Modesty Blaise - Peter O'Donnell

MODESTY BLAISE - PETER O'DONNELL

I've read a few books in my time and I'm with Kingsley Amis on this one: Peter O'Donnell's Modesty Blaise is "endlessly fascinating", and is indeed "one of the great partnerships in fiction, bearing comparison with that of Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson". It can be taken that Kingsley Amis was a fan as is also Quentin Tarantino who had John Travolta's character in Pulp Fiction reading the graphic novel version throughout the film, right up to the point of him being shot dead by Bruce Willis.

O'Donnell's Modesty Blaise was an innovative and perfectly executed creation that broke the mould and smashed the template of how an action hero should be. The most obvious shift, of course, was in casting a woman in the lead role. Such a good writer was O'Donnell that in a very casual manner he was able to define various aspects of her character as to render her utterly believable. Very easily Modesty Blaise could have turned out to be merely a female version of James Bond but instead he created a fully developed, multi-dimensional, multi-faceted character with a slew of quirks, foibles, weaknesses and strengths that made her unique. In describing the way in which she dressed, played, socialised and fought as well as explaining her history, reasoning and motivation, O'Donnell painted a complete picture yet at the same time wove an air of intrigue around her that teased the reader into wanting to know more.

Though adept with all types of guns Modesty Blaise's weapon of choice was the kongo; essentially a small wooden dumb-bell that fitted neatly into her palm which she used either to knock out or to kill any opponent when fighting hand-to-hand. In addition she might also use a bow and arrow, nerve gas or even a technique called The Nailer; guaranteed even if only momentarily to stop any man in his tracks.

Her partner, Willie Garvin, was also a fully-fledged creation in his own right and could easily have been cast in the lead role in his own adventures. A blonde-haired, blue-eyed, cockney ex-degenerate; he was a weapons master par excellence though his personal preference was knives of which he always carried two. Modesty Blaise had taken him under her wing after sensing an untapped potential within him and had subsequently turned him into the most loyal and most deadly comrade-in-arms.

Together they made a perfect partnership, organising and running a world-wide crime syndicate called The Network before disbanding it to live in luxurious retirement in England. This is the point at which O'Donnell chose to start his story, with Blaise and Garvin being called out of retirement by the British Secret Service to help protect a shipment of diamonds bound for the Middle East.

During their time running The Network, friendly relationships had been maintained with Britain and cemented by the passing of information beneficial to the government. Due to her extensive knowledge of and array of contacts within Continental and Middle Eastern underworlds, Blaise is viewed as the ideal person to establish whether suspicions of a plot to steal the diamonds are true and if so, who might be behind the plot and how and when might it happen? Blaise and Garvin are pitched against a vicious crime lord called Gabriel and the resulting escapade is imaginative, inventive, fast-paced and stylishly violent.

It should be noted that O'Donnell first introduced the Modesty Blaise character as a comic strip in 1963 that was syndicated in newspapers throughout the world. The actual novel was published in 1965, basing itself on a screenplay O'Donnell had written for a film version to be directed by Joseph Losey. The film turned out to be a pop-art kitsch travesty that was so bad it was actually good. Italian actress Monica Vitti played Modesty and Terence Stamp played Garvin but stealing the film was Dirk Bogarde who played an extravagantly camp Gabriel leading a gang of blatantly gay henchmen. Needless to say, it was nothing at all like the vision O'Donnell had presented and he was none too happy with the finished result.

Even though Losey's film was in its own way peculiarly influential, it seems to have been the kiss of death upon all other attempts at getting Modesty Blaise successfully depicted in film again. There have been a couple of valiant attempts but none have come to anything which is really quite strange, particularly when compared to the James Bond franchise or even to Batman which managed to escape the Adam West 1960s version to evolve into the brooding, dark character depicted in films nowadays. Instead, it's in the books, the comic strips and even radio plays that Modesty Blaise has found her most successful homes. That's not to say, however, that O'Donnell's Modesty Blaise character has failed to be an influence upon cinema as it's very easy to recognise her in a wide variety of films from The Avengers, La Femme Nikita, Underworld, Lara Croft, and not least Quentin Tarantino's Kill Bill. Modesty Blaise, though, was always the original and Peter O'Donnell is deserving of much credit and respect for his innovative vision, his hyperbolic imagination, his sound grasp of femininity, and his excellent writing.

Unholy trinity: O'Donnell, Vitti, Losey

John Serpico

Under Exmouth Skies (Part 7)

UNDER EXMOUTH SKIES (Part 7)

"I drew a line, I drew a line for you."

"Oh, what a thing to do."

"And it was all yellow...."

The Loneliness Of The Long Distance Runner - Alan Sillitoe

THE LONELINESS OF THE LONG DISTANCE RUNNER - 

ALAN SILLITOE

In the introductory blurb to Alan Sillitoe's The Loneliness Of The Long Distance Runner it states that this particular tale is 'perhaps as profound a study of the rebel mind as has ever been written', and at the time of its first publication in 1959 this was undoubtedly true. Before then the subject matter of the British working class had hardly been touched upon in a novel let alone any description of the mind-set of a typical youngster from that class, as written from their point of view.

The narrator is a seventeen-year-old inmate of Borstal though this isn't the reason why he's in possession of a rebel mind. No, he's in Borstal because he's been caught by the police and he's in possession of a rebel mind through being born into poverty. He's at perpetual war with those he sees as holding the whip-hand over him: 'cops, governors, posh whores, penpushers, army officers, Members of Parliament' etc, and it's a war that he was born into. The only weapons he has are his cunning and his personal interpretation of honesty whilst his enemies are armed with Remand Homes, Borstal, jail and ultimately the rope.

Sentenced to Borstal for the burglary of a bakery, he's been recognised as being good material for long-distance cross-country running so the Borstal governor has entered him into a race and is counting on him to win. The narrator, however, has other plans. He's no-one's race horse to have bets placed upon and there's no way in this world that he's going to do anything that might raise the reputation of the governor and the prestige of the Borstal.

Whether outside in the wider world or inside a correctional facility such as Borstal there's no such thing as a truce and there's certainly no waving of white flags. The war goes on and as the narrator sees it, it's all down to who is the most cunning as to who is going to be victorious: 'I'm telling you straight: they're cunning, and I'm cunning. If only 'them' and 'us' had the same ideas we'd get on like a house on fire, but they don't see eye to eye with us and we don't see eye to eye with them, so that's how it stands and how it will always stand'.

Such a state of affairs - certainly for the narrator, at least - is just the ways things are. There's no sense of him offering up any special insight at all, he's merely describing and talking about something that to him is everyday normality. Being declared 'as profound a study of the rebel mind as has ever been written' then is a statement that speaks volumes in itself and it doesn't take a genius to see that it's only profound to those who have and have never had any connection to the working class. What is actually profound about the story, however, is its degree of honesty. The narrator has no delusions, nothing to hide and nothing anyway to hide behind. On the surface he's all 'yes, sir, no, sir, three bags full, sir' but underneath there's a whole other life going on that the Borstal governor and his ilk have no concept of.

'And I'll lose that race,' says the narrator 'because I'm not a race horse at all. By Christ I will. I'm a human being and I've got thoughts and secrets and bloody life inside me that he doesn't know is there, and he'll never know what's there because he's stupid. I suppose you'll laugh at this, me saying the governor's a stupid bastard when I know hardly how to write and he can read and write and add-up like a professor. But what I say is true right enough. He's stupid and I'm not, because I can see further into the likes of him than he can see into the likes of me. Admitted, we're both cunning, but I'm more cunning and I'll win in the end even if I die in gaol at eighty-two, because I'll have more fun and fire out my life than he'll ever get out of his. He's read a thousand books I suppose, and for all I know he might even have written a few, but I know for a dead cert, as sure as I'm sitting here, that what I'm scribbling down is worth a million to what he could ever scribble down. I don't care what anybody says, but that’s the truth and can't be denied'.

And indeed that's exactly the truth, and The Loneliness Of The Long Distance Runner is indeed worth a million to what any number of better-educated writers could ever attempt to create.

For all that, however good The Loneliness Of The Long Distance Runner might be, it should be pointed out that it is but the title story in a collection of nine short stories in total and that it's not actually the best one of that collection. Even more enjoyable are two other short stories in the book: Noah's Ark, and The Decline And Fall Of Frankie Buller. Both being depictions and reminiscences of childhood as spent in a poor, working class area of Nottingham just prior to the start of World War Two.

Noah's Ark is the story of two young boys doing their utmost to enjoy all the fun of a fair that's arrived in town though without actually having any money to spend there. It's a beautifully composed tale containing such evocative lines as: 'With imagination fed by books to bursting point, he gave little thought to the rags he wore (except when it was cold) and face paradoxically overfleshed through lack of food'. Anyone even in this day and age who's ever been in the same situation will surely recognise themselves in it.

And the same goes for The Decline And Fall Of Frankie Buller which is the story of a gang of boys and their leader, the simple-minded Frankie Buller of the title, playing at being soldiers and waging innocent war against rival gangs of boys from the neighbouring estate. It's written as a memoir, with Alan Sillitoe looking back on those days with much fondness and ruminating how big a part such characters as Frankie Buller played in the formation of his own character.

Of the nine stories, it was of course The Loneliness Of The Long Distance Runner that was turned into a film that was an epitome of the kitchen sink/angry young men style of film making synonymous with British cinema in the late Fifties early Sixties. Why The Decline And Fall Of Frankie Buller has never been made into a film as well is anyone's guess as it would make a wonderful coming of age drama, similar to and potentially just as successful as Stand By Me, the film based on the Stephen King novella.

Alan Sillitoe is rightfully acknowledged as being one of the most important British writers of the postwar era though I'd suggest that his greatest influence has been upon those readers who have grown up under similar conditions to those which he describes in his books. The inspiration he has given to young, working class readers is incalculable and the knock-on effect of that inspiration continues in countless ways to this very day.

Alan Sillitoe - Do they owe us a living?

John Serpico

Under Exmouth Skies (Part 6)

 UNDER EXMOUTH SKIES (Part 6)

Everything's gone green.......

"You're telling me it's in the trees, in the trees. It's not, it's inside me now. You're telling me it's on the ground, it's all around but it's not, it's inside me." 

Ned's Atomic Dustbin - Grey Cell Green.

"You're telling me it's in disguise, well use your eyes. It's not, it's inside me now. You're telling me it's mother earth, some sign of birth. It's not, it's inside me."

Ned's Atomic Dustbin - Grey Cell Green.

The Progressive Patriot - Billy Bragg

THE PROGRESSIVE PATRIOT - BILLY BRAGG

And talking of Billy Bragg....

In 2006 Bragg wrote a book entitled The Progressive Patriot which was ostensibly a wrestle with the issues of Englishness, identity and patriotism. Instigated by the sudden fashion for flying the St George's Cross during the European Football Championships in 2004, Bragg felt there was a need for a discussion about the use of this flag and what it was actually representing. In his and many other peoples' eyes it should be said, the English flag and in particular the Union Jack was a symbol of right-wing, xenophobic ideology, soaked in the blood of British Empire; flown proudly only by conservatives at the last night of The Proms or neo-Nazis, racists and Fascists belonging to any number of Far-Right organizations. The English flag, be it the Union Jack or the Cross of St George was the property of the Right and therefore a symbol of everything Bragg was against. When in May of 2006 the racist British National Party won seats on the Council of his then home town of Barking in East London, the need for a debate suddenly became more urgent.

This was never a book that was at the top of my reading list, hence only eight years later I finally get round to reading it and frankly, I'm glad I didn't rush out to buy a copy as soon as it hit the shops because to put it mildly and politely: it's fucking rubbish. Part biography, part history lesson, part would-be polemic; in the end it's just a mess of all these things that takes the reader nowhere apart from up Billy Bragg's arse.

From the start Bragg states his book is an attempt to go beyond the territories of the Durham Miners Gala and the Tolpuddle Martyrs Festival and convince the majority that the Left have their interests at heart. His aim is to 'reconcile patriotism with the radical tradition' but what he actually means by this is hard to fathom because what writing there is about 'the radical tradition' is eclipsed by a never-ending history lesson throughout the book explaining how we all ended up here in this place called Britain. The history lesson Bragg conveys, however, is not that of the New Model Army, the Levellers, the Agitators, the mobs, the riots or the innumerable acts of dissent and sedition conducted in a bid to move things forward for the common man but the same history as taught in schools concerning the lives of Kings and Queens throughout the ages and the 'noble actions' of the Establishment, be they sanctioned by royalty or not. Bragg peddles the same history he says he's critical of and wishes to repudiate, so raising the question of what Bragg actually means by 'radical'. Which leads on to wondering about Bragg himself.

When writing of his family's background it's all very charming but really of no interest to anyone apart from himself and his die-hard fans. When he writes about his own life and influences such as George Orwell, Simon and Garfunkel, and The Clash he becomes more animated and his writing more enthused, particularly when touching upon the Rock Against Racism carnival of 1978 which he describes as a life-changing experience.

There are certain events that he neglects to mention, however, that calls into question the extent of the influence upon him of punk rock, The Clash, Simon, Garfunkel, Uncle Tom Cobley and all; one of them being that just three years after his life-changing experience of witnessing The Clash and his baptism into Left-wing politics he joined the army. How radical was that? This was in May of 1981, just a month after the Brixton riots when absolutely everything - including youth culture and punk rock in particular - was being heavily politicised through the policies of Thatcher in England and Reagan in the USA.

Four years later in 1985 there was Bragg again urging everyone to vote for Neil Kinnock - the same Neil Kinnock who had by then not only back-tracked on his support for unilateral nuclear disarmament but had spectacularly failed to support the striking miners. Was this again Bragg's idea of radicalism? It would appear so.

At one point in his book Bragg writes: 'It is a broadly accepted fact that, over the past fifty years, Britain has become a classless society'. Really? But if this is what Bragg believes then it perhaps explains everything about him and his politics. Class has got little to do with wealth which is why it's perfectly all right if Bragg moves from his native (working class) Barking, in Essex to a mansion-type house in a (middle class) village on the Dorset coast. Fair play to him. It's a bit disturbing, however, when he calls for a Declaration of Rights for the people of Britain to be drawn up and seems to have no qualms about who might conduct it. He seems to believe that such a Declaration would be perfectly safe in the hands of someone like Neil Kinnock, or perhaps Tony Blair, or even David Cameron. After all, Britain is now a classless society and the fact that practically everyone in any position of real power or influence is Cambridge, Oxbridge or Eton-educated shouldn't make any difference...

It's exasperating when someone like Billy Bragg is held up as a fine example of how a protest singer should be or when they're put forward as spokesmen for anything because typically all they point the way to is moderation, accommodation and ultimately commodification. Essentially they're nothing more than sops, foils and puppets on strings who at best can act only as stepping stones to either one of two things: further action as in whatever form might be suitable for the listener, even if it's simply reading a book to find out more about any given subject - or a one-way trip up the singer's arse. He might well be a nice guy in real life and everything but - based particularly on this book he's written and any number of his past endeavours - in the case of Billy Bragg it's unfortunately the latter.

John Serpico

In Search Of Albion - Colin Irwin

IN SEARCH OF ALBION - COLIN IRWIN

An ex-Assistant Editor of the now defunct music weekly Melody Maker is commissioned to write a book about England so sets his controls for the heart of Albion and heads immediately for Padstow, in Cornwall, for the May Day celebrations. Well, you would, wouldn't you? He then heads up to Minehead for a supposed similar celebration then back down to Land's End. The title given to the book is In Search Of Albion and it's all an interesting and revealing start to Colin Irwin's quest to find the spirit of England.

In Padstow he encounters a massive celebration with obvious Wicker Man overtones though without the human sacrifice element. At least not until after dark when all the tourists have gone home. In Minehead he encounters a total lack of interest - in anything, really. And at Land's End he encounters trash culture in all its dumbed-down lowest glory in the form of a mini-fun park and a sign post where you pay £12 for the privilege of having your photo taken under it.

It's not clear what Colin Irwin was hoping to find in these places but in Padstow he certainly has some kind of epiphany because he bursts out crying at one point, overjoyed at the communal singing and the mass celebration of the Obby Oss. Whilst at Land's End he's left deflated and almost feels like giving up on his quest before he's even really begun. But therein was his problem. From the outset he needed to understand that his quest was going to be coloured by his own perception of what Albion might actually be because the truth of the matter is that Albion isn't embodied in any place as such but in a spirit. A tangible energy to be more exact brought about through the amalgamation of spirit, liberty and people. Because Albion is both within and without. It's of and in the past, the present and the future. It's beyond the forces of man-made law and control and it's certainly beyond the power game of money, which is why he wasn't going to find it under a Land's End sign post where people are charged £12 for a photo op. Albion is dormant and brooding like a heavy early-morning mist hanging over the countryside but also explosive and exuberant like a crowd of football fans celebrating a goal. It can sometimes be glimpsed at the last night of The Proms as well as down at the front of a punk rock gig. It can sometimes be glimpsed during an urban riot as well as at a lonely funeral service. Albion is like fish beneath the ice.

Colin Irwin's right in believing it can be represented in music but wrong to assume that it's got to be old English folk music as played on acoustic guitars and tambourines (or even on the shaking bells of morris dancers). No, it can also be represented by skinhead Oi! music as played by a band like Cock Sparrer, Anarchopunk rock as played by a band like Crass, space rock as played by Hawkwind, or even Techno or Jungle as played by any number of DJs.

It may be found in Padstow on May Day for sure, but it may also be found on the dirtiest, neglected council estate on a Saturday night down the pub. It won't be found on the playing fields of Eton or at the Henley Regatta or even within the confines of Buckingham Palace but it might be found on the casualty ward of a hospital, on a picket line of striking workers or even within the confines of Dartmoor Prison. Which, to his credit, is where Colin Irwin goes next to watch a Devon folk singer called Seth Lakeman play a concert for prisoners, and suddenly he's back on track. This is then followed by a search for the lonesome grave of Kitty Jay at Hand Tor, in Devon; followed by tales of Babbacombe Lee, otherwise known as the man they couldn't hang at Exeter prison of old. He then heads for Glastonbury (of course) before landing in Dorset for the Tolpuddle Martyrs' Festival and it's here that he again becomes unstuck.

The story of the Tolpuddle Martyrs is one of working class defiance and is a landmark of British social history that should really be on the National Curriculum, but of course it's not. The annual festival is in commemoration of the martyrs and a celebration of English radicalism, and though Colin Irwin is sympathetic and a fan of Billy Bragg (who's there in attendance) that's about as far as his radicalism goes. Which isn't very far at all. In fact, if Billy Bragg is the start and end of anyone's radicalism then they might as well give up there and then, which essentially is what Colin Irwin does when it comes to the political aspect of Albion.

He has a conversation with some guy in the Martyrs Inn pub who tells him New Labour is anti-working class and that the capitalist Left should be rejected just as much as the capitalist Right, but rather than engaging with such an idea he makes light of it and feels a headache coming on. And therein again was his problem. From the outset he again needed to understand that his search for Albion was going to be coloured by his own perception of what Albion might be in a political sense. Because the truth of the matter is that whilst the Right wish to choke Albion with wires, strangle it with fences and stick it with knives; and whilst the Left wish to tame it and manage it through legislative coercion; Albion is in fact anarchic and free. Like it or not, Albion in a political sense is Anarchist, as alluded to in one of the greatest modern-day urban folk songs ever: I'm talking about Anarchy In The UK by the Sex Pistols. And as Johnny Rotten himself has pointed out, this isn't Anarchy as a middle class head game but Anarchy as a working class birthright.

From Dorset, the author travels on to Chippenham for some morris dancing, then over to the Isle of Man to discuss independence. Then to Manchester for the Chinese New Year celebrations, Burnley to discuss racism with Boff from Chumbawamba, Lancashire to find out about witch hunting and the tale of Alice Nutter (no relation to Chumbawamba's Alice Nutter), Baccup to witness the Britannia Coconut Dancers, Durham for the Miners' Gala Day, Cambridgeshire for more morris dancing with Pig Dyke Molly, then to Lewes for Bonfire Night. And quite a few other places in-between.

At times In Search Of Albion reads like a tourists guide to England and it must be said that at times it also reads like the opening line from that other great modern-day urban folk song by the Sex Pistols, Holidays In The Sun: "A cheap holiday in other people's misery." Particularly when he's in Durham. The jacket cover is pretty rubbish as well.

The author, however, manages to keep the whole book jovial and jokey and it's actually an enjoyable and interesting romp that should act as a prompt to further investigations into not only the places he writes about but also the customs, the history, the celebrations and the music he so clearly loves. He concludes by quoting a guy called Paul Wilson from the Wren Trust, a charity helping to promote Devon culture: "The thing is, the more we know about our own culture, the more secure we feel about it. And the more secure we feel about who we and the country are, the more we will understand and tolerate the culture of others coming in, and we can get rid of racism and the rest of it."

England "is not so bad", says Colin Irwin, as a final summing up of his quest. And he's not wrong. Whether he believes his search for Albion has been a successful one, however, isn't really made clear and whether he really understands why England "is not so bad" is another question entirely.

John Serpico

Mere Anarchy - Woody Allen

MERE ANARCHY - WOODY ALLEN

He is, of course, a genius. It's to be acknowledged, however, that not everyone finds him funny whilst at the same time others prefix the word 'genius' with the word 'comic' though personally I wouldn't equivocate. He's a genius and an artist to boot.

In a career that spans more than 50 years and includes such films as Annie Hall, Manhattan, and Hannah And Her Sisters, Woody Allen has created a body of work that most other film makers can only stand in awe of. Director, actor, screenwriter, playwright, comedian, musician - he's all these things and more, and if this wasn't enough there's also his complicated and troubled personal life too.

It's for his films that he's obviously known but another string to his bow is that of writer and for many years he's been a regular contributor to The New Yorker magazine, serving up short vignettes to its readership. Any publication in the world would happily accept a submission from Woody Allen but he chooses to stick with The New Yorker in the same way he chooses to dine at the same restaurant and to play jazz at the same bar. Though steeped in the influence of European art-house cinema and appreciated more on the Continent than in America, he's still at heart a native of New York who has the city's blood flowing through his veins. Or as he put it in the opening scene of Manhattan: 'He was as tough and romantic as the city he loved. Behind his black-rimmed glasses was the coiled sexual power of a jungle cat. New York was his town and it always would be'.

Mere Anarchy is a collection of eighteen of his short stories, nine of which were previously published in The New Yorker and nine not published anywhere else before. At just 160 pages it's a relatively slim publication though this actually works in its favour, accentuating the fact that it's not anything overly ambitious. Essentially it's a collection of snapshots, observations and sketches that serves as a rebuttal to the oft-voiced criticism that Woody Allen has lost his sense of humour. His films may no longer be the stream of one-liners they once were but he's still a very funny guy who's able to concoct comedy from the most meagre and absurd sources, often being just an innocuous item in The New York Times.

On reading this collection it's apparent that he's very much a wordsmith who takes great joy in the English language, from New York slang terms to overtly highfalutin expressions. It's also apparent that he has almost a slavish attachment to specific themes; the obvious one being the neurotic, nervous intellectual who makes several appearances, alongside the mores of New York middle class society. As in many of his films there are also all kinds of intellectual references but it's invariably kept in check and prevented from entering the realms of pretentiousness by giving the characters the most stupid of names.

Though it's written by a genius, I would point out that Mere Anarchy isn't by any means a work of genius. In fact, it's more like bread crumbs from the table so I wouldn't urge anyone to rush out and hunt down a copy (or to even head over to Amazon). I would, however, urge the uninitiated to watch the films because - well, they're absolutely genius.

John Serpico