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Here’s Looking at You Kid: Casablanca December 2005

Christmas TV always promises a farrago of classic movies, and doubtless Casablanca will be somewhere in the mix this year too. I watched it last summer with a friend who teaches theatre (and who contributed quite a bit to what follows - greetings Siegel). I have seen the film several times, but something happened last June; suddenly I felt as if I was watching for the first time. Why had I never seen the art in this film before?

We can’t watch Casablanca with purely rational eyes. We never could. All sorts of ruinous logistical problems start to pile up and obscure our view if we worry too much about plausibility and coherence—as they would with most films. We might, for example, wonder how Ilsa and Victor managed to travel in such style across war-torn Europe while being hunted by the Nazis. Their extensive and immaculate wardrobes would surely have required organized transportation, if not hired help—hardly the sort of thing you worry about when running for your life. We might also wonder why, if 1940 Paris was too dangerous a place for Rick, he didn't leave for the safety of England, or America, or anywhere else, instead of pitching up so conspicuously in French-controlled North Africa scarcely a year later—and then complain that "of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine." We could go on, but to what end? There are problems and contradictions in this film; but there are in all films, and to borrow a thought from Walt Whitman: we are large, we can contain them.

The fact is, there is richness at the heart of this movie. Art cannot be—nor should we try to make it—any more rationally watertight than the rest of life. Makers of art must have licence to stray from the logical and plausible, and audiences should approach art with similar latitude. This is not to say that we should abandon our critical instincts. As Richard Dawkins says: “By all means let's be open-minded, but not so open-minded that our brains drop out.”[1] Nevertheless, the more we can suspend our commitment to so-called reality whenever we enter a theatre or insert a DVD, so much the better. After all, we can only be surprised by what we haven't yet encountered; we can only learn what we don’t already know.

Of the various themes that reverberate through us after watching Casablanca, one of the most poignant is the perennial question of what it is to be a man. This has been a central question in literature for centuries, not least in Shakespeare's dark and decidedly un-rational play, Macbeth. In the same way that we want to know what kind of man the Thane really is, so too do we want to know about Rick: does he (or should that be did he?) challenge or reassure existing notions of what it means to be a “good” or “strong” or even a “real” man? Of both men we want to ask: are you at heart a good man (who may or may not be doing questionable things)? Are you a respectable man? A free man? And of course this doesn’t just apply to Rick and Macbeth, or Americans, or even men. What we want to know is: am I "good", am I sensitive to perceived injustice (i.e. am I empathic), and am I so by virtue of my efforts, my genes, or my environment? For instance, we might ask whether Rick's apparent concern for others comes from within himself and influences those around him, or is he compelled to do the right thing by Victor’s saintly example? The police chief, Renault, hints at the state of Rick's heart by reminding us that Rick has previous form in at least two violent political struggles (in Spain and Ethiopia) and was "on the losing [but right] side" in both. The clear implication being that while he might try to hide it, Rick is a man of conscience. Nevertheless, his motivation remains uncertain and our questions stands: where does goodness come from, and how do we recognize it?

After some initial uncertainty, the film leaves us in no doubt that goodness is known by its fruit, not its flowers. And in contrast to Macbeth—with its dark berries of betrayal, egoism, and supernatural power—Casablanca is a study in loyalty, honour, and selflessness in the service of earthly love and political freedom. Indeed, in many ways it is an old-fashioned morality play. Rick, Victor, Ilsa, even Renault, despite first appearances, all turn out in the end to be more concerned with the welfare of others than their own enrichment or happiness—a triumph for those who hold that adversity reveals character more than it builds it.

On the other hand, perhaps all this demonstrates is that the qualities and certainties we admire in our celluloid heroes and heroines change over time; that stereotypes are fluid, transitory things—the products of a relentless cultural tectonics—and that we have largely replaced moral ideals with physical ones, in film at least. In 1941 a cinematic hero had to have a little more than a face that fit. He had to embody a moral ideal too, even if it was a fairly rudimentary one. Certainly, a fabulous physique—what Naomi Wolf calls the feminine imperative of "professional beauty"—was not the sine qua non it is now, not even (quite) for women. Today, now that almost all of us (in the west at least) worship at the same cultural altars (of Aphrodite and Mammon), the first priority—for men and women—is undeniably physical. As the fashion, cosmetics, and cosmetic surgery industries show, what we see when we look at each other is more important than ever. Here's lookin' at you kid.

Casablanca was made in 1942, but set in the fateful month of December 1941. The shocking attack on Pearl Harbour had suddenly thrown a reluctant America into an unprecedented global conflagration, and from the propagandist perspective Rick is surely emblematic of all that was deemed to be good and desirable about America. Indeed, Rick (or some combination of Rick and Humphrey Bogart) is perhaps the prototypical modern American hero—the first postmodern cowboy—an eclectic mix of 19th and 20th century heroes, combining aspects of the independent frontiersman and the educated urbanite. I think Rick's character has a streak of native American psychology too: he is quiet and brooding, a man of few words, a loner with an implacable, flinty persona that exudes independence and quiet authority. He is quick-witted, steely-nerved, and quite capable of sudden, lethal violence. All in all, a set of qualities that very few real men embody. But Rick is also emotionally wounded, and what at first looks like an aloof or even mercenary nature (“I don't stick my neck out for nobody” is a line he repeats a little too often), is soon revealed to be no more than a kind of emotional camouflage—a constructed persona—deployed as a psychological shield. We soon learn that behind these defences Rick is human, fallible, complicated—qualities we are all familliar with but which were rarely attempted in pre-war cinema.

According to Virginia Woolf, most films of the inter-war years were emotionally simple and "soporific." In 1926 she wrote of "Cinema":

The eye licks it all up instantaneously, and the brain, agreeably titillated, settles down to watch things happening without bestirring itself to think. [2]

Worse, she felt that while there were clearly opportunities for film to describe and arouse responses in the viewer that other art forms cannot imitate, the state of the art was still frustratingly immature:

while all the other arts were born naked, this, the youngest, has been born fully clothed. It can say everything before it has anything to say. [ibid.]

Casablanca undoubtedly has something to say, but sadly Woolf never saw the film. She took her own life the year before it was made.

Sixty years after Pearl Harbour, and Casablanca, and in the wake of the similarly traumatic attack of 9/11, and the somewhat Orwellian declaration of the “War on Terror” that followed, I can't help but wonder: if the film was going to be remade today, who would be cast as Rick, as Ilsa, as Renault? What virtues would they embody? How much has changed in our moral landscape since the dark days of 1942, when there really was an axis of evil that had to be fought? Has the familiar American hero—the troubled, taciturn loner—been so diluted by repetition, and so devalued by recent cultural history, as to be rendered incredible, a grotesque? It isn’t obvious who would qualify as the modern successor to Rick. Sly Stallone? Tom Cruise? Arnold Schwartzenegger? No, none of these will do; they may share some of his attributes here and there, but they are too fantastic, too superhuman, but most of all too shallow; they lack Rick's fallibility and emotional depth. Nearer to the mark perhaps is the cyborg Roy in Ridley Scott's film noir, Blade Runner.

Perhaps it is safer to say that there are now many—or at least several—kinds of legitimate hero, from the all-too-human Shrek to troubled anti-heroes such as Jason Bourne. In the perennial search for reassuring symbols of American strength and power, it looks as if the stereotype of the American hero has become ever more muscle-bound, robotic, and destructive since Rick's noble sacrifice. Certainly, any sense of style, elegance, or humour, any complex emotion or morality, seem to have atrophied to the level that Woolf despaired of 75 years ago. What discontent, what neurosis, what oddity of our culture makes us welcome such emotionally stunted, morally ambiguous, and actively belligerent heroes? I think this is the same problem Arthur Miller put his finger on two days after the shooting of Robert Kennedy, when he wrote:

There is violence because we have daily honored violence. Any half-educated man in a good suit can make his fortune by concocting a television show whose brutality is photographed in sufficiently monstrous detail. Who produces these shows, who pays to sponsor them, who is honored for acting in them? Are these people delinquent psychopaths slinking along tenement streets? No, they are the pillars of society, our honored men, our exemplars of success and social attainment. (New York Times, June 8, 1968)

It seems little has changed. Violence—and especially the portrayal of violence—has never been so commonplace or so honoured. From the White House down the message is clear: Might Is Right.

As Casablanca opens we are presented with a series of questions: who is Rick? What kind of man is he? Why is he in Morocco? What is his history? Above all, what does he want? With the appearance of Ilsa and Victor we see that Rick is licking his wounds, but our curiosity only increases: what happened in Paris? Why didn’t Ilsa leave Paris with Rick? Is she up to no good? And who is this suspiciously saintly figure Victor? What kind of man is he? The need to answer these questions forms the basis of the dramatic action.

And so we proceed. The central characters are well drawn, well cast, well acted, and we care about them. But while we hope they come through this adventure with life and honour intact, thanks to their uncertain histories we’re never quite sure who to root for and who to excoriate. Has there been some betrayal, and if so, was it forgivable? The probity of the central characters remains the central theme throughout: does Ilsa offer Rick sexual favours in return for getting Victor out of the country? Does Rick accept? And what of Ilsa's declared intention to abandon Victor (again) for Rick?

It isn’t until the last reel that Rick's plan becomes clear and we realize that each of the three main characters is at bottom a deeply honourable person. Even the seemingly venal police chief Renault turns out to be a good egg.[3] At the foggy climax, with Strasser dead, the only question left to resolve is who will get on the plane to Lisbon: Ilsa and Rick? Ilsa and Victor? Or perhaps—and maybe this could be the surprise ending for the remake—Victor and Rick?

“The art of the past is no longer viewed as it once was” said Walter Benjamin [4] some years before the second world war. His sage words were echoed more recently by Mark Lawson, a few days after the 7/7 bombings in London, when he wrote: “all art is changed by the context in which it is seen.” (Guardian 16.07.05) With the renewed fear of violence at home, and troops deployed overseas, as in the 1940s, our moral and political imperatives are again being tested and we can only wonder to what extent things like the rise of television, the Internet, consumerism, and the increasing homogeneity of western culture have refracted and refocused our sensibilities since Casablanca was made. Never mind what we see, whose eyes do we see with, and with whose values?

Here's looking at you, kid.

Notes

1 Richard Dawkins, Richard Dimbleby Lecture, November 12th 1996 – available online at: http://www.edge.org/3rd_culture/dawkins/lecture_p11.html

2 Virginia Woolf, “The Cinema”, Arts, June 1926, Online at
http://www.film-philosophy.com/portal/writings/woolf

3 Or is Renault, as some critics have suggested, secretly enamoured of Rick? Perhaps he was once rejected but senses a new opportunity?—as the film draws to a close Rick himself says that he and Renault are about to embark on “a beautiful friendship.”

4 Julian Berger, 1972, Ways of Seeing, London: Penguin, p27

See also:

IMDB
Filmsite
Reelclassics

November 2005
Two Minute Silence

War is a vice of men - Susan Sontag

Month eleven, day eleven, hour eleven.

Big Ben sounds on the radio and I fall silent. Two minutes. Lest we forget. Two minutes to remember.

And what should we remember? That we suck at life? That we excel at death? That so many, many boys were slaughtered needlessly ninety years ago? That they are still being slaughtered? That war disgraces us all?

Here's the problem: we think we've learned our lesson; we think we know what's right, what's true. We haven't, and we don't. Collectively, we're like a four-year-old child with Alzheimers—convinced we know things when we don’t; forgetful of half the things we have learned; and forever losing track of what’s really important. Funny thing, remembering.

A war to end all wars they said. Is such a thing possible? What would that mean? To borrow a thought from Zola (who borrowed it from Diderot): who would fire the last bullet, from the last gun, into the last soldier?

All quiet on the radio. Still a few seconds left.

Outside, a restless November wind is blowing. Heavy clouds rumble by; everything moves. But here, and there, human consciousness has paused. Somehow we are able to do this—stop and reflect, and imagine, and appreciate. This—appreciation—is the heart of it. We’re at our best when we realize that something, or someone, is more important than we thought.

We should remember to do more of that.

Prague – October 2005

Take it from me, the idea of nipping off to Prague with your ex-wife for a few days is likely to provoke some strange reactions from your friends. Some will attempt to disguise their horror by feigning interest—raised eyebrows, earnest nodding, talk of being grown up, that sort of thing. But those that know you best just bleat out involuntary groans. In either case the message is clear: this is a muddled decision indicative of emotional blindness, poor ego boundaries, and/or declining mental faculties. One friend put it diplomatically: “look, if you don’t get bogged down in re-negotiating your relationship—in which one of you wants a future the other doesn't—you’ll either end up in each other's pants or at each other’s throats.” Another friend put it somewhat more bluntly: “What the fuck do you want to do that for?”

Luckily my ex has been around the block a time or two, and I, well, I’m either very thick-skinned, quite mad, or else just plain wonderful, because I'm happy to report that we danced through the minefields of nostalgia and hope with blithe good humour and emerged with all toes intact. No daggers, no diamonds.

Which is just as well, because Prague is a wonderful place to visit—a city of broken buildings and beautiful girls, of ancient bridges and spires, of endless historical loveliness wherever you look. Spared the bombs that ruined so many cities in the Second World War, the grey remains of the communist years have largely been scrubbed away from the city centre over the last decade, only to be replaced by a different kind of ideological architecture: there are now branches of Tesco, Marks & Spencer, the ubiquitous Starbucks, and all the rest, scattered thoughout the city. Not that the shopping opportunities are what makes the place so appealing (not for me, at least), just that the place is thriving and you can't help but feel it. The Czech Republic is a brand new member of the European Union and its charming people are eager to reclaim their rightful place as a first world nation.

Nevertheless, the shroud of recent history—and the poverty that came with it—still hangs heavy over much of the city. I didn't notice too much of that though as the weather was fantastically kind to us and the autumn colours were at their most ravishing. This was a time to marvel, not criticize. The food, as I shall expand on in a moment, was especially gorgeous, the much-hyped beer is indeed world class, and overall, I have to say, I’ve never been to a city that has more sensual appeal. I can’t wait to go back.

We arrived on the afternoon train from Vienna (The Maria Theresa - which continues on to Dresden, Berlin, and eventually Hamburg). Unfortunately this train doesn’t stop at the main Hlavni terminus, but at the smaller Holesovice station, across the river, a few miles north of the city centre. Inevitably, our hotel turned out to be quite a few miles south of the city centre, in a suburb called Michle. Our chain-smoking cab driver, whose ancient vehicle would surely have been condemned as unfit for human carriage in most other parts of Europe, hurled us through Prague at break-neck speed, cheerfully yelling in a tortured combination of English and German. I think he was trying to be helpful and point out some of the sights, but I was too busy preparing for my imminent death to pay much attention. Talk about white knuckles—one of those cab rides that reminds you just how sensible a lot of that EU red tape really is.

We were dropped off in what felt like an outer suburb of a Siberian iron-smelting town—it reminded me of Stoke on Trent on a nice day. Our hotel was straight out of a 1960s LeCarre novel—drab and characterless—doubtless a treat for visiting Bulgarian businessmen but not the sort of place I longed to spend any time in. Thin-walled, cheaply furnished, and entirely unwelcoming, I wondered if the rooms were still bugged. A small, grubby picture of a newly enthroned Pope John Paul II hung on the wall, and his pitying gaze made me slightly queasy whenever I caught his eye. I hated the place. My ex seemed surprisingly sanguine about our digs, but I suspected her stoicism had more to do with the fact that she had booked the place than anything else. I needen't have worried. The dark, cold, towel-free bathroom soon brought her to her senses, and we decided to find a real hotel, with a real bathroom, that was actually in Prague.

But first we had to eat. The train ride from Vienna had taken most of the day and had been a food-free journey. There had been no restaurant car on the train, not even a snack trolley, and by now we were starving. Stepping out onto the deserted street, we spotted a funny looking metal sign a few doors along. Under it there turned out to be a funny looking restaurant—the Magicka Zahrada—and there was life in there. We dived in without even looking at the menu—we simply needed to refuel and plan our escape from the Hotel Gulag. We were in for an unexpected treat. Magic it was.

I never expected Prague to be a gourmet’s delight. It is, in spades. Nowhere else—not in London, or Los Angeles, or even Milan—have I come across such brilliant food, and at such ridiculously affordable prices. That first meal at the Magicka Zahrada was both a pleasure and a portent. Over the next few days we stuffed ourselves silly in three more superb restaurants—all of which we found simply by walking around. And given that I’m someone who doesn't eat meat (the posh food business rarely makes more than token concessions to subversive veggie heathens like me), this is all the more impressive.

It turns out that the Magicka Zahrada is quite the hot new place in Prague. Apparently Prague's beautiful people religiously take the ten minute drive or tram ride (number 11) down the Nuselska of a Friday evening, and I can quite understand why. The place is lovely, the staff are welcoming, and the food—dear god!—the food is a work of art. We ate and drank ourselves silly on sumptuous pasta and aurous Czech beer, and our proud young waiter could barely wait to do his party piece when it came to dessert: he placed a piece of coloured paper on the table, then printed the sweet menu on it with a large rubber stamp that he brought down with a flourish and a loud bang. I can’t even remember what sweets we had, but they were all very, very good. In fact I don't believe there is a single cake, cookie, pudding, pie or pastry between Zurich and Prague that is anything less than superb. These are sweets for grown-ups. They require a grown-up taste and a grown-up sense of restraint—qualities that often desert me when it comes to chocolate I admit—although it must be said that grown-up sweets, ironically, aren’t so sweet… Anyway, two of us, sated and satisfied beyond measure, twenty quid. Magika.

Having secured a palatial room overlooking the Vltava river at the reassuringly expensive President Hotel (highly recommended - marvellous breakfast buffet), the next day we wandered into the La Boca restaurant (which is right in the middle of town in a quiet side street) for lunch. Another charming place, another memorable feast, another bargain.

Our trip had suddenly turned into a gourmet glutfest. To make room for all the food we walked miles. If you’re up for a bit of strolling Prague is a great city to walk around in—most of the things you want to see are within walking distance. As well as the bridges, the endless cobbled streets and alleys, and the castle, there is a huge park on the hill behind the diplomatic quarter, at the top of which is the university and an observation tower, built in 1891 as a nod to Eiffel's Paris monument that had recently been erected. And when you don’t want to walk anymore there are the trams—trams everywhere, every minute or two, right up to midnight and beyond. They are an excellent way to get about, and cost next to nothing compared with getting around a city like London. And if the trams don’t work out, there is the underground: three lines that cover the city pretty well. As far as I could tell, the same ticket covers trams and tubes (and buses), and is about eighty crowns a day for unlimited travel. That’s about two pounds.

The finest risotto I’ve ever tasted was brought to me at the magnificent Restaurant Hergetova Cihelna, a beautiful place nestled on the west bank of the Vltava just downstream from the famous Charles Bridge (Karluv most in Czech, but don't ask me to pronounce it; the Czech tongue is known to drive English speakers mad). It was a simple pumpkin affair, but beautifully made—the colour of pale apricot—and served with a startling, crimson, sweet and sour cranberry relish. Utter bliss. I’ve made a ham-fisted attempt at it twice already, and even my second rate drivel wins warm praise. We didn’t get a riverside table—we hadn’t booked and weren't nearly glamourous enough, but we were lucky to get in all the same. This is a truly great restaurant. It easily trumps places like Quaglino’s, OXO, or Orso any day, and at a fraction of the price. Indeed, when you think of the cost of a nice evening out in London, flying to Prague for the night instead looks like a no-brainer. Not only will it cost you less, but you’ll eat better food, have a better time, and come home in a better mood too.

Also: daNico - lots of fine wines and a most enthusiastic owner!

October 13, 2005

Poetry today. Not mine I hasten to add...

First up, a fragment for those of a certain age:

And years afterwards you'll remember that kiss on the bridge
where nail heads glittered like stars under your feet

These lovely words - which even I might have stopped to read when I was sixteen and full of fury - are etched onto a long stainless steel wall, down which water flows. The author is Alicia Stubbesfield. Her words, and the wall, are part of the excellent new cafe at Blaise Castle park, in Bristol. I take my friends' kids down there to play quite a bit and always feel a stir of poignancy whenever I read the lines - wistful fool that I am. I did a dog and pony show of reading it to the boys last weekend. But apart from some (well earned) five-year-old pride at recognizing the words "feet" and "stars" they just looked at me like I was mad. Of course they did - when you're five years old it's much more important to tear round and round the cafe on your bike with the other kids - oblivious to the tea-sipping reveries going on around you.

Next, a lovely poem by Adrian Mitchell. He read it on Newsnight the other day. It floored me. In this brutal age—in which we scrutinize and categorize each other more precisely, more frequently, more savagely than ever, and in which we are encouraged to mistrust each other—his simple message is refreshingly positive and desperately needed. Take a minute and enrich yourself a bit.

Human Beings
By Adrian Mitchell
(click here for the poetry society's
version - with the right formatting)

For the company of the truthful and beautiful Red Red Shoes by Charles Way,
staged by the Unicorn Theatre for Children

look at your hands
your beautiful useful hands
you're not an ape
you're not a parrot
you're not a slow loris
or a smart missile
you're human

not british
not american
not israeli
not palestinian
you're human

not catholic
not protestant
not muslim
not hindu
you're human

we all start human
we end up human
human first
human last
we're human
or we're nothing

nothing but bombs
and poison gas
nothing but guns
and torturers
nothing but slaves
of Greed and War
if we're not human

look at your body
with its amazing systems
of nerve-wires and blood canals
think about your mind
which can think about itself
and the whole universe

look at your face
which can freeze into horror
or melt into love
look at all that life
all that beauty
you're human
they are human
we are human
let's try to be human

dance!

Lastly, a searing fragment from Day Cools... written in 1916 by the Scandinavian poet Edith Södergran:

You sought a flower
and found a fruit.
You sought a spring
and found a sea.
You sought a woman
and found a soul -
you are disappointed.

September 18, 2005

A response to Rupert Murdoch's recent attack on the BBC (Ref, Ref, Ref) - in which he accused the BBC of anti-Americanism. Murdoch sought to give his remarks added weight by citing the Prime Minister, who apparently spoke to him about the "gloating" tone of the BBC's coverage of the Katrina disaster.

So the BBC (along with CNN and goodness knows who else) is anti-American. Makes you wonder what private oblations need to be performed in order to be seen as pro-American these days. Doubtless Mr Murdoch (whose national allegiance, it must be said, is not obvious) would happily sink the BBC, preferably without having to buy it first. Holing Auntie below the waterline would be quite a coup - literally - and it may even be that such a thing is possible for someone with his clout. His Sky TV network certainly stands poised to take advantage of any unfortunate "accidents".

Murdoch - an Australian publisher who came to Britain, made a fortune by selling tat, then took US citizenship to get round US media ownership laws - brags about swinging British elections ("It was The Sun wot won it" - for the Tories back in 1992). This was before Tony, of course, before John (Smith) for that matter, back when Labour was not to his liking. Since then, his Newscorp company has acquired the oxymoronic Fox News channel in the US - an organization that beams out round-the-clock rubbish that has so little to do with what most of us would call "news" it makes you wonder how he keeps a straight face. In short, Murdoch seems to be more concerned with manipulating politicians for his own ends than anything else, and he appears to regard organizations such as the BBC, where some semblance of critical thought and impartiality remain, with barely disguised contempt. To him, the BBC is more enemy than competitor, much less cultural treasure.

Perhaps after thirty years of ever-increasing media domination Mr Murdoch feels that the office of British Prime Minister - whoever holds the post - is now safely in his pocket? And maybe it is; the current incumbent has certainly granted all sorts of favours, and abandoned various principles, over the years solely in order to ingratiate himself with people like Murdoch - apparently even ceding him a veto on central policy decisions such as Britain's relationship with the EU. Now that's what I call influence.

Governments in hock to corporate interests; the steady emasculation of independent media; the deliberate incitement of xenophobic feeling; a growing obsession with security; and the relentless erosion of personal freedoms. I'm almost embarrassed to say it, but that sounds like a fair description of fascism to me - the very same same evil that was fought at such cost sixty years ago, supposedly to save democracy and freedom. All we're missing is a Dictator, but my guess is that being a billionaire tycoon amounts to much the same thing.

A friend of mine who lives in New Orleans was missing for several days following hurricane Katrina. I spent an anxious week hoovering up all the Katrina-related news I could find, and I must say, contra Murdoch and Blair, I have nothing but admiration for the BBC's coverage of the disaster. Their lead man, Matt Frei, was absolutely magnificent, and I wonder whether the BBC have at last found someone who can fill the legendary shoes of Charles Wheeler. Anti-American? Not a bit of it. Gloating? Never. Frei was indignant - and quite right too - the situation was a shambles, but never insulting. Yet again, criticism is misinterpreted as anti-Americanism.

As many commentators have noted, President Bush signally failed to take the matter seriously for several days. He finally put himself in charge, only to embarrass himself with a series of schoolboy howlers. Reporters are surely entitled to wonder at the Commander in Chief's competence in light of this. What else are they supposed to do - toady-up no matter what, in order to spare his blushes? Surely Tony Blair does enough of that already.

I must admit, however, that despite my concern for my friend, and in contrast to the attitude of the BBC, I did feel a bit of schadenfreude - directed at the Bush administration I hasten to add, not the battered souls of the Gulf coast. By all accounts I'm not alone in feeling this strange emotion - which I think can only really be experienced in connection with a person who has in some way abused a position of trust or affection - just deserts and all that. Indeed, it seems to me that half the world clenches a fist and hisses a tight-lipped "yes!" these days whenever America suffers a bloody nose. Even the usually demure Bishops of the Anglican Church have issued a statement critical of the US. This is a recent thing - a worrying degeneration of the usual good-natured joshing that has long been the transatlantic norm. And it goes both ways: I was living in America when the 9/11 disaster happened, and as soon as the shock and horror started to subside, feelings soon hardened against foreigners - even "good ol' Brits" like me. I must admit, in the face of the vile "you're either with us or against us" ultimatum, along with the ugly wave of nationalism that Bush's words inspired, I suddenly felt very out of place.

Maybe there are some grumpy editors at the BBC who feel frustrated, and maybe a few ill-considered words have slipped out here and there, but the organization can hardly be accused of anti-Americanism. Quite the contrary. The BBC has long portrayed America in a very favourable light. For every supposedly anti-American slip, there are countless positive celebrations of the United States - Harold Evans's recent essays being a particularly brilliant and welcome example.

What we should all be anti- is the hijacking of America (and much of the so-called free world for that matter) by a handful of rapacious billionaires with huge egos and tiny consciences. Without organizations such as the BBC to keep them in check, Murdoch and his kind will increasingly call the shots at our expense.

July 28, 2005

Letter to Tony McNulty - Minister responsible for UK immigration. A rant in response to the plight of the Kachepa Family from Malawi - a mother and her four children - whose application for asylum has been declined, and who are facing deportation in a few weeks' time. It seems everyone except the stone-hearted minister is rooting for this much loved family. BBC coverage here.

Dear Mr McNulty,

I am horrified to read about the continuing travails of the Kachepa family in Weymouth. As someone who knows how granite-like the wall of immigration bureaucracy can be, I implore you in the name of all that's decent to grant these people leave to remain in Britain. The fact that their many friends and supporters in the local community - including the local MP - have been so vocal in this matter (and continue to be) speaks volumes about them. If ever there was an exceptional case, surely this is it. Please, at least pause and reflect.

But if you can't be compassionate on humanitarian grounds, please be so on selfish ones. In other words, if I can't appeal to your conscience, perhaps I can speak to your ambition:

In years to come, how would you like to be remembered as a public servant? If this turns out to be a case that haunts the rest of your career, what will you be able to look back on and feel proud of during your time in government? Are you prepared to be remembered as one of those politicians who failed to do the right thing? To put it bluntly, is your progress up the greasy pole at Westminster really going to be helped by deporting these people - especially if they come to any harm? Tabloid opinion might be important to you, but it is also notoriously fickle. You can imagine the headline: "Minister Deports Hard-Working Family".

I'm sure that you are also concerned about what kind of "message" your decision might send out - something you politicians seem to be particularly concerned about. Given that we are all suddenly hyper-sensitive to anything terror related, I wonder how a high-profile deportation like this might be interpreted by those at risk of succumbing to the perverse psychology of the bombers? Doubtless some will conclude that when it comes to dealing with people who have dark skins and distressing backgrounds, yet again a major western power is hypocritical, heartless, and cruel. The feelings of alienation and injustice that drive some to commit the sort of inhuman behaviour we have seen recently are only exacerbated by this kind of thing. Not that you should grant residency to anyone who wants it, of course, but can there be no place for sensitivity and discretion?

If you would like to send Mr McNulty a note, his email address is: mcnultyt@parliament.uk
His boss, the Home Secretary can be reached on: clarkec@parliament.uk

August 25 note - sadly the family have been deported. The Guardian story here. BBC report here

July 26, 2005

It could almost be a lost script by Huxley & Orwell: Brave New World 1984 2005 - a dark tale of an invisible "enemy within" whose activities force the authorities to resort to extreme measures, as if irradiating a cancer. Unfortunately the dystopian spectacle unfolding around us is all too real and we don't even have any Soma to relieve the stress. I'm talking about what Gore Vidal calls "perpetual war"—a never-ending miasma of suspicion, paranoia and threat. We've been warned, we know the drill: Oceania vs. Eurasia, good vs. bad, civilization vs. the barbarians. But quite who are the barbarians, whose interests are at stake, and even what constitutes victory, are all matters that, as Orwell reminded us, depend on who controls the flow of information.

In case you've been on Mars for the last couple of weeks, the grim business of international terrorism has come to town, and the miserable battle lines so familiar to people in some other parts of the world are now being drawn in London too. Perhaps this is a flash in the pan, or perhaps the so-called clash of cultures talked about by Bush and Bin Laden is here at last. Whatever the case, for those who sweat while they pray this is more than mere politics, or even war - this is a spiritual matter.

Predictably, there is an enthusiastic zeal to suspend personal freedoms (in order to protect freedom, of course), and the familiar wails of "we will not be beaten" and "no compromise" are sounding as shrill as ever. New laws are afoot, and by the sound of it this really will be nasty medicine: visiting certain websites, wearing what could be construed as winter clothes in July, or "talking about extreme things", may well get you arrested, and possibly even shot.

But is this really Armageddon, or is it—and this is no less serious—that the horrors we’re getting so used to are, to some extent at least, a consequence of decades of ideological obstinacy and sheer incompetence on the part of our leaders? In other words, is it possible that somewhere amidst the spin and rage, underneath all the lies and chaos, there might be some legitimate grievances that have gone unacknowledged for far too long? It wouldn’t be the first time, and I’m certainly not alone in suggesting so (e.g. ref, ref, and ref). But even if this is the case, so what? Given the current mood of rabid political correctness, it seems no dissenting comment can pass in the western media without the requisite denouncements and condemnations. Like its skinny predecessor, the "War on Drugs", the obese "War on Terror" demands almost Stalinesque loyalty: you're either with us or against us, and you'd better not forget it.

Back in the 1990s, the then Prime Minister John Major famously said that we "should condemn a little more and understand a little less." He was talking about crime generally, not terrorism specifically, and his words were widely criticized at the time. Today they are meeting with approval (Ref). Major didn't get it then, and it looks as if he still doesn't: we don't have to be either with them or against them John. We might be neither, or, as is increasingly the case, both. Nevertheless he highlights something important—something that we are in danger of forgetting: "understanding" is not the same thing as endorsement. To explore an argument is not to defend it.

But whatever political fealties or denunciations are required to get ahead in Westminster and Washington, it’s ordinary people who end up gagged, deprived of their freedoms, and splattered on the pavements of Baghdad and Bloomsbury. If only those who could do something about this—people like Bush and Blair and Al Sistani—would read the work of people like Levinas and Axelrod and Rawls, instead of brimstone nonsense that only seems to multiply the madness. Here's some choice British lunacy:

Following the London outrages, the Metropolitan Police have made it clear that despite killing an innocent man they intend to continue with their policy of shooting suspect suicide bombers in the head—possibly without warning—so as not to set off any explosives that may be strapped to their bodies.

How on earth will this help? Many of us will now tremble a little more when we see a police officer with a machine gun—an almost daily occurrence these days—and thanks to our heightened anxiety, some of us may well behave a little strangely, raising suspicions (and thus anxieties) yet further. And given the number of people living in Britain without official permission, many will doubtless be at great pains to avoid the boys in blue altogether. Further tragedies are thus a distinct possibility. The argument that a few innocent deaths are the price we may (regrettably) have to pay for a bomb-free capital might appeal to some, but this is a policy that could seriously backfire. How many deaths are "worth it"? And more fundamentally, how can we be sure that they will buy us any safety at all?

But even worse, the next wave of bombers (what a sinking feeling I get just writing that), could easily scupper the authorities' “shoot-em-in-the-head” policy by ensuring that their bombs are detonated not by pressing a button but by releasing one—just like a grenade. The equipment required is not sophisticated—apparently a clothes peg and a bit of string will do—which means a shot to the head (or anywhere else for that matter), far from neutralizing a bomb, would set it off.

So, having given the bombers advance warning of their tactics, police officers at the sharp end now face a tricky dilemma: whether or not to chase down a suspect and empty a magazine into his face when that might well turn out to be a suicide mission itself? The temptation to shoot from a safe distance, despite the obvious risks, will be great. Fighting fire with fire might play well with the tabloids, but it's a strategy that risks burning the whole world down.

By upping the ante in this crude manner, the police not only risk losing vital public support, but put more lives at risk. It is doubtful that such clumsy posturing will deter any future bombers (quite the contrary I should think), and after last week’s disaster we neither feel, nor are, any safer for knowing that Britain's finest will shoot first and ask questions later. We need to think our way out of this mess, not shoot our way out.

Liberty - the human rights watchdog.

May 28, 2005

Call me an out of touch pinko liberal, but it strikes me as fairly obvious that people who blow-up nightclubs and kill hundreds of people ought to be in quite a bit more trouble than people who smoke, or even trade, cannabis. Surely mass murder is a worse crime than getting high? Not in Indonesia it seems. A young Australian woman, Schapelle Corby, has just been sentenced to twenty years in jail after cannabis was found in her bag as she entered Bali - the Indonesian island where 200 holidaymakers were killed by terrorist bombs in 2002. Ms Corby claims innocence, and blames her troubles on a recently exposed drug-smuggling ring run from Sydney airport. Meanwhile, it turns out that some of those known to be involved in the bombing have not been prosecuted (BBC coverage here).

By all accounts Ms Corby's case is strong. Apparently cannabis is very easy to obtain in Bali, so you'd have thought that anyone caught trying to smuggle the stuff into the country (and out of Australia) would have rung a few alarm bells - especially as this is a crime that carries the death penalty in Indonesia - coals to Newcastle and all that.

When will the drug warriors' insane denial end? When will they realize that drugs are only produced, smuggled, and traded because there is massive demand for them and because there are vast profits to be made? Actually, it's worse than that: prohibition actually helps the illegal drug trade: drugs become more valuable (and thus more profitable) the more they are prohibited. So as long as there is demand, prohibition virtually guarantees criminal activity.

Isn't it about time we asked the obvious, if politically difficult, question: why do so many people want to take drugs? Besides, as John Stuart Mill pointed out, is it really defensible to forbid adults doing as they please with their own minds and bodies?

DrugPolicy.org
Transform

May 19th 2005

Of course Labour would like to bury the issue of electoral reform. So would the Tories. They'll probably succeed too. Turkeys, as the saying goes, don’t vote for Christmas, and these fowl have no intention of getting stuffed by letting us choose anything important like our means of democratic representation.

Nevertheless, “Reform and Respect” are being trumpeted as the watchwords of Mr Blair’s new administration. This really is a bit rich. If the Prime Minister wants my respect, our electoral system needs a bit of reform first. Respect and Reform begin at home Tony; more people stayed at home than voted for you (see below).

Not that the Labour Party is alone in this. The Conservative party is in a difficult situation too. Should they go for one more heave with the existing first-past-the-post system, or take the plunge into a sea of change? Under the existing system they will still need a substantial swing at the next election in order to win, and a fourth successive defeat might spell the end of their party. On the other hand, if they opt for change, that would very likely also mean the end of their historical domination of Parliament. They might well conclude that the devil they know is their least worst option. Meanwhile Labour must be wondering whether a fourth victory is possible. If they lose in 2009, they might not get back into government again for another eighteen years.

This really isn’t a difficult issue. A democracy, if it is to be respected, must be about fair representation, and certainly not about protecting the interests of politicians or political parties. No matter how well a voting system might have served in years past, if it isn't supported by the public it must be changed. Principally, all votes must count the same - in other words everyone must have the same incentive to vote, or not, and under the first past the post (FPTP) system they clearly don't.

The political philosopher John Rawls talked about the “Veil of Ignorance”—a metaphor he invented to describe his position of "justice as fairness"—and it applies nicely to electoral reform.

In a fair system we are all behind the veil.

Let's say you are going to be parachuted into a strange new country, in which you have no idea what your personal circumstances will be. You don't know whether you will be rich or poor, slave or master, admired or reviled. But you do have the ability to decide in advance which laws and social rules will apply in this land - on the other side of the veil. Given the uncertainty of your position, the obvious choice is to institute rules and laws that apply equally to everyone. Fairness, said Rawls, is justice.

Anyone who has had to settle disputes with small children will be familiar with this principle. If two todlers are fighting over who gets to cut a cake in two, and who gets which piece, the answer is simple: let one divide the cake, and let the other choose which half to eat. Justice as fairness.

By these lights the British electoral system is clearly unjust. Few elected politicians—safe on their side of the veil—are honest enough to admit that the system stinks, and Mr Blair has no incentive to change a system that favours him at the expense of his rivals and the electorate. No wonder we regard politicians as self-serving, shameless low-life. Too many of them are just that. Our electoral system thus has an extra, unintended negative effect on our democracy: trust and respect in politicians are eroded.

The tale the figures tell:

Two thirds of those who voted on May 5th did not vote for a Labour candidate. Indeed, 40% of us didn’t bother to vote at all. Mr Blair's risible "mandate" is based on less than a quarter of the adult population's support. Just to make that clear, over three quarters of the public didn't choose Mr Blair or the Labour Party. Many more people stayed at home than voted Labour.

The Electoral Reform Society (from whose website these figures come from) point out that:

No MPs polled a majority of the electorate in their own constituency or even came particularly close. Only three polled more than 4 voters out of every 10 registered.

Thanks to the distribution of support and the peculiar mathematics of FPTP, it takes 26,877 votes to elect a Labour MP, 44,521 to elect a Tory, and a whopping 96,378 votes to elect a Lib Dem. What is fair, right, or even desirable about that? The Tories won more votes in England than Labour, but ended up with fewer seats. In what sense is that fair? And why aren't they moaning about it? (Answer: Because they hope the boot will be on the other foot before long.)

Even if some of us get the government we want, how satisfying is that when we know the result would have been different if the playing field had been level? Can we really celebrate our team's "win" when other teams were forced to play with bare feet?

But even if the popular vote had been evenly distributed, the result would still have been grossly unfair:

Advocates of the status quo argue that reform would leave the Lib Dems with disproportionate power, thereby swapping one injustice for another. This is their strongest argument, and to some extent it holds water, but it's a bit of a desperate plea. Not only are there ways to minimize this effect, but more fundamentally, given that no system is perfect, it must be better to disadvantage a few politicians rather than millions of voters. Besides, with a proportional voting system the three main parties might well split into smaller parties. What a thought - a real choice at election time.

Independent petition - sign it!

May 12th 2005

A response to Dominic Grieve MP

Dear Mr Grieve,

Thank you for your letter of May 10 (Re: make my vote count, and the need for electoral reform).

Given that you are a turkey (a very nice one I’m sure), I don’t expect you to vote for Christmas—the consequences of electoral reform must look pretty grim. But vested interests aside, from an academic point of view, you must surely agree that the first-past-the-post system is in increasingly desperate straits. When a party can win a comfortable majority in Parliament with barely a third of the popular vote (and romp home with 40%), is it any surprise that we—the public—excoriate the lot of you, or at best cry foul?

A particularly egregious problem with our current system is the inequality of votes. If I happen to live in a highly marginal constituency, my vote clearly carries more weight than if I live in a very safe one, like yours. This can’t be right. Indeed, many people who don’t vote cite this as a reason for their abstinence: why bother voting when the result will be decided by a handful of carefully courted "don't-knows" in a marginal miles away? Certainly, no candidate has ever knocked on my door.

I agree with you that maintaining the link between MPs and their constituents is desirable. But with many MPs elected on turnouts of less than 50 percent, and huge numbers of us unable to name our local MP, one has to ask: how strong is this link these days? More pressingly, how can it be improved?

You pour scorn on PR with talk of back-room deals, and complain that minority parties become power brokers, but what of key personalities and sub-groupings within the established political parties? Doesn’t this kind of horse-trading and king-making go on in the bars of Westminster (and the restaurants of Islington) every day? Indeed, do politicians ever agree completely on anything, never mind everything? In the end, aren’t we all "at variance” with each other—political parties of one?

If we are to keep the first-past-the-post system, as you believe we should, then perhaps we should outlaw political parties. After all, in these days of 24-hour television, radio and Internet, we don't just vote for a local candidate, we make our mark based on party leadership too—indeed this is probably the main consideration for most of us. PR is arguably all the more necessary than it has ever been.

Whatever we do—and it seems to me that we must do something to improve the electoral system—we need to arrive at a solution that is fair, gives more people more incentive to vote, and that better reflects the will of the country. Call it Christmas—a word no ordinary turkey wants to hear—but one the rest of us would love you for, if you're man enough for it.

April 9th 2005

A busy week.

Popes dead: 1
Papal funerals: 1
Princes dead: 1
Car companies gone bust: 1
Terrorist organizations gone bust: 1

And on the downside, Royal Weddings: 1

Oscar Wilde once quipped that a sentimentalist is someone who wants the luxury of an emotion without having to pay for it. As usual his insight was spot on, and is no less accurate today: why bother with real emotions when with a bit of help from the media we can simply go a bit potty for a few days? As this week's goings-on show all too clearly, the business of sentimentality is booming.

Take Charles and Camilla's wedding: the wretched event is live on the radio as I write. Commentators, dozens of them, are drooling and fawning over every sartorial detail, and members of the public are embarrassing themselves at the slightest opportunity. Unfortunately no one seems to have spared a thought for how tawdry this will all look in ten or twenty years' time. The only thing that has struck me as at all appealing is the news that Princess Zara, or Lara, or maybe Tara, whoever she is, has long black boots on—I might have to turn the telly on.

But kitsch and sex are a mere side show this week. We are in the grip of a different kind of sentimentality—the kind that erupts following certain deaths—and this week you'd be forgiven for thinking that Diana has met a second sticky end.

The Pope, of course, has finally expired. And what a funeral he had! All sorts of hypocrisy and cant at that astonishing affair, including an excrutiating hand-shake between Prince Charles and Robert Mugabe, and the buttock-clenching spectacle of Jacques Chirac kissing Condoleeza Rice's hand. I don't know what else went on, I couldn't bear to watch any more. Beautiful coffin though—I believe it was made from Cypress wood.

The world has gone mad for the week. Millions of people—most of them national leaders and A-list celebrities by the look of it—descended on Rome, or Windsor, or wherever, in order to weep and wail and wave flags (and be seen doing so). And after a dutiful show of catharsis, or humility, or whatever oblations were deemed appropriate for the occasion, everyone went home. But will anyone remember this week in a couple of years' time? I doubt it.

What would Wilde have made of it? Such hysterical sentimentality, such artificial solemnity, such blatant egoism. I don't know about Wilde but it never ceases to amaze me. None of us knew the Pope! He was a sick old man for goodness sake. And if you believe the spin, he's now in paradise smiling down at us, in which case three cheers to him—if you believe the spin.

Thankfully we had Polly Toynbee, in absolutely top form, on hand to record this oddity of our zeitgeist. In her brilliant Guardian column this week she describes the Pope's death as a kind of "Diana moment"—an occasion that has been enflamed by the media's mawkish and maudlin coverage.

Giving short shrift to those who advocate sexual