and easy with the rouge, because Uncle John hadn't looked anything like that well in decades. This was a view clearly shared by Dad's aunts, who perhaps in light of the sensitive and melancholic nature of the occasion had chosen to ignore the mortician's artistry.

My father, always had a twinkle in his eye as he told how his aunts stood admiringly before their late brother.

It was Annie I think who felt moved to announce proudly to her sister Maggie, "You know, Mag, that week in Porthcawl did him the world of good! Look at the colour in his cheeks!"

Porthcawl does have the most marvellous air!


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Darby O'Gill and the Little People

16/1/2014

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The only thing I vaguely remembered about the film Darby O'Gill and the Little People was the banshee. The portrayal of this supernatural terror appears to have scared the living daylights out of those of us who were taken along as quite small children to see the film by our loving parents. I don't think I slept very much for several weeks and the slightest howling of the wind at night for some years afterwards sent me burrowing under my bedclothes, in the hope that any marauding banshees would mistake the mound I made for blankets. On my DVD it classifies the film as universally viewable with the warning "Contains very mild fantasy horror" - not at all how I would have described it at the age of five! Which makes you wonder about some of the extremely graphic images small children can so easily be subjected to these days - however, perhaps that subject is best left for another blog-day.

I purchased the DVD as a stocking-filler for my wife as a little joke - a 'size-ist' one I shamefacedly admit. Judith is 5' nothing and before I get a bad reputation here, let me reassure everyone - gentle jibes about her diminutive stature by my son and I are countered by her assertion that although short, she is "perfectly formed", and we are assured by her that nature compensated by providing her with a massive brain.

Judith is only seven months younger than me and also recalled being scared out of her wits by the banshee. It was the only thing about the film either of us remembered - must've permanently scarred us! Tee hee!

I already knew that it was the movie reputed to have introduced Sean Connery to Cubby Broccoli and the James Bond series. Connery and Janet Munro charmingly supply the love interest; whilst Albert Sharpe as the eponymous Darby O'Gill and Jimmy O'Dea as King Brian of the leprechaun kingdom provide the banter and antics that make this comedy such a pleasure to watch. You won't find any CGI in this little jewel, just some excellent use of 'forced perspective', good models, props, nicely turned-out sets and matte painting. The script by Lawrence Edward Watkin based on the stories by Herminie Templeton Kavanagh is very witty. I believe Ms Kavanagh wrote the stories in two volumes, Darby O'Gill and the Good people and Ashes of Old Wishes and other Darby O'Gill Tales - I must try to dig them out and read them sometime!

The film is directed by Robert Stevenson, a Disney stalwart, with Old Yeller, The Absent Minded Professor, The Love Bug and Bedknobs and Broomsticks to name just a handful of his many films for the company.

Apart from the few bars of a calypso he manages in Dr No, I believe it's the only time I've ever seen Sean Connery sing on screen, although I did know that he was part of the male chorus in the West End production of South Pacific.

Darby O'Gill and the Little People is truly family entertainment, regarded by many as one of the Disney Studios' finest films, and I can't imagine anyone not enjoying it. However, I should mention the appearance of 'The Death Coach' - I probably didn't see this at all when I was five because I still had my eyes shut after the banshee! 'The Death Coach' - flippin' 'eck! Make for the bedcovers!

This is quite simply lovely stuff - enjoy!


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New York 2013/14

9/1/2014

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PictureTaking the ferry to Ellis Island
When I see the weather reports for North America, I can't believe how lucky we were, flying home early on 2 January, just in the nick of time. It was already snowing quite heavily in the Bronx at 5.30 am, the time when our cab arrived to take us to JFK. However, at the airport it was still fairly clear by that time - only hours later a plane actually skidded off the runway (fortunately nobody hurt) and hundreds of flights got cancelled.

The dust rarely has time to settle on a Johnson and Johnson holiday. We always make the most of our time and try to see just as much as we possibly can, that is without applying any kind of religious zealousness to the experience - we like to wear our smiley faces best of all! This trip was planned to be a combination of sightseeing as well as an opportunity to reconnect with some old chums. I admit I was flabbergasted when I calculated the exact number of years that had passed since we all first met - this honest indiscretion on my part censured at once by the girls from my term at RADA with cries of, "Hey, don't remind us!".

It was truly great to see everyone.

We were actually staying with a friend Judith had made at the London City Lit back in 1975 who also remarkably enough had connections with my RADA group - it's a small world. Sharon was a wonderful host, generous and considerate, patiently explaining how to buy tickets for the subway, the metro-train and organising tickets online for us for certain things we planned to do. She's a peach!

Shortly before we left on our trip, I'd rung an acquaintance in Wales whose services I'd employed earlier in the year and who'd been very kind and had helped me out in several ways to do with my late mother's furniture that had put him to some trouble. I simply wanted to thank him again for his kindness and to wish him a Merry Christmas. In the course of our conversation I told him where we were headed, and he joked, "Well I have to admit I'm a bit envious ... you're going to love it ... it's a fantastic city!"

He was right. It is a fantastic city. I've never been one to wear my heart on my sleeve as it were, but I reckon I just might manage an "I ♥ NY" on the front of a T-shirt (well, someday perhaps!).

The most famous areas of Manhattan were jam-packed, some people were no doubt taking advantage of the post Christmas sales, others were most likely on their winter vacation and of course there were numerous sightseers like us. At times we found ourselves moving at a pace that might be considered slow even for a zombie in an old living dead movie. Traversing Times Square and experiencing first hand the huge crush of people there, decided us once and for all against any notion of seeing out the 'old' and in the 'new' at this most tradititional NY location.

I'm not going to give a blow by blow account of all we did, but I can honestly say that everything was worth it: Guggenheim; Metropolitan Museum of Art (American galleries); Tenement Museum; Ellis Island; a walking tour of Central Park (generously provided by its friends); Mediaeval Cloisters; the Christmas train show at the Botanical Gardens.

The thing that astonished both of us was how swiftly this massive city seemed to become familiar, and despite its vast distance from our own shores it gave the illusion that we were never very far away at all. Our tours of the Tenement Museum and Ellis Island were particularly informative and thought provoking; the starvation, poverty, persecution and oppression that so many of these newcomers were leaving behind in 'the old world', brought home to us just why so many immigrants to America (particularly of my parents' and their parents' generation) always spoke of their new homeland with such pride.

However, it wasn't only NY I ♥ 'd. After visiting the Mediaeval Cloisters with our friend Sharon, she suggested the Dominican buffet for lunch. Judith and I pictured a mediaeval style refectory with food served by Dominican nuns or friars perhaps. She actually meant to take us to a Dominican (as in the Caribbean republic) restaurant near the cloisters at Dyckman Street. The food was excellent ... the waitresses were very welcoming ... you can return to the buffet as many times as you like ... I ate plantain for the first time ... ♥ ♥ ♥.


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