Friday 16 November 2012

'M' is for mother

Skyfall not only successfully tip-toes the fine line between the hard-edged realism of Craig era Bond and the self referential familiarity of the character's 50 year history but offers a thematic depth to which past films in the series have dared not aspire.

Judy Dench's 'M' has brought a wonderful dynamic to latter Bond films, her matriarchal authority over the eternal womaniser a delight to behold, her snide remarks in Skyfall preventing any over-sentimentality during the less subtle nods to the Bond legacy.

In this, her seventh film, the role reaches Oedipal levels of complexity. Surrogate mother to both Bond and Javier Bardem's unnervingly sinister Silva, the latter bent on revenge for her past betrayal, she comes to personify Britain itself (herself) - the nation, the motherland - forcing Bond, and by proxy the audience, to question the meaning of loyalty to country.

Indeed there is an overt link drawn from 'M' to Queen and from Queen to country - a hacked laptop threat displaying her gurning face backed by the Union flag, the same flag latterly draped over each coffin in a line of fallen operatives, 'M' looking on them with an icy, Boudiccan stare. When Bond at one point suggests "there's life in the old girl yet" he could just as easily be referring to the country as the head of MI6.

I accept I may be artificially colouring the film with a recent personal motif i.e. Britain finding its post-imperialistic place in the world, yet as in the film the Secret Service struggles to defend itself to a 'Leveson style' Inquiry, so too, in reality, Britain's established pillars of media, government and justice attempt to redefine themselves in this era of ultimate accountability.

Are we any longer willing to accept that 'mother knows best', the secrets of these once impenetrable organisations now coveted vehemently in the public interest following revelation after scandalous revelation?

Silva's thoughts are clear and Ralph Fiennes' excellent Mallory, Parliamentary representative and symbolic of the Prime Minister's guilty conscience, appears to think not, ordering 'M' to exit quietly from the top job in penitence for her misdemeanours.

Yet far from taking a partisan view, the film navigates its way through a thorny issue with poise. 'M' counters in a stirring statement to the Inquiry, that new, unseen enemies, now, more than ever, require men operating in the shadows to counter their threat...

So what of our Shadow-player? - Agent 007, washed up and worn out; left for dead in the film's opening montage; soul searching in a shot glass. Betrayed? Perhaps. Loyal to Queen and country? Forever. Yet never before have we seen him contextualised like this. "Women want him and men want to be him", yet in Skyfall, his portrayal is as tragic servant, a pitiful son unable to break the maternal ties, the only ties he has.

Even his brief sexual liaison here is cold and calculated, promising femme fatale Sévérine an escape from the madman's clutches only to use her plainly as conduit to Silva. As she suffers her reprisal in front of him, Bond quips, perhaps in an attempt to shrug off his hurt at another lost innocent, or perhaps his reinforcement of that same cold hearted clinicism adhered to by his 'true love', 'M'.

Every passing Bond film feels like a new dawn, reacting to the criticisms of its immediate predecessors - Brosnan's Bond is somewhat derided now but courted 'best ever' acclaim from some quarters post Goldeneye - the milestone of the 50th anniversary only serves to burgeon this desire for ongoing renewal.

As Bond returns from the wilderness, attempting to prove himself fit for service deep in the bowels of the relocated MI6, a psychologist attempts to employ a word association test: "Hobbies?" the Doctor suggests. "Resurrection" replies Bond.

His 23rd return may just be his most miraculous to date.

Sunday 4 November 2012

Charity ends at home

How distant that summer seems now. How absurd our dreams of utopia. As autumn brings wind, rain and darkened skies so too that symbolic torch of light seems to flicker and fade from our collective memory. It was always to be that way, of course, but could anyone have predicted such a sense of betrayal...?

The unmasking of Jimmy Savile strikes to the heart of a nation that seemed so sure of itself but a few months ago. The crimes of the man, as hateful and numerous as they are, only reveal part of the horror. More significant is the question of how this was allowed to happen?

The fact it was, for decades, and under the blind eye of one of our greatest and most celebrated public institutions, only adds to the sense of shame. Even more unnerving is the number of people claiming to have known, or at least suspected, his transgressions. Yet, to a man and woman, they never thought, or felt able, to unveil them.

This is the most frightening revelation. One man nesting himself in a protective cocoon of contacts so stymied by fear of his power and influence that none would speak against him; not dictator, nor terrorist but light entertainer!

Pillory Savile, pillory the BBC, rightly, but don't ignore that worm of the soul which allowed each of those individuals to ignore such crimes. Something not inherent to institutions or organisations but to the heart of everyman.

***

It's been a difficult time to call myself a Chelsea fan. A team that continues to employ John Terry, who, on the balance of probability, racially abused a fellow player. Many at the club ignore the facts to protect their own, citing his utter commitment on the pitch as if that mitigates against all.

Irrelevant, insignificant and further evidence of unwillingness to accept responsibility. Against Shaktar Donetsk in a recent Champions League match, Terry sported a captain's armband brandishing the logo of a registered charity campaigning to rid the game of that very ill which he had helped cultivate.

***

Charity. "His many years of work for charity". "The thousands of pounds he raised for charity". Celebrities who throw themselves so wholeheartedly into such an arena have always bothered me. Frankly, I question their motives. To erase the guilt of their own success? To shift focus from their otherwise considerable flaws? In Savile's case, it seems to be both these and worse - a convenient way to access the vulnerable.

Every year I bridle at the eagerness of our celebrity aristocracy to lend their services to Comic Relief or Children in Need, asking myself if altruism is just a myth?

By all means contribute money - anonymously; set up a foundation - anonymously; visit a homeless shelter without a camera crew following your every move.

Perhaps many do, I hope so, but when Savile's uncloaking follows so closely the rank exposure of cyclist Lance Armstrong as the most prolific cheater in sporting history - a man supposedly representing the values of his own 'Livestrong' campaign - it becomes the ultimate manifestation of those fears, embodied in men who were once acclaimed respectively as the greatest celebrity fundraiser and greatest sportsman of our time!

***

Just last weekend, I was in my local off licence. As I queued at the counter, ahead of me, a threatening and aggressive character begun tacitly abusing the young Asian man serving him. "I don't like him" he exclaimed to everyone and no one in particular; "he's different" he mumbled almost incoherently under his breath. The implication was abundantly clear.

Yet not one of us in that queue acted. No one called him to account, no one defended this poor man from the abuse he was receiving. I felt my cheeks blush and my blood boil but I too chose to turn my head away, ignoring that which I knew had taken place.

Who's responsible for Savile, Terry, Armstrong and their ills...?

I am.

"The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing" - Often attributed to Edmund Burke