A Bit of Fry and Laurie

On countless occasions and at various junctures; those pregnant pauses during polite life’s social interactions when people grasp for something to say, the question of the fantasy dinner party is often resurrected, like some old and dependable friend.

I vacillate shamelessly on the subject.  My answers depend entirely on my mood, my outfit, number of alcoholic units imbibed, and my present audience and how I’d like them to appraise me.  There are, indubitably, a few non-movers; certain characters I feel to be lurking most constantly in the shadows of my subconscious.  Their exploits, secret selves and very essences have fascinated me so fully that their placemats at that fantasy dinner party are etched in inerasable ink.  The Queen, Lewis Carroll, and Tintin fall into this category. 

And then there are my obsessions du jour, the personalities and personas that have absorbed my attention most often that week.  And so, if you asked me now, or perhaps tonight, at some dinner, I’d only need to swirl my drink twice, and barely look pensive, before answering with uncharacteristic expediency: ‘Fry and Laurie.  No other guests allowed.’

Fry and Laurie: double act of dreams.  Separately and together, they’ve long been the focus of a certain furtive idolatry.  Stephen Fry came first.  Simply, cannily, he was in right place at the right time.

At the height of my Oscar Wilde fixation, he nailed the aphorisms of the great man himself, and flirted onscreen rather impishly with Jude Law.  Fry recorded bewitching podcasts of the most magical of Wilde’s children’s stories, lending his perfectly-pitched intonation, and just the right amount of grave poignancy, to The Selfish Giant

When I was dead-eyed and sick-hearted with revision and the accompanying terrors and doubts of university finals, I could slink downstairs on Friday evenings, pale from lack of sunlight and speaking in Shakespearian tongues, and gain a half-hour’s happy respite, transported briefly by QI, and bolstered and refreshed anew by Stephen’s wit, wisdom, and the fact that an early failed education didn’t do him the least bit of harm. 

An Alice in Wonderland fanatic, the only redeeming quality I could find in Tim Burton’s Hollywood hack-job was the cheering fact that Fry had played the Cheshire Cat (with creepy aplomb).  Stephen has endeared himself in variegated and astonishing ways: by donning false breasts in Blackadder; embarking on a road trip of Odyssean valour and stamina through America in a British black cab; finding time even to narrate the audio version of Harry Potter…

Like many millions of the global populace, my affection for Fry has been crucially and dramatically accelerated through his prolific Twittering.  His Tweets, revealing him to be exceptionally big-hearted, down-to-earth and hilariously fond of naughty words, have only strengthened my fast-glowing approbation.

And now to Laurie.  Though magnificent in Blackadder, Sense and Sensibility, and, er, 101 Dalmatians (this the previous full sum of my familiarity), he wasn’t even on my radar – and I suspect those of thousands of others – until the multi-accoladed House.  It is a gob-smackingly brilliant show, and Laurie as Dr Gregory House is its undoubted star and charismatic lodestone: part-aloof-masterminded Sherlock Holmes, part-brooding-Byronic-hero.  House’s acerbic, ego-puncturing one-liners are comedy-manna, his eccentricities legitimate cause for frame-by-frame analysis, and the enduring bromance with fellow doctor James Wilson the stuff of pop-culture legend.

My sister and I follow it obsessively, to the point of buying each other ‘It’s not lupus’ bookmarks and gobbling up box sets in near-single sittings.  We howl, we weep, we run the risk of bedsores, and most importantly, we engage in Laurie-mania, which mostly entails YouTubing his interviews, band performances, and fan collages, in the early hours of the morning.  There have been fierce debates over the precise shade of blue of his eyes: cerulean or cornflower?

Together, the charisma and charm of Fry and Laurie is ineluctable. This iconic duo rivals the hallowed pairings of Holmes and Watson, Jules and Jim, Barney and Fred, Dee and Dum.  Their placemats are carved in flowing script on the dining table of my dreams, and linger there, riding the cruel merry-go-round that is the hypothetical dinner-party.  At the mercy of a tossing tempest, a war of whims, the ebb and flow of desire.  So until next week, surely?

Advertisements

Happy Birthday, Capote

  Truman Capote, flamboyant author of Breakfast at Tiffany’s and In Cold Blood, made a name for himself, in his literary and social heyday, in more ways than one.  Indeed, I don’t immediately think of his stories when I consider him.  I’m more familiar with the film Breakfast at Tiffany’s than the slick little novella it was based on, having watched Audrey onscreen about, oh, thirty four times, and only read Capote on the page once.

 

It’s Capote’s character, and private, or not-so-private-life, that absorbs.  His name  is rather a catalyst for a steady drip-drip of associations that come slowly swirling about one, like confetti or the measured skitter of the snow.  And it’s a heady concoction of Warhol,  murder cases,  Marilyn and Audrey, TV chatshows, feuds,  the glorious, iconic  Black and White Ball at the Plaza,  60s Hollywood, debauchery and meanness,  Mick Jagger and the Rolling Stones, and  Studio 54.

And then finally, wonderfully New York:

 “…as we watched seaward-moving ships pass between the cliffs of burning skyline, she said: ‘years from now, years and years, one of those ships will bring me back, me and my nine Brazilian brats, because yes, they must see this, these lights, the river– I love New York, even though it isn’t mine, the way something has to be, a tree or a street or a house, something anyway, that belongs to me because I belong to it.’ And I said: ‘Do shut up,’ for I felt infuriatingly left out– a tugboat in a dry-dock while she, glittery voyager of secure destination steamed down the harbor with whistles whistling and confetti in the air.”

Read this fascinating Telegraph article about Audrey, Capote and the film here http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/film/classic-movies/8032801/Breakfast-at-Tiffanys-50-years-on.html

What Price, Inspiration?

Inspiration: a fickle friend. A mighty puzzle. A maddeningly elusive golden snitch that many of us would like to clasp a good deal more firmly. Why are ideas so scrappily born out of threads and flotsam and lint; like torn up confetti-shreds of blotting paper that must be jigsawed together with fuss and the sour sting of labour pains?

Why can’t they fly in, swooping owl-like out of the jet-night, fully-formed and pendulous as a suspended tear-drop, a prism of contained sense-making? Why fore blindness, the dreaded think-block and the agonising scrape-scrape of pen?

For many the ideal (or only) writing conditions are learned solitude; the resin-creak of a mahogany desk, in a panelled library with sunlight streaming onto the page. It seems ideal to be hemmed in by cheerful, huddled tomes of infinite cleverness. The very numerousness and dry, crisp tangibility of these silent paper cheerleaders surely affirm that your quest is a valid, a noble, and an intelligent one?

Personally, libraries, when there is seriously writing to be done, are hell. They contain myriad millions of smug, completed volumes that crowd and jostle upon the shelves in order to jeer and boo. A most disquieting experience that can mortally wound id, ego and total word-count alike.

And then there’s the oft-peddled conceit of the great outdoors, its bowers, glades and peaks providing optimum conditioning for creativity. It is here, Wordsworth intimates, that sublime communion with nature, and the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings, can be achieved and properly channelled. Surely a world post-Romantic, post-post-modern, and post-the height of summer will be caught, fatally, in a sticky urban web and even stickier cynicism of spirit, before attempting to deposit a tentative foot over the threshold?

So what are the ideal conditions for harvesting the mind’s ambrosial nectar, the manna of the muses, or even an artist’s bread and butter? Stephen Fry, beatific benchmark, to my mind, for anything vaguely intellectual in enterprise or proper in manner, requires seclusion, silence and early bed-times.

The great Anna Piaggi, who equally deserves elevation into the dizzy, cherub-spattered pedestals of my esteem, can get nothing done without her red 1969 Olivetti typewriter.

 Agatha Christie collated her thoughts and plotted her fictional intrigues whilst eating apples in the bath. Though not, I fear, elect of this gilded circle of true luminaries, I too have honed my own habit of craftsmanship, whilst at university, submitting a 4000 word essay each fortnight. But it’s no cavalier apple-gazing; silently shooting the breeze amid the candyfloss flurries of the hot and cold taps. No, I strongly suspect that it is a method shared with many of my nearest, dearest contemporaries.

 

For me, it’s bed-ridden, muscularly crippled in my prolonged supine state, propped up by fat pillows like some arthritic seaside aunt. I can only write in bed; cocooned, festering in a vocabulary pea-fog of perspiration. I go for long stretches of the clock without sustenance. The starvation alternative is constant sugar, in the form of chocolate usually, though I do fear I’ll resort to a drip soon, if only to rid myself of the distracting rustle of wrappers strewn, like so many shed skins, as I shift my (probably ballooning) bulk.

Solitude is unnecessary. I entreat those around me, enlisting them in serving up the countless cups of tea, black as mud, I imbibe with feverish belief in its powers, as if some genius-giving potion lurks in the grainy, cinereous dregs. I bark orders like some wounded general. Those brave enough to refuse are soundly cursed as enemies of culture, of literature and all things noble.

I don’t simply burn the midnight oil; I erect great bonfires; fashioning zero-hour pyres and huge conflagrations that involuntarily yield charred and twisted new compounds of ash and glue and feathers. If I periodically surface and arise, Triton-like, from the depths, hobbling bleary-eyed and pillow-faced into the kitchen on sloshing sea-legs, I expect a certain hushed deference from those I encounter. Courting an awed appreciation for the Herculean sacrifice I have undertaken, I deign to make the odd rare appearance (it’s actually a quest for toast), delivering solicitous salutations and zoned-out stares. When my reception is less than reverential, and comments submerged in irony are bandied forth, I am forced to affect an injured air, and gravely withdraw, (unwashed) head held aloft, to my quilted cave.

Of course, the doom and gloom and damp of the bat-bunker isn’t exactly a method embraced and endorsed among literature’s cognoscenti. We all know Keats composed his most famous poem under a plum tree one morning in glorious spring. Wordsworth matched the scansion of his metre to the earth-timbred beat of his walking boot upon the Lake District’s peaks and plains. And Eliot got a grip on The Waste Land whilst drinking deep of the clear mountain air of Lausanne.

I may remain mummified in a duvet-shroud for protracted spells, but I do crave diversion; variety; to dip my toe into the dirty pool of pop-culture. I embrace Twitter, YouTube, Grazia Daily and countless other virtual hubs of mass procrastinators to whom I proffer an apathetic hand across the ennui-void.

Procrastination as the thief of time has long been the bone in the craw of many illustrious writers; Samuel Johnson was near-phobic of this very human flaw. It haunted Virginia Woolf and spurred on Shakespeare, who as usual has the wisest of counsel: ‘Defer no time, delays have dangerous ends.’ (Henry VI)

And yet as Keats’s Odes can testify to, there is a poetry in muggy stillness, a spark of inspiration submerged in the blurred dream-states of idle contemplation, amid ‘evenings steep’d in honied indolence’. But I cannot chase Keats down his daisy and violet tunnels, or trace the elevated paths of his leaps from contemplation to creation, and neither, probably, can you. His is a philosophy few can emulate. And, let’s be honest, there is nothing remotely magical or exquisite, or divinely solipsistic, in the streaming of Britain’s Next Top Model at 2am when a deadline is looming. (Though there is something of the ethereal in my favourite contestant, Joy – a pale Madeline or stricken Lamia, perhaps? – but I digress.)

So although tearing oneself away from the honey-trap of viral distractions is as difficult and distressing as snatching a kaleidoscope from the eye of an enraptured child, tear and wrench and yank I must. Necessity is, after all, the mother of invention…