The new fundamentalism

A Devon town council was told by the High Court it was acting illegally by allowing (presumably Christian) prayers to be said before meetings. The council found a surprising defender in Baroness Warsi, Britain’s first female Muslim cabinet minister. She wrote in the Daily Telegraph:

“To create a more just society, people need to feel stronger in their religious identities and more confident in their creeds. … You cannot and should not extract these Christian foundations from the evolution of our nations any more than you can or should erase the spires from our landscapes."

The British Humanist Association waded in, saying Baroness Warsi’s comments are “outdated, unwarranted and divisive”. Let’s take those one at a time.

Outdated? The intellectuals at the BHA can do better than this. To value an idea according to whether it originated long ago or last week – or on a Thursday, to paraphrase Chesterton – is like saying that job interviewers should appoint the candidate born first, or last, or under Scorpio.

Unwarranted? Means: without basis. Richard Dawkins gives the game away by declaring that Warsi’s comments have “no logical basis” (italics mine). I think he mistakes the nature of faith. I have no logical basis for believing God exists, just as he has no logical basis for believing God does not exist. Or for believing that new ideas are better than old ones. Dawkins and the Baroness each take up a position with a clear basis – in their respective faiths.

(Meanwhile, the idea that God would submit himself for examination by Dawkins is laughable. The opposite may eventually occur, but that is another matter.)

Divisive? This is the most puzzling accusation. I would say Warsi's comments are the opposite. A person of one religion is finding common cause with people of another religion, even though important differences remain. If a secularist tries to discourage this, if a humanist wants Muslim and Christian to disagree: who is being divisive?

The Baroness speaks of “militant secularisation” as a form of totalitarianism. I look forward to the BHA showing us that this is not so – although there is “no logical basis” for that hope: since there is no logical connection between loving one's neighbour and hating God.

First among sequels

Time to reflect on another year’s Hollywood output. And beneath the smart oak veneer of the Oscar lists lurks the usual compressed sawdust of remakes, adaptations and (above all) sequels. Sadly, I haven’t managed to see Hangover 2, Transformers 3 or Mission Impossible 4: so my comments will be generalised, taking in films from earlier years. But nothing much changes.

Generally, I don’t get the point of remakes. I can understand that you remake a foreign-language film in English to spare your audience the trouble of mumbling as they read the subtitles aloud to themselves. And before anyone starts, no, The Lion King is not a rip-off of a Japanese original. Disney says so, and the American courts agree. So I’m not going to argue. 

(Osamu Tezuka, 1965)

But to remake The Ladykillers or Psycho? What's the point? Why not re-release the original? If I want to come up with a great painting, I’m not going to try to update The Mona Lisa.

Or you could have another go at a film that didn’t quite work first time around. The Twelve Chairs had a great plot and some fine moments, but somehow the whole thing fell flat. An idea like that deserves a second chance. And Judge Dredd could be watchable, but needs a lead actor who’s prepared to wear the helmet at all times, as the comic-book character does. (Maybe it needs an actor recognisable from his chin alone, as Kirk Douglas was. Any ideas?)

Ah yes, Judge Dredd. I’ve nothing against adaptations as such. The idea of turning Romeo and Juliet into a ballet seems barmy (“Hey, this would be good if we could just get rid of all the words!”) – but it works. Monty Python had fun imagining Wuthering Heights in semaphore, or the smoke-signal version of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. And I’ve read some novels that would make perfectly good haiku, or toilet paper.

Perhaps my disappointment is in how persistently film-makers go to the back catalogue of novels, sixties TV series, or fairground rides. Or pen-and-paper games (Battleship). What next: Noughts and Crosses of the Caribbean? Doesn't anyone have ideas of their own any more? (See my earlier posting: Harry Potter and the Search Engine.) (And check out Remake: redux part 2 – scroll down to the second cartoon – on http://christopolisillustration.wordpress.com/2010/03.)

And then there are the sequels. These days people seem to actively expect sequels. It is alleged that The Madness of King George was so-called because The Madness of George III would have confused Americans who hadn’t seen the first two. What would today’s filmgoers make of Henry V? Malcolm X? Catch-22? Fahrenheit 451?

Sequels are such big business that we have invented new words for follow-ups differently related to the original: such as prequel, for a film set earlier than the original story. The idea isn’t new: El Cid dies at the end of his story, so people wanting to write another story about him were short of options. But the word is new – along with simulquel, threequel, and (ouch) squeakquel.

Again, I don’t object to sequels as such. But it’s the sheer number of them, compared with original output. Wikipedia says 2011 saw twenty-eight sequels made, and I expect that's just in Hollywood. Of the top ten grossest films, excuse me, the ten top-grossing films of 2011, eight are sequels and another is already called "Part 1". If Never-Ending Story truly was never-ending (and it felt like it), why did we need a second one?

A wunch of bankers

So, they have annulled Fred Goodwin’s knighthood. Serve him right? He was clearly motivated by greed to gamble with other people’s security. Mind you, we tolerated this – and our government did not challenge his obscene bonuses – as long as he kept rolling a double six.

On the one hand, we might ask whether his punishment is sufficient. In China they go to the other extreme. Adulteration of baby milk by Sanlo led to a scandal of Nestlé proportions – such that it was necessary to jail protesting parents – and dealers Zhang Yujun and Geng Jinping were executed. Of course, China is run by a bunch of commie tyrants. Couldn’t they just have annulled their fishing permits, say, like any civilised nation? We can’t be handing out serious penalties to oligarchs.

On the other hand, I wonder where else we might apply a similar sanction to that inflicted on Mr Goodwin. If an award “for services to banking” (i.e. for making money) can be revoked if one loses money, then can a lifetime Oscar be revoked if the recipient turns out a couple of real turkeys? Or all those Oscars for Titanic, if we ever decide it was actually quite a dull film?

Olympic medals are already routinely withdrawn from people who turn out to have been using drugs. (But not from the steroid-pumped East German women swimmers from the 60s, 70s and 80s. Why not?)

Then there’s Henry Kissinger. Suppose someone spotted that he was involved in the bombing of Cambodia, not to mention Operation Condor: might the Nobel people cancel his Peace Prize? And what about Menachem Begin? 

And if we’re thinking about Nobel Prizes, then let’s not forget Milton Friedman, winner of the Economics prize in 1976. This is the guru behind Thatcher’s Cainite policies (not noticeably changed by her successors), which have allowed some people – such as Fred Goodwin – to become very rich. Hooray! But their fortune has come at great cost to others (and to society, if we still believe that such a thing exists). Now that we know this, now that we have seen the despair and the decay, is it time to annul Friedman’s prize along with Goodwin’s honour?  

Business as usual

 

I’m aware that I may have occasionally made disparaging remarks about America: but here is a belated cheer for a news story I saw a few months ago about the new US ambassador to China. His name is Gary Locke, and he made a good impression as soon as he arrived. How? He and his family carried their own bags at the airport.

Chen Weihua wrote in the China Daily that to Chinese people "the scene was so unusual it almost defied belief. In China even a township chief … will have a chauffeur and a secretary to carry his bag." Another Chinese commentator said: "American officials are to serve the people, but Chinese officials are served by the people, that's the difference."

Now I don’t habitually cheer for America. And western regimes in general are far from perfect. (Yes, one could name infinitely worse regimes. But to say that we’re better than (say) Stalin’s Russia or Saddam’s Iraq is not to set our sights very high, and is no excuse for some of the stuff we’ve done in the name of that proud boast.)

Nor do I imagine that Gary Locke thought he was doing anything unusual. But perhaps that’s the point. Even in small everyday actions, he is (consciously or not) an ambassador – as we all are, as soon as we step out of the door. Ambassadors for our country, for our workplace, for our generation, for our sex, for our subculture, for our faith. People judge us on the little things they see us do when we think no-one’s watching: and they judge whatever group of people we seem to belong to.

I’m reminded a little of Trevor Huddleston. Not heard of him? He was an English clergyman in South Africa, who spoke out against apartheid long before such opposition became fashionable.

But perhaps more significantly, he raised his hat to a black woman – with far-reaching consequences. For that act, small and unremarkable for him, had a deep impact on the woman’s 9-year-old son: Desmond Tutu.

Speaking to the BBC in 2003, Tutu said this was: “the biggest defining moment in my life. … It blew your mind that a white man would doff his hat. And subsequently I discovered, of course, that this was quite consistent with his theology that every person is of significance, of infinite value, because they are created in the image of God.

And the passion with which he opposed apartheid and any other injustice is something that I sought then to emulate.”

Nelson Mandela said:  “No white person has done more for South Africa than Trevor Huddleston.” And one might argue that nothing Huddleston did or said had greater impact for South Africa than his greeting to Desmond Tutu’s mother. But one might equally argue that such an action, in the face of such a regime, was possible for Huddleston precisely because it had become natural and normal for him to treat people this way and not that way.

It grew out of who he was, by vocation and by training. It followed naturally from knowing what, and Whom, he served as an ambassador.

Once more onto the beach

In the bleak mid-winter, we moan. And the travel brochures show us pictures of warm beaches: so like the Eloi we obediently troop into the shop and book a holiday in the sand. It was boring last year and the year before that, but somehow that fact escapes us.

On the other hand, a few years ago I went to Ravenna for a short holiday. No, I hadn’t heard of it either. It is separated from the coast – and therefore from tourist fame – only by a few miles, but I didn’t go there for a bus ride to the beach. I went with my wife to see a performance by her favourite dancer, Sylvie Guillem.

But we did some homework, and booked a few days there. Ravenna is full of the most amazing 5^th and 6^th century mosaics. They are contained in churches, baptisteries and a mausoleum, which are attractive in themselves: but the mosaics are jaw-dropping. There are eight World Heritage sites – seven within a half-mile radius, I would guess, and one a couple of miles further.

(The dancer was excellent, too.)

I was reminded of this by a recent article by David Thomas in The Independent. He went to Birmingham because his wife wanted to see Take That. And he too was surprised at what he found there. I hope this link works: http://www.independent.co.uk/opinion/commentators/david-thomas-birminghams-a-great-place-for-romance-6287052.html?origin=internalSearch

As David Thomas says, Birmingham is not the first name on most people’s must-see holiday destinations list. That’s understandable. Despite the seagulls above the (beautifully renovated) canals, Birmingham is almost as far from the sea as England gets. But he evidently enjoyed it.

(He also liked the concert.)

Our two trips were made under a similar pretext, and with a similar result. Perhaps we chaps need to listen when our wives demand a trip somewhere unexpected to see a favourite performer. Perhaps there is a sort of protective holiday angel, or a patron saint of husbands who accompany their wives to distant gigs. (Ferry godmother?)

By the way, what is it about sand that obsesses us? Vienna is stuffed full of palaces, museums and that funny wheel thing Harry Lime rode on in The Third Man. But it is a long way from the beach (a lot further than Birmingham), and so is treated by the holiday industry as a fringe destination. When I first flew there, the ticket said London to Vienna to Void: as if Vienna really were halfway to nowhere. (I got off in Vienna.)

Whereas Las Vegas has vast quantities of sand: but I wouldn’t go there if you paid me. Unless, of course, I went to see Rita Rudner – a brilliant comedienne, who I’m told only performs in Vegas these days. Trouble is, she’s not my wife’s favourite, but mine. So perhaps the trip would fall outside the holiday angel’s remit: and perhaps we’d find that Vegas – for all its undeniable proximity to sand – is in fact loud, bright and boring.

Hitting a moving target

The government proposes to increase the national speed limit from 70mph to 80mph. The Institute of Advanced Motorists are rubbing their hands (for example) at the prospect, although I’d really rather they had both hands on the wheel. The argument goes: people already drive at 80mph, so we may as well make it legal.

This is a strange argument on many levels. In the first place, we have the idea that what (some) people do is by definition blameless, and should not be limited in the first place. As a view of human nature, this is delusional. As a view of what government is there for, it is almost American.

Shall we legalise theft of office stationery? Phone tapping? Tax avoidance? Throwing rocks at fire engines?

Then we have the idea that, where people’s actions differ from the law, it is the law that is in the wrong. This is utterly strange. There is an old puzzle about a gun which always fires to the right of the target. You could hammer the barrel (not recommended) or adjust the sights – but which way?

I can’t remember the “official” answer: but the IAM have a simpler solution. You move the target. The trouble is, when you now take aim, you end up firing even further to the right.

I was in Spain in the early 1980s and was struck by how many young people would fall out of bars asking each other for “chocolate” – which I finally figured out meant marijuana. But they didn’t seem to be unconscious, and they didn’t appear to be fighting. I was told that all drugs were illegal, but the police turned a blind eye to “soft” drug use, while coming down like a (metric) ton of bricks on hard drugs. The kids got to rebel within (fairly) safe limits, and the problem was at least contained.

Not long after that, someone said: the kids are doing cannabis, we may as well make it legal.

So they did, and within a short time the kids moved onto hard drugs.

The law has to allow a safety margin. If people respond to the current limit by driving at 80, why should we not think they will respond to an 80mph limit by driving at 90 or 100? We are asked to believe that these drivers are naturally careful and scrupulously law-abiding: but that the target is simply wrongly positioned, and if the limit were 80, they would stick to it.

Tell you what, shall we lower the age of consent to 12? After all, plenty of 12-year-olds are already doing it. It’s easy to foresee that men will then be arrested for sex with a 9-year-old and will say: “I thought she was 12.” But that's probably not a fair comparison. As the Insititute of Speedophiles will doubtless say, it's different in a car.

Harry Potter and the Search Engine

A recent BBC headline asked: "Why didn't Harry Potter just use Google?" It seems that on one occasion Harry and his friends looked something up in the library (shock, horror). Which of course is a waste of time, especially when you are busy saving the world. 

People quickly wrote in pointing out that Rowling wrote that book before Google existed. But it turns out Harry Potter wasn’t really the focus of the article. He was simply name-dropped to get people reading it. (Good idea. Maybe it’ll work for me, too.) The article commented on the wealth – or rather, the sheer quantity – of information available. How can we know what any of it is worth? (Without asking a librarian, which is apparently cheating.)

For example: Who awarded a doctorate to Gillian McKeith, and on what criteria? Or: which is the more reliable source – Fox News or Al Jazeera?

Of course, the answer to the second question is obvious. George W. Bush is a well-known friend of democracy (Florida 2000 being an unfortunate aberration): and his tanks found it necessary to fire on the offices of Al Jazeera. Therefore Al Jazeera is an enemy of democracy, and cannot be trusted. QED.

But the point is: where someone’s villainy has not been proved in such a clear manner, how do we know who to trust? I am a little alarmed at the idea that schoolchildren (and postgrads and Presidents, come to that) think they can find out all they need to know by Googling it.

I think at least two things are going on. One is that we would like something for nothing. And the other is that we would like it instantly.

In the past, serious study involved serious work. Now, we just borrow someone else’s work (as I have borrowed a BBC headline, but without declaring the fact). We used to look for wisdom as for needles in haystacks: now we pick needles from piles of needles. Better: Google has arranged the needles for us into neat rows. It used to be called plagiarism: now it is called innovative research.

In the same way, this country used to generate wealth by making things. (From materials we had stolen from around the world, granted.) But that takes time. It is quicker to invest in “financial products” – so-called, although nothing is visibly produced. You push a few buttons and hey presto! Nobody produces any goods or any original ideas: we all sponge off each other.

And we are so impatient! Half the charm of cricket used to be its stately pace. Now we invent quicker and quicker versions of it, in a vain attempt to turn it into baseball.

Or again, I read somewhere that goldfish have a short-term memory of 8 seconds. (How do the scientists know this? Perhaps they googled it. Or perhaps they stood with a stopwatch and said to a goldfish: “In 1938, the FA Cup was won by Preston North End. (Pause) … Who won the FA Cup in 1938?” – and the goldfish just opened and closed its mouth.) By comparison, the rapid-fire snippets announcing each X Factor performance last (on average) 3 seconds apiece. The show clearly expects its audience to have half the attention span of a goldfish.

The performers, who seek “instant” fame, have to be a little more patient than that: but it probably grates on them. One contestant was pleased to have given up a serious career in orchestral music for her X Factor shot. I suppose she started to think of the time and effort involved in gaining the expertise required to play the cello to a professional standard. Mind you, these days you can probably google it.