This Country

Kurtan and Kerry are at a bus stop - they aren't waiting for a bus.

Kurtan: (points off camera)  Over there we saw Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen once and once in the shop and once up Burley Hill riding his bike, didn’t we?

Kerry: (wanting to be part of the yarn) And in the Co-op.

Kurtan: Yeah.

Kerry: Because I was walking in the Co-op and he was coming out and I said, “After you,” and he said, “No, after you.” (In awe) He’s so humble.

Kurtan:  So humble. And I asked him, “When do we get to see you back on our screens. (Getting emotional) Because it’s a crying shame that I don’t get to see you as often. And he just shrugged.

Kerry:   And he just shrugged like that. (Her shrugged shoulders a homage to her hero)  It’s such a shame.

Kerry and her cousin Kurtan are stuck in limbo. Living an unemployed existence, the pair aimlessly tread the land. Kerry Mucklowe lives with her mother, a shout upstairs, that we never see. Like a child with a new hobby, her father has started a new family, which means he 'must' cast out the old.  Lee “Kurtan” Mucklowe resides across the road with his grandmother. He goes by the sobriquet “Kurtan” because of his 90’s hairstyle. 

I appreciate so far this all sounds very miserable and Mike Leigh. 

But Kurtan’s hairstyle is a metaphor for the Mucklowe’s: although they have failed to move out of the Cotswold village like their peers, they’re pleased to be stuck in the past. The two invoke school days like they were yesterday and hang around with children half their age. Afraid of the future, enthral to the past, they’re a couple of Holden Caulfield’s, aware that yesterday is safely familiar; whereas tomorrow is frightfully uncertain. For each other, they’re the catcher in the rye, preventing the other from falling into adulthood. They sustain each other but they restrict each other too. They’re one others jailer; they’re one another’s saviour. They're bound by blood, rooted in soil. They will not be separated.

Young and lost.

Some of you might be thinking that I belong in Pseuds Corner for likening a BBC Three comedy to Salinger’s Catcher. I think great literature and comedy can go hand in hand. This week I was listening to Ben Elton's lecture on the sitcom. He made the intelligent case for comedy, arguing it does something far more powerful than drama, in that it tells truths whilst eliciting laughs. Just because something is funny it doesn’t mean it can’t be profound. The Office has characters stuck in delusions just like Tennessee Williams' creations; Steptoe and Son has a Beckettian pair quarrelling through oblivion; and Fawlty Towers has the thwarted ambition of an Arthur Miller play. These great sitcoms are bank jobs of the mind: they may wear a comedy mask, but peel it back and you're faced with brutal truths. Great comedy is Art- to claim otherwise is pretentious.

This Country ‘s two characters are cousins, when their creators are in actual fact siblings. Daisy May Cooper’s time at RADA had been unhappy and fruitless. Away from her Cirencester home, she suffered from homesickness and class consciousness. On leaving drama school, her CV slipped so far that even her agent forgot about her. Her brother’s life followed a similar trajectory. Staying at home rather than attending university, Charlie Cooper worked in Argos and a sausage factory. With Daisy returning home, Charlie collaborated with her on ideas that would go on to become This Country. To date, it’s one of the most downloaded iPlayer shows, becoming popular enough to transfer onto BBC One. Unsurprisingly, it has been recommissioned for a second series.

In the first paragraph I gave you the backstory of the characters without sharing any of the content. So here is a flavour: in the first episode, Limbo is displaced by Pandemonium as the village gets all excited by the annual scarecrow competition. The residents have been spending the summer stuffing their creations and now want recompense. Kurtan has been working round-the-clock to ensure victory is his (he does have the advantage of having nothing else to do). However, when he arrives at the competition, he finds his scarecrow overlooked by novelty ones, hardly in keeping with the tradition he holds sacred. Without giving away the end, I’ll just say Kurtan has a burning ambition to lift the crown, and leave you to mull that sentence. Meanwhile, Kerry is up in arms over the ‘pluming’ in her home. This isn’t to do with burst pipes or leaking cisterns, but the fact that her house is being attacked with plums. Earlier in a David Brent Reading, Aldershot, Bracknell, Didcot moment she bemoans gang life, 

“I got enemies in South Cerney, I got enemies in North Cerney, I got enemies in Cerney Wick. I got enemies in Bourton-on-the-Water.” 

Kerry’s crew comprised of ten-year-olds will not let sleeping dogs lie; consequently, they stalk the village looking for the perpetrator. A scarecrow competition and drive-by pluming aren’t typical sitcom plot-lines, but due to the upbringing of the creators they circumvent village stereotype, feeling completely natural and authentic.

Kerry and her posse.

Above, I spoke about the influence of The Office, and unlike most post-Brent mockumentaries, this does Gervais and Merchant proud. A lot of sitcoms in this style feel inauthentic because you wonder why on earth a documentary crew would film there. With This Country being an unvarnished look at rural life, it feels like an unexpurgated version of Countryfile. something the BBC would make to provide balance. Kerry and Kurtan also love television, fawning over Dragons Den and Masterchef, so it’s understandable why they would welcome the cameras. And although they’re not as stupid as they look, neither are they as smart as they purport, meaning they can’t maintain a façade: we see them both as belligerent bullies and victims of circumstance. They aren’t just a pair of Holden Caulfieds then; they’re a couple of David Brents. We come to love them because beneath the rhubarb and bluster they’re decent and honest. They are capable of unintentional cruelty and intentional kindness. They do good; they do bad. They're human.

This Country is in the great sitcom tradition of being an underdog story. Six chapters are available on YouTube. So click on and read Gloucestershire’s answer to Catcher in the Rye.

Born to Run

I can’t claim to be Bruce Springsteen’s biggest fan. From his extensive back catalogue, I own just three albums: Born to Run, Darkness on the Edge of Town and Born in the USA. The only performance I’ve seen is footage from his half-time American Super Bowl show. But I’m fascinated enough to read his autobiography. Fascinated, because he’s managed to sustain a career where so many of his contemporaries have failed. Indeed not only has Springsteen survived; he’s prospered: Devil’s Dust and Wrecking Ball, two recent offerings, succeeded commercially and critically. I'm interested because I remember reading articles documenting support for Obama, transgender rights and unionised workers. I know the image of Springsteen: blue jeans, clenched fist, America’s child – but I don’t know the man. I want to learn where this blue-collar millionaire came from; I want to discover how the Bard of the Highways survived Fame’s inevitable car crash; I want to find out about a person whom lives on The Hills but looks up to the downtrodden.

Springsteen begins his autobiography by revealing that a rock concert is a ‘magic trick.’ Before the show there is nothing but potential. There is a stage for the magician to take his place, but as yet nothing magical has occurred. Then, when the conjurer walks in, anticipation fills the air. If the sorcerer has put the time in, they have within their power the chance to astound and amaze. So it is with the rock band. If music is your vocation, showmanship your calling, then no one in the audience will see your sleight of hand: the grab for the microphone, the chord change, the hoopla game with the strap – no, they’ll just feel it. Every magic trick begins with ‘a set up.’ The spiel, blarney and talk. Springsteen starts by telling us about his family, stoking the anticipation for what we’ve really come to find out: how the hell do you write a song like ‘Born to Run’?

Rockin' the Super Bowl.

Bruce was born into an Irish-Italian family in Freehold, New Jersey. Brought up near St Rose church, Springsteen was literally raised in the bosom of Catholicism. Living in his grandparents’ house, the generations clashed. Given her own daughter died young, his grandmother doted on him. This maternal devotion did not sit well with Bruce’s mother, who struggled for power against this matriarch. Feeling usurped, she instead chose to mother her husband. A man who took to the bottle, Douglas Springsteen was a man that needed looking after. Often he would return home drunk, taking out his frustrations on his wife and children. Instead of offering her children support, she brought her husband to breast, placating him over her offspring. When Springsteen’s grandparents died, he felt orphaned. He would later go on to enjoy a healthy relationship with his mother, but he found one with his father a lot harder to come by.

This patter is the backdrop for the trick Springsteen would come to learn. Whilst watching the Ed Sullivan Show in 1956, he along with 70 million other Americans were introduced to the gyrating hips of Elvis Presley. The shake, rattle and roll of the man’s body bewitched and dismayed the country in equal measure. In the young Springsteen it set him off on a course: How can I pull a stunt like that? How can I pull a song from my hat? How can the eyes of the world be on me?

Earning money by mowing his aunt’s lawn, Springsteen bought a guitar. It wouldn’t be long before he joined his first band The Castiles, named after a brand of shampoo. Unfortunately, a drugs bust meant Springsteen lost two members of his band: a problem that wouldn’t come out in the wash; consequently, the band folded.

From there, Springsteen would go on to form Steel Mill, a seed that would eventually germinate into the world-renowned E Street Band. Until then, the magician toiled. He felt that he had mastered the tricks, yet he didn’t have the audience to perform them to. Up and down, across east and west of America, Springsteen went seeking discovery. The road that he would go on to mythologise as signifying freedom, nearly broke him: his band gained kudos but no contract. His dream of being a rock star left him destitute and, by today’s definition, homeless. That house of cards he’d built in his head- money, adulation, girls, fame, glory, freedom, art and joy – was in danger of falling in.

When you’re good enough though you can’t be ignored. It doesn’t matter about the trends, patterns, the prevailing wind; talent will always out. Springsteen wrote the songs that would become Greetings from Asbury Park; the magic dust ensured a contract, yet it didn’t realise his ambitions. The album recorded with his E Street Band sold copy, yet never really captured the consciousness of America. Was the parochial album title the sign of a parochial man: a local artist that could appeal to his people, but never appeal to The People?

The first album.

Then, came 'Born to Run.' The song took six months to come together. Steeped in the history of rock n’ roll - women, cars and the road – Springsteen set about re-casting this old story for a modern world. Like a rabbit at a dog track, it comes haring out of the traps. Its pace is supercharged and relentless, an autobahn put to music. Just when you feel this giant pinball of a song is over, the piano flips the ball back into play and it's bouncing yet again. The song is pure exhilaration, an endorphin head-rush that takes your brain from your body, allowing you to experience the full visceral sensation of music. The album that included the aforementioned was a huge hit, ensuring Springsteen went stratospheric – his life would never be the same again.

The autobiography, therefore, is named after Springsteen’s hit song and album. It’s also some damning wordplay on the man he once was. In 1985 he married Julianne Phillips, an actress and a model. The pebble that he threw in his 1980 album, The River, finally created a ripple. That record spoke of his preoccupation with stability and contentment – was it possible? His sister’s marriage hadn’t worked out. His mother and father were hardly adverts for marital bliss. Despite this, Bruce wanted a partner. Throwing your life to the road seems free and liberating, but there comes a time when it can feel empty, meaningless and selfish. His marriage to Phillips was meant to tether his restless spirit, instead the opposite happened. The love that Phillips gave him wasn’t reciprocated. By his own admission, he behaved appallingly, beginning a relationship with Patti Scialfa whilst wed. His enduring marriage to Scialfa does not vindicate his treatment of his first wife and he's honest about that.

Causing a storm.

Throughout Springsteen’s autobiography, he confesses to running when he sometimes needed to stay still. In the later part of his story, he speaks about his battle with mental health, and how it took him far too long to seek professional help, relying instead on the road for ballast. At the height of his fame, he reveals that it was his band and the shows they played that stopped him ‘launching into the ozone layer.’ This darkening mood is seen in records like Nebraska and Tunnel of Love, proving that The Boss can do close-up introspection as well as jump-cut car scenes. As fame and love hit harder, Springsteen became a different artist, maybe a less commercial one, but a better one, able to excavate his soul for public display.

These quiet, somber records were often done in isolation without the big, vibrant sound of The E Street Band. This band of brothers had to accept an extended period of gardening leave whilst their boss pursued his own interests. The fact that the group would reform after ten years apart and enjoy universal acclaim for their subsequent tours shows the power of their union. One of the fascinating parts of the book is seeing how Springsteen squares being a Democrat in politics and a dictator in music. Corralling a group of big personalities into a unified whole requires an excellent herder. If you pull the rope too taut, the horse will baulk. This balancing act between being boss and friend was something Springsteen undertook in his early twenties: his ability to see it through demonstrates the strength of his vision and charisma.

Bruce's managerial responsibilities didn't extend to the band's wardrobe.

Another fascinating part of his story is seeing how his songs have been misunderstood. Springsteen is one of the great lyricists: he uses his characters to explore thematic and social concerns – that’s not something you can say about many songwriters. He writes with nuance, exploring different perspectives in different verses; the inattentive ear might misinterpret what he’s doing. So it’s has proved with 'Born in The USA': a swipe at the administration’s poor treatment of returning Vietnam vets; some have instead seen this as paean to America. Ronald Reagan even had it as his walk on music – until someone told him that a song was more than a chorus. Another tune, 'American Skin', written in response to the police shooting of a black male was roundly booed by some of his fans, believing Springsteen had turned his back on emergency workers he allegedly supported. Look at the lyrics though and you’ll see a journalist's rigour: both police and victim are represented. Again, the chorus of ’41 shots cut through the night’ is the one people hear, and not the police officer ‘kneeling over his body in the vestibule praying for his life.’ Again, his song is more than the chorus.

I really loved Springsteen’s autobiography. In the penultimate chapter, he concedes that he may not have given the whole story – people’s feelings need to be protected after all. To me, it doesn’t matter. A little bit of mystery is a good thing. We don’t want the whole trick explained. Just seeing it, appreciating it, is enough.

Born to Run is available from all good bookshops.

The Ferryman

I couldn’t have been more excited about seeing The Ferryman at The Gielgud this week.

Earlier this year the play became the fastest selling production in Royal Court history. The causes of this clamour were three-fold: firstly, it’s written by Jez Butterworth. No modern playwright has enjoyed a comparable level of box-office and critical success in recent years. His calling card, Jerusalem, was a huge success on both sides of the pond, confirming the writer's place in the canon. Secondly, it’s directed by Sam Mendes. Mendes, of course, is now known for his work on the James Bond franchise, but those directorial skills were very much honed in the West End. Aged just 24 he directed Judi Dench in Chekov’s The Cherry Orchard, illustrating his preternatural talent. Thirdly, it features Paddy Considine. For me, Considine is one of Britain’s finest actors. Brought up on a council estate, Considine studied performing arts at Burton College. Young and distracted, he never completed the course. Here though, he met Shane Meadows, a kindred spirit, that knew the best form of learning comes from doing. Meadows cast Considine in A Room For Romeo Brass; they then co-wrote Dead Man Shoes, where Considine does a De Niro, delivering a bravura performance of scintillating, emotional intensity. From here, he would go on to star in comedies Hot Fuzz, Submarine and World’s End. There are few actors capable of creepiness and capers: Considine is one of them. The opportunity to see what this triptych could fashion then was salivating: I had missed the performance at The Court, I couldn’t miss its transference to The Gielgud. I asked The Girl if she could get me a ticket for my birthday, and the good lady duly obliged. I couldn’t wait.

Sam Mendes

The play opens in Derry, 1981. A priest has been called to meet some scowl-and-threats down a back alley. It turns out a body has risen to the surface on the border betwixt north and south. The cadaver belongs to one Seamus Carney, formerly of the Father’s parish. They want information. What secrets did he hold? Who is he related to? Where do they live? In this time of Trouble, the dog collar is a chokehold: a Father can hear confessions he’d rather not hear. The two men pulling on the priest are members of the IRA; they’re concerned that the victim’s rise to the surface may lead to questions about their past operations. (Butterworth’s former partner Laura Donnelly gave him the inspiration for this story. She discovered a few years ago that her uncle was one of ‘the disappeared.’ A small collection of unfortunates that the IRA sank without a trace. When they went missing their families were told that there had been sightings to throw them off the scent; all along, they were at the bottom of a bog: their price for being disloyal– or seemingly disloyal.) The Father knows that he’s God’s vessel, his duty is to protect his parish, serve his children. To do otherwise is to do the Devil’s work. But what happens if an IRA man holds a picture up of your sister, giving you the “I know where she lives” eyes. Well, you put family before work, prioritise your own body and blood over the flock who take it. They’re coming. The IRA are coming to the Carney home.

Laura Donnelley, inspiration and star of The Ferryman. 

After blackout, the curtains reveal a county Armagh kitchen. A man trades drunk talk with a woman; they play blindfold Connect 4; they dance to a record. There is intimacy. There is affection in this relationship. A boy comes down and startles them. It is the woman’s son. He informs them that it’s morning. The man and woman reset their leisure for work. Harvest is here. An occasion that demands celebration, but one that necessitates preparation. The family is called. Young children come bounding down the stairs. Bleary-eyed teenagers enter rubbing sleep from their eyes. Time-worn relatives are wheeled out. This is a big family. Only one woman remains asleep upstairs, unwell she is, nursing a virus.  

In the rural world, the harvest is a blessed portent, a sign that lips won’t go dry, that bellies won’t starve. Consequently, the kitchen is singing with merriment. There are squabbles between the children, but they’re the cause of earthy humour – the my big brother showed me his hole kind of thing. The graveyard-dodgers have a spring in their step too, bantering over how boring the other is. In the middle is Quinn Cairney, the previous paragraph’s dancing man, ebulliently bathing the whole household in joy, in light. He’s setting the scene for a Cratcht-style Christmas. They have a goose to bring in. The plumpest, most succulent goose a family can wish for. The competition to ring its neck is fierce amongst the children. For the unselected, the competition to be in attendance is as fierce. This family is unfazed by death, but death of an animal mind- not the human kind.

Considine (centre-right)

Joining the frolics, an Englishman walks in. Tom Kettle is his name. An Englishman living in Catholic quarters doesn’t seem sensible, but the Carney and the Kettle don’t just co-exist - they reside in affection too. Kettle is a Lennie character, pulling rabbits from his pocket and talking in slow sentences. The children love him for his kindness. The adults for the labour he provides. Only fire and brimstone Aunt Pat questions why this Irish family would accept a Cromwell on their land. Other than Pat railing against Thatcher’s treatment of the hunger strikers, all is well in the Carney house. The Troubles are over there; here, in this kitchen, is contentment.

This 1^st Act of The Ferryman had me grinning from ear to ear. Layering poetic prose on mellifluous Irish accents creates a sound that’s utterly beguiling. Butterworth’s first movement is Vaughan Williams’ Lark Ascending, an idyll to nature, a hymn to the land.

Jez Butterworth.

Valkyries are descending though, and when Act Two and Three shifts to something altogether darker and oppressive, the spell remains strong. Just as a body came to the surface, secrets do too. The woman Quinn was dancing with at the beginning might not be whom you thought. The lady who sits senile shouldn’t be discounted. The firebrand in the corner may have just cause to spit the name Oliver Cromwell. Just as Considine’s friend Shane Meadows deals in light and shade, Butterworth does too.

Under Sam Mendes’ direction, The Ferryman is a masterpiece. The Ferryman’s title comes from Charon, the carrier of souls, who in the Greek myth eased the passage of the deceased into the afterlife. Butterworth’s story of modern history is allied with ancient Gods then; it’s also a psychodrama and ghost story; a family comedy and damning satire; a fiction rooted in fact. In Mendes he’s found a man that’s pieced together these elements to form a profound mosaic on Ireland’s past. 

Concluding, I urge you to go to the gallery and feast your eyes on what these labouring men have produced - it's harvest after all.

The Ferryman is on until January.