The Vet’s Daughter by Barbara Comyns (1959)

I knew nothing about the setting (Edwardian(?)-era London) or the story, so found the cover of a hovering girl in a bedroom a bit perplexing. It’s a fairy story of kinds, but a grim one. The narrator is a teenaged girl with a timid, dying mother and a brutal father. The house is full of caged creatures. The first-person writing style is naive, as if Cinderella was telling her side of the story. There’s a beloved dead mother with tales of a past beautiful world, a stepmother figure who would sell Alice to a wicked ogre, a comforting godmother character and a strange castle in a faraway world. Prince Charming is in there, but he’s unattainable; Buttons is the more likely downbeat match.

I suppose it fits the magical realism genre avant la lettre by Alice’s discovery of levitation to escape the unnamed fears that oppress her. Not my favourite type of novel, but this one I enjoyed.

Disley to Whaley Bridge

The Gritstone Trail starts just outside Disley station so was perfect for the start of today’s walk. It takes you past Lyme Park and up to the Bow Stones (the shafts of two Saxon crosses); here we left it and continued over Whaley Moor down to Whaley Bridge.

Lots of gorse and skylarks and wonderful views. From Lyme Park you could see Manchester clearly, but I preferred our lunch stop view of rolling green hills. Still plenty of mud around, but nothing compared to previous walks like Penrith and Saltburn.

Monsal Dale

We caught the bus then walked beside the River Wye to the Headstone Viaduct – the old railway line between Buxton, Bakewell, Matlock and Derby. From the viaduct, we continued along the railway path beyond Litton Mill – through the Cresswell and Litton tunnels – and then up and over to catch the bus back from Taddington.

There were wood anemones everywhere and a few early bluebells. On the Wye below the viaduct we spotted three mandarin ducks, and towards the end we walked beside a jumbled-up field – the site of an old mine.

Furness Vale to Buxton

We caught the train to Furness Vale and walked back to Buxton along the Midshires Way. The High Peak Canal to Whalley Bridge then the Goyt Valley. We passed the Toddbrook Reservoir; all the work on it reminded me of how it was feared it would collapse in 2019 and that Whaley Bridge was in danger.

It was a pleasant walk – varied enough and not too muddy, and the weather was good to us. The final section, along the old Buxton-Whalley Bridge road, gave us a good view of Combs Edge and convinced me that it was not a route I wanted to attempt.

French New Wave

From my scrappy notes: Late 1950-60s. Much written about and lots of theory. (Academics love Godard.) Directors (mostly men ) who grew up post war and had the advantage of a reconstructing country – education, expansion. The big French film companies – Gaumont, Pathé – couldn’t compete with Hollywood so were focussing on small-scale, specialised “quality” productions, often literary adaptations – therefore lots of film expertise around but also a dullish tradition to rebel against. Cinema was seen as a serious art form – e.g. surrealists had made films – and French thought (Sartre etc) was very influential. Strong tradition of film criticism – Cahiers du Cinéma. Development of auteur theory: the film director was as much an artist as a painter, and certain directors – e.g. Hitchcock, Hawks – had their own distinctive style. (French New Wave rather admired some Hollywood films.)

It’s also very easy to overlook how innovative they were at the time – e.g. jump shots.

À Bout de Souffle, 1960, Jean-Luc Godard

When I saw this film years ago I grew tired of it before the end – its jerky editing and its preening, self-absorbed protagonist. Watching – and really noticing – how it was filmed in one short extract was a revelation. There was the jazzy, upbeat score; the constantly-moving, hand-held camera; the occasional cut-off hat or something in the frame (an indication of the speed and urgency of the shooting: no time to re-take); always moving, never static. It felt restless, youthful and amoral, and it used the latest technology to capture its freewheeling vibe: hand-held cameras and very fast film.

The American influence again: Humphrey Bogart as an idol: the transient vulnerability of Belmondo as he removes his dark glasses to commune with the film still in the cinema. Bogart’s voice saying “Here’s looking at you, kid” ran through my mind. A film about the influence of other films.

Les Quatre Cents Coups, 1959, François Truffaut

The streets of Paris in the leading role again. Shooting in the street in “real world” conditions may only give you one chance to get your shot. A film about another troubled youth, shot in a fluid, unconstructed style. The script was unfinished, there was some improvisation and truffaut used non-professional actors.

Le Beau Serge, 1958, Claude Chabrol

I’d never heard of this. NOT Paris this time, but a small village. (Cheaper to shoot.) A man returns to his childhood home and discovers an old friend has become an alcoholic. It’s style was naturalistic, and it closely resembled a neo-realist film from last week: the lives of ordinary people filmed on location.

Paris Nous Appartient, 1961, Jacques Rivette

Here we start getting into French stereotypes! Wordy, sophisticated, incomprehensible (or elusive) . . . It was different in that it had a much broader point of view, touching on political oppression and had a much more middle-class and numerous cast. From the clip we saw, that’s all I can say. I would have to watch it to find out more . . .

Ma Nuit Chez Maud, 1969, Éric Rohmer

The decision to shoot the film in black and white when most other films were in colour? Again, if you wanted a French film to parody you could choose this. Wordy, solemn, slow, needing a greater knowledge of Pascal than I possess.

The Machine Stops by E M Forster (1909)

A short story with a sketchy but chilling view of the future. It takes place in a fully homogenous, globalised world where everyone lives underground and has minimal physical contact with others. No need to move: everything is controlled by a switch. Interaction is by a “plate” (think Zoom on an ipad) and lectures are all of ten minutes long. Everything is controlled and maintained by the Machine. Human beings have become pale, flabby creatures that shun direct experience and prefer all ideas to be second-hand (if not tenth). They have used up everything in the natural world and rely entirely on the Machine to regulate their lives.

It ends in disaster, of course, when the Machine eventually breaks down and the swaddling bands unravel. As a vision of the future it’s both hit and miss. There are shades of our present: the opportunity to become atomised and turn away from the messy world of nature and emotion, the short attention span, the lumpen body that no longer knows how to move swiftly or strongly. In other ways – well, less so. Unlike the worldwide communication system in the story, the internet is not used predominantly to listen to ten-minute lectures on Music in the Australian Period. (As if!) We have not become creatures of intellect (however fatuous) as the story suggests, and it makes me I wonder what Forster saw in his world that made him imagine this particular form of the future.

Yanwath

An ad hoc walk to Yanwath to see the hall that the railway line flies past. The idea was to go further but mud and the difficulty of finding the right way made it an unattractive prospect. Instead I chose a route that looked as if it went back to Penrith . . . but it was in fact blocked by a council depot. A word and a smile provided the Open Sesame (oh, the advantages of looking harmless!) and there was no need to trudge all the way back to the main road.

A reminder though that I need to improve my map-reading skills.

The Taste of Things

Director Tran Anh Hung with Juliette Binoche and Benoît Magimel

France’s bid to reclaim top position in food and love perhaps. It was filmed beautifully and very very s l o w l y . Scenes resembled Vermeer paintings and the lighting was sublime. No background music during the film, I think – only the sound of sharp knives in the kitchen and woodpeckers outside.

It’s about a gourmet living in a castle and his cook; they have had a close professional and emotional bond for decades. Whole sections of the film are devoted to watching them cook and serve the most delicious food. (Without running water or kitchen appliances, I noted. Just lots of copper pans and a vast range.) It is lovingly done (and also ripe for parody) – but, really, there is something deeply satisfying about fresh food, a potager and the idea of the kitchen as the centre of the household and the provider of comfort.

It was also strong on the long tradition of French cooking and its continuation – from Carême to the young kitchen maid whose talent is being nurtured. Being a cook who delights diners is the highest calling. You really couldn’t get a film further removed from the gadfly Deliveroo riders that currently plague our streets.

Eamont Way

I am Penrith again. Not the weather for it – storms and yet more rain – but I should know by now how to make the best of things.

I walked to Pooley Bridge mostly along the Eamont Way. Into a headwind. It was – as I’d expected – very slippery and muddy. Fortunately little rills (previously known as “footpaths”) washed my boots clean as I walked. Over the motorway, under the railway (built in brick stripes – that I loved) and across the fields. I stopped to look at St Michael’s Church in Barton – dating from the 12th century and reshaped over the centuries. It was in Barton that I walked across a farmyard: a couple of new lambs with their mothers in a pen, a collection of old farm machinery, a large Tudor-looking farmhouse that must be a devil to maintain – and an elderly farmer carrying a pail and walking with a limp along a muddy path. Now that looked like a hard life.

At Pooley Bridge I considered walking back on the opposite side of the river . . . but there was a bus to Penrith due in 10 minutes, the prospect of cheese on toast at Cranston’s and the chance of going to the cinema at teatime. No contest.

Italian neo-realism

I’m doing a short course on post-war European film. I definitely need someone to hold my hand as I encounter Fassbinder and Bergman.

So, first lesson: Italian neo-realists, which was nice and comforting because I’m rather used to them. Pre-war the Italian film industry was well-funded: Cinecittà was founded by Mussolini and his son, Vittorio, in 1937. Lots of frothy, escapist films – the Hollywood-style telefoni bianchi films (quick flashback to Florence 1981, where I first heard of them) and solid film-making experience. Post-war: the surrender to the Allies by Italy, occupation by German forces, the slow, deadly grind by the Allies up from the heel to the north before the country was liberated. Cinecittà was used as a refugee camp for some time, film stocks (not to mention more basic stocks) were low, so film-makers had to be inventive. Neo-realism can be seen as a brief moment in post-war Europe that arose from particular circumstances. Shot on location, showing ordinary people and ordinary lives.

The films we looked at were not immediately popular at the time in Italy, but they were praised abroad and that tended to make Italians more interested in them. They were also a way (as all films are?) of presenting a picture of the country to the rest of the world. What was also interesting was to consider Hollywood’s influence even on these films: images that recalled Charlie Chaplin or adapting The Postman Always Rings Twice and moving it to the Po valley.

We looked at four films – just brief scenes with a little bit of context, which is not how I am used to watching a film. It seemed odd at first, but it’s perfect for analysing without getting caught up in the narrative and emotions.

Ossessione, Luchino Visconti, 1943

Initially banned by Mussolini. I have seen this film, but I realised that I hadn’t viewed it. So, opening credits laid over the view through a windscreen of a long, monotonous road between a river and featureless flat land. Lorry arrives in village, camera pans up and then down, following the new arrival as he enters a trattoria. Low shot of dogs, chair legs, human male legs; the camera follows the back of the man towards the kitchen; we see a pair of shapely female legs, a shoe dangling from one slim foot; the back of the man’s body obscures the rest of the woman’s body. Finally we see their faces – the two lustful protagonists of the film seen from each other’s point of view – in a way that is as manufactured and scene-setting as, say, Bogart and Bacall or Barbara Stanwyck descending the staircase in Double Indemnity. Just brilliant. I want to watch it again.

Roma Città Aperta, Roberto Rossellini, 1945

Fellini had a part in writing this. After Ossessione, the camera shots seemed very tame and static to me, but Rossellini had to use whatever film and techniques he could – including, apparently, clandestinely shot footage. It really is “slice of life” stuff, but I remember it as slightly melodramatic and the clips I saw didn’t persuade me that I wanted to watch it again.

Bicycle Thieves, Vittorio De Sica, 1948

Shot in Rome. I’ve seen this one twice, but the clips did make me want to watch it again. It used non-professional actors (some dubbed by other actors) and was shot on location. Workless working man in his environment: new apartments (apparently with no mains water) in a country rebuilding itself. (They’re similar apartments to those in La Dolce Vita that, several years later, seem to symbolise lost hopes. As I recall, there was too much mains water there.) I remembered the pawning of the sheets to get the bicycle out of hock, and the “adoration of the bicycle” before its first ride to work. I’d never appreciated the poetry of Rome awakening to a new day with the sun rising and the tide of workers flowing in. The balletic sequence of bicycles and ladders as the bill posters set out from the warehouse. Rather like Dickens (him again!), the film doesn’t miss the fine lines between social castes.

La Strada, Federico Fellini, 1954

This film I definitely must see, if only for more of Giulietta Masina’s wonderfully expressive face. The opening scene on the beach – a fatherless family so poor that they are at the end of the road with nowhere else to go. Little figures like marionettes against the sea. (Which, again, made me think of La Dolce Vita and the final scene on the beach. A reminder that Fellini came from Rimini.)