Alex Bell - fantasy author

Most of the things I love the most were introduced to me by my Dad: golden oldie films (starring James Stewart, Cary Grant et al), Steeleye Span, Billy Bunter, Siamese cats and Leonard Cohen, to name but a few. This is why I call him my Sam-I-Am. As anyone who is a Dr Seuss fan will know, Sam-I-Am is constantly trying to get the main character in Green Eggs and Ham to try the titular dish. After much resistance, he finally does try them at the end of the book only to discover that he loves them, and is eternally grateful to Sam for introducing them to him.

Anyway, my Dad recently recorded Blithe Spirit for us to watch, and this film now falls into that category:

It’s a strange, quirky little film about a writer (Rex Harrison) who hires a medium to conduct a séance at his home as part of his research for his latest book. He’s also hoping to expose her as a charlatan. But during the course of the séance, the ghost of his first wife turns up, and stays on even after the medium and guests have gone home. Rex Harrison’s character is the only one who can see her – she remains invisible to his second wife – which makes for some interesting scenes, and great little moments where he’s addressing his first wife’s ghost, but his second wife thinks he’s talking to her (the best example being Rex Harrison’s indignantly delivered ‘I could drink you under the table!’ which, to the second wife, seems a completely unprovoked, unnecessarily antagonistic remark).

It’s an odd film in many ways. The green ghost make up is weird, but weirdly effective. And Rex Harrison’s character is so laid back that he seems completely unaffected by his first wife’s death or, indeed, by the startling turn that events take later in the film. But it has stuck in my mind, and I think I might have to get it on DVD. There’s a sort of charm to these old films that many modern ones lack entirely. Perhaps it’s because they didn’t have the special effects in those days, so the script had to be bloody good to pull the film off. Harvey, for example, is a beautiful little masterpiece of a film with one of the best scripts ever (but that’s a blog post for another time).

Another reason Blithe Spirit is so good is down to Rex Harrison’s performance. I think I would watch any film that had him in it. In fact I love his voice so much that I think I could listen to him delivering a law lecture, and I’d still enjoy it. There’s something almost mesmerising about how good he is – sheer mastery, that’s what I call it. I have, of course, seen him before in such classics as My Fair Lady and Dr Dolittle, but I’ve never seen him looking so young. Or so sexy. I mean, the man practically oozes class, sophistication and intelligence:

And here’s the one screenshot from the film I’ve been able to find:

Look at the way he wears that suit! Could any other man carry it off like that? I think not. The photo doesn’t really do him justice though. There’s just something about the way he moves, and the effortless, stiff upper lip way in which he delivers the quips. It’s simply an absolutely flawless performance. And it’s a delightfully funny, charming, odd little film. They don’t make ‘em like this anymore.

I know, I know - they sound disgusting. Like their tagline should be something along the lines of:

Hot Wasabi Peas - They make you sick like nothing else can!

But they are, in fact, completely delicious. They’re a Japanese snack but I first came across them in America. They’re another Sam-I-Am, actually, because my Dad found them, and when he produced them from out of his bag, I screwed my nose up like everyone else. I mean they’re crunchy, hot peas, right? That’s just plain wrong.

‘Just try one, Al,’ Dad said. ‘You might like it.’

Well, when Dad says that, I almost always do like it. So I tentatively put this shrivelled up pea in my mouth and . . . it was one of the most delicious things I have ever tasted. Hard to believe, I know. Not only that, but they are unbelievably addictive. It’s quite impossible to eat just one pea. Quite, quite impossible. Even better, they’re very low in calories. It works out as something silly, like half a calorie per pea. I mean you could stuff your face with them from morning till night, and not get fat!

The only problem was that we brought just two pots back with us from America. Since then I’ve been trying not to eat too many of them because all my family like them, so it’s not fair to scoff the lot all by myself. Mostly this has just resulted in me lying awake at night thinking and thinking about the peas in the cupboard downstairs until, finally, I just can’t take it any more, and I sneak down there and start guzzling them like there’s no tomorrow. I’ve been feeling quite guilty about this as the peas are almost all gone now so I Googled them yesterday and, to my delight, found that you can order them online. I promptly did so.

So - now that a great big stash of Wasabi Peas are on their way, I finally feel free to confess: yes, it was me. I did it. I ate all the peas.

Hot Wasabi Peas - They Don’t Make You Sick!

When my Dad announced that he’d taped a subtitled French film for us to watch on a Saturday night I was, I will admit, dismayed. One might even go so far as to say that I was appalled. A French film? French? Really? Oscar-winner my foot - I just wanted to watch Kung Fu Panda . . .

I was determined not to like the film, and nurtured a faint hope that if I fidgeted about in my seat enough, it might get turned off and replaced with something better.

The fact that the recording had cut the first few minutes off didn’t make it any easier to get into for it seemed to start with a little kid running amok in a brothel - how very French, right? But then she was taken away by her father to join the circus, and suddenly the film was interesting. I’ve never been so engrossed in a film that wasn’t in English before. What I loved so much about it was the sense of melancholy captured not only by the truly outstanding acting, but through the music and cinematography as well. It reminded me a bit of Chaplin in terms of its nostalgia. The locations, too, were stunning, ranging from the slums of Paris to the glittering theatres of New York, spanning the 1930′s to the 1960′s and perfectly recreating a sense of lost glamour from yesteryear - all long gloves and cigarettes from when smoking was still elegant rather than a mark of - dare I say it - silliness (hurriedly apologises to all my smoking friends - you know I love you guys really).

Marion Cotillard is amazing as Edith Paif. Whilst I was watching it I half thought that perhaps the older version of the singer was being played by another actress altogether. It wasn’t just the effect of make up but the way she moved and spoke - even her voice sounded different. Her transition from vulnerable, wide-eyed teenager to a strong, forceful woman is incredible. A performance utterly deserving of an Oscar if ever I saw one. The sad parts of the film are gut-wrenching but the occasional sweet, tender moment is all the better for the fact that it is understated and never becomes cloying.

I thought about this film for days after watching it and ordered the DVD the same night. I can tell it’s probably going to become a film I obsess over a bit - the same way I obsess over Amadeus. I can watch that film and enjoy it; be fascinated and intrigued by it; totally lose myself in the magic of the story; read up all about Mozart (or, in this case, Edith Paif) and his life (or hers) . . . and then feel thoroughly miserable for the next week. But it is totally worth it.

Really, it just goes to show that when it comes to music, books or film, my dear ‘ol Dad really is my Sam-I-Am, and I’m a fool for ever hesitating to trust his excellent judgement. La Vie en Rose is a masterpiece and I’m extremely glad he made me watch it.

Yes, I know it’s terribly uncool of me. If you watch (and, God forbid, enjoy) The Waltons, you’re supposed to keep it to yourself - down in that dark, twisted little part of you that never sees daylight. You certainly shouldn’t admit such a thing without at least being horribly tortured first.

But to be quite honest, dear readers, I just don’t give a shit.

I gave up being cool back in secondary school and have never looked back since. So I will say it here. I’ll shout it even: I LOVE THE WALTONS! I love them, I love them!

I will admit, though, that when my Dad got the first season on box set for his birthday, last year my heart sank. Why on earth would I want to watch The Waltons when I could be watching, say, Lost or Merlin or Boston Legal, or some such awesome thing? Why, I ask?! What madness is this? But Dad insisted that I gave it a go, and now I am thoroughly and unashamedly hooked. And that’s only partly to do with the fact that I want to marry John-Boy Walton and live happily ever after with him (which is weird for me as I usually have a habit of being attracted to the villain).

On Monday I watched an episode from Season 1 called The Scholar, and I can’t stop thinking about it. In fact I cried quite a bit of the way through it. I know it ain’t good for the image, and obviously I try not to bawl through every episode (with varying degrees of success), but I’ll admit that this one got to me. There’s a misconception that this show is pious, anachronistic, goody-two-shoes, clap-trap rubbish. I know, because these are all the misconceptions I had myself. But that is simply not the case (I am, on occasions, wrong, it would seem). The Waltons achieves what very few modern-day shows are able to - it is heart-warming without being sickly; it espouses good values and opposes racism, bigotry and prejudice without being boring and saintly; and it makes you think a bit without ramming an idea down your throat to the extent that you choke on it. I firmly believe that if everyone were forced to watch this show from a very young age, the world would be a much better place.

So, anyway, the episode I watched the other day involved John-Boy teaching a grown woman how to read and write. I never really thought about it much before because it’s a skill most of us take for granted. He describes the process of writing and stringing words together to her as “magic”. And it is magic. Writing can take you away from whatever shit the world has decided to throw at you, and transport you somewhere else. It gives you something that real life cannot - and never will - give you.

The sense of achievement and pride the woman in this episode feels when she’s finally able to write out her own name . . . well, it made me think about stuff. I dunno what I’d do if I couldn’t write stories that took me to other worlds filled with real people that only exist in my head (be rotting in an asylum somewhere, I suppose). This story reminded me that it’s a privilege to be able to read and write - and one that you shouldn’t take for granted.

So this episode is just one of the many reasons why I love The Waltons. It isn’t all about wanting to marry John-Boy (although it is quite a lot to do with that). But it just goes to show that when it comes to TV, film, music or books, I should always - but always - listen to my dear ol’ Dad. Because he really is my Sam-I-Am.