Planes, Trains and Automobiles (and Stagecoaches) or West Side Story: Not the Musical

On April 13^th 2019 I got married to my friend and accomplice. We didn’t go on honeymoon immediately because we're teachers who work for The Man. The Man dictates when and only when we can have our holidays. He denies us the chance to go to Glastonbury Festival, to book cheap flights away, to holiday at a regular rate of inflation as opposed to the Weimar Republic  hyperinflation we must endure. The thirteen weeks of vacation we get is immaterial. Yes, it’s nine weeks more than the typical Brit. Thirteen weeks more than the typical American. For all of that though, we’re awfully hard done by. With this in mind The Girl and I didn’t take a long honeymoon straight after a wedding, instead we waited until we could stretch out our getaway on the great, long sunbed that is the six week break. We had booked to go up the west coast of America, to journey essentially from the Mexico border to the Canada one. It was going to be a busy two weeks, so we would need some relaxation before it began. Thus, this tale begins in the Business Lounge of Heathrow Airport.

Wednesday 24^th July

The Girl and I booked our holiday through Trailfinders, Britain’s best and largest independently owned travel company. (This blog is read on average by twenty people per week. In many ways this makes me one of those social media influencers, therefore by name-checking a company I’m hoping they will offer me some sort of reward in the future. Trailfinders: I’ve always wanted to go on the Venice Simplon-Orient-Express train #justsayin’.) Because we booked through a travel company, they buy up loads of hotels and flights, which means although you have less choice, you get a better discount. Going with this operator meant we could fly business, paying a few hundred pounds more, as opposed to many thousand you normally pay. As it was our honeymoon, we decided to fly business, just on the outbound leg mind.

So here we are in a departure lounge that resembles a supersized John Lewis café. Only it’s a John Lewis café with a difference: you have the run of the place. Whatever you want is yours. Food, drink, reading material. No costs. Just go to the trough and have your fill. They do give you small plates though, so my advice to you is bring your own Alan Partridge one. I had a lovely buffet and a can of pale ale, then washed it down with an Edinburgh Festival magazine.

We were then ushered through a separate security gate first onto the plane. Greeting us was champagne and a centre cubicle where we could put the sides up and block out the rest of the world. The best thing was undoubtedly the seats. I’m a tall man with a gangly frame; going on a plane often involves me flatpacking my body into a tight place. Here though, you could make your seat into a bed with sheets and quilts included. After watching Fight with my Family and Can You Ever Forgive Me?, I laid back and thought of all those poor suckers in economy class. For a few hours I was a high roller, a buy-sell bawler, the embodiment of champagne socialist. Then the plane landed and I was back to being a paid up member of the trade union, ready to tell America about the beauty of our NHS.

I didn't want to wear flight socks. My wife insisted.
I wore them. This is compromise. (All pics. The Girl.)

After a short taxi ride we arrived at our first hotel, Loews, in Coronado, just outside San Diego. By the beach it had a resort feel, just the tonic following a long year at school. Following a charcuterie board and a round of drinks, we headed to bed. No need to count states, we were asleep in minutes.

Thursday 25^th July

I awoke early and took my bed to the balcony where I read whilst The Girl slept. On rising she went with me down to the restaurant where I had some doorstop fried bread and contemplated my arteries. It being the first day we vowed to take it easy, so we just walked to the neighbouring beach Silver Lake. After walking to the far end of the beach, a 4x4 pulled up alongside us. The man was in military uniform. ‘Excuse me, do you know you’re walking on a military base. There’s a sign back there that should have informed you.’ We had no idea and saw no sign. It wasn’t in our itinerary to be arrested on espionage charges the first day, so we conceded ground and made our way back to the public beach. On reaching there, we saw one small A4 sign, pegged into the sand, notifying us of military land. If this is America’s homeland security, then they should be very afraid. For two unassuming Englanders to infiltrate a military compound is a worry. It also served as a fitting metaphor for a Trump's regime: an ego built on a pillar of sand.

After busting out of jail, we donned our bathers and lounged by the pool. I got into conversation with Dale, a gas worker from Kansas City. We talked politics in trunks for an hour. (Mental note: new TV idea for Netflix, where I go to beach resorts and interview holiday Joe’s on politics.) Bored of hearing us debate public vs private ownership, The Girl told me to join her for a swim. The water was lovely.

Dry and revitalised, we had dinner at the hotel restaurant. I had booked us a table overlooking the mariner earlier. When asked if it was a special occasion, I told the gent it was our honeymoon. Later into our meal two glasses of champagne were brought over to us. We thanked the elderly waiter, a man that resembled the movie trope of ‘wise, kind old man,’ and he told us it was his pleasure, welcoming us to "paradise." As we looked out onto the boats under the sunkissed sky, it was difficult to disagree.

A light breakfast.

Friday 26^th July

Being based in Coronado, we had to go and see where Some Like It Hot was filmed. The Hotel del Coronado is where much of the film is set. Consequently, we took the hotel shuttle into town and did our first bit of movie gawking. Knowing that Billy Wilder, Marilyn Monroe and Jack Lemon were here was very special. Wilder is one of my heroes, directing Sunset Boulevard, The Seven Year Itch and the great, great The Apartment – to see a famous film location without yet reaching LA really whetted the appetite.

Some Like It Hot.

Next, we took the ferry over to San Diego. On route we saw the impressive buildings as well as some jumping, bounding sea lions. In the city we walked up and over it, seeing the baseball stadium, famous Gaslamp Quarter and the incredible Bilboa Park. Walking back down, we took in the waterfront before heading back to Coronado.

Here, we popped into an old school 50’s diner where small jukeboxes decorate the table and root beer is served cold. We then had at delicious seafood at Brigantine.

Saturday 27^th July

It was time to check out of San Diego and ring the reception bell at LA. First, we had to arrange our method of transport. My brother had told me that hi-tech Uber was the way to go in the old US of A, so after working out the options I joined the 21^st century, within minutes one was there. We then hopped on the two hour train to la, la land; the place where faces and dreams are made.

Arriving earlier than we thought, we had an extra evening to explore. We headed to Hollywood. First, we did the Walk of Fame, looking down on the ground like detectorists, our internal buzzers going off when we saw a name we recognised. Interestingly, the likes of Frank Sinatra and Orson Wells had more than one star. Apparently, if you’re famous in different fields you got more. What was interesting as well was where people have their stars. Outside premium locations like The Chinese Theatre and Dolby Theare, you get a better calibre of star: your Clark Gables and Rita Hayworths. Outside tourist tat and vape shops, you get the kind of people who only their mothers know. Apparently, Harvey Weinstein’s star has been moved to a sewer grate- or the floor of a public toilet- I can’t remember which.

A bit of LA is Watford FC.

Following this, we walked down to Paramount Studios to see the gates that have welcomed the great and the good of Hollywood. Shut out from this fantasia, we were forced to face reality: it was late and we were miles from a metro station. I sent for our chauffeur, Mr Uber, and arriving back our eyes faded to back.

Sunday 28^th July

Up early, we made our way across town to Griffith Park. Griffith park was donated by Griffith J. Griffith, a mining magnate, who possessed a huge fortune and stupid name. Amassing great wealth, Griffith wanted a public observatory to be set up in his name. This might seem very philanthropic of you, Griffith Griffith, but try walking up to your ‘gift’ on a hot LA day. At the top of the hill, I was cursing his stupid name, ready to graffiti his gravestone with the heading, ‘Here lies Griffith J. Griffith. Son of people too lazy to name him properly,’ until I saw the view from the top. The Hollywood sign, stood majestically, a come and get me plea to all aspiring actors, a monument to marvel at. The observatory was beautiful too. Well worth the walk.

At the Observatory.

Later in the evening we met up with my brother’s godparents, natives of LA’s Orange County. Yes, you heard right: my brother’s godparents. My mum and dad saw fit to christen one of their sons but not the other. If you think about this, this is favouritism of the wildest kind. Forget ‘you got him a bike, you only got me a unicycle.’ (I don’t care about the extra wheel.) My mum and dad have given my brother eternal paradise, whereas I've got interminable limbo. 

We had a lovely meal at ‘The Six Chow House’ and my brother had even phoned up in advance to get the table champagne. (It’s the least he could do, given he’s going to have a much happier afterlife than me.) It was lovely chatting to Rita and Leslie. Hopefully I did enough to convince them to be my godparents too. I need to get on that heaven train.

Monday 29^th August

This morning, we headed to Studio City to do the Warner Brothers tour. The Girl and I were debating before we went what studio to go to: Universal, Paramount or Warner. Universal we felt was a bit too actiony for us. We like a few blockbusters, but really our heart is in movie history. Warner seemed to have a nice mix of classic Hollywood and modern sitcom – two of our favourite things.

The tour was brilliantly led by KC, who said we would ‘be her sunshine band for the day.’ She took us on carts round the lots where Casablanca, Rebel Without a Cause and Jurassic Park were filmed. The sets are clever as they can double, triple, extend to being multiple things. For example we saw the police steps where James Dean is dragged up in Rebel- with a bit of magic and signage though this building has been used as an exterior for other films.

We also went to Stars Hollow and saw the Gilmore Girls set with Miss Patty’s dance studio and Lorelai’s house still in its original condition. Having watched the zippy, screwball series last year, to be in it this year was great. Further, we went into the living studio where Ellen is filmed. For us Brits, Ellen is only a minor deal, but in America she’s a huge name. Some of the people on our tours literally fell over themselves once they caught a glimpse of the sofa (the woman was ok. Just some minor bruising. Nothing some ice won't fix).

A really cool bit was where we did the ‘self-tour’ at the end. The Girl and me got our picture taken in Central Perk, went into a sound studio to see how a film is mixed and got to hold an Oscar. I hope me holding an Oscar will inspire other Anglo-Asian men to believe they can break through in Tinseltown. If I can do it, then you can too.

Warner Brothers.

After this, we took an Uber to the Sunset Strip where I got to see the LA Comedy Store, an important landmark for stand up fans. We then enjoyed happy hour at multiple rock bars. The last one we went to, ‘Rainbow Bar and Grill,’ seemed to have a Lemmy from Motorhead theme. I don’t know how pleased they were that I put our first dance on the jukebox: a Johnny Cash-Bob Dylan duet hardly has the pinball ferocity of ‘Ace of Spades.’

Tuesday 30^th July

This was the day we got the Amtrak Pacific Surfliner, so called because it rides the west coast of America. The Girl and I had heard great things about the view from this train so neither of us were bothered that we’d be spending eleven hours on it. We were not disappointed. Paying twenty dollars extra for business class (we were getting the taste for it), we were treated to an executive lounge: free tea, coffee and biscuits. Also, we were escorted down by Amtrak ‘red caps’ to our platform; this involved hopping on a mobility type scooter, veering between posts and columns, straight onto the train. Maybe America’s obesity problem is down to the perks of business class: they won’t even let you walk to the platform.

Once on board we left Hollywood, but not the movies. For along the coast we experienced scene change after scene change: beach, cliff, farmland, quarry and city – all shot in sweeping panorama. With an observation desk housing wide windows we saw the movie of Americana play out in front of us. Personally, I was most excited to go into Steinbeck country. John Steinbeck is California’s great writer; Grapes of Wrath is one of my favourite books and Of Mice and Men is one I’ve taught for years. To see the gabilan mountains and Salinas river, referred to in Of Mice's opening chapter, was a real highlight for me. When something has been part of your imagination for years to see it physicalised was quite something.

The train that hugged the coast.

Later on the train, we went into the dining cart and enjoyed a meal whilst the landscape turned like a flip book before us.

I love a train ride. I have a chance to read and daydream, coupled with my best mate and the best landscape it was practically perfect in every way.

Wednesday 31^st July

We were now in San Francisco’s ‘Hotel Vertigo.’ Named because Alfred Hitchcock filmed Vertigo in San Fran and because the hotel boasts a vertiginous staircase, like the film. We headed out early to secure our departure time for Alcatraz. With this secure, we made our way to Lombard Street or what some of you know it as ‘The Crooked Street.’ Apparently there is one other street more crooked in the world, but as hairpin bends go this takes some beating. The facts it’s beautified with lovely flowers helps too. Cars lined up at the top to go down it: one driver we saw had a GoPro set up so he could film his landmark breaking.

After we took a walk up the bay, along the numerous piers of San Francisco. America doesn’t just do one pier like Southend and Swanage, it has a whole multitude of them. We went up nearly every one, taking in an old fashioned arcade, sea lion gathering and restaurants. When it was time we headed over to the pier housing the ferry that would take us to Alcatraz.

Alcatraz was where Al Capone and other serious mobsters and murdstars were held. Because it’s on a rock in the middle of the ocean, it was seen as impossible to escape. Whilst over in Alcatraz we learnt about two attempted escapes: The Battle of Alcatraz and Escape from Alcatraz. Let me just say, I think Stephen King must have done the same tour as us, as his story ‘Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption,’ owes a heavy debt to these actual events. What I also found fascinating was what happened after the prison closed: Native Americans staged a sit-in to protest against sacred land being repossessed. I had no idea about this. Travel broadens the mind, I guess.

Looks quite nice from here. Probably wasn't nice if you were there in the 30's though.

In the evening we took a night trip across the ‘jealous older brother,’ the Bay Bridge, to Treasure Island where we got a view of San Fran’s skyline. Despite its beauty, I was so cold. Even the hot chocolate I bought could not detract from the biting winds San Fran is known for. Which just goes to prove you can be looking at most beautiful thing, but if you don’t have appropriate clothing it may as well be a sewage plant. Try going to the Taj Mahal at monsoon season without a serviceable umbrella - you’ll see.

Thursday 1^st August.

Are you still reading?

Today, we went to the bike hire shop ‘Blazing Saddles’ to rent some cycles. We had booked some E- bikes in advanced, told that electrical power was the best way of negotiating the city’s crazy hills. Unfortunately, I am no cyclist. A few years ago, I went to Rome with The Girl, and knowing she wanted to take a bike ride, I thought I best brush up on my cycling. I hadn’t been on a bike in over twenty years. As a child most of my cycling experiences ending up with me crying, a stinging nettle affixed to my lip. So three years ago my dad let me on his bike and held onto the back in a way a parent would for a three year old as opposed to a thirty year old man. I just about managed to stay upright. In Rome it was just a big park we cycled around, so it was fine. Today though, I was going across a bridge that I once watched a suicide documentary about. Getting on the E-bike in the shop, I found I had no control. The member of staff said, ‘I can’t let you ride this. You’ll have to have a regular one.’ It’s these kind of indignities and personal embarrassments that keep me humble.

Somehow we got across the bridge. (In all honesty I’m fine at going, it’s slowing down and stopping I struggle with). Reaching the other side, we explored Sausilito, a beautiful place where only people on The Sunday Times Rich List live. Here, the weather is Mediterranean, far removed from the icy blasts you get across the water. Taking our bikes on board the ferry (there was no way I was getting up that hill), we made our way back to the bike shop for a refund. ‘Just out of interest, why didn’t you get an E-bike?’ the assistant asked. My wife stepped in, ‘We just didn’t like the feel of them,’ she said. Most wives complain about picking their partner’s pants off the floor, mine, I imagine, gets tired of picking my dignity.

Our downgraded bikes.

Friday 2^nd August

We were leaving San Francisco and heading to Yosemite National Park. With no direct public transport, we needed to drive. I was assigned to be the driver, The Girl my navigator. Picking up the hire car, we were told to go into a neighbouring garage. Now I had visions of burning down the American highway, blaring out ‘Born to Run,’ whilst our wheels tore through the road like an 80’s Milky Way advert. What I did not envisage was having to ask a man to come over and tell me how to start an automatic car. How was I to know you had to press the break to shift the car into drive? Again, it’s these humiliations that keep my ego in check.

With The Girl reminding me to ‘keep on the right,’ we made our way out of dizzying city traffic onto the highway. After getting to grip with the lanes,-some had seven- I grew in confidence and started to overtake mobility carts. Actually, it became a lovely drive, leaving the highway it was just us for hours, crossing no man’s land, deserted desert terrain, seeking Yosemite beauty.

Paying our $35 dollars to enter the national park, we drove for twenty minutes before reaching our accommodation. I knew nothing about Yosemite. Yosemite was The Girl’s doing. We had booked into a cabin without knowing much about Wawona where we were staying. Our place, the cheapest on our trip, was my favourite. To stay in a cabin in the forest was something I thought I'd never do. Our wooden home was the slice of American pie we were hoping for. They say ‘a happy heart makes a happy home;’ I disagree: ‘a sofa makes a happy home.’ After staying in hotels, the chance to lie back on a sofa with my nearest and dearest, adopting our default home setting was a lovely thing indeed. To cap it all, we had a covered patio running along the back and side of the property. With a gas barbecue provided, we headed to the local store to get dinner.

Home for a few days.

Saturday 3^rd August

We awoke early. (I’ve said this a lot now that it’s starting to look like a shit catchphrase. From now on take it as read that we got up early). Our plan for the day was to go to see the sequoia trees as Mariposa Grove. These trees are huge. Really huge. Like bigger than your house huge. Some grow to three hundred feet too. And think of basketball players feet, as opposed to hobbit feet. The trees were incredibly beautiful, Tolkienesque in their size and grandeur. There was one you could walk through, one that fused at the top ‘the faithful couple’ and a great, big massive one ‘Grizzly Giant’ that if a person would put its balls on the table and say, ‘no ones are bigger than this.’

A pretty big tree.

An hour drive and we went to the general store for food. There, we saw a stagecoach set up, offering $5 dollar rides. The Girl and I jumped at the chance to be taken around the site by a man who went by the name Buckshot. After our horse and trap ride, he told us about being a driver since the age of fourteen, growing up with hundreds of acres, and his brother working the rodeo. He also revealed how he was cowboy cook and served Prince Philip (a horse and trap enthusiast) when he came to America. An interesting man. I wish I got his number; it would be good to have a ‘Buckshot’ in my phone book.

Back at base we checked out a local waterfall and river. Seeing other swimmers, I said to The Girl, ‘Let’s get our bathers and swim the waters.’ (This is how I talk). After consulting the information book at the cabin, she discovered it was safe to do. Swimming in a river made me feel pretty good about myself. Like I was adventurous or something. I have a reputation for being quite sensible, so next time someone says, ‘You’re quite a plain kind of a guy.’ I’ll stick my river anecdote down them.

Sunday 4^th August

We awoke …

We actually woke up really early because we were going to the main Yosemite Village and heard queues can be hours long. We arrived in an hour at 7.45, where few people were there. This gave us the chance to see Lower Yosemite Fall without many people for company. Looking up you can see the Upper Yosemite Fall converge with the lower one to make it one of the biggest and most breathtaking waterfalls in the world.

We then hopped on the shuttle to see El Capitan, the granite monolith that stands about 3000 ft in height. Now I had heard of the structure because it featured in Free Solo, the Oscar winning documentary about ‘free solo’ climber Alex Honnold. I hadn’t seen the film but I heard the awestruck reviews of the incredible lengths that were taken to get this incredible attempt on film. Honnold scaled the rock face ‘free solo’ without ropes in just a few hours. Looking at El Capitan, I couldn’t fathom how this was done. It simply isn’t built for man to conquer. It is the vertical sibling of Alcatraz: impenetrable, unbeatable, a dizzying reminder of untameable nature. On the flight home we watched Free Solo in awe. Watch it. Through your hands.

After, we walked down to Cathedral Beach which put into perspective how beautiful nature was. With my toes in the water, I saw sand, I looked up again and saw trees, from there mountains, and only craning my neck, sky. I had somehow walked into a painting by one of the great masters, everywhere I looked was peerless, pristine. Beyond Yosemite the world was a mess, but here, pure and unspolit everything was right.

The rest of the day felt like I was in a HD fantasy film a la ‘Lord of the Rings.’ I really hadn’t been as anywhere that came close to Yosemites beauty. It inspired in everyone a degree of reverence: there was no shouting, no arguments, no phone calls. There was just a feeling of happiness that we were humble guests in the land of giants.

A good nature picture involves reflection - or so I'm told. The Girl was very smug about her photography skill here.

Leaving, we had to descend our very own crooked street. It’s no exaggeration to say to get down from Yosemite Village you have to drive down the windy, windy roads for 45 minutes. I had to be really concentrated the whole time, only breaking character to see The Girl holding her seat for dear life. One wrong move and we would go the way of Thelma and Louise. For a Hollywood adventure it would be an apt way to go. Fortunately, we survived the mountain and retired to bed.

Monday 5^th August

We…

The final leg of our trip involved us going to Seattle. To get there we had to fly via Sacramento. It was a good, easy drive that only involved one person swearing at me. (I forgot momentarily the fast lane was on the left: poodling along a woman waved her fist at me with a vigour that suggested she wished me, my wife and our family dead.)

After just a two-hour flight, we were in Seattle. A short taxi journey led us to the Edgewater Hotel. The Edgewater is aptly named: it’s on the edge of the water. After checking in, the receptionist asked if we were for any occasion, we said the magic words and were upgraded. Previously we had booked a Garden View balcony, which turned out to be overlooking the front: a car park. Now that it was known were honeymooning, we scored a sea view balcony. As we stepped on, the sea was below our feet. Not literally mind, we weren’t walking on water like Jesus. But beneath the balcony was the sea. I vowed to wake early in the morning to have a coffee overlooking the great blue.

It being late we walked down to a neighbouring restaurant ‘Anthony’s.’ There, we took our seats outside and enjoyed the view. Here, the seafood was quite sublime. I had the seafood chowder to start and salmon and mash for main. The Girl had something; I wasn’t paying attention: if you don’t get to eat it, what’s the point of registering? Focus on your food and luxuriate on your own taste buds is my own advice.

The city at night.

Tuesday 6^th August

We …

Our first stop today was Pike Place, the historic Seattle market. Part of local legend, it was at risk of closure until the local community rallied around it. Now, it’s thriving, a photo opp for tourists and commercial centre for natives. What’s so loveable about the place is it’s performative nature. The traders aren’t just selling their wares, their selling themselves too. The fishmongers are a Greek Chorus, chanting in unison, slinging fish back and forth at one another like an NFL training session; the greengrocer sings the refrain to 90’s MTV tune, and the bakers break the fourth wall to offer you samples. We didn’t need to pay to see a show in Seattle; the market is a show in itself. 

Pike Place: where the market is the hottest ticket in town.

I loved the market. The secondhand bookstores were great. (Buying a book firsthand in America is costly.) We also went to Uli’s where you can get the best sausage in Seattle. (Take your mind out of the gutter Carry On fans.) Here, we had a smorgasbord of sausage (please…) and it was all very delicious.

We then took a whistle-stop tour of the public library, Colombia Centre (taller than the Space Needle) and up, across the waterfront. After a quick change we were back out to go to Pike Place Brewery. Somehow The Girl managed to have a gluten-free meal. As a coeliac, it can be difficult to find places to eat. Let this be a lesson restauranteur: if she can have a gluten-free meal, in a business built on gluten, then you can be more accommodating. I had all the beers. I ordered the paddle of beer so I could try each. I had a bet with myself that I would like the Pale Ale the best. I didn’t. I now owe myself a million pounds. I’ll be paying that back long into the afterlife. Fortunately, I’ve got years in limbo to save up.

Wednesday 7^th August

Well, you know how it started.

Our plan for the day was to head to the Seattle Centre. The Centre is the cultural hub of Seattle, housing the Museum of Childhood, Museum of Popular Culture, Chihuly Garden and Glass – and, of course, The Space Needle.

My brother had recommended the Popular Culture so we headed there first. This museum is as modern as its subject material, being thoroughly interactive, allowing you to pick up and play instruments, scream into photo booths and get on Prince’s motorbike.

The bottom floor is devoted to genre: there’s a room for horror, sci-fi and fantasy. In other words, it’s a shrine to geekdom. In horror we found out about the secrets of scares; how and why we crave fear, and how movie directors create safe spaces to experience our worst imaginings. Then, we were into sci-fi and got to operate the controls on some spaceship. (I think it was Star Trek related). From there, we were into a fantasy world, learning how the geeks have inherited the world, and how this much maligned world has become cool.

The other floors were dedicated to the Seattle music scene, spearheaded by Nirvana and Pearl Jam. I was a big Pearl Jam fan in my teens. And although I now find their music a little earnest, I appreciate their politics if nothing else: they have raised a huge amount for local homeless charities. My favourite bit was the other music sections where we got to go on Prince’s bike from Purple Rain and got to have a play upstairs on all the music equipment. The Girl on the decks really was something. She may look Home Counties but she turns table like an efficient waiter, drops beats like a clumsy Cali farmer and scratches like a savage cat.

The next place blew my mind. Chihuly Gardens is named after the glassblower that created the works of art. Through that technique, he is created technicolour sculptures that are a sight to behold. Losing the sight in one eye means he now has to direct other glassblowers to achieve his vision. The structures are remarkable and I’m glad my dad had heard about it to remind us to go.

All made from glass.

Finally, we went up the Space Needle, a monument to The Space Race. Built in the 60’s to encourage innovation and exploration, it might not be the biggest building in Seattle but it’s the finest. The Girl was a lot braver than I was up there. She leant back on the glass like someone with a death wish. She said to me, ‘Just lie back and think of England.’ And I thought, ‘I’ll just lie back and think of falling 604 ft to my death. No thanks.’ I was brave to go downstairs to the glass floor. To prove my masculinity, I even did a jump. Although this jump wasn’t like Charlie from Busted, more like Big Girls Blouse from Dunstable.

Leaving, we walked arm in arm through the glittering streets to bed.

Thursday 8^th August

After seeing the city skyline from a vantage on the other side of town, we made our way back to the hotel. There, we looked back at all the photos, re-living, re-experiencing the memories of the two weeks. Those memories were bought by you and made by her. I probably wouldn’t have gone up the west coast of America without having someone to share it with. I’m so glad I saw it with her. We’re both so appreciative of your generosity that made it happen. Thank you.

Sweet Sorrow

We made our way slowly down the path that led to the stream

Swayin' slightly

Drunk on the sun I suppose

It was a real summer's day

The air hummin' with heat

Whilst the trees beckoned us into their cool green shade

And when we reached the stream

I put a bottle of cider into the water to chill

Both of us knowin' that we'd drink it long before we had chance

(David’s Last Summer, Pulp)

These words form the inspiration for David Nicholls’ new book, Sweet Sorrow. In Keats’ Ode to Autumn, he eulogises the season of abundance, where produce is swollen, plumped, loaded and blessed. In many way the above lyrics are an ode to summer, a season of sundazed possibilities, where days stretch out like contended yawns. Look at those unhurried words: ‘slowly,’ and ‘swayin’: when you’ve got six weeks holiday what’s the rush? And what about the teenage romanticism of the last two lines: instead of putting Moet in an iced bucket, it’s cider in the stream – only the pay off is that the Strongbow won’t be chilled; adolescent thirst hasn’t got the patience for that.

Most share Jarvis Cocker’s sentiment. This is the prevailing view of the summer holidays. It is the season to unwind and relax. For families to get away from the urban sprawl, decamp to the seaside. For teachers to put down their mark book, pick up the prosecco. For children to exchange school desks for ice creams. For people to unbutton tight uniform, adopt loose leisure.

Yes for some the coming of the ice cream van signals Fonz-like happy days; however, for others it’s a harbinger of sadness. Six weeks is a long time if you’re from an unhappy home. Six weeks is an age when mum and dad are arguing. The cost of summer huge when your family can't scratch a living. It can be fucking boring too if you don’t have anyone to do anything with. I remember living in a house share a few years ago where I was the only teacher; my friends from work were busy with children, and I didn’t have the motivation for travel; after completing The Wire box set I was at a loss as to what to do with my time. I missed the interaction and conversation that work brings. Now, my wife is a teacher it’s always a happy time as we kick cans and lark about with one another, but I appreciate how for some it's tedious or- even worse- painful.

A TV box set does not a summer make.

The oxymoronic title Sweet Sorrow is taken from Romeo and Juliet, a play that oscillates from happiness to despair, love to hate, endings to beginnings. Nicholls has chosen it because Romeo and Juliet is what his story is framed around, but also because it captures that formative time in a teenager’s life when one experiences intense joy and sadness. At school your time is not your own; it’s controlled by the state; however, on holiday there’s the opportunity for long bike rides, sprawling meet-ups and extended parties. All of this social time can give rise to first kisses and condoms, but also first heartbreaks and scares. The time to be yourself is fraught with opportunities, challenges.

Sweet Sorrow begins with an ending. School’s out for summer and the students of Merton Grange are pretty happy about it. However one student isn’t so sure. Charlie Lewis isn’t sure how he’s going to fill those days, those endless days. With his friends in full-time work and his parents recently separated, Charlie isn’t going to bask in the sunshine but be burnt by it. The only things he has for company is a shitty part-time job and a dad that won’t get out of bed. The sky is an illusion: it may profess to be blue, the reality though is dark, dark grey. For Charlie and his father the sun is a toff during austerity, having a laugh whilst they experience depression.

With nothing to do Charlie demands his bike take him anywhere, I don't care. Each day he heads further and further, out into the country, up the hills, across the meadows; here, he rests to have a read. Books are a new thing for Charlie, something to pass the time. At school he was of average intelligence, yet his family breakdown means he's destined for re-sit grades. 

The humble bike is a child's passport to the world.

Whilst reading, a girl literally stumbles into his path; she is hurt and needs support. The girl, Fran Francis, is from Chatsborne school; a school that according to Charlie is ‘composed entirely of head boys and girls, eating vegetarian tagine from self-carved bowls on furniture they’d made from reclaimed wood.’ Of course like Romeo and Juliet this is just tribal prejudice; admittedly unlike Romeo and Juliet both rivals aren’t ‘alike in dignity,’ one does cater for working-class students, the other for middle-class; yet the kids aren’t all that different. For one, Fran shares his views on the summer, offering:

This summer’s a bastard isn’t it? Sun comes out, sky’s blue if you’re lucky and suddenly there are all these preconceived ideas of what you should be doing, lying on the beach or jumping off a rope swing into the river or having a picnic with all your mates, sitting on a blanket in a meadow and eating strawberries and laughing in that mad way, like in the adverts.

Like Charlie, she is cynical about the season of joy. She doesn’t feel the breeze blowing down her back, but down her neck. There’s the pressure to do something remarkable with it, with yourself, to show that you haven’t wasted time, but manipulated it for personal gain. Yet instead of being hamstrung by it, she’s determined to use it as motivation: to take the corporate adverts and turn them into artistic life. Up the hill she’s rehearsing for an amateur production of Romeo and Juliet and she wants Charlie to join them. Could a Merton Grange boy (M for Montague- I just noticed that) and Chatsborne girl (C for Capulet) make life imitate art and become star-crossed lovers?

Two houses both unlike in dignity,

In South London where Nicholls lays his scene.

David Nicholls was an actor himself before he went into writing. Although he is self-effacing about this time, the fact remains he was with the National Theatre and performed alongside Judi Dench in Chekhov’s The Seagull. Nevertheless, he was mainly an understudy in his career; all of this waiting in the wings left him unsatisfied. This dissatisfaction led to him leaving the profession and entering writing; firstly for Cold Feet, and then into novels, where he enjoyed huge success with One Day ­­– a novel that also features a character who performs. This knowledge of the industry makes Nicholls excellent at pricking the pretension of actors, but also able to recognise the sense of worth it gives you.

Even though his books sell by the bucketload, Nicholls is an incredibly smart writer. A lesser writer would have had Charlie cast as Romeo alongside Fran’s Juliet. Here though, Charlie is Sampson, promoted later to Benvolio. Nicholls once dreamt of being a stand-up and his love of comedy is evident here, recognising how audiences root more for the underdog than the star. If this were a Nicholas Sparks novel you can bet your bottom dollar the casting decision would be different; as it is Charlie is taught by Fran to act, a reading experience he describes ‘like playing tennis with a competitor who wanted me to win, knocking the ball back courteously to my racket.’

Clever lad.

The thing I love about David Nicholls is he writes mainstream fiction with a literary pen. For instance, the above simile is original and accessible, quite a feat in a book market that's either cliched or impenetrable. Two other similes I love in the book are: ‘I could make out her BCG scar, dimpled like the markings on a Roman coin,’ when describing Fran; and ‘Hands plunged deep in the other’s waistband as if pulling tickets for a raffle,’ when describing the tactile dips of the school disco.

I really loved Sweet Sorrow, although I would advise that it is slower than Nicholls’ other work. Think of it more like a John Hughes movie and less like a One Day plot rollercoaster and you’ll know what to expect. To usher in a summer holiday it was a perfect read, parting from it was well such …

Sweet Sorrow is out now.

Educated

Educated can mean two things. On a base level it’s about going through school and getting some grades. On a deeper level it’s the journey we take from ignorance to enlightenment, decoding lies and falsehoods, discovering  truth and freedom.

Tara Westover in many respects was denied both forms of education. She was brought up in Bucks Peak, Idaho, a home on the hillside backdropped by a looming mountain. Her father, a Survivalist, believed the end was coming, and prepared his family for this every day. He was also mistrustful of the Government, believing they were Satan’s soldiers, responsible for altering minds and bodies with their contaminated health care and education. A local stand-off did not help matters either. When Randy Weaver came face to face with the FBI in 1992, the botched handling would fuel Survivalism for years to come. With Weaver’s wife shot and some of the older children killed in a gun battle, government conspiracists had a story they could dine on ‘til Judgement. The mismanagement of that operation exacerbated Tara Westover’s miseducation. Her father would always turn to her and say: you can’t trust the State, look what they did to poor Miss Weaver. The fact Randy was part of the Aryan Nation was neglected. The fact the Agency had tried to broker a peace deal ignored. Gene Westover was a signed and sealed member of Confirmation Bias: he didn’t deliberately hide from the facts; he just sought the information that supported his belief. 

Randy Weaver supporters. .Photo. Jeff T Green/AP

So, Tara grew up without state education or healthcare. For a long time the state didn’t even know she existed. The Westovers never registered her birth. Documentation was a form of state control. What business of it was theirs who she was? The family were well and truly off-the-grid. Gene made money at the local junkyard, but most lucrative was his wife’s job as midwife. The occupation is fascinatingly chronicled in the book where we see Faye learn on the job. Faye would go around with her friend to homes of other Survivalists and people who simply couldn’t afford medical bills; there they would perform the births with rudimentary equipment and homeopathic oils. Even though she had some aptitude for it, Faye never really had the stomach for the job, but her husband persisted, insisting she was doing God’s work. Of course children died in the process, however, this was just part of God’s plan.

For Tara she was put to work early. Her stories on her days at the junkyard are the stuff of horror. Just a little girl she is thrown from a loader onto a trailer. Her father is responsible. He was the one who told her to get in to settle the iron. The gash on her leg is vast. An open wound. A reminder that her father is playing fast and loose with her life. If she died, well that would be tragic, but it would just be part of God’s plan. It’s at this point that Tara begins to think about school. She says she wants to go. 

It takes her years to get there.

Education can seem like a mountain. How great is this front cover?

Tara’s journey to education is so long because of her father’s indoctrination. He has schooled her in ignorance, blackboarded her in the Old Testament, taught her to work in silence and not ask questions. The thing is Gene isn’t a teacher. He just thinks he’s one. To all extents and purposes, he’s the Emperor’s New Clothes. With Y2K on the horizon he tells his family to prepare for the worst. The world is heading for a blue screen shutdown. System Restore won’t work here. Of course when 2000 rolls round, nothing happens. Westover describes her reaction, 

He seemed smaller to me than he had that morning. The disappointment in his features were so childlike, for a moment I wondered how God could deny him this.

Gene is exposed yet Tara isn’t yet strong enough to point and laugh; he is after all her father, she loves him.

It is this love that ultimately imprisons Tara. Every time she thinks of getting away, the loyalty for her family pulls her back. She operates in a kind of paradox where she knows her families beliefs are crazy yet believes in them all the same. It’s only when she sees a life beyond her home through acting that she realises that her world isn’t normal; it’s strange, disturbing and harmful. Her older brother, Tyler, tries to get her into education. Urging like he did to leave the coop and fly free. But it’s tough. Her father is on hand to preach damnation at her, and her brother, Shawn, there to grab her by the throat when she strays. The psychological and physical abuse she is subjected to is written in a matter-of-fact way, cinema verité style, without heavy strings and melodrama. For as bad as this male behaviour is, there is some good in these men. Gene has been damaged by his father, Shawn by his. Their family tree is cankered - homeopathy can't cure it.

In time Tara seeks true education. Although she is undoubtedly courageous, I think something is owed to Tyler, her older brother.  By him acquiring knowledge, he inspires his sister to do the same. You can’t want something if you don’t know it exists. It’s Tyler playing records and leaving books around that tempts Tara to take from the Tree. Her subsequent banishment lays the groundwork for a truly incredible rise. By the end you will rapture on Tara Westover’s transformation. Because despite what her family would say, she is no fallen angel; instead a person reborn, an educated Second Coming if you will. 

A remarkable coming of age story then about surviving Survivalists. Jon Ronson meets Charles Dickens. Meet Educated: your new favourite book.

Educated is available now.

When They See Us

There’s a glut of true crime documentaries on Netflix. I’ve been a living room juror for a few of them: the sublime Making a Murderer as well as the twisty The Staircase. Although they’re enthralling pieces of television, they can be frustrating views. Filmed at the time of the case, the documentarians have no idea where the story is going; without foresight they’re shooting thousands of hours of footage that they then have to string into narrative. With the need to keep viewers entertained, cliff-hangers are shoehorned into the end of every episode, making it feel emotionally manipulative and artificially hooky,

With Ava DuVernay’s When They See Us this is not the case. The case of The Central Park Five was essentially closed in 2002 when New York City squashed the men’s conviction, exonerating all of criminal charges. The fact DuVernay has the benefit of hindsight, and knows conclusively that her subjects are innocent, allows her to create a work that’s focused in intent, putting the justice system on trial for racial profiling. Because this is not a ‘did-they-didn’t-they-do-it’: the viewer doesn’t have the chance to play settee sleuth. You can put down your notepad – there’s no place for half-thoughts here. Instead the programme reads less like a pulpy page turner and more like an essay, a treatise on what happens when institutions judge someone on the colour of their skin, not on the content of their evidence.

The Central Park Five was a 2012 documentary from Ken Burns, Sarah Burns and David McMahon. It chronicled how five boys’ decision to go the park had life-changing consequences. The date in question was April 19^th, 1989. Kevin, Antron, Yusuf, Raymond and Korey were in the main 7^th and 8^th graders. Boys, not men. Yusuf and Korey were friends; the others strangers. School had just kicked out and the boys celebrated their freedom by joining a quasi-conga line. Unfortunately, the group they followed were up to no good. When they got to the park, they were shocked by the behaviour on show. Reckless ‘wilding’ was occurring all around them. Innocent walkers were being harassed. Cyclists pulled from bikes. Punches were thrown. Purses stolen. The five were on the perimeter of this. When the sirens came calling, the boys made a run from it. Two of the hares escaped the hounds, the others were spat into police cars.

Meanwhile on the other side of the park, Trisha Meili, was being beaten and raped. Sexual assaults were up in New York and Linda Fernstein, Head of Sexual Crimes, needed results. With some young black men in custody for ‘wilding,’ she sent her officers to round up all the other black and Hispanic boys in the park that night. Before the evidence had been analysed, she concluded that the 'wilding' children were the ones guilty of rape. The next day, the police came for Yusuf. They had an ID on him and wanted to take him down to the station. They did not have a match on Korey, his friend. Aware that Yusuf’s mother would kill him if he didn’t have his friend’s back, Korey volunteered to go down the police station with him. This action changed his life.

Now the police had all five boys in custody. All but Korey were under 16; all but Korey should have had an adult in attendance. Korey himself had learning difficulties and needed the same. Either through sweet-talking, coercion or menace, the boys were denied guardianship and legal representation. They were 12-13-year-old boys, unversed in defence, going up against seasoned detectives, educated in examination. Desperate for a quick result, the NYPD constructed a narrative first, then wrote their characters into it. As far as they were concerned, the rape was carried out by all five. All they needed was for the boys to collaborate on the story. The trouble was, other than Yusuf and Korey, the boys didn’t really know each other. They didn’t even know each other’s names. Denied food, sleep and representation, it wasn’t long before they were giving up names hitherto unknown to them. With every police prompt promising, ‘You’ll go home tonight if you talk,’ they parroted back what they were told. Without realising it, they were building their own cages; every word a bar reinforcing their incarceration.

This is the first episode of DuVernay’s dramatisation of The Central Park Five’s conviction and exoneration. With the original documentary being 120 minutes long, this four episode re-telling has the chance to explore the boys’ stories in greater detail. The first few minutes are a masterclass in characterisation. We meet Antron disagreeing with his father on baseball. There’s Kevin dreaming of being ‘first chair’ in the school band. Korey is getting chastised by his girlfriend for skipping school. Raymond slings insults with his buddies. Yusuf is making plans with friends. Soon they are thrown out of the comfort of the stoop into the alien world of police interrogation. The acting on display is sublime, none more so than Antron (Caleel Harris) and Kevin (Asante Black), who show little boys lost as they scrabble to make sense of a situation they do not understand. Comic book kids trapped in a Kafka novel; they're put on trial for a crime they have no notion of. 

In episode two we come up for air. The claustrophobia of the police room is exchanged for the open court. Now the boys have lawyers on their side. Unfortunately, they aren’t necessarily knights of the round table. They’re a miscellaneous posse featuring a divorce attorney that’s never sat on a criminal case, a plea bargainer that favours negotiation over defence, and some pro-bono guys that might actually know how to fight. Somehow all the lawyers come together to make a good case; the trouble though is this is six years before O.J.

You might remember that O.J’s acquittal owed much to the state of race relations in America. Just a few years prior, a black man Rodney King was beaten to death by law enforcers. Black America had had quite enough of white justice and took to the streets. Therefore, when O.J's case went to court, there was a sense of anxiety over what would happen if a white judge convicted a black symbol. In 1989 the hand of history was not on the side of The Central Park Five: truly innocent black men. The Black Movement not yet strong enough to gain traction. The white press still a powerhouse that crushed and suppressed. In fact, Donald Trump, a business tycoon at the time, took out full page ads demanding these boys be put to death, espousing his message on TV, calling on America to embrace hate as a way of ensuring something get done. DuVernay shows these real-life television clips, reminding modern America: ‘this is what you voted for.’ 

At the end of the trial scene there are haunting close ups of the boys. The one that got me most was Kevin, sitting on a chair in the middle of a street, looking directly into camera, blowing a haunting note from his trumpet. Most directors break the fourth wall to take their viewers out of the artifice of reality, to remind them that they’re in a make-believe world. This does the opposite: those boys look say, ‘This isn’t dramatisation. This is me. This actually happened to me. Look at me now. Look what happened to the child me. Make sure you don’t let it happen to any young boy again.’ If a camera shot could educate people on the consequences of racism, this is it.

The third and fourth episodes are split between the incarceration of the younger boys and the older one, Korey. Korey being 16 meant he was taken to full adult prison. His time there is harrowing, redolent of Shawshank Redemption. Only he doesn’t have the Andy DeFrain smarts to out-wit his opponents. Also, we must remember these boys were charged with ‘rape.’ In an Oprah interview with the subject that accompanies the show, Yusuf Salaam says, ‘Rape is only below child molestation.’ When these boys went into juvenile hall and prison, there was a target on their back. Their treatment in prison changes them, causing Antron McCray to maintain today, ‘My life is ruined.’

The five men now. Pic. Own.

When They See Us is a visionary piece of filmmaking. Unlike Making A Murderer and Staircase, there is no uncertainty over guilt. The absence of ambiguity allows for a certainty of conviction. The consequent work is searing and polemical, invoking the Black Lives Matters campaign. For me, it was the best and boldest examination of the intersection between race and institution since David Simon’s The Wire. It’s a programme that you shouldn’t just see, but see. Look deep into the boys lives and remember that for the colour of your skin it could so easily be you, your child. Then think how unfair that is. That instead of seeing a trumpet player, they saw a criminal. Instead of a lovelorn teenager, a criminal. Instead of a baseball nut, a criminal. The thing is they didn’t see; they judged. To see you have to look beyond stereotype, hear the words. Seeing is looking without prejudice. See this. See them.

When They See Us is available on Netflix

Big Little Lies

This week I watched Catch 22 be translated for TV. Although I admired the look of the piece, I have to say I’m unsure if they’ve captured its absurd humour. For me it feels too stylised and glossy to reflect the messy irony of its source. Adapting a book is hard. A book is more than its plot. Storyline and dialogue can be easily replicated; narrative tone and voice much more elusive. Writer Bruce Miller's translation of Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale achieved it through internal monologue. Given the book was narrated by Offred, having the screen version elucidate her true thoughts ensured its sardonic spirit was not lost. Just this year Phoebe Waller-Bridge gained plaudits for her work on Luke Jennings’ Killing Eve. Not having read the book I can’t comment too much on the changes made; however, from what others have said it appears she's added her own mischievous signature to a work of genre fiction. If anything she has done what all adaptions hope to achieve: live up to the original.

The jury is out.

I would make a similar case for HBO’s Big Little Lies. The source material comes from Liane Moriarty. The Sydney writer was a bestseller before the show brought her to public attention. Her specialism lies in – well – lies. Secrets and betrayals are the river that runs through her body of work. Her ability to tantalise and tease is why she is adored by millions. She imbues her novels with all the delicious tropes of detective fiction, drip feeding clues with clever, clever subtlety, causing reader to guess, then second guess their instincts. I read Big Littles Lies last summer in three addictive sittings. The Girl has gone on to read her others, commenting favourably on them. They are perfect holidays reads. But don’t let this nomenclature fool you. Moriarty skewers middle class mores with more skill than those more feted. The privileged façade of believing one is living and behaving better than others is pierced here; it’s just done in a more sizzling way than broadsheet darlings.

The structure of the novel is quite fiendish. The first chapter begins with a curtain twitcher spying on the goings on at a school fundraiser. This is not a champagne reception in the orangery, all twinkling glass and mellifluous chatter. No, this is carousing of a sort you would not expect from 'respected' society. There’s strong words, smashed glasses, thrown fists, huge screams, approaching sirens. The chapter ends with a Greek Chorus of voices offering their two cents on an incident, which won't be revealed to the final pages. The last voice is Detective Sergeant Adrian Quinn: ‘Let me be clear. This is not a circus. This is a murder investigation.’ Not only are we in the realm of whodunnit; we’re also in the place of ‘whom did it happen to who.’ 

'Life's a beach, but not for these women,' could have been a tagline. (I'm available for tagline work.)

The second chapter flashes back to six months before the fundraiser. From hereon in we’re edging closer to Grim Reaper day, all that's left to uncover is the scythe holder, the why? wielder. With the story set before this date, we get a chance to know the characters. There’s Madeline, a mum who combines outspokenness with compassion; Celeste, who appears to have the world at her feet when in fact it weighs on them; and Jane, a new girl in town whose outsider status is exacerbated by being a young mum. Madeline and Celeste take Jane under their wing, helping her negotiate the playground drop-offs, school gate squabbles, PTA rough and tumble. All three are mothers of children the same age; they’re bound by this, but by character too: although their children mean the world to them, they aren’t their world. The word ‘mum’ is a vocation but not a definition. This standpoint is what gives them genuine friendship; they have the ability to talk about work, romance and sex – not just their children.

In the TV version Madeline, Celeste and Jane are played by Reese Witherspoon, Nicole Kidman and Shailene Woodley respectively. The first two are established Hollywood stars; the last a brilliant turn in George Clooney’s The Descendants. It was Witherspoon and Kidman who optioned the book with a view to turning it into a movie. This plan changed into a miniseries where they then enlisted Ally McBeal writer David Kelly and Dallas Buyers Club director Jean-Marc Vallee. It being American money and stars, the book has been transposed from Sydney to LA. The first series remained largely loyal to the text, although that Greek Chorus are now talking to the police as opposed the press. Also a few subplots are dispensed with; these omissions, however, don’t feel like a betrayal of Moriaty's original, rather an understandable trade-off to flesh out its main characters. 

Kidman, Woodley and Witherspoon (left to right).

Part of this rounding of characters involves giving greater prominence to their home lives and families. Madeline is a mother of two, in her second marriage. Her youngest daughter Chloe is a particular delight. Precocious in wit and music taste, she is responsible for some laugh out loud zingers. Celeste’s husband is played by Alexander Skarsgard, in his most challenging role. Jane’s son Ziggy (Iain Armitage) is the rope caught in an adult tug-of-war; his presentation of a child strangled by grown up stupidity is nuanced and smart.

Ziggy is where the lies start. Early on in school he is accused of hurting another child. Jane does not think he’s capable of such a thing. She believes the little girl is lying. When an accuser is so young, it’s difficult to denounce them; therefore, Jane and Ziggy are powerless. They are new to the community and have no cache to defend the claim. Dividing lines are drawn. On one side Madeline, Celeste and Jane; on the other, everyone else. Moriarty’s work demonstrates how little lies can render someone ostracized. Just one throwaway comment can destroy a child’s reputation. Of course, children can be forgiven for the lies they tell: they are too young to understand lies gain oxygen, mileage beyond the school gates. What can’t be forgiven is how adults behave. In their search for truth they resort to childish name-calling, factions, fall-outs. Having children is meant to mature you, yet here in protecting it infantilises, causing them to act with prejudicial cruelty. Our loyalty lies with the three characters because they believe that protecting one’s child shouldn’t come at the expense of harming another.

It’s not just the children who lie: it’s the adults too. The big lie they tell is the one they tell themselves. Most of which are down to self-preservation. I’m happy. I’m content. Nothing bad has happened to me. Nothing bad will happen to me. It’s easier to hide behind the sofa than confront the intruder. Easier to say it never happened than accept it did. It’s easy to lie to others: to say, ‘I’m fine. I’m happy. I have a charmed life.’ But the mind can't be deceived. You may change the locks each time it comes. Each time it kicks your doors in. But it will come. It will keep coming. Coming until you stand and say, ‘Here I am. I know what you are; I know what you do.’ Only internal truth can defeat such pain. The book as well as the series does a tremendous job at showing the complexities of facing trauma head on.

'The worst lie is the one we tell ourselves.' (I can't help this tagline thing.)

The second series that has just started picks up from the first. Initially, there was no intention of a follow-up, however the success of the first put pay to that. Moriaty was tasked with writing a novella of sorts, which was then adapted by Kelly. The director has changed too with Andrea Arnold now at the helm. Arnold is an interesting choice. She is a Brit with experience in gritty dramas. I’ve seen Fish Tank and Wuthering Heights by her. Both are set in tough environments with characters battling for a way out. Her recent American Honey is a road trip picture where teenagers sell magazines to the wealthy and comfortable. In all of her pictures the broke form the focus for her sympathies. Big Little Lies does not have such characters. What may have interested Arnold then, who grew up on a council estate, is the opportunity to puncture middle-class sensibilities. The conservative values of materialism over socialism is seen when Renata decries her husband’s financial impropriety, ‘I’m not not going to be rich. I will not not be rich!’ Just because a story contains wealthy characters doesn’t mean it’s promoting them.

Another addition to series two is Meryl Streep, who plays the avenging angel – or is it devil? Streep is an incredible actress. A national treasure in countries where she's isn't even a citizen. Like Tom Hanks, she is the grounded millionaire we all love. In this role we appreciate her as a terrific actress. For someone so likeable to affect such dreadfulness shows her skill. Her scenes with Witherspoon, cat claws at dawn, are a delight.

Meryl as Mary Louise.

All in all, the second series is ticking along nicely; although, its tone is different to its first. For a start, there’s no whodunnit at its centre. No balcony fall in the distance. This one feels more meditative and reflective, examining the fallout of the fall. A big murder story dissolving into little human stories. Big Little Drama then. With a third series unlikely, we might just be looking at a perfect two-hander.

Big Little Lies is available on Sky Atlantic. (Thanks to The Girl’s mum and dad for paying the monthly subscription and allowing us to leech off their SkyGo account.)  

Rocketman

Watford FC were Elton John’s boyhood team. As his birth name Reg Dwight, Elton would go to games with his dad, a few miles from their home in Pinner. Having a strained relationship, it was the one thing the two men did together. Cheering on Cliff Holton and Barry Endean, it was a golden time for the boy: his heroes in front of him; his hero beside him. Years later, his music career took off and he left the club behind. His busy tour schedule simply did not allow him to keep up to date with the matches. Then an interview with the NME brought him back. Watford’s finances were ailing, on death’s door; they need a miracle man to come and revive their fortunes. The topic of a charity gig came up. In 1974 Elton along with Rod Stewart came to play at Vicarage Road, making a packet for the club. That day Elton was invited in the board room and over 40 years on he still hasn’t really left. From 1976 to 1987 Elton presided over the club’s greatest period. Appointing Graham Taylor was his masterstroke as together the pair oversaw Watford’s climb from the fourth rung of football to runners-up in the FA Cup and top division. For a club who nearly went out of business to become 'the business' proved apt for a chairman who made a similar climb. So Sir Elton is one of our own. His name is on a stand. His songwriter Bernie Taupin’s lyrics above, I hope you don’t mind that I put down in words, how wonderful life is while your in the world.’ Any film about him would therefore be of interest to me. The picture to use football parlance is a screamer into a top corner – it certainly is no damp squib.

Graham Taylor and Elton John in 1977.

Director Dexter Fletcher is at the helm of Rocketman. You might remember him as the child actor in Press Gang or the adult actor in Band of Brothers; if I’m honest, I remember him replacing Dominic Holland on GamesMaster (that’s right the one that had Patrick O’Brien looking like he’d put in an iPhone photo booth). However, his stock in trade is now filmmaking. Sunshine On Leith is his calling card; the music of The Proclaimers put to an original storyline. Think deep fried Mama Mia and you’d be close to picturing its gritty exuberance . From there he had a box-office hit with Eddie The Eagle, a national treasure story of an idiot learning to fly. After he sealed his place at the top table by rescuing Bohemian Rhapsody after director Bryan Singer fell out with the cast. Fletcher came in and made a movie out of the mess, scoring a Best Picture nod for the biopic.

Rocketman though isn’t a make do and mend film; it’s Fletcher’s rich tapestry woven from his own imagination. The first thing to say that it isn’t straight biopic like Bohemian Rhapsody. No it’s more of a homosexual one (a zinger of a joke there for people that thought the Freddie film ignored his sexuality). No, it isn’t nuts and bolts, tab A fits B, storytelling. It’s a fantasy musical that has time, people and songs behaving unexpectedly: new songs are used to score old moments; non-singers burst into songs and strict chronology is ignored in favour of creative truth. Bohemian Rhapsody had Fletcher as ghost-writer, channeling Singer’s voice to turn in a product for mainstream sales; Rocketman though is his and writer Lee Hall’s own fantastical invention; together they have fashioned something altogether more idiosyncratic than executives may like; the result though is more true given the film is centred on a man famed for invention, reinvention.

Dexter Fletcher: games master turned film maker.

We begin with absurdity. A devil walks into a group circle designed to exorcise demons. It is a treatment centre, the devil Elton in trashy costume. Symbolism plays a big part in the movie. At first when he sits down he’s reluctant to talk, doesn’t understand how it will help. Through some probing he begins to tell his story of how he came to be here. His first telling takes us out of rehab into the suburbs of Pinner. To the sound of Bitch is Back, grown up Elton is Del and Rodders at a wake, standing out like a sore thumb as the neighbourhood dances around him. It establishes early how Elton wasn’t born into ostentation, rather a normal world of milk bottles on the door, washing on the line.

The framing device of rehab works a treat as over the course we see a kind of reverse metamorphosis as the colourful butterfly becomes a moth again. This shedding of flamboyance is what Elton needs to become human. Because somewhere on the highway of rock n’ roll he’s broken down and requires desperate repair. Through the flashbacks into his life, we learn how and why things spun out of control.

Elton didn't get the message fancy dress was cancelled.

Elton’s upbringing was not an easy one. Although the family’s finances seem comfortable, the relationships weren't. His dad the archetypal absent father. Paradoxically, this absence is felt more when he is there than when he isn’t. He shows no affection to his son and denigrates him at every turn. When Elton asks for a hug it’s unforthcoming. Hugging isn’t something men do. Elton’s mother is dissatisfied in her marriage and takes it out on the boy. There’s a sense that the hatred the couple have for one another finds voice in how they speak to their son. In a spine-tingling moment the 2001 hit I Want Love is transposed to Elton’s childhood with mother, father and young Elton all contributing to the lyrics, ‘I can’t love, shot full of holes, Don’t feel nothing I just feel cold.’ A musical allows the taciturn to communicate their feelings. Elton’s dad would never expose his emotions but the device makes him more rounded, so we can see there is some complexity to his brutishness. At times then it feels like Distant Voices, Still Lives, Terence Davis’ kitchen sink drama where ordinary people sing their pain, yet when Elton discovers music the musical morphs into something else.

With Elton answering an ad in a musical publication he is paired with Bernie Taupin. Taupin will provide the lyrics and Elton the score. Initially, record company boss Dick James isn’t impressed (played brilliantly by Stephen Graham). When he hears Your Song though he knows that he’s onto something special. Thus begins Elton’s rise to superstardom. From the ground control of Pinner to Hollywood’s hills, he is the rocket man. 

The way Fletcher captures this ascendancy is sublime. When Elton plays LA’s iconic The Troubadour, Egerton takes flight mid-song. Gravity and reality is suspended as the singer floats from the piano stool, representing how his career is in lift off. Later, the spaceman trope is manifest when Elton plays the Dodgers Stadium. With the crowd roaring and America taken, Fletcher rocket fuels Elton into space. These dream-like sequences are perfect for the unreal world of celebrity. In a way it’s a surprise we have so many by-the-book biopics when the rock n’ roll life is far from that. Elton though is Icarus, he flies too close to the sun: burn out and crashing landing is coming. Houston, we have a problem. 

His combustion is presented in full. The drink, the drugs, the spending, the sham marriage. His freefall is ugly, his behaviour too. The poignant Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word sung by Jamie Bell (a perfect Bernie Taupin) shows how many people felt about Elton. Instead of playing by human rules, he was the bitchy diva, someone who apologised to no one when really he needed to apologise to everyone.

Apart from a misstep at the end where we see what Elton is up to now (is there anyone out there who really doesn’t know he’s now happily married? These black and white facts take us out of the colour of the film. They’re unnecessary), the film is a triumph. And for Watford fans I should add there are three nods to the team. Blink and you’ll miss them though. I missed one – The Girl had to tell me – but I spotted the other two.

For Watford fans, you’ll go anyway: he’s one of our own. For the rest of you, go and see a picture that is deep, intelligent and fun. Hall and Fletcher have found the perfect way to tell this story, so go and have a listen to it. 

Rocketman is available now.

The Virtues

This is Stephen Graham’s time. With a mainstream turn in Line of Duty and film-stealing cameo in Rocketman, the actor is being talked about as one of Britain’s finest. It’s his role in The Virtues though that finally cements his place in the pantheon of greats. On his shoulders this show rests. He appears in nearly every scene, negotiating clownish wit and fractured masculinity with consummate ease. A lot of Graham’s early work consisted of gangsters; his most iconic roles have been Al Capone in Boardwalk Empire and Combo, a NF member, in This is England; but boy can this lad do soft hands as well as mean eyes.

The Virtues is a Shane Meadows production. He is the co-writer and director of the Channel 4 miniseries. Meadows' films frequently invoke his teen years, where he went off the rails, falling into gangs and petty thieving. Often they begin with knock-about joviality, before descending into explosive violence, leaving lives in debris. Simply, his films pack a punch. Dead Man's Shoes is a picture that has stayed with me for years. I can’t shake it, nor do I want to: it remind us the past can't be unwritten, wrongs will right.

It feels though that Meadows’ work has been building to this. Recently, he spoke in a Guardian interview about his desire to adopt a more European approach to filmmaking, where the scene slows and dissolves into you, as opposed to jabbing you with rat-a-tat-tat dialogue. Also, Meadows’ own buried pain, that’s alluded to in previous work, has been successfully excavated following work with a clinical psychologist. Where the theme of abuse was one of a multitude in This is England, here it is front and centre. Meadows has talked about it in his own life; now, he’s ready to process that catharsis onto screen.

Shane Meadows.

The Virtues begins with Joe coming back from a job on a site. He goes into his Sheffield high rise, runs a bath and looks out the window. He sees children playing. The vista causes him to cry. Next, we’re with him as he walks across town, the camera his only companion. The walk is long which has us wondering why he hasn’t taken transport. Our hunch here is Joe can ill-afford it. The house he arrives in belongs to his ex-wife. She has a lovely partner; together they bring up Joe’s child, Jay. For Joe, this is the Last Supper. His son is being taken away. His ex and her partner though aren’t the cruel stuff of characterisation, rather they're humane and warm to Joe. They want a better life for Jay and judging by Joe’s courtesy at the table one he approves of. The scene where Joe puts Jay into bed and gives his son a pep talk on new beginnings is deeply moving. Joe is a thoroughly decent man willing to relinquish his happiness for his son; put himself on the cross to free his child from sin. For we learn as Joe exits the reason for his estrangement. His ex checks he's going to be alright: ‘You’re not going to … are you?’ The word unspoken is drink. Joe has lost his wife, child and happiness to the bottle. He understands that them going to Australia is penance for his past behaviour.

The next scene is Meadows’ whole career in microcosm. I spoke earlier about the yin-yang collision of comedy and tragedy – well, it’s here too. When Joe goes into a pub to drink his wounds, the hilarity of those first few pints descends into the blackout darkness of those later ones. At first he’s the life and soul, the Pied Piper of Hallam, whistling his flute, corralling them into song and dance through offers of free drinks and easy charm. Joe though is not of stable income; the chip and pin world is not for him. As his reserves get depleted, we begin to worry. This isn’t disposable income; this is rent money he’s putting into the barman’s coffers. When Joe leaves the camera style is redolent of Smack My Bitch Up, the dizzying point-of-view angle captures a man taken by alcoholism, unable to stand or speak straight. The next morning, he awakes to a pool of vomit. Joe can’t drink. Like all addicts, the drink drinks him. Seeing him splayed on the living room floor surrounded by kebab and grime makes us appreciate why his wife left him.

The camera doesn't spare Joe's dignity.

Missing work because of his hangover, Joe knows the sack awaits. With the few pounds he’s got left, he decides to run away to Ireland. Through the episode we’ve had some small signs that Joe is running from something else, with snatches of repressed memory invading the present day. In the next episode we discover he wasn’t running away from his life, but running to his past, in the form of his sister.

He awakes outside her home; his rough sleeping means Anna doesn’t see a brother but a threat to her family’s security. She beckons her husband out and asks him to deal with the tramp. Soon the truth emerges, and brother and sister are re-united after all those years. The two were separated as children following their parents’ death. Anna was taken in by family, but Joe wasn’t. They only had room for one, so the lad was made an orphan. It’s quite clear how that decision has impacted upon them. Anna marshals a mad, happy home where meals are served with banter. Joe, on the other hand, has a broken marriage, budget and psyche. He’s come hoping his sister will fix him.

I remarked earlier about Meadows’ battle to survive the trauma of abuse and it’s no spoiler to say Joe is doing the same. In finding his sister, he risks losing himself. For being back in his childhood town brings memories to the fore. Those snatches of memory earlier become elongated. The grainy footage Meadows adopts to distinguish this becomes more pronounced. The past Joe has buried in alcohol and distraction is scrabbling to the surface. At the moments it’s just a hand, but we know by the end the whole body will be exhumed. Joe can’t run any longer; his childhood is coming.

Joe can't escape what happened to him as a boy.

The subject matter is dark, yet in all Meadows’ work there is light. Not for a second did it feel like misery-lit; a genre designed for the perverse who think reading them qualifies as therapists. No, it isn’t designed for rubberneckers to gawp at, instead something people must understand. Abuse happens to people. But it isn’t the whole thing that happens to them. Joe experiences kindness, humour too. And the comedy in episode three is quite divine. When going to the pub to escape his memories, the barman brings him over a pint; the description of which is sublime, ‘With the collar on that at first, you’d think the Pope was coming.’ Has there ever been a better description to describe a beer with a big head? Later, Joe’s drunkenness means Anna and her sister-in-law, Dinah, must come and collect him. His behaviour in the car with Dinah is outrageously rude, so much so she punches him in the gob. When Joe apologises in the early hours, the pair literally kiss and make up. The invective that follows from Anna is from the Malcolm Tuckeresque. The pay-off section though is something else, ‘Boxing the jaws off him one minute, chawing the jaws off him the next. Very Liz Taylor of you.’ Meadows along with co-writer Jack Thorne have a way with dialogue, but the delivery of Helen Benah is something else. Her effing and jeffing is the stuff of modern poetry, the counter-balance rhyme of ‘boxing’ and ‘chawing’ lyrical, then there’s that incongruous last line of old Hollywood. Combined, it had me howling with laughter.

As with all of Meadows’ work we’re building to a showdown. In the director’s corner is a battle cry I’m yet to mention. PJ Harvey provides the score to this devastating work. And in a thirty year career it’s some of her best music. Meadows' past work is layered with classical piano, the work of Ludovico Einaudi. As beautiful and beguiling as it is, I do feel it's a bit on the nose. Film Reviewer Mark Kermode spoke a few weeks ago about the score of If Beale Street Could Talk, commenting favourably on music that operates like it isn’t there. A good score should hide in plain sight, pickpocketing your emotions, without you realising what's happened. I feel Harvey’s music does the same. It creates an atmosphere without making a spectacle of itself. It’s less ‘look at me,’ more ‘look at this.’ And so it should, because The Virtues is a wonder. 

Funnelled through Stephen Graham, Meadows has created a vital work that will speak to many adults who were child victims. For the rest of us, it reminds us to protect the young because one day they will grow up. Those little hands become fists. Those innocent eyes sharp. Those joys numbed. This fate will befall them if adults mistreat them. And be sure, the consequences will be felt in fire, blood, anguish. How such a hellish topic can be communicated so wondrously is a credit to Meadows, the divine creator. The Virtues is his most complete work. Watch it and be enthralled. Watch it and be appalled.

The Virtues is available on All4.