ENDNOTES, 2nd December 2015

Immortality, rss.ayosearch.com

Immortality, rss.ayosearch.com

ENDNOTES, 2nd December 2015

In this edition: BBC Symphony Orchestra in Gallic mood at the Barbican * Edward Gardner conducts Janacek * Rare Grieg piano music from Somm Records

Only a few days after the appalling terrorist outrage in Paris, the BBC Symphony Orchestra took to the platform at the Barbican to perform a concert of Gallic music (a programme which had been scheduled long before the gunmen ran amok in the French capital). Clearly, many London concertgoers had decided to stay at home in the aftermath of the Paris attacks, as the Barbican seemed to be only half-full. Normally, a programme which included the Berlioz Symphonie Fantastique – not to mention Jean-Efflam Bavouzet performing Ravel – would have attracted a much larger audience, but what the hall lacked in numbers and atmosphere, the orchestra made up in its thoughtful and compelling performances.

Needless to say, the artists – which included a relative newcomer to British concert platforms, conductor Pascal Rophé* (he replaced an indisposed Francois Xavier-Roth) – dedicated the evening to the victims of the Paris attacks, a dedication which drew warm applause from the audience. I hope that the Radio 3 audience that night included many French listeners, enjoying the inspiring music of their country in an immaculate realisation by one of Britain’s greatest orchestras.

A work by Pierre Boulez had originally been programmed, but this was replaced by César Franck’s 1882 symphonic poem, Le chausseur maudit (‘The Accursed Huntsman’) – a quarter-of-an-hour-long curtain-raiser full of late-romantic forest murmurs and a growing sense of diabolic doom. Franck was born in Liège, a city whose Belgian status belies a French cultural hegemony – so it is perhaps right to see Franck as a French composer. And yet his music does have a Germanic drive to it, rather like the works of Vincent D’Indy, that French Wagnerian. However, the next composer on the BBC SO’s menu was Maurice Ravel; a deeply private, inscrutable, fastidious, almost classical figure transported to the 20th-century, and as profoundly French as it is possible to be. Franck’s 19th-century forests gave way to the light and shade of Ravel’s modern impressionism – in this concert, the Piano Concerto for the Left Hand (1929-30), written for Paul Wittgenstein, brother of the philosopher, Ludwig.

I have never encountered even a semi half-hearted review of anything undertaken by Jean-Efflam Bavouzet, and it is little wonder – considering this artist’s total self-assurance and possession of the stage; his astonishing ability to bring finer shades even to the fine shading of Ravel; and the sense that he brings to his performance – even with a large orchestra – of being within the fibres and fabric of a chamber group. The BBC Symphony Orchestra has played this concerto many times, but its low, deep, formless, almost grumbling opening from the deeper register of the orchestra has seldom sounded so mysterious; with the more “open air”, exultant passages which follow achieving a great sonority. The work’s harder edges – its post-World War One “angles” and shapes, and occasional coldness were all summoned and highlighted in this excellent performance. After the interval (and there was very little of the usual bustle in the bars, in fact, everything was very subdued indeed) the ensemble delivered a remarkable reading of the Symphonie Fantastique by Berlioz, the French romantic who took Beethoven’s concept of programme, scene-setting music and added huge brush strokes and grand gestures to it. This five-movement symphony – a love-sick wandering through French fields to a ballroom; back to a countryside menaced by approaching thunder; and then to a terrifying execution at a scaffold – followed for good measure by a witches’ Sabbath – dates from 1830, with revisions made a year later, and once again, in 1845. For such a pre-Wagnerian work, the Symphonie Fantastique sounds as though it belongs to much later in the century.

Pascal Rophé’s conducting style was most interesting: an intense direction of events (as if conducting one of the contemporary music ensembles in which he first made his name), but without overblown or over-dramatic arm gestures, and yet conveying much through his clearly technical mode of operation. But this did not mean that there was restraint all the way through – far from it, in the terrifying, braying brass accompanying the March to the Scaffold, with percussion that thudded through this dream of imminent death; and then the shrieking, almost atonal moments in the nightmare torrents and torments of the finale.

Hector Berlioz

Hector Berlioz

The acoustic of the Barbican Hall is such that the music is revealed very much in its bare bones – as if a piercing light is shining on each section of the orchestra. The sound is not exactly dry, but in sharp relief – and it seemed, at least in the first movement, that the clear, unfussy, astringent approach to the Symphonie took the BBC Symphony Orchestra close to the performance style of the Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment or the London Classical Players, especially in the economy and “attack” of the violins and violas.

One of the BBC Symphony Orchestra’s regular conductors is Edward Gardner, an artist of what might be called the younger generation, but at the age of 41, already a figure of great musical authority and international achievement. On a recent recording for the Chandos label (CHSA 5156), Mr. Gardner raises his baton at the Grieghallen, Bergen, Norway – eliciting playing of pinpoint accuracy and polish from the players from the city’s Philharmonic Orchestra in the music of Leos Janacek (1854-1928). Works such as Jealousy, the Violin Concerto (The Wandering of a Little Soul), The Ballad of Blanik make this a CD rich in central-European flavour. But the greatest piece, by far, on the collection is the tense symphonic poem, Taras Bulba, based on a tale by Gogol about the heroism of a legendary Russian warrior as he fights to liberate his ancient lands (the steppes of the Ukraine) from the Poles. A dim light of legend and melancholy permeates the opening of the work, the Chandos sound-engineers capturing the yearning woodwind phrases and the gloom-laden organ passage which floats above and “behind” the orchestra – adding to the feel of ancient prophecy and landscape.

Finally, folklore is very much celebrated in a remarkable new CD from Somm (CD 0154), a re-mastering of an RCA record from 1978 in which the composer and pianist, John McCabe (who passed away this year – a great loss to music) performs rare works by Grieg. His Stimmungen (Moods) opens the collection, and this seven-piece pot-pourri includes a Studie (Hommage a Chopin), Folk Tune from Valders, and The Mountaineer’s Song. Norwegian Peasant Dances, Op. 72 follow – the soloist bringing to life scenes from an idealised world: spring dances, bridal marches, a tune for a goat-horn, a Bridal Procession for Goblins, and a Tune from the Fairy Hill. Perhaps McCabe’s inner sensitivity as a composer has worked a magic here: he certainly brings tenderness (but never over-romanticism) to Grieg’s dreams of a world beyond our own. A splendid tribute to John McCabe and something of a coup for Somm in finding and presenting this evergreen recording made nearly 40 years ago. With its Nordic feeling, I have no hesitation in recommending the CD as an ideal present for – should I say, yule?

STUART MILLSON is Classical Music Editor of The Quarterly Review

*Pascal Rophé studied at the Paris Conservatoire and won second prize at the 1988 Besancon competition for conductors. He worked with Pierre Boulez, and has conducted a number of orchestras worldwide, including the Philharmonic forces of Radio France, the NHK Orchestra in Japan, the BBC National Orchestra of Wales and the Norwegian Radio Symphony Orchestra

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Panama City

image.anywherepanama.com

image.anywherepanama.com

Panama City

Bill Hartley savours the sights

Panama City is all about business and that business can be seen out in the bay as the queue of ships moves towards the canal. By nine in the morning those on the Pacific side of the isthmus have had their turn. As the last ship leaves the lock at Miraflores and joins the slow procession shepherded by tugs across the man made lake beyond, so ships from the Atlantic appear and the traffic changes direction. This goes on unceasingly around the clock.

Parallel to this marvel of civil engineering a new canal is being constructed. Of course it is all done with heavy machinery these days. The heroic age of construction involving a cast of thousands is long gone. The new canal is designed to take monster container ships perhaps twice the size of those which can navigate the existing canal. Observing the process makes one aware of the challenge of squeezing modern ships into locks built in the 1900s. For many ships the locks are a tight fit. So tight that the skill of a pilot cannot be relied upon to keep a vessel on the straight and narrow as it proceeds. Instead the ship is attached by cables to railway locomotives known as mules which run on tracks flanking the locks. These are not to provide power, the locomotives are tethered to a ship by cables and their job is to keep these taut and the vessel on a straight course, preserving those few feet of clearance on either side.

There has been talk about a rival to the canal which would involve ships crossing Lake Nicaragua. This is a Chinese backed scheme but many in the financial press believe it will never happen. The plan raises environmental concerns, notably the risk of exposing Nicaragua and indeed Central America’s largest source of fresh water to the risk of oil spillages. Last month the Miami Herald reported that the start of construction work had been put back again to 2016.

Like the San Tome mine in Joseph Conrad’s novel Nostromo set in a mythical Central American republic, the lights from the canal can be seen from the city signalling its overarching role in the economic life of this small country. Panama City is dominated by skyscrapers housing banks many of which you will probably never have heard of; their presence proclaimed via logos on the buildings. There is the sense of a city which has grown too fast and is near to outstripping the infrastructure. The towering buildings make for an impressive city scape but down at street level are poorly maintained roads and pavements. Often power is carried overhead and jerry-rigged with great loops of cabling left dangling above drains with missing covers. In fairness Panama City is not all like this but rush hour gridlocking suggests that the authorities should have given more thought to the horizontal whilst allowing so much vertical growth. For the pedestrian there is a subway system and given the quite ferocious levels of humidity this must be particularly welcome.

There is a lot to like about Panama City, notably the people. Because the place isn’t strong on tourism, visitors get little hassle even in the locations where there are souvenir shops. Whilst Panama City isn’t a place for fine dining there are many small cafés and restaurants where prices are modest. Indeed it has been listed as one of the world’s cheaper capital cities. It would though be unwise for the visitor to stray too far from the city centre. Even in bright sunshine the closest barrio is a depressing and sinister place, where passing cars are viewed from balconies by expressionless faces. It is a location where taxi drivers, always a good barometer of public safety, will not go.

A flavour of this can be found in the city centre. Within a single block of my hotel I encountered five armed guards. Every bank has them, frisking customers with metal detectors before they are allowed to enter. It would seem that in Panama criminals still resort to the low tech method of bank robbery. The more upmarket shopping malls also use armed guards. Given the traffic congestion rapid reaction policing is done by cops on trail bikes. The pillion man being the one with the sub machine gun.

Beneath the sophisticated veneer of a modern city the local press shows other forces are still at work. Newspaper small ads are full of individuals promising to use their soothsaying powers to attract great wealth. To emphasise this many advertisements are illustrated with dollar bills. Shrewdly the Panamanians chose to adopt the US dollar to maintain financial stability. There is a local currency running parallel to the dollar but it generally turns up only in small change. Separate from the soothsayers are those practising a different sort of necromancy involving Indian spirit guides. Despite Panama being a long way from the American West these shamans are always illustrated by men in full head dress as if they belonged in a John Ford western. In Panama day dreams about money aren’t restricted to lottery wins, there are inhabitants of the supernatural there to help you: for a fee of course.

Certainly money would come in useful to avoid being a patient in one of the public hospitals. My taxi driver reported that they are places to be avoided, where a patient may be told to return when a new batch of hypodermic needles is available. This was echoed by my Mexican hotel manager who added an even more ominous concern, being of the opinion that in Panama they can run up any kind of certificate of qualification, raising the risk, he suggested, that you might be treated by the local equivalent of Dr Nick from The Simpson’s.

The Americans were running the canal up to 1999. Part of the concession they got from the Panamanians was a land corridor across the isthmus. You can cross an invisible line just outside the city and this is the point where the traveller would once have entered the Canal Zone and US territory. Since 1999 it has been locally run and the business world believes the Panamanians do a good job. The cost to a shipping line may seem considerable (between $50,000 and $250,00 for a container ship) but still a lot cheaper in time and money to sail from say Shanghai to Tilbury via that route, rather than round South America.

The Panamanians try to talk up the country as a tourist destination but it has its limitations. For example no effort has been made to tidy up the scrap of beach on the edge of the city, which would seem the obvious thing to do. For the time being at least neighbouring Costa Rica is going to continue to get most of the tourists, though Panama also has a good sized chunk of rain forest. Really though the thing to see is that wonder of the modern world just outside town: the relentless procession of ships transiting the isthmus from ocean to ocean.

Panama Canal construction. www.businessinsider.com

Panama Canal construction. www.businessinsider.com

BILL HARTLEY is a freelance writer from Yorkshire

                                                                  

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Lost in France

Static.dnaindia.com

Static.dnaindia.com

Lost in France

Ilana Mercer lambasts the Hexagon’s Keystone Cops

“HEY, it’s me, Salah Abdeslam. Did you see the attacks across Paris? Bismillah, may we have many more like them. Brothers Brahim Abdeslam, Abdelhamid Abaaoud, my self and others pulled it off. I’m still in Paris. I need a ride back to Brussels. Come get me.”

After executing 130 people in Paris, and maiming many more, Abdeslam called his compadres in Belgium to ask for a lift home. I can’t vouch for the precise wording of the telephonic exchange between Salah Abdeslam and his contacts in Belgium. But the call took place, as BBC News reported. And it must have been quite a relaxed one, circumstances considered.

Still on the lam, Abdeslam knows he has nothing to fear. The French authorities were on heightened alert. The Kufar’s telephones had all been tapped. Yet Salah’s faith in the French fools was unshaken for a reason.

Without court orders, as The Guardian tells it, François Hollande’s socialist government taps phones and emails, hacks computers, installs “secret cameras and recording devices in private homes”; infects French Internet and phone service providers with “complex algorithms” designed to “alert the authorities to suspicious behavior.”

Yet it all—the French Surveillance State—amounts to naught.

Like gun laws, spy laws oppress only law-abiding, harmless individuals.

As in all western democracies, France’s Big Brother surveillance apparatus is as useless as it is oppressive.

France’s “protectors” knew nothing of the conversations taking place under their noses.

Duly, Marine Le Pen would be summoned to appear in Court for “inciting religious hatred against Muslims,” in October. Leader Le Pen, who loves her countrymen and would never harm them, was in court for saying “France for the French.”

Marine le Pen

Marine Le Pen

Yes, Salah knew all too well—still knows—that offensive speech French authorities would diligently prosecute, all the more so when uttered by a “white supremacist.” But a suspicious looking supremacist like himself, hell bent on killing his hosts, would not so much as be stopped for an inquisitive chat.

Not on returning from one of many round trips to Syria and back, to Turkey and back, to Morocco and back. And not on returning to the scene of the crime.

Megyn Kelly took up an entire segment of her Fox News extravaganza to kibitz about the un-Islamic lifestyle of the architect of the attacks. OMG! Abdelhamid Abaaoud had been swilling whiskey in Paris’ Saint-Denis district, in contravention of Islamic law, moaned Imam Kelly.

The real “breaking news” story Kelly missed.

Abaaoud was thus relaxing and celebrating a day after the successful attacks.

Shortly after the attacks, Abaaoud had managed to return undisturbed to the scene of the crime to mill about among the moronic French gendarmes and survey his handiwork with them.

The “breaking news” here, Ms. Kelly, is the criminally negligent, worse-than-shoddy French police work.

Where were the roadblocks? Where was the rational profiling at the roadblocks? Where was the basic police procedure that used to see cops stop and politely question loiterers at a crime scene?

Nowhere!

Thus did Paris’ chief gendarme order the city’s peaceful Jews to cancel public Hanukkah celebrations. Better that, than to stop a North-African looking chap for a chat.

Jews may be removing themselves from Paris’ Public Square, but not Jihadis. Rest assured: with the help of their political and constabulary enablers, Jihadis are already surveying the city for more soft targets, just like the Parisian headquarters of Charlie Hebdo, a satirical newspaper, whose writers were exterminated in January.

France is no civilized outpost; it is paradise on earth for martyrs; it’s hell on earth for their dhimmis.

Why, just the other day a Jewish teacher was stabbed in Marseilles by purported ISIS supporters. And a local businessman was beheaded near the city of Grenoble. These French Salafists brazenly impaled the poor man’s severed head on a fence.

Other than the U.S. Transportation Security Administration, nobody employs more un-vetted Muslims than the French. According to The Australian, at least “57 workers with access to runways and aircraft were on [a French] intelligence watchlist as potential Islamist extremists.”

One of the assailants at Bataclan, Omar Ismail Mostefai—mercifully, he blew himself to smithereens likely because he knew the gendarmes would take pity on him and slow down his journey to Gehenna—was fingered back “in 2010 as a suspected Islamic radical. Since then, Mostefai appears to have been able to travel to Syria; he may have also spent time in Algeria.”

Another Bataclan alumnus, Samy Amimour, a 28-year-old Frenchman, also partook in France’s generous, frequent-flyer terrorist tours. He scuttled to commune with ISIS in Syria without being kept out of France, or deported for good to ISIS Land.

A BBC News headline asked: “Paris attacks: Is bashing Belgium justified?”

An unqualified yes is the answer—provided blame is apportioned between France, Germany, The Netherlands and other European countries, which all keep the revolving door in operation, so that their Islamist youngsters may circumambulate from Europe to ISIS Land and back again.

When the butcher aforementioned, Brahim Abdeslam, commenced his pilgrimage to Syria, the Turks were sharp enough and responsible to send him packing back to Brussels, where he was wanted, but not a Wanted Man.

The best I kept for last: Salah Abdeslam was stopped by police “in his car,” not once, but “three times in the hours following the attacks, on the last occasion near the Belgian border” (BBC News). Abdeslam and two fellow travelers were waved by, presumably because they did not resemble Marine Le Pen.

The little man in charge of France responded in Syria to the presence of ISIS in France. Hollande’s lunacy excited neoconservatives stateside no end. That’s because the inmates are running the American and European asylum, where The People are the real refugees.

Patriots who promise no more than to make the West safe for its people again; the gilded traitor elite threatens with court orders.

Marine Le Pen’s Front National, the Freedom Party of Austria, and Geert Wilders’ Party for Freedom (to be joined, indubitably, by Donald Trump) are outsiders in their homelands. But in France, it’s business as usual for the barbarians.

Ilana Mercer is a paleolibertarian writer, based in the U.S. She pens WND’s longest-standing, exclusive paleolibertarian column, “Return to Reason.” She is a fellow at the Jerusalem Institute for Market Studies. Her latest book is “Into the Cannibal’s Pot: Lessons For America From Post-Apartheid South Africa.” Her website is www.IlanaMercer.com. She blogs at  www.barelyablog.com   Follow her on Twitter:  https://twitter.com/IlanaMercer “Friend” her on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ilanamercer.libertarian

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The Peacock at Rowsley

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The Peacock at Rowsley

First impressions of this small boutique hotel in Rowsley, near Bakewell in the Peak District, are very favourable. Staff welcome one into a space that is at once cosy and smart; both the greeting and the rooms make one feel relaxed and at home. The latter are not huge (and our bathroom really was quite on the tiny side – but smart nevertheless, with marble tiles and a shower over the bath) but are immaculately clean and combine quirky touches both modern and old. In our room we found plenty of comfortable chairs – again a combination of traditional armchairs and more modern pieces (a pink velvet chair looking as it was out of the 1950s); whilst a beautiful old desk calls to one to sit down and write letters, and an antique oak Jacobean-style wardrobe lends further interest to the room. I also rather loved the old radiator and original leaded windows – behind, of course, a second layer of glass to keep out the noise from the road (and probably obligatory for ‘health-and-safety’ reasons). Lamps lend a warm glow to the room and a pot of orchids a touch of elegance. The four-postered bed is huge, high and extremely comfortable, and covered in soft and flawless cotton. Another feature of interest was the old iron fireplace – it was just a shame that the small pile of logs wasn’t blazing away! We were pleased that there was only one moderate-sized TV screen, and that not, hurrah – for once, dominating the room.

We ate dinner in the bar, seated in a little alcove with the low copper surface of the glorious old-fashioned bar behind my husband and tiles of a peacock behind Tristan and myself on the bench; an original stone wall to our right and rather gorgeous oak panelling to the left. Lamps are complemented by discreet and warm spotlighting; paintings hang on the walls and old furniture abounds. I was particularly impressed by the ancient leather wine carrier hanging from a hook behind my husband. On the other side of the room was a log fire next to another beautiful item of furniture – an antique oak settle. We looked round the bar the next morning in daylight and were even more impressed than we had been the previous might – a beautifully carved antique wooden settle; the lovely rounded, enveloping shape of the bar; an antique cock fighter judge’s chair (impressive, even if one does disapprove of its original use) – and that beautiful, glowing copper top! Surely the most splendid bar I have ever seen.

The Peacock Bar

The Peacock Bar

We started dinner with cocktails, for which The Peacock has developed something of a reputation. My husband’s chilli concoction was a very ‘cleansing-feeling’ drink, calling to mind P.G. Wodehouse’s phrase (in connexion with Bertie Wooster) about feeling “as though someone was strolling down my oesophagus holding a lighted torch” but the fiery, energising taste was particularly refreshing. In my cucumber champagne cocktail, the initial notes were strongly redolent of champagne and gin, but the cucumber made its presence felt a little later. This was a beverage of real sophistication, and one to be enjoyed and appreciated with due focus. Amuse bouche were brought shortly after the cocktails and set the high tone for the rest of the meal – really rather delicious beef and horseradish croutons; and a very sweet chilled carrot soup with cumin.

The menu lists a reasonable number of starters and main courses as a la carte choices (around seven) and there is also a menu of “Classics” at far more reasonable prices (that’s not to say that the a la carte dishes may not be worth the amount charged – I’m sure they are, but it would probably push it into a ‘really special occasion’ meal bracket). We ate from the classics menu, which had just three options each for starters and mains, including soup and fish of the day.

I started with a venison terrine – this was very strongly flavoured with dark, gamey notes, with the crunch and heat of the green peppercorns complementing the rich texture and flavour of the meat. It was served with sourdough toast with celeriac, which worked well. My husband’s egg Benedict was pronounced superb. The egg was rich and cooked to perfection; the muffin was beautifully soft but not without a little resistance that complemented the egg perfectly; and the whole was accompanied by simple rocket leaves that added colour as well as an added dimension of texture and taste.

The wines chosen to accompany the starter (by the sommelier) were also immaculately judged: both were complex and sophisticated white wines with very clean, centred tastes and wonderful noses – mine in particular had an immensely floral nose with those floral notes also coming through strongly on the palate, alongside baskets-full of fruit. The red wines which followed with the main courses were equally rich, complex and well-chosen.

For my main, the braised lamb shoulder was excellent – the shoulder itself was both immensely flavoursome – rich and succulent – and wonderfully tender – literally falling into pieces when one cut into it. It was accompanied by pearl barley – which gave a good complement of texture in its bursting crunches; slightly bitter kale, and lamb ragu. The latter was in and of itself also excellent – very tomatoey in flavour – yet I felt that it was one dimension too many and actually obfuscated rather than added to the overall dish.

The steak pleased even fussy Mr Marshall-Luck! This was deliciously and vividly flavoured, with an effective salty tang and an intense depth. It was simply but effectively served with chips and rocket and with an extremely more-ish Béarnaise sauce. Young master Tristan tried substantial bites of all of these and strongly approved – as indeed he did of the beautifully freshly-baked bread rolls, which were also unusual in flavour and of the very highest quality.

He was equally impressed by his father’s bread-and-butter pudding and not surprisingly. It’s very rare that one can find a restaurant that can do this so successfully. Here at The Peacock, it was light enough not to be stodgy but at the same time had plenty of substance and heft which made it an extremely satisfying dessert; juicy raisins, plump from marinating, vied with layers of bread and a soft yet slightly resistant filling. Furthermore, it was complemented admirably by brown-bread ice cream that was deliciously smooth and boasted more than a hint of caramel.

I opted for cheeses, wherein one may choose three out of five listed items (an excellent selection of different types, with each accompanied by a little dab of carefully-chosen sweetness). Thus honey perfectly complemented my goats’ cheese; date puree my English “Swiss”, and apple puree my semi-soft cows’. Again, every element pleased and impressed: delicious cheeses, beautiful accompaniments – which really worked with the individual cheese – and all superbly presented. Tea and coffee were excellent too – the tea very clean tasting, and the coffee strong enough even for Mr Marshall-Luck.

The service had been extremely good as well for the duration of the meal. Staff were smartly attired, attentive and friendly. One even brought chalks and encouraged Tristan by example to squat down on the slate floor and draw all over it. When I later found Tristan scribbling all over my kitchen tiles with a pencil I was less persuaded that this had been a good idea – but the friendliness and attempt to include their youngest dinner was nevertheless laudable.

It was with the very deepest regret that we loaded the car the following morning after an admirable breakfast, noting, as we walked to and from the car park the other thoughtful touches such as the bowl of water inside the door for dogs and a rack of umbrellas for patrons’ use. It is rare that one finds an establishment that offers such a high level of service; such exquisite food and drink; and such fine surroundings (not to mention that bar!).

The Peacock Garden

The Peacock Garden

One of the things that struck me most, however – apart from that supremely gorgeous bar – was the clientele, who were far more civilised than one usually encounters – unusually, we noted that these were all people of good breeding, manners and culture, rather than the moneyed hooligans one all too often finds in top hotels. Perhaps a case of like attracting like, with the refinement and elegance of The Peacock calling to more cultured and civilised patrons.

Em Marshall-Luck is QR’s Food and Wine Critic

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The Martian

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The Martian

Film Review by Robert Henderson

Main cast:

Matt Damon as Mark Watney (botanist, engineer)
Kristen Wiig as Annie Montrose, NASA spokesperson (Director, Media Relations)
Jeff Daniels as Theodore “Teddy” Sanders, Director of NASA
Michael Peña as Major Rick Martinez, astronaut (pilot)
Kate Mara as Beth Johanssen, astronaut (system operator, reactor technician)
Sean Bean as Mitch Henderson, Hermes flight director
Sebastian Stan as Dr. Chris Beck, astronaut (flight surgeon, EVA specialist)
Aksel Hennie as Dr. Alex Vogel, astronaut (navigator, chemist)
Chiwetel Ejiofor as Vincent Kapoor, NASA’s Mars mission director
Donald Glover as Rich Purnell, a NASA astrodynamicist
Benedict Wong as Bruce Ng, director of JPL

Director Ridley Scott

************************

Imagine Robinson Crusoe without a Man Friday and stranded on another planet rather than a deserted island and you have the plot of The Martian in a nutshell.

Botanist Mark Watney (Matt Damon) is part of the Ares III mission which has landed on Mars and set up a temporary base there. A dust storm blows up while the crew are out on the surface and Watney is hit by some flying debris. The rest of the crew are sure he is dead, but they also have a major threat to distract them from searching for him: the dust storm is threatening to blow over the rocket that will take them back to their orbiting Hermes spaceship. If the rocket topples over the crew will be stranded on Mars. Consequently, they make an emergency take off without Watney, get safely to the Hermes and head for Earth.

But Watney is not dead. He has been injured by the flying debris, but not mortally. The facility which sheltered the crew on Mars, the Hab, is still functioning and there is a large Mars rover vehicle intact. Watney sits down in the Hab and does exactly what Crusoe does, takes an inventory of what he has then sets about working himself out of the monumental hole he is in. This he achieves in a series of ingenious ways including, again mimicking Crusoe, by scavenging equipment from wrecks, in this case from abandoned equipment left from previous missions, manned and unmanned, to Mars.

Most of the film is taken up with Watney’s efforts to overcome one daunting obstacle to surviving after another long enough to have any chance of rescue. He starts from the bleak point of knowing that NASA think that he is dead. Hence his first need is to establish contact with Earth to let them know he is alive. He eventually does this by cleverly tinkering with equipment intended for other things until eventually he has an email link with NASA.

After making contact with NASA, Watney’s most pressing problem is having enough food to keep him alive until Earth can attempt to rescue him. It will take several years to send another spaceship to Mars and Watney has food for nothing like that long. Luckily he is a botanist so he works out a way of producing water and this, with the excrement from the astronauts acting as fertiliser, allows him to grow potatoes inside the Hab with sufficient success to enable him to survive for considerably longer but not long enough for the next Mars expedition, Aries IV, to arrive and save him.

While Watney is problem solving on Mars NASA is problem solving on Earth and meeting with disaster. Their attempts to launch an unmanned rocket with extra supplies to allow Watney to survive until Aires IV can get there ends in disaster and all looks lost. But eventually the Aries III mission ship Hermes ship is re-provisioned in space and then turned around on its flight to Earth and sent back to Mars to rescue Watney. This is done only with the help of the Chinese (note the glib internationalism and/or kowtowing to the Chinese).

After further adventures including a disaster with the Hab and a long ride across the Martian surface in the Mars Rover the film culminates in a hair-raising exercise to rescue Watney. Does he make it? Well, you will need to see the film to discover that.

Damon’s performance as Watney recaptures the engaging boyishness of his early films like Goodwill Hunting and Rounders. He is decidedly funny. Without him the film would be pretty dull, for apart from Damon the plot involving the rest of the cast is rather predictable and even those with the larger parts such as Jeff Daniels as Theodore “Teddy” Sanders, the Director of NASA and Jessica Chastain as Melissa Lewis, the Ares III Mission Commander, are distinctly one-dimensional. Sean Bean is horribly miscast as Mitch Henderson the Hermes flight director speaking what lines he has with as much verve as a speak-your-weight-machine.

The Martian has been criticised in some quarters for Damon’s role being too comic. That is a mistake. Whether or not someone in such a desperate and isolated position would be able to maintain such an upbeat persona with the sense of both his utter physical isolation and desperate circumstances pressing upon him is of course debatable. But that is to miss the point. The same objection could be levelled at Robinson Crusoe. But in both cases what counts is whether there is a good story to be told and in both cases the answer is yes.   Moreover, the attitude of Watney is that of those with the “right stuff”, an epitome of American can do. Nor is he utterly alone for most of the film. To keep him sane he has contact with Earth for most of the time and eventually the Aries III ship Hermes. He also records his progress on a video blog, something which would provide a sense of purpose. It is Boy’s Own stuff but none the worse for that. Nor is it utterly unbelievable. Think of the tone of the diaries kept on Scott’s doomed return from the South Pole or the resolution of the crew on Apollo 13 after an oxygen tank exploded two days into the mission and crippled the spacecraft. Boy’s Own behaviour is sometimes found in real life.

The depiction of Mars is unnecessarily sloppy. It looks convincing as far as the scenery is concerned, but there are anomalies. The gravity on Mars is one-third of that on Earth yet when Damon moves around there is no indication of this in his walk, which one would expect to be at least mildly bouncing. Nor when Damon moves things does he do so with unexpected ease as one would imagine he should with only one-third Earth gravity. Then there is the atmospheric pressure which is around one-hundredth of that on Earth. Would the storm which causes the Aries Mission crew to leave really have had the energy to hurl debris as violently as it did or threaten to knock the rocket over? The answer is no because it is the density of atmosphere which provides the “weight” behind a dust storm. On Mars the dust storm would be a breeze not a hurricane. As the dust storm plays a significant role in the plot this is not a small thing.

For fans of politically correct casting The Martian provides a feast. The commander of the Aries II mission is a woman; Chiwetel Ejiofor is Vincent Kapoor, NASA’s Mars mission director, Benedict Wong is Bruce Ng, director of JPL and there are ethnic minority and female bodies in abundance in the NASA control room scenes. Donald Glover as Rich Purnell, a NASA astrodynamicist, the whizz kid who produces the maths which allows the Hermes to turn round and head back to Mars, is black. (The overwhelmingly white and male reality of NASA today can be seen here).

Despite its flaws the film is genuinely entertaining. You will not leave the cinema feeling you have wasted a couple of hours.

ROBERT HENDERSON is QR’s film critic

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ET Weeps for the West

ET

ET Weeps for the West

Ilana Mercer contemplates the events in Paris

In the West, crying and dying is framed as … winning.

Or so an Extra-Terrestrial from Deep Space would conclude, should he look down upon the landmasses that make up The West.

From his worldly perspective, ET will observe that when they are blown up by those in their midst, the West is wont to display mounds of fluffy objects, flowers and candles.

Somehow, this ritual is equated with resilience and triumph.

Could it be that this pasty-faced, tearful people believes that displays of inanimate objects that swell landfills will appease their gods? ET is still in the preliminary stages of his implacably objective inquiry.

To ET, these perennial, robotic, mass-mourning rituals performed after such strikes are an enigma. Any rational creature capable of distilling events to their bare-bones essence would concur.

The hobbled West, the poor French in particular, is grief stricken. One hundred and thirty compatriots were slaughtered in venues across Paris. The coordinated, Nov. 13 attacks were the handiwork of one Abdelhamid Abaaoud and his band of Islamic State sympathizers. One of the eight evildoers was a refugee, some were European nationals, all were recipients of Western largess.

The sanctimonious literati (not a very literate lot) call Abaaoud a local Belgian boy. They consider the enclaves of Muslims as French as the beret and the baguette.

ET’s enormous blue eyes well up when he listens to Brel’s achingly beautiful “Ne me Quitte Pas”, sung sublimely by Shirley Bassey. How great was the West, he murmurs.

The mastermind of the attacks across Paris was part of the young, restive population living on the outskirts of the great European cities and on the fringe of its society; often in housing projects and on welfare, a propensity that doesn’t detract from this group’s prized and protected position in the West.

ET wonders if westerners, a confused lot, believe the Angry elements in their midst are gods in need of appeasement. This might explain the furry and fiery offerings on the sidewalks. ET also notes that the Pale Faces have the same crippling reverence for blacks and Hispanics.

With his luminous finger—it works like the Microsoft Surface Tablet pen—ET scribbles the following furiously: “Are Western ‘leaders’ recruiting this incompatible cohort because they consider them, irrationally, to be gods?”

Fail to welcome the flooding of your communities with people of a divergent culture and sometimes of a belligerent faith—and the Cultural-Marxist foot soldiers will ruin you with the following labels:

  • Racist
  • Xenophobe
  • White supremacist
  • Extreme rightist
  • Mean
  • Ungenerous
  • Ignorant
  • Redneck

ET can’t fathom why such phrases and words send the earthlings into painful paroxysms. Nevertheless, an earthling would rather die than be called a racist by cultural Marxists.

From his seat in the heavens, ET can see that the soft nations are comprised of supremely kind people, verging on the sanctimonious. Africa, the Middle East, Near East, Far East: as do-gooders go, there is no match for the giving, gullible people of America, Australia, Canada, Europe and New Zealand. Wherever you look, the whites of the world are untiring in doing the world’s good works and saving the planet and its creatures.

Yet every other people aside whites is allowed to claim and keep its corner under the sun. Dare to suggest that China, India, Saudi-Arabia, Yemen, Japan, or South-Korea open the floodgates to immigrants who’ll disrupt the ancient rhythm of these countries—and you’ll get an earful. Yet this is what Anglo-Americans and Europeans are cheerily called on to do by a left-liberal establishment, which finds the exotic more sympathetic.

True, westerners have the best countries. But the verdant, lush, lovely West is the way it is due to Western civilization’s human capital. The core, founding populations in these countries once possessed the innate abilities and philosophical sensibilities to flourish mightily.

Yet despite The West’s generosity to The Rest, it’s people is the only people to be shamed, ostracized, threatened and maligned when talking about the lands of their forefathers, the beliefs of forebears, the faith and folklore of Founding Fathers. (Discussing quilting is OK, I suppose.)

Another of ET’s insights: no sooner than the pale people question the edicts enforced by hostile, hateful elites—that they must invite into their midst still more volatile, culturally divergent, sometimes dangerous aliens—leaders in politics, media, academia, and “think” tanks start going stir crazy about a thing called “Our Values.”

“We’re risking American dignity,” crowed the generic, telegenic, Mr. Muhamad, on Fox News’ Hannity.

In his formidable intelligence, ET asks: what is this collective “dignity” of which you speak, Mr. Muhamad? Who defines it? This communal “dignity” sounds suspiciously like a catechism sculpted by the State and its supporters, to bring about compliance.

ET is getting hot under the scales about this “dignity” thing: why don’t the foolish opinion formers, summoned by television program-makers to wield this weapon, ask the dead in Paris whether they’re glad to have died on the altar of this “dignity,” or would they rather have their full, young, promising lives back, instead?

A species of the “dignity” cudgel is the term “This is not who we are.”

Barack Hussein Obama has weaponized this collectivist phrase. A member of what ET terms The Merkel Media, a clone of the American MSM, waxed fat about her country’s “true values”: “An open, democratic society defined by pluralism, equal rights and freedom of expression, belief in the rule of law …”

If so “free” and orderly, ponders ET, why does Angela Merkel’s Germany jail a German grandma aged 87, for a thought crime (Holocaust denial), while allowing tens of thousands of strangers (“refugees”) to swarm over Germany, riot, litter and vandalize, as they go?

In his implacable objectivity, ET intends to further investigate. His soft, sweet heart pounds for the melancholy, mindless men and women of the West. His working hypothesis, so far, is this:

While the ordinary Pale People are the focus of disaffection, responsibility for the carnage lies with leaders in western lands. Westerners are kicked about and killed by Angry Others because their “leaders”—a likely low-intelligence, parasitical sample of humanity—has adopted a two-pronged strategy with which to beat the Pale People into submission and drain the life-blood from them.

The strategy represents two sides of the same neoconservative/left-liberal coin. It was first described, somewhat inartfully, on a website called WND:

On January 16, 2004, recalls ET, the “Return To Reason” cyber column encapsulated the scheme as, “Inviting an invasion by foreigners and instigating one against them.”

Later, on, another super-smart earthling, Steve Sailer “turned [that idea] into a neat slogan,” naming the policy, artfully, as “invade the world/invite the world.” This radical strategy permanently destabilizes the homeland and the world and gives western governments all the power, everywhere.

From his worldly perspective, ET gets the Big Picture: For whites, it’s war abroad and hell on earth at home.

Now he is crying. After all, ET almost died without his people.

©
ILANA Mercer
November 27, 2015

Ilana Mercer is a paleolibertarian writer, based in the U.S.  She pens WND’s longest-standing, exclusive paleolibertarian column, “Return to Reason.” She is a fellow at the Jerusalem Institute for Market Studies. Her latest book is “Into the Cannibal’s Pot: Lessons For America From Post-Apartheid South Africa.” Her website is www.IlanaMercer.com.  She blogs at  www.barelyablog.com   Follow her on Twitter:  https://twitter.com/IlanaMercer “Friend” her on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ilanamercer.libertarian

 

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Only Conserve

Bob Barron, The Remains of the Day 1

Bob Barron, The Remains of the Day 1

Only Conserve

Peter King condemns change for change’s sake

One of Edmund Burke’s most famous sayings is that ‘A state without the means of some change is without the means of its conservation’. This is sometimes used to suggest that conservatives should not oppose change, but rather engage with it and that without change there is no possibility of survival. The result is that Burke can be, and is, used to justify political change, and to make it respectable for those conservatives, including many in the current ruling party, who like to label themselves as progressives.

It is no longer enough for a Conservative merely to want to conserve things. Conservatives have to be modern and progressive and seek to create a better society. Conservative politicians argue that they wish to help people achieve their aspirations, to reach higher and to make a better life for themselves. What they cannot countenance is that we might actually prefer where we are and only want to be left alone. We do not all want to be somewhere else and are very sceptical of the idea that there can be somewhere better.

It is worthwhile, then, putting Burke’s quote in its proper context. In doing so, we shall see that Burke is actually pointing toward a rather different conclusion that the ready grasping of change. He says:

A state without the means of some change is without the means of its conservation. Without such means it might even risk the loss of that part of the constitution which it wished the most religiously to preserve. The two principles of conservation and correction operated strongly at the two critical periods of the restoration and Revolution, when England found itself without a king. At both those periods the nation had lost the bond of union in their antient edifice; they did not, however, dissolve the whole fabric. On the contrary, in both cases they regenerated the deficient part of the old constitution through the parts which were not impaired. They kept the old parts exactly as they were, that the part recovered might be suited to them.[1]

Burke is writing here in response to a request for his views on the French Revolution and, in particular, whether he would agree with those in England who argued that the French were merely doing what the English had done in their Glorious Revolution of 1688, namely, overthrowing an illegitimate monarch. Burke’s correspondent was trying to enlist Burke’s support for the premise that the people had the right to rid themselves of a king they could no longer support. Burke, a noted supporter of the rights of the American colonists and the Indian native population, was presumed to stand behind the idea of universal rights.

But this was a complete misunderstanding of Burke’s position. For him, rights did not arrive out of some abstract principle but from particular historical circumstance. Burke argues that the revolution of 1688 did not involve the overthrow of a monarch so much as a situation where the English used their traditional and considered Constitution to correct a deficiency that had arisen through the abdication of an unsuitable monarch. The Constitution was not set aside, but rather was used and followed in order to repair the deficiency and so continue on much as it always had done. Precedent was used to determine a way forward that was consistent with the traditions and history of the country.

Accordingly, the decisions taken in 1688 were not acts of repudiation but rather acts of repair. The deficiency caused by the abdication of an unsuitable king was remedied using those parts of the Constitution that still held fast. The result was that the traditions of the country were strengthened rather than weakened. The Glorious Revolution was not a transgression but a clarification of already existing ideas.

Burke was here seeking to deflect the accusation that the French, with their capture and imprisonment of their monarch and usurpation of his authority, were in some manner mimicking the English. The French, however, had committed the treachery of innovation and operated according to the fiction that a monarch could be replaced if he no longer governed according to the will of the people. Burke showed that this was opposed to those actions of the English, who had merely sought to protect their constitution and ensure a recovery of tradition. They were not then properly speaking revolting but acting in a manner consistent with established ways.

We should note here that Burke talks only of conservation and correction and makes no mention of reform or improvement. Change is necessary not to modernise but to maintain and preserve what is ancient. Change is not something to relish but rather it is something to be managed. Change is something to endure or suffer as best we can. The best means to get through it is by using our working traditions to salve those parts that need repair. In other words, a society has to have the means to react to circumstance.

So, to follow Burke, we only change because it is necessary to do so, and we use what still works to remake what is deficient. We do not innovate or invent, and we do not rush our change as if it were an end in itself. What we have to do is to slow down, to ensure that we retain control. We change only to preserve what we already have, and we do so out of a recognition of its intrinsic value as the means by which we are what we are.

This puts a completely different complexion on the original quote. It is only by removing it from its proper context that anyone can use Burke’s statement to justify the changes we see going on around us. The fact that change is inevitable does not mean that we must encourage, promote or even accelerate it. Change is to be mitigated and we do this using the safety and security provided by known ways. So to claim that Burke is somehow on the side of progress is to seriously misunderstand one of the great masters of conservative thought.

[1] Burke, E 1999, Reflections on the Revolution in France, Liberty Fund pp., 108-9

PETER KING is Reader in Social Thought at De Montfort University. His most recent books are Keeping Things Close: An Essay on the Conservative Disposition and Here and Now: Some Thoughts on the World and How We Find it, both published by Arktos in 2015

See more of Bob Barron’s artwork at www.bob-barron.com

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Critical Race Theory

Ilana Mercer

Critical Race Theory

Ilana Mercer indicts an illiberal ideology

The spectre, on the nation’s campuses, of frightened, middle-aged white educators, mostly men, resigning in fear of a mob rising in rage against hurtful words and gestures—all constitutionally protected speech—is an organic extension of the American educational project, down to your child’s school.

If your kids are in the country’s educational gulag—primary, secondary or tertiary—however well they’re faring, they’re still being brainwashed and de-civilized. Most private schools are now bastions of progressivism, too. “Progressivism,” of course, does not imply progress.

The “justice” for which privileged youngsters on America’s coveted campuses are rioting—the right to silence and purge dissent and dissidents—they’ve imbibed in schools public and private, prior to arriving at the university.

On the University of Missouri campus, atavistic youth have joined against hurtful words, symbols and unsettling, unorthodox ideas, and for “safe spaces,” where these brave hearts can hideout from “racial microaggression.” Examples of “microaggression” are asking a black student for lessons in twerking, complimenting her weave, or simply being white.

But mostly, these minorities and their propagandized white patsies are campaigning for the unanimous acceptance of the following destructive, dangerous, often deadly, dictum:

“White racism is everywhere. White racism is permanent. White racism explains everything.”

The “systemic racism” meme you hear repeated by media, across the American campus, and preached from the White House is a function of “Critical Race Theory,” the sub-intelligent, purely theoretical, logically fallacious construct, now creeping into American schools at every level.

As detailed in WND colleague Colin Flaherty’s “Don’t Make the Black Kids Angry,” America’s children, black, white and brown, are being taught, starting at a tender age, about “racial hostility and resentment.”

This racial hostility is said to be endemic and always and everywhere a white on black affair.

Ask your state representative and your school board about Glenn Singleton and his Pacific Educational Group’s curriculum, “Courageous Conversations.” The poisonous program has been adopted by “hundreds of school districts across the US,” and foisted on millions of pupils, very possibly your child.

Beware; propaganda is process oriented, and an insidious process at that.

ITEM: Your cherub’s project receives an A. The teacher praises his work before the classroom. Yet, oddly, she will studiously conceal the child’s identity. This is in furtherance of the egalitarian idea, implemented, whereby no individual student is to be identified as having produced superior work to that of the collective.

“[U]nder the Singleton influence,” explains Flaherty, “the Seattle schools [have] defined individualism as a form of cultural racism and said that only whites can be racist.” Moreover, “emphasizing individualism as opposed to a more collective ideology is a form of racism,” too.

The progressive educational project carries its anti-white bias into teaching about the Orient (East) versus the Occident (West).

ITEM: A Christian boy, placed in an academically advanced study program, is tasked with submitting a project about one of three ancient civilizations: Egypt, India and Rome.

Ancient Egypt, a big hit apparently, is spoken for. The teacher, generally “white, female, liberal,” advises the boy: “Choose India. Rome is … BORING.”

What is it that this colossal ignoramus has conveyed to her student with the words “Rome is boring”? Let us unpack the meta-message (with reference to History.org):

Christianity, first adopted and spread by the giant empire of Rome, is BORING.

  • Engineering, which the Romans perfected and excelled at like no other civilization, is BORING.
  • Related in tedium and utterly BORING: the ingenious construction of roads and aqueducts.
  • The Greeks, an inspiration for Rome—what little boy doesn’t love Leonidas of the “300”?—BORING.
  • The form of government known as “republicanism,” an inspiration for the American Founding Fathers: BORING.
  • The notion of equality under the law, invented by Rome and instantiated in Rome’s Twelve Tables, 449 years Before Christ: BORING.
  • The intrigues at Julius Caesar’s court: BORING.
  • The oh-so relevant lessons of Empire and government overreach: BORING.
  • Spartacus, gladiator and rebel leader against Rome: BORING.
  • “Gladiators, Chariots, and the Roman Games,” the riveting stuff of kiddie video games: BORING.
  • The fine art of argument and oratory: BORING.
  • Masters of literature and poetry: Horace, Virgil, Ovid, Livy: BORING!
  • The greatest romance in history, Antony and Cleopatra’s: not quite on the level of a Bollywood tryst.

Rome is the foundation of our Western civilization. The boorishness of telling a Christian young boy that Rome is boring conjures a skit from the “Life of Brian,” a parody by comedic genius John Cleese about Judea under Rome:

So, “What have the Romans ever done for us?” asks Reg, a Jewish rebel against Rome. “The aqueduct,” one rebel ventures. Says a second, “Sanitation, remember what the city used to be like?” A third Jewish rebel praises the roads, a fourth, the public baths. Exacerbated by the growing list of Roman improvements, rebel-in-chief Reg responds: “All right, but apart from the sanitation, the medicine, education, wine, public order, irrigation, roads, a fresh water system, and public health, what have the Romans ever done for us?”

Except that what is par for the course in your children’s’ schools is no laughing matter.

Certainly, parents ought to familiarise themselves with the politicised process of textbook and course-material selection.

In Washington State, the selection of textbooks is a highly centralized affair, arrogated to a “textbook commission,” which consists of five individuals, whose liberal, labor-union credentials are guaranteed to be unimpeachable.

Put it this way, textbook selection effected by the politburo of books will ensure that your child never ever comes away believing in the immutable truth, say, of the philosophy that animated the republic’s Founding Fathers. Or in the originalist intention of the US Constitution.

Yes, your kids will learn about the Constitution and about theories of constitutional interpretation. But so will they be inculcated in the unshaken view of originalism as a quaint notion reserved for oddballs (auntie Ilana’s preference for the Anti-Federalists is tantamount to a thought crime), and that “progress” demands that the Constitution be “updated.”

Your child will be taught that eternal verities—the rights of private property and self-defense—shift with the times, when in fact truth is not relative, but both knowable and immutable (also the theme of a magnificent encyclical penned by the late Pope John Paul II.

Fact: Yale and Mizzou students are oblivious to the cherished American tenets of freedom of speech, freedom of conscience, freedom of religion, diversity of thought, and most important: the magnificent life all people irrespective of skin color can labor to achieve in America.

These students didn’t arrive on campus with such illiberal biases. The rot didn’t start there and didn’t unfold overnight. The closing of the Millennial Minds at the University of Missouri and beyond, to yield such philosophically and ethically bereft boorishness, has happened over time. The seeds of the bizarre contagion spreading across American campuses were sown in your kids’ primary and secondary schools, public and private.

And as we speak…

Ilana Mercer is a paleolibertarian writer, based in the U.S.  She pens WND’s longest-standing, exclusive paleolibertarian column, “Return to Reason.” She is a fellow at the Jerusalem Institute for Market Studies. Her latest book is “Into the Cannibal’s Pot: Lessons For America From Post-Apartheid South Africa.” Her website is www.IlanaMercer.com.  She blogs at  www.barelyablog.com   Follow her on Twitter:  https://twitter.com/IlanaMercer “Friend” her on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ilanamercer.libertarian

 

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Legend

KraysLegend

Film Review by ROBERT HENDERSON

Director, Brian Helgeland

Main cast:

Tom Hardy as Ronald “Ronnie” Kray and Reginald “Reggie” Kray
Emily Browning as Frances Shea
Christopher Eccleston as Leonard “Nipper” Read, the Detective Superintendent responsible for taking down the Krays
Taron Egerton as Edward “Mad Teddy” Smith – a psychopathic gay man rumoured to have had affairs with Ronnie
Paul Bettany as Charlie Richardson
David Thewlis as Leslie Payne, the Krays’ business manager
Chazz Palminteri as Angelo Bruno – the head of the Philadelphia crime family and friend and business associate of Ronnie and Reggie
Kevin McNally as Harold Wilson

*****************************************

This biopic of the East End gangsters of fifty years ago, the twins Ronnie and Reggie Kray, contains a great deal of technological wizardry and an unusual performance by Tom Hardy who plays both twins. The technology is so slick that it allows both Krays to appear on the screen at the same time without any sense that the scenes have been faked, even when the twins have an extended fight.

But technological marvels do not a good film make and Legend has severe weaknesses. Like many biopics it tries to cover too much ground, thinking that by ticking off a large number of incidents that this in itself produces the ideal telling of a life. That may have some merit in a written biography but it is death in a film. The Krays being violent to establish their claim to be hard men; Reggie having a brief spell in prison; the murders of George Cornell and Jack “the Hat” McVitie and a good deal more simply flash by. Little opportunity is given for character development or a proper examination of any part of the biographical subject’s life.

Hardy’s performance as the twins is remarkable as he invents two distinct personas for the Krays; an almost rational albeit violently amoral one for Reggie and a declamatory character with the hint of a lisp for Ronnie, who spends the film in a perpetual state of violence, both suppressed and realised, while hatching crackpot plans for the establishment of a Utopian community in Nigeria or making statements that discompose other characters such as his habit of announcing that he is homosexual. Hardy gives Ronnie a rich behavioural wardrobe of tics and bulging eyes that seem to be perpetually on the point of shooting out of their sockets. This creates a problem however because Hardy’s Ronnie is so off the wall that he comes across not as a real human being, however flawed, but as a monster created for theatrical effect.

Gangster films often have a cartoonish element because of the mixture of the normal with the abnormal. Characters engage in incongruously normal conversations about their wives and children during which they assume a moral position, then engage in some act of horrific violence. But such scenes do not dominate films and are often deliberately funny. The depiction of Ronnie in Legend is neither amusing nor truly threatening. It also detracts from Hardy’s depiction of Reggie – which is convincing enough when taken in isolation – because it is difficult to take seriously either of the characters when one is palpably ridiculous. (Try to imagine Bond or Jason Bourne acting against Norman Wisdom playing a villain in his most popular character guise of Norman Pitkin).

But the main problem is that there is simply too much Ronnie and Reggie. The best gangster films are those with strong ensemble playing. Think of the Godfather series or Friday the Thirteenth. Yet apart from Emily Browning as Reggie’s girlfriend and eventual wife Frances Shea, the most convincing scenes are those between Hardy in his guise as Reggie and Francis Shea and David Thewlis as Leslie Payne the Krays’ business manager. The other characters simply do not have the chance to develop because they have so little screen time. Bewilderingly, the personality who supposedly loomed largest in the Krays’ minds in the real world, their mother Violet (Jane Wood) barely appears, while two actors with substantial film careers – Paul Bettany as Charlie Richardson and Christopher Eccleston as Detective Superintendent Leonard “Nipper” Read – are barely used (Bettany) or given only a series of scenes so short that their effect is minimal (Eccleston).

At the end of the film my thoughts turned to the 1990 film The Krays in which the Kemp brothers from Spandau Ballet played the twins. In some ways this was unintentionally funny because set in an unbelievably clean East End, while Billie Whitelaw in the role of the Krays’ mother produced the worst attempt at an East End accent ever heard from a professional actress – right up there with Dick Van Dyke’s “Gor blimey, Mary Poppins” – while Steven Berkoff went an astronomical distance over the top as George Cornell.

The Krays (1990) Under the radar movies

The Krays (1990) Under the radar movies

But the saving grace of The Krays was characters other than the twins being developed. Moreover, the portrayal of the difference between the Krays was less contrived. Indeed, considering their lack of acting experience at the time the Kemp brothers were worryingly convincing as the Krays, with Ronnie being a much more believable character than he is in Legend. For all its absurdities, The Krays is both a more convincing evocation of the twins and more entertaining than Legend, which truth to tell becomes tedious as the film progresses because all one-dimensional.

Legend is a not a howling flop merely mediocre. Tom Hardy is a charismatic and accomplished actor, probably the best English film actor of his generation. The subject matter also suits him because he is a convincing hard man with a fine talent for portraying violence. But in the end the film is too unbalanced, too unbelievable to be either a meaningful biopic or a first rate gangster film.

ROBERT HENDERSON is QR’s film critic

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The Dilemma of Hypermodernity, part 3

Dynamism of a Man's Head by Umberto Boccioni
Dynamism of a Man’s Head by Umberto Boccioni

The Dilemma of Hypermodernity

Mark Wegierski completes his analysis

It is probably in the peripheries, rather than in the North American node of the world-system, that potential resistance to hypermodernity resides. The Soviet counter system has disintegrated because puritanical Marxism, with its basket-case economy and coercive violence, was no match for the scintillating allure of Western consumerism and technology, and for the promise of personal freedom (which has nevertheless turned out to be double-edged in the light of such phenomena as the rise of the Mafiya).

Yet despite everything, high-culture and genuine popular culture exist to a greater extent in Russia — and all the other national communities of the erstwhile Soviet Union and former Eastern bloc — than in most of urban North America. The intellectual or artist or religious person is both more highly valued, and closer to the roots of his or her society. Unfortunately, all this is under increasing attack today — as young people in vast numbers leave school (in which they are often being offered the closest thing to a serious classical education in the world today) to try and make a fast buck; lyceum girls say in surveys that their favourite chosen profession for the future would be “hard-currency prostitute”; and American neocon think-tankers suggest on CNN that long-time career military officers should open shoe-shine stands, as that would be more productive than their current occupation of marching around on parade grounds.

What most of the people of the former Eastern bloc societies are probably hoping for are a series of genuine national re-births, without Western interference, and without catastrophic, market-imposed pauperization. After all, the collapse of the Eastern bloc — from the perspective of the transnational corporations — could sardonically be termed the largest leveraged buyout in human history.

In his highly-perceptive essay in the March 1992 issue of The Atlantic Monthly, “Jihad vs. McWorld”, Professor Benjamin J. Barber noted that the commodity and media system of “McWorld” actually intensifies the negative aspects of nationalist and religious impulses, precisely because they are under such enormous threat from it. Thus, ugly situations such as the excesses of the Iranian Islamic Revolution; the brutal Iran-Iraq war; the Iraqi plunder of the Kuwaitis; the slaughter in Rwanda; or the situation in ex-Yugoslavia, readily arise. However, the salve for such situations is NOT more globalization. In pre-modern times, ethnic and religious minorities could often endure for centuries — or even millennia — under hostile dominant cultures. It was the modern period that ushered in ethnic and religious slaughter on a truly mass scale, as well as the fading of the diversity of all rooted peoples in the face of global homogenization.

In an interview with The New York Review of Books (November 21, 1991), the 82-year old academic éminence grise Isaiah Berlin, said by some to be “the wisest man in the world” came out in favour of a tempered nationalism as the proper response to both hyper-tribalism and homogenization. He extolled the eighteenth-century philosopher of non-aggressive nationalism, one whose ideals he believes in — Johann Herder, who “virtually invented the idea of belonging.” (Herder, incidentally, was very sympathetic to the Slavic nations — and so his thought was ridiculed by the Nazi regime.) Isaiah Berlin says:

“Herder believed that just as people need to eat and drink, to have security and freedom of movement, so too they need to belong to a group. Deprived of this, they felt cut off, diminished, unhappy. To be human meant to be able to feel at home somewhere, with your own kind. Herder’s idea of the nation was deeply non-aggressive. All he wanted was cultural self-determination. He believed in a variety of national cultures, all of which could, in his view peacefully co-exist.”

This idea is similar to what Professor Paul Edward Gottfried, at the conclusion of his book on the German political theorist Carl Schmitt, has called the “pluriverse” of distinctive peoples and nationalities, each with a meaningful, cherished history and vital existence. This “pluriverse” of human diversity is menaced by the univocal “universe”, by what the preeminent Canadian philosopher George Parkin Grant terms “the universal, homogenous, world-state”, or what ecologists might call “the monoculture”.

In his Acceptance Speech for the Nobel Prize, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn likewise remarked:

“The disappearance of nations would impoverish us no less than if all peoples were made alike, with one character, one face. Nations are the wealth of mankind; they are its generalized personalities: the smallest of them has its own particular colours and embodies a particular facet of God’s design.”

And in his work Beginning With My Streets (translated by Madeline G. Levine), Czeslaw Milosz, the Polish poet, philosopher, and Nobel Laureate has written that we live in a time when the person is “…deracinated, and thus deprived of collective memory…Where there is no memory, both time and space are a wasteland.” Polish literature is said to offer “better antidotes against today’s despair” than the current literatures of Western Europe, for “whoever descends from this literature receives signifying time as a gift”, and “does not sink into apathy.”

The nations of the former Eastern bloc; the peoples of the numerous, diverse cultural regions of the planet’s South; as well as China, Japan, and the so-called Newly-Industrialized Countries (NIC’s) of the Pacific Rim, are evolving in certain unpredictable directions. Even Europe is arguably showing some signs of an independent “Eurostyle”, something barely tangible but perceivable in the greater elegance and diversity of contemporary European thought, culture, fashion, and lifestyle (to cite one example, the affection for the countryside, or at least the preference for fine food and drink that can only be produced by unhurried, natural methods in the countryside); as well as in the view of technology as craftwork — sophisticated European technological artefacts can be described as being carefully “crafted”, rather than mass-produced. This distinctive European style — which also certainly has its negative aspects — is selectively interpreted as “decadence” or nihilism by some North American observers. But the West, as a whole, is defined by its American-centred corporate/media bureaucratic-oligarchic configuration, which stage-manages all “social change”, and denies the hope for real change.

It might be added here that the British state is in a curious, unfortunate, “mid-Atlantic” position. There was a point in the Eighties when the standard of living in the United Kingdom apparently fell below that of East Germany. Britain has little of the Continental “style”; but at the same time it lacks the luxurious wealth of North America. More development under the “project” of Thatcherite individualism would probably destroy even more of the countryside; lack of development would presumably deepen the division into “two nations”. The “Little Englanders” of the early twentieth century — as well as J. R. R. Tolkien — have been proven essentially correct that the gaudy edifice of British imperialism and colonialism would quickly collapse and implode upon England, leaving the nation a wreck. While the British (or what should really be called the English, or London-ruled) state seems moribund, the so-called Celtic fringe of Scotland, Wales, and Cornwall appears to be reviving, culturally if not economically. So the possibilities and configurations of resistance to globalization vary from country to country and from region to region.

Britain has the curious residue of what are probably the worst aspects — as opposed to some more positive, truly aristocratic elements — of a class-system: which excuses almost any behaviour by the elite (such as that carried out by the Cambridge spies, virtually all of whom went unpunished); but which severely punishes to the point of bankruptcy a Slavic Count (Nikolai Tolstoy) who made certain accusations against one of its members; and which slots many working-class people into a perpetual underclass. One of the reasons for the proliferation of youth subcultures in Britain, and of the unquestionably trend-setting and manifestly more independent and less brazenly commercial nature of British rock (and its various subgenres), relative to its North American counterparts, is simply that white alienation in Britain is more genuine, and can more genuinely be felt. (There are more real working-class youth there, as opposed to the well-off “bohos” pretentiously “slumming it” in North America.)

Regarding the problems of the Third World (or South), there is a constellation of trends at work, not only the permeation of Western mass-media images which undermine traditional cultures, but also the extreme poverty, caused largely by massively burgeoning overpopulation, which drastically cheapens human life in those countries.

It is impossible to imagine that any country would want to be overpopulated. While on the one hand it would seem entirely just that the West take strong steps to limit its own profligate consumption, as well as to funnel extensive, meaningful aid to the South, it also behoves the South to take extremely strong population-control measures and to understand that any large-scale aid would be contingent on the enactment of at least some significant efforts in that direction; as well as to realize that the West in general, and Europe in particular, can no longer serve as destination-points for large-scale immigration. Stabilization of population growth must be seen as one of the primary means of stabilizing the over-all situation in the South. Then, presumably, the over-all value put on human life in those countries will increase, the traditional cultures will be under less severe stress, and there will be some hope for the ultimate survival and recovery of the ravaged ecosystems and dwindling wilderness areas of the South, which include such priceless ecological treasures as the Amazon rainforest (critical to the oxygen supply and stability of weather patterns across the entire planet); the African savannah; and the forests of Northern India.

The future — if indeed there is a future — will result from the convergence of various trends which from the current standpoint might seem contradictory, yet which ultimately have some points in common. The most hopeful development today is probably ecology. It would be even more positive, however, if the rather abstract allegiances of the ecological movement could be reinterpreted on the level of a specific communities. The “postmodern” idea of the future clearly calls for a strict sense of limits on consumption, limits on economic growth, and limits on the now-untrammelled exploitation of the planet. However, it would seem that the ecological argument for sacrifices in consumption could much more easily and meaningfully be made if it meant sacrifices for something more local, tangible, and particular than an abstract ecological principle. Here is where the argument for this land, this countryside, this country, must come in. The combined position of communitarian ecology offers the careful shepherding of resources and custodianship of nature for the sake of a particular community which is to derive its sustenance from these resources for the ongoing millennia. This also implies that either all communities on the planet will be following such policies, or that the particular community must be capable of decisively repelling possible incursions from such communities that are refusing to participate in this model. Presumably, ecologically-minded communities and societies will form themselves into various alliances that would be able not only to repel incursions, but, more importantly, to bring about the triumph of communitarian-ecological principles across the entire planet.

What we are talking about could be characterized as the return of the “steady-state society” (or the stationary state, as envisaged by J S Mill), which might also be called a “hydraulic-ecological” society. What in the 21st century will become the increasingly precious resources of clean running water; real food with minimal chemicals and carcinogens; energy-supplies, especially petroleum and coal; high-tech medical care; green space in which one can breathe and relax; and large personal dwelling-places (not to mention the current profligacy of rampant consumption) will presumably be subject to some kind of very real — though not, in the final analysis, necessarily all that onerous — rationing. The grotesque excesses of “car-culture”, for example, will have to be significantly and meaningfully curtailed. Realistically-speaking, such an ecological program cannot be based on wholesale de-urbanization or ruralization, but rather on a saner and more ecological management of the situation as it currently is.

A central premise of the critique of late modernity is that late capitalism is NOT in fact a truly rational system of allocation of resources. Enormous amounts of energy are superfluously wasted in the creation of advertising to inflame appetites for largely unnecessary products; and obsolescence is “planned-in” to keep consumption at a high rate, etc. For example, it has been estimated that the actual cumulative speed of commuting to and from work by car, in the very largest urban centres, is slower than that of walking by foot, because of the state of terminal gridlock. The personal and psychological rewards that will compensate for the decrease in consumption, for the decrease in quantity, is to be the increase in the quality of life, the emergence of time for pause and reflection in many people’s lives, as well as the sense of participation in and belonging to a genuine, friendlier, and safer community.

The other path for humanity, of hypermodernity, which the planet today unfortunately seems to be moving on with a startling degree of unidirectional intensity, implies an increasingly dystopic future for humanity. As the once-Western-derived technology increasingly encroaches upon the world, our ultimate fate is most likely one of these alternatives: the possible extinction of human beings through some massive ecological or bio-engineering disaster; the possible destruction of the human spirit, and then presumably of physical humanity (if that proverbial “unlimited energy source” is actually found, and technology is able to “solve” all of our problems, but without our ability to set any limits on it); or what could be called the “Brazilification” (the term first prominently used in Douglas Coupland’s Generation X) of the West, as well as of the planet as a whole: to wit, extreme contrasts of wealth and poverty; attenuation of the public-political realm and endemic crime, violence, and corruption; burgeoning overpopulation; and ongoing environmental degradation.

To conclude: the future, though uncertain, can still be won. The painfully minimal resources available to the critics of late modernity today must be marshalled in such a fashion as to create maximum impact — to bend flexibly, where possible; to use the opposing forces’ strength against them, where possible; but also to be able to possibly deliver, at some point, a very telling blow. These essays are intended as a contribution to the absolutely critical fight for the future of a humanity living in accord with Nature but facing the risk of extreme spiritual and physical degradation, or outright extinction.

The Forces of the Street by Umberto Boccioni
The Forces of the Street by Umberto Boccioni

Mark Wegierski is a Toronto-based writer and historical researcher

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