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The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time

24/5/2014

The title The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time chosen by Mark Haddon for his hugely successful novel comes from a remark made by Sherlock Holmes to his trusty pal Watson in the story Silver Blaze. Haddon’s novel is about a fifteen year old autistic boy who takes it upon himself to solve the mystery of who murdered a neighbour’s dog. I enjoyed the book immensely at the time I read it, as did a couple of million other readers - but I can’t honestly say I raved about the novel - I just gave it a strong ‘like’. However, I absolutely loved the National Theatre production which we watched on Thursday evening at our local cinema in its NTLive strand! The show, adapted with skill and sensitivity from the Haddon book by Simon Stephens, was truly exceptional. And watching theatre of this calibre made me definitely wish I’d seen it performed live at the National. This is the one real drawback of pre-recorded or even live-screened theatre, you never quite experience that intimacy, the tangible thrill you get from actually being there - close to the actors and action. At the end of the screening, there is inevitably a certain sense of disconnection, especially on occasions like the performance we watched when the cast were given a standing ovation - you are a voyeur rather than an active participant. But I’m not complaining, it is great to see such stupendous work, even if one-step removed from it.

Everything about this production, staged in the round and directed by Marianne Elliott, deserves praise: design, lighting, movement, sound, and of course the excellent ensemble acting. Being presented in the round, it has little physical set to speak of, but believe me it really works; you will most certainly feel sympathy for the play’s fifteen year old hero as he makes his way across London, goes up escalators for the first time, is forced to enter crowded commuter trains, and you will definitely fear for his life when a tube train hurtles towards him! This really is a piece of magical theatre and deserves the praise already heaped in large quantities upon it. It was nominated in eight categories at last year’s Olivier awards and actually won in seven, including the coveted Best Actor award for its leading actor Luke Treadaway and Best New Play. This NTLive encore screening is still doing the rounds throughout May/June; the play resumes in London in June, after rain damage to the theatre forced it to close suddenly; it starts its Broadway run in September; also, a UK and Ireland tour in December.

Definitely one to catch!

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That Was The Week That Was

16/5/2014

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Our new pond

My normal day for the last few years has been centred around my PC. It’s therefore quite strange, but nonetheless enjoyable, for me to rise each morning and don workclothes rather than the track-suit bottoms and t-shirt which has become my customary writer’s garb. It’s entirely a question of comfort. How did all those writers past manage with all that starch and corsetry they had to contend with, not to mention having to write the whole flippin’ book in longhand? Actually, I wrote the very first draft of Niedermayer & Hart in longhand. I didn’t own a computer at that time, or a typewriter for that matter, in fact, I’d never so much as even typed a letter of complaint to the CEO of a coffee chain on some matter of great national importance like the milk temperature of my daily latte. Times change! But can’t help wondering whether Dickens or Victor Hugo might not have managed to keep going a bit longer and even coughed-up a few more books if they’d been allowed to write on a laptop in a nice loosely-fitting floral shirt, a pair of baggy shorts and some sandals. Goodness only knows what Jane Austen might have achieved wearing a kaftan!

Talking of being strangely dressed, the Eurovision Song Contest, which the wife loves to watch annually (sigh), was won by a bearded lady for Austria! Actually, the bearded lady was a drag artist called Conchita Wurst (stage-name of course!) who said in the interview that I watched on Facebook that he’d invented the persona to promote more tolerance of people who are different. I must say the effect was quite shocking at first, however, he/she really could sing, the song itself was powerful (although in all honesty I can’t remember anything about it a week on!) and it was well delivered - he/she deserved the success.

I suffered some anxiety a few days back when my garden pond, which I had recently dug out and filled, turned into an unappetising pea-soup from the rapid invasion of algae. Fortunately my gardening guru tells me this is just minerals in the water and it will clear. Hope he’s right. Actually, seem to recall the same thing happened to the last pond I had about twenty years back, and that turned out okay! So, fingers crossed.

Most of the week I’ve been working down in our cellar. I plan to screed the floor and make the walls (a little bit) more waterproof. Judith asked me a few days back whether I, being the author of Niedermayer & Hart, didn’t feel somewhat unnerved working for several hours each day in a cellar on my own? I suppose you’d need to know the relationship between Niedermayer & Hart and cellars to understand the meaning behind her question. Actually, N & H managed to pick up this rather excellent review on Amazon.com about a week ago and my tail hasn’t stopped wagging since. If interested in a ripping yarn with horror/thriller elements, please take a look - definitely a lot more fun than working in my cellar!

And that was the week that was - well, sort of!

Stop Press: in an act of pre-Summer madness, I have recklessly slashed the price of both my books on Kindle. You can now buy Niedermayer & Hart (and find out exactly why my wife may be concerned for my sanity after spending prolonged periods down in our cellar!) and psychological/thriller Roadrage (no horror but definitely scary) for just £0.99 each from Amazon UK.

US and worldwide readers haven’t been left out on a great deal either. They can now purchase Niedermayer & Hart and Roadrage at the very low Summer price of $1.99 each over at Amazon.com. This US pricing applies to all other countries worldwide.

If you do take advantage of this offer and read either of my books, I am, as always, delighted to receive any feedback!

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The Blackberries

9/5/2014

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Welsh poet Dylan Thomas was born a hundred years ago this year, and there was a lot of programming on BBC Radio this week to mark this (Dylan was actually born in October 1914, so I expect there must be more to come. Hooray!). He wrote a number of finely crafted stories about his childhood in Wales, and the centenary celebrations prompted me to complete this story. It was loosely scavenged from my own childhood in Wales and has been percolating upstairs in the grey matter for some time. I hope you enjoy it.

The Blackberries

His mother had mentioned blackberries some days before. It was at teatime. The boy’s father had been speaking with some eloquence on the subject of his wife’s baking skills. In fact, anyone arriving at that moment might easily have been forgiven for thinking he was composing a eulogy for someone recently departed, and not merely singing the praises of his wife’s rhubarb tart.

“That was a marvellous tart,” the father said.

“Not bad,” replied his wife, who was known to be something of a tyrant when it came to shortcrust pastry, “A bit short on lard today I was.”

The boy’s father shook his head in vigorous disagreement. It was his custom to always deny any culinary shortcomings his wife confessed to.

The boy looked down with regret at his scraped-clean dish and wished he’d eaten slower. He closed one eye and began to secretly conjure a rhubarb tart island partially submerged under an ocean of evaporated milk, wishing his bowl to magically refill.

His mother went on with her blistering analysis and self-appraisal, “Perhaps a bit more sugar on the rhubarb ... thought it was a bit on the sharp side.”

“Well, I thought it was very nice. What about you?” said the father, prompting the boy to voice an opinion.

“Lovely,” said the boy.

“Mmm ... maybe it’s me then,” his Mam said, “Mind, I’ve never been a big one for rhubarb,” she continued, “Blackberries are my favourite.”

The seed was sown. A day or two later the boy noticed how the berries were ripening in the hedgerows. On his way home from school he was walking alongside another boy, a sometime ally by the name of John. They lived in the same direction. John was a year above the boy in school but they went to the same chapel and were in the same Sunday school class.

“I’m comin’ back out when I gets in,” said the boy, “I’m going to pick some blackberries for my Mam.”

John considered the premise a moment. “Me an' all,” he said, “I’ll come round for you.”

“Alright,” said the boy.

Mam was delighted when the boy told her his intention. She supplied him with an enamel bowl. “I’d better get on and make a bit of pastry then,” she said. The boy changed into his play clothes, but now they were the clothes of a great hunter, and before leaving the house on his intrepid search for blackberries he took a glass of milk and a digestive biscuit to sustain him on his safari.

John came as arranged, although he wasn’t alone, he’d brought a friend with him who the boy only knew by sight. There were no introductions. John had one of his mother’s bowls tucked under an arm, the other boy had no visible container.

“What you going to collect yours in?” the boy inquired of the friend.

“I’m just comin’along to help,” he replied.

“Alright. Where to then?” asked John, “The rec ... back of the cricket pitch ... round by the old works?”

The boy knew where the very best blackberries always were. There was a large patch of wasteground behind the bus shelter, it was overgrown with bramble bushes half as high as a house, or at least that was how they seemed to him. The boy spoke with such conviction on the subject of location that his companions went along with it.

The boy had chosen well, the brambles behind the bus shelter were richly adorned with the purplish-black jewels, big, plump, luscious blackberries, ripe and lovely, just begging to be plucked. The boy took his sizeable enamel dish to be a challenge and began to pick with much diligence. He was determined to fill it until it overflowed. His family would feast on the finest blackberry tart ever tasted in the whole of Wales! A tart that would be talked of for years to come!

The boy was only vaguely aware of the other two, who were messing around a lot and not getting much picking done. The boy intrepidly leaned and stretched into the bramble bushes, acquiring multiple scratches along his arms and hands but not caring much, for his eye was clearly set on its goal.

The boy’s dish was well above the halfway point when John’s friend suddenly voiced an idea, “Tell you what, let’s pool ‘em!”

The boy was horrified at the thought, “But I’ve got loads more than you!” he responded.

“True,” agreed John’s friend, who almost certainly went on to become a politician in later life, “But what I’m suggesting is pooling together so as to help each other. You give what you’ve picked to John, then afterwards we’ll help fill up your dish.”

“I think things is alright the way they is,” said the boy.

“Don’t you trust us?” John’s friend asked, sounding rather offended by the younger boy’s lack of trust.

“It’s just that I’ve got some really big juicy ones.”

John’s friend shook his head as if exasperated by the dimness of some people. “That’s the whole point! We’ll help you get tons more ... the biggest, fattest most juiciest ones. We’re taller than you, so we can reach and get the very best,” he said, then demonstrated by stretching out to reach a massive fat berry well beyond the boy’s reach. He popped the picked fruit into his mouth then displayed his tongue dyed dark purple from its flesh and juice. “Go on. You help John, then we can help you.”

“Yes,” agreed John, holding his bowl out towards the boy in expectation.

“It makes more sense. We’ll pick a lot more if we all work together ... like during the war,” added John’s friend after a philosophical pause.

“Promise if I give you mine, you’ll help me back?”

“I give you my word,” said the future politician.

“Alright,” said the boy, tipping his hard-earned blackberries into John’s bowl, which made it instantly very nearly full.

“Great stuff,” said John’s friend,”We’ll help you now.”

But it turned out as the boy had first feared. John and his friend continued to mess about and almost all the berries that made their way into his now sparsely-populated dish were generally picked by himself. After a time he became acutely aware of some whispering and sniggering coming from the other two.

When the village clock was heard striking five o’clock, John said, “Five. My Mam told me I was to be home by five.”

“Mine too,” said his friend.

“But you said you was going to stay and help me!”

“I could come back later on,” said John’s friend, adopting a conciliatory note, “After tea ... no wait a minute, sorry, no can do ... ‘cos I’m goin’ to the Roxy tonight to see John Wayne with my sister and her boyfriend.”

“You promised!”

“I never promised!” said John forcefully.

“You’re right, I did say I’d help you,” said the friend, “But I didn’t say I’d stay right this minute an’ do it. I already said why I can’t come back after tea tonight, but we could arrange for another day?”

“But you said!” screamed the boy, unable to prevent the tears springing from the corners of his eyes.

“Don’t shout at me!” said John’s friend aggressively. He pushed the boy in the chest, it sent him flying along with his dish of blackberries. The attacker struck a pose that spoke of moral indignation, “I was going to stay and help even though I’m wanted back home ... but seein’ as you’ve taken that tone of voice with me, now I’m definitely not!”

The two bigger boys turned and began to walk away, laughing as they went.

“Stupid bloody cry baby!” John called back at the weeping boy who was sat on the ground surrounded by his spilled blackberries. As they disappeared from view, the boy, though still sobbing, began to wipe his face. These tears, as they mingled with the sticky sweet blackberry juice on his fingers, had a taste and smell he could recall years later.

After a time the boy stopped crying and got what blackberries he could salvage from the grass. Then he set off picking once again, but the best fruit had either been taken before and were now in John’s bowl or out of his reach. He guessed it must be getting late and that he’d soon be expected at home for his tea. He managed to fill about a quarter of the dish then shuffled off home, head down and dejected.

His mother looked surprised and somewhat disappointed by the number of berries the boy had managed to collect in the amount of time he’d been away; but then she’d come to accept that there was never any telling with boys. He never told her what had happened, about how he’d trusted and been tricked; he felt a fool about it.

His mother augmented the blackberries with some cooking apples she had in the pantry cupboard. There was apple and blackberry tart for two days. His father was of course very complimentary about these. And they were fine tasting tarts indeed; yet somehow, apple and blackberry wasn’t quite as good as blackberry by itself.

The boy continued to pick blackberries for his mother every year, but he never forgot how he’d been diddled out of his share that time.

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King Lear

2/5/2014

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King Lear is a Shakespearean tragedy I’m quite familiar with, having watched numerous productions over the years on both stage and screen. It is a monumental play, and it is a testimony to Shakespeare’s greatness and universality as a playwright that this four hundred year old melodrama concerning familial loyalty and betrayal, can bear so many incarnations. The play’s themes are as valid today as they were back in the earliest years of the seventeenth century when it was written.

The drama unfolds as a direct consequence of Lear’s blind arrogance and failure to either hear or accept the truth. At the play’s start he rashly commends and generously rewards his two honey-tongued and avaricious daughters, Goneril and Regan, whilst at the same time banishing his honest child Cordelia. The character of Gloucester too, rejects his good and faithful son Edgar after believing without making appropriate investigation the lies of his scheming bastard son, the evil Edmund. These knee-jerk actions on Gloucester’s part mirror Lear’s earlier foolishness. Blindness is a motif that runs throughout the play: Gloucester only sees his own errors clearly once he has been made physically blind, and at the play’s start Lear, we observe, is blinded by his own vanity. Lear’s not simply just a father though, he is also a king, therefore his mistakes have far-reaching consequences; his foolish actions create an opportunity for evil to thrive in his kingdom, unleashing civil war upon his land and people. Shakespeare is warning us against having too much pride, reminding us to see the world and our role and place in it, right-sized. At the end, the stage littered with corpses, Lear makes his final entrance bearing the dead Cordelia in his arms, by this time fully contrite with humility. It is a moral tale about the wielding of temporal power and human folly - "Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst been wise".

Last night we went to see the NT Live production of King Lear with Simon Russell Beale in the title role. Beale is a highly accomplished actor, always a beautiful interpreter of Shakespeare, and his performance did not disappoint. Yet this is not in my opinion a great production of the play, although I must also say, I enjoyed it immensely. However, I didn’t feel that all the casting choices, or the direction, were always delivering or giving Simon Russell Beale the support necessary to make this a truly outstanding production. Despite this criticism, many of the performances were spot-on and I was particularly impressed by, Stanley Townsend as Kent, Stephen Boxer as Gloucester, Kate Fleetwoood as Goneril, Richard Clothier as Albany, and last but not least, Adrian Scarborough as The Fool.

Therefore in my view, certainly very good - with some reservations. But then, any production of a Shakespeare tragedy that can keep its audience sustained through a two hour first half has to be worth seeing - as this was.

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The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time

That Was The Week That Was

The Blackberries

King Lear

M J Johnson

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