11.22.63

On Friday time travel comedy Goodnight Sweetheart was brought into the 21^st century for a one-off special. The premise for those of you who aren’t familiar is Gary Sparrow, a TV repairman with a drab life, finds a porthole into the past. His subsequent stepping between past and present, which involves two-timing (don’t excuse the pun: it’s great) businesswoman Yvonne and barmaid Phoebe, causes hilarious consequences. I genuinely enjoyed the revival episode. If you were arch though, you could criticise the show for not stretching the premise far enough: why for instance, given the original series was set in the 40’s and 90’s, does Sparrow not alert the authorities to Nazi atrocities? The creators could have made a comedy about an ordinary man trying to stop the worst excesses of history, but instead they manufactured a laughter track out of adultery and bigamy. Nicholas Lyndhurst could have stopped genocide yet he chose not to - shame on him!

Is Lyndhurst worse than Hitler?

The book I’ve been reading this week, Stephen King’s 11.22.63, actually deals with the huge possibilities and responsibilities of time travel. In his afterword King says the idea for the book came in 1972, but as a full-time teacher he realised the research necessary to produce such a novel would be too great. Now a full-time, multi-millionaire author, King has been able to step back into his salad days and realise his 1972 dream of writing this historical- science fiction work.

King was right: the research must have been a hell of an undertaking. 11.22.63 might not mean so much to us Brits; for Americans though it is as ubiquitous as 1066. The date marked the slaughter of man, vision and idea. It was the day John F Kennedy was killed by fame-hungry crackpot, Lee Harvey Oswald. Such was the cruelty of a President being taken at his peak, it’s something that still evokes conjecture and dispute. The source of people's disbelief appears to stem from the paradox of how someone so powerful could be taken by someone so insignificant. There are so many conspiracy theories around Kennedy's death because people refuse to believe that chaos, not order, rules our universe.

Kennedy's death was particularly unfair given what he had achieved in his limited time as President. Early in his tenure America stood on the precipice in the form of the Cuban Missile Crisis. The Soviet enemy had been granted permission by Cuba to use their country as a test site for ballistic missiles. This move turned up the heat on an already blazing Cold War. America, USSR and the world were frightened. If the situation escalated then the end was nigh. Opinion differed on how best to react. Should Kennedy strategically ignore this manoeuvre like Chamberlain did with Hitler's Rhineland? Or should he throw the whole military sink at the Soviets? A lot of Americans wanted their President to unleash the entire defence budget at the communists and blow them sky high. Kennedy did not favour the Wild West approach, nor turning a blind eye, instead he opted to punish the conspiring communists by blockading Cuba. By playing the situation like a Cool Hand Luke, the Soviets backed down. They promised to disassemble their missiles and return them home; in return, America agreed to a process of disarmament too. In a stand-off where most people would have looked to their gun, Kennedy reached for his head- and won. He had saved the world from Armageddon and was enjoying the victory lap when his life was taken.

Different responses to Cuban Missile Crisis.

What if you were given the chance to go back and save Kennedy then: would you take it? 

After Kennedy’s assassination his successor Lyndon B. Johnson succeeded in legislating black civil rights, but failed by signing death warrants through his Vietnam War. If Kennedy were alive would he have been so naïve to think they could defeat the Vietcong on foreign soil? Maybe not. With a history of more diplomatic foreign policy would America have gone on to piss on the Middle East so much. Possibly not. This is why people see the killing of JFK as a watershed moment. With Kennedy still alive the world may have looked different, better even. So, given the opportunity: would you save him?

Jake Epping is the character of 11.22.63 tasked with stepping back in time and preventing the assassination of JFK. The mission he is entrusted with will not be easy. For a start, he is an English teacher. As an English teacher myself, I appreciate the closest I get to being a marksman is adding up student test papers. Reading forces you to understand villains as well as heroes; it makes you look at monsters and see the human underneath. It's often why teachers are wooly liberals, empathetic to a fault, believing in love over punishment. If capital punishment isn’t acceptable after someone’s committed a crime, how can it be ok before they’ve committed it? This dilemma is one of many Epping has to weigh up.

Epping is tasked with killing this man: Lee Harvey Oswald.

The responsibility for such a venture is made harder by the fact that it isn’t even Epping’s idea. Al Templeton is a proprietor of the Maine diner where the time portal is discovered. He has been using it all these years without his customers knowing. Now close to death, Al passes his notes on Oswald to Epping in the hope that the younger man can do what he was unable to and stop the death of JFK. Divorced and childless, Epping feels no emotional tie to the 21^st century so sets off into 1958, his first step in a five year journey to change the course of history.

I hadn’t read much of King's previous to this work. The only other book of his I’d read was his brilliant On Writing that gives budding writers sage advice on how to write well. Literary critics such as Harold Bloom wouldn't fail to see the irony of King writing a book on writing. Recently, Bloom was quoted as saying, 

I've described King in the past as a writer of penny dreadfuls, but perhaps even that is too kind. He shares nothing with Edgar Allan Poe. What he is is an immensely inadequate writer on a sentence-by-sentence, paragraph-by-paragraph, book-by-book basis. 

For me, this is a case of popularity breeding contempt. King is a prolific writer enjoyed by millions, because of this he is condemned by the literary establishment. To them, he is no better than the street-corner hustler, peddling low-grade opium to the masses. They, on the other hand, are cooking the mind-altering good stuff – more fool you for not 'getting' it. The thing is whilst these aesthetes spend forever and a day pontificating over a semi-colon, King seizes the muse, throttling out his daily 2000 words. It is true that King could do with an edit, repeating as he does a sentence or two in the book, but his writing can never be described as inadequate. In fact, whilst he's loose with editing; he is painstaking with research and plotting. I learnt so much about Lee Harvey Oswald that the book doesn't just read like good fiction but fascinating biography too.

Harold Bloom does not like this man.

Sentence-by-sentence, paragraph-by-paragraph, King had me hooked. For a page-turner to be so smart is a fantastic achievement, something that should be celebrated rather than belittled, leading me to ask you, dear reader, what King book should I read next? I'd love to hear your recommendations.

11.22.63 is available in paperback. The 8-part series featuring James Franco is available on DVD. (See teaser below)

A Tour of the South

Earlier this summer I went to the South of France on holiday. If I was to summarise the break, I would say imagine the three-minute opening of Sexy Beast played out over eight days.  With temperatures regularly hitting Gas Mark 6, I roasted until I turned a lovely golden brown. For someone who has the hairline of Alan Shearer and the waistline of the breadline, I returned reborn. I looked as good as I’m going to get. I looked my age.

Me in my tanned glory.

 Now all of that has changed.

The tan that I once knew is gone. Like a physiological retelling of Sunset Boulevard my glitter has faded. The healthy glow now a funeral pallor. Litheness has been forgotten for lank despair. With back to school around the corner, the carefree face of Mr. July replaced by careworn Mr. Late August. Work has left a missed call and there’s only so long I can go before I’m obliged to answer.  

Oh to reclaim that feeling of late July. When six weeks didn’t feel finite, but an eternal span of possibilities. I’ll learn a language. I’ll teach the language I’ve learnt. I’ll see the world. Palin did it in 80 days and that was in the late 80’s when they used penny-farthings to get places; surely we millennials can do it in 42. I’ll start a novel. I’ll finish a novel. I’ll draw up plans for a house. I’ll build a house. I’ll get Kevin McCloud round to congratulate me on it. There really is no better feeling in the world than that feeling of being free from the sound of bells and the ticking clock of deadlines.

Aware that the holidays are drawing to a close I thought another hurrah would be in order. This week away though would be in England and Wales: the return fixture on the away leg if you will. I knew this wouldn’t be a holiday for the body  – there would be no sun to glisten, no pool to rejuvenate – instead this would be one for the soul; because in Hay-on-Wye there would be books; in Bristol, friends and in Dorset and the New Forest, memories.

Friday, Hay-On-Wye

As a bibliophile I’ve wanted to go to Hay-on-Wye for a while now. Every year Hay has a literature festival that is effectively the Glastonbury of books. Hay’s love affair with books started in the 1960’s when a cupid called Richard Booth fired the first arrow. He was a local man concerned by the flight of graduates to the city, fearful that this exodus would affect the financial and cultural backbone of small rural communities. Noting that America was closing down libraries, he went with a team of men to appropriate their literature for his own bookshop. It wasn’t long before his three-floor shop was seen as the best place to buy secondhand reads. Seizing on Booth’s success, other retailers set up shop and ‘a book mile’ of thirty shops was born. Although the rise in Kindles has precipitated the closure of some, the town still has a reputation as being a world leader in literature.

Me and The Girl enjoyed our day here. It really is a wonderful town: all the best parts of Britain (tea rooms, pubs and book shops) consolidated into one affordable strip. Contrary to popular belief, I didn’t go all Supermarket Sweep and blitz around the store, leaving a trail of empty shelves in my wake. Instead I went with a list of books I desired- which was a fool’s errand really. It is no judgment on Hay that I couldn’t find a few books I wanted; after all the owners sell mainly second-hand books so it was impossible for these Genies to grant all my wishes. I should have done what my girlfriend did: read the blurb and let nature take its fancy. But I’m a creature of painstaking preparation; I’m not one for spontaneity. So I left with a few books when I could have left with more.

Look at the banner: they really hate Kindles here.

Saturday, Bristol

After a one-night stay in an ecolodge- a wooden cabin- we were on the road to Bristol. Hay-on-Wye to Bristol is as easy as going from A to B. What I mean by that is for an 80-mile route it takes a bloody long time because you have to get on every A and B road in the country. You do go through some lovely villages though so it’s not all bad.

We woke up here. Pic. by PG

We were in Bristol because that’s where I went to university, and a group of us were getting together to see our friend Phil. Phil, having lived in Spain for three years, is practically Spanish now, so I’m never insulted when he nods off during my anecdotes – I know he’s just missing his siesta. Although my girlfriend and Fi’s husband weren’t students of Bristol, we decided against sacrificing these interlopers in a Wicker Man ceremony; instead we shook the tourists hands and took them around our kingdom.

During our regular reunions, we feel it beholden to relive our vanquished youth and go on pub-crawls – this reunion was no different. In the first watering hole I had a beer that was 11%. In the week where Pep Guardialo dropped club servant Joe Hart, mine was the true statement of intent. Everyone was like, “Ryan, you’re playing with fire.” And I was like, “Yeah, but my liver is a fire blanket. You can roll me in ethanol and I’ll still come up smelling of roses, motherfuckers.” After I mistakenly chose this beer from the confusing menu, I went for weaker ales hereafter.

I drink these between, 'my usual,' absinthe to avoid headaches in the morning.

Our night ended at the Thali Café in Bristol. If you ever go West make sure you visit one of these establishments. The food is properly delicious. Thali is an Indian meal that consists of an assortment of dishes, meaning on service you’re handed the kind of plate a prisoner might receive- divided into sections- within it though are tastes antithetical of ‘doing porridge.’ Good times dudes.

Sunday, Bristol

On waking in the morning, we went to ‘The Lounge’. Jim, a fictionalised Ron Swanson made corporeal, is a fan of breakfast dining. And ‘The Lounge’ is a fan of catering for all your breakfast needs. I plumped for the full fry and told them to hold the fried egg … and crush it til it scrambled. The one blemish against this establishments name is they said, “We can’t do scrambled. We only do poached.” I would have held it against them, if it were not for the plate that came. Ron Swanson is indeed right, “There is no sadness that can’t be cured by breakfast food.” For those ten minutes of eating, I was back at the start of the holiday where everything seemed possible. Good times dudes. (I’m trying to turn this into a catchphrase).

After breakfast someone suggested we go for a walk. (I know my friends are quite behind the times, but I love them for their quaint ways. It’s not their fault. Not everyone can be born in progressive Watford. Sometimes you just have to nod, smile and go along with these olde-worlde people.) It was a fine walk that involved going across the Clifton Suspension Bridge. I was at Bristol University for three years and only went across it once on a day trip to Glastonbury. Our university tutor had organised it, alleging that it would help with our Medieval studies. We didn’t learn anything. In hindsight I think it was because he was from Dartmoor and was missing the spirits.

The 'Clifton Suspension Bridge' would be the name of my finishing move if I were a wrestler. Pic. by PG

Monday, Swanage

Early on Monday we woke up in Swanage. We did leave Bristol; we didn’t just wake up in a place a few hours away. I just didn’t think you would want all the details about the car journey. Jeez, I try to jump the narrative forward for your own benefit and you have to nitpick, picking up holes in my timeline.

Anyway, we went down to a beach hut – that my family owns. I know with the housing crisis it does seem decadent owning something with four walls and only living in it evenings and holidays, but my family have been going to that beach for generations. It’s not like we’re oligarchs moving in, erecting extra levels to compensate for our lack of penis. We have preserved the beach hut with its original 1940’s façade to ensure it’s consistent with the landscape. My uncle even lives in Swanage and is down there every night. It’s not even a fixed one: he has to take it down in the winter and store it on his mate’s farm. What I’m saying is we’re not the bad guys. We’re just a humble family with a romantic attachment to a piece of sand. We got in there before the beach hut boom as well so it’s not as if we spent thousands of pounds on it. Probably just a few grand between a group of people. I’m still part of the 99% honest.

Property tycoons.

Tuesday, Lulworth Cove and Durdle Door

As a child I went to all of these beautiful places in Dorset, but due to an increase in alcohol and birthday units I can no longer remember them. Therefore, with the girl in tow I decided to revisit the places of my youth – or visit them, given I couldn’t recall ever having been there.

These attractions really are places of wonder. However, they look even better when the sun is shining. Fortunately, this was Britain’s day to have the sun. (Blighty really got a bum deal when it came to custody rights of the old yellow ball; Australia must have got O.J.’s lawyer when it came to negotiations.) The sea looked like it sat on a diamond mine and the sky was as pure as Walt’s crystal meth. You couldn’t ask for a better picture postcard.

Better than the Wembley arch. Pic. by PG

On walking over Man of War bay, just next to Durdle Door, we sat on the pebbles and ate our packed lunch. All around us were families from all across the world, unified by sunshine and sea. Children tested their parents’ boundaries by going deeper and deeper into the water, and parents tested their vocal chords by crying louder and louder for them to come back. These mini-dramas soon dissolved into family comedies with dads splashing their returning offspring and mums photographing their approval. Good times dudes.

Wednesday, New Forest

Today was The Girl’s turn to take me to her old stomping ground. As a child, she used to camp in Brockenhurst. In tribute to her childhood I’ve vowed to go camping with her in the future under the proviso she puts the tent up and protects me from bears.

I wasn’t prepared for the New Forest to be honest. On entering Brockenhurst I saw the sign warning us of ponies. In my head I just thought small children would be out on a pony trek accompanied by an expert horse rider. What I didn’t realise was that ponies just mill about on the road discussing Brexit whilst they hold up the traffic.

I said to The Girl, “Where are their owners.”

She replied, “They don’t have owners. Not every horse has an owner.”

Jockeys, cowboys and the gypsy community came to my mind. I thought every horse had an owner. Like every dog or cat has an owner. If they can’t find an owner for it, shouldn’t they be in some kind of sanctuary?

Just roaming the streets like wild animals. An apt simile. Pic. by PG.

But that is not the case in Brockenhurst. Man and animal live alongside one another as one. Like it’s The Jungle Book or something. After having parked the car, we walked up to the corner shop where there were a couple of donkeys loitering outside, probably chewing gum and moaning about how rubbish their parents are. It is a truly bizarre sight. I’m happy that I’ve witnessed it, but I will never be like the locals and think it’s normal. I mean it’s not natural to say “excuse me” to a donkey on the pavement is it? I believe if you pass a donkey at a postbox and don't bat an eyelid, you've probably become a little jaded, not appreciating the warped magic of the world we live in.

Reflection that satirises children's TV

So there you have it: a little jaunt around Britain. I hope this travelogue taught you a lot about how historical and magical a place Britain is. Until next time kids, bye. (Presenters suffering from smilestroke wave maniacally at the screen until the director saves them from their contrived happiness by calling 'cut.')

Groundhog Day

Imagine you were given a gift: the gift to relive the best day of your life over and over again. Another chance to open the envelope of good news; another go at holding the blanketed baby; another opportunity to take that tender kiss. Well, let’s be frank: eventually the whole thing would get boring. After re-creating your wedding scene for the thousandth time, you would want to quit the picture, punch the director and run off with the girl playing the bridesmaid.

Now, imagine you were given a curse: the curse to relive the worst day of your life over and over again. Another chance to do that job you hated; another opportunity to talk to those people; another fucking Monday. Well, this would be a whole lot worse; there would be no redeeming quality to this bleak picture. You would be trapped in the cinema re-watching this selfsame shit-show in a suicidal fit of abject melancholy.

If you knew what life would bring, would it be worth waking up for?

For all of the fear unpredictability brings, it makes life worth living. If we know what is coming in life then is there any point in turning up, clocking in? With thudding predictability the order of things we may as well turn off the alarm and let existence play out. We need the coming of the new day to bring about new experiences- good or bad. It is the good encounters that enrich us, sustain us. It is the bad ones that give the good ones value. Without the yin, we can’t have the yang. Without the rough, we can’t have the smooth. As Dolly Parton says, ‘If you want the rainbow, you have to put up with the rain.” 

Phil Connors in Groundhog Day is a man who must relive the worst day of his life. He is a weather forecaster assigned to report on small-town Punxsutawney’s annual celebration, Groundhog Day. The festival gathers the townspeople to watch its groundhog, aptly named Phil, leave his temporary home to predict the weather: if he sees his shadow and returns to his hole, it means a long winter; if he doesn’t see it, it means an early spring. Connors takes it as a personal insult that he has to relive this day once a year: why should he a sophisticated member of the metropolis be brought down to report on small-town ephemera? When Connors is told a storm has led to enforced road closures, that there is no way of getting home, he is furious: isn’t there a special lane for VIPs? Resigned, he holes himself up in a B&B and readies himself for an early morning getaway. Except when morning comes Connors can’t. Someone, somewhere has cut the pendulum on Grandfather Time, which leaves our antihero suspended in the black hole of February 2nd ... Groundhog Day.

Phil Vs The Town. Pic. Manuel Harlan

The film co-written by Danny Rubin and Harold Ramis is one of my favourites. Bill Murray in the starring role does a great job at neutralising the character’s acid-tongue with a twinkly charm. When I heard the news it was being made into a musical, I was intrigued. When I heard it was being made into a musical with Tim Minchin penning the music, I was sold. Minchin’s skill as a pianist and humorist allows him to create songs that are musically virtuous and comically potent. As a devout atheist and rationalist, his stand up skewers religion and fate. An example of this is his love song If I didn’t have you. Here, he attacks the idea that people are meant to be, opining (“If I didn’t have you, I would probably have someone else”) and goes on to list how your 'soulmate' is determined by your wealth, looks and location. The conceit sounds cruel and heartless, but it ends romantically with the line: (“But with all my heart and all my mind, I know one thing is true I have just one life and just one love and, my love, that love is you.”) Minchin was always going to be the perfect fit to help adapt Groundhog Day because he can satirise the small town mentality of worshipping false prophets, as well as celebrate the emphasis these communities put on love and friendship. The sardonic side of Minchin then is channeled in Connors spewing bile on the town’s customs and beliefs, and the sentimental side of Minchin is depicted through the communities care and compassion in the face of unwavering hostility.

The work in adapting Groundhog Day wasn’t done by Minchin alone. He is one third of the talent responsible for the endeavour. The other two are Danny Rubin, who co-wrote the original film and wanted to retell the story in a different form, and director Matthew Warchus, who worked with Minchin on the smash-hit musical Matilda. The three met four years ago on what Minchin describes as ‘like a Tinder date, trying to figure out whether we wanted to work with each other.’ Unlike a Tinder date it was a relationship that was to last the distance with the musical the end result.

Having Rubin on board means the original isn’t tampered with that much. All the jokes you enjoyed from the movie are here. The plot has largely stayed the same with just a few tiny tweaks. What is different is the scope of the piece. In the film Connors fills every scene: it is his Road to Damascus story of how he goes from being small-minded about the small town to having his mind opened by big hearts. However, in the musical we discover how Rita’s childhood (Phil’s producer) affected her love life; this feminist number has Minchin venting parental rage at the fairy stories little girls are filled with. Also Nancy, the nondescript attractive girl in the movie, is given the space to air her grievances at the beginning of Act 2. In this number, the actor comes out of character to lament a role that is based on looks rather than talent. Again, Minchin sneaks big ideas on gender into a supposedly silly comedy.

Rita (left) is given a bigger role. Pic. Manuel Harlan

Props need to go to set designer, Rob Howell, who is so inventive at turning major incidents in the movie into quirky set pieces. Phil’s bar room epiphany, that without time there are no consequences, is a gleeful highlight in the film. The dilemma for a theatre adaptation is how do you stage Phil’s drink driving and ensuing police chase? Without spoiling anything, all I will say is if the theatre doesn't allow you to go big, then go small. In fact, what makes Warchus’ Groundhog Day special is that for all its big budget chutzpah it retains an intimate smallness.

Groundhog Day is a triumph: a production that celebrates the little people that comprise the little towns; drawn by Minchin and Howell, creatives that haven’t corporatised their vision to committee, but built from their own hands a little work of genius.

Groundhog Day closes at The Old Vic on September 17th