The Obscurer

Month: February, 2008

Animated Liszt

If you were paying attention at the tail end of last year (and there’s no particular reason why you should have been) then you’ll know that I like cartoons, and Tom & Jerry in particular. I’ll regularly watch a couple of their animated shorts with my son last thing before we pack him off to bed, while my daughter sits at our feet massaging a carefully concealed piece of banana into her hair. It would be a cruel assignment, but if anyone were to force me to pick my favourite Tom & Jerry cartoon then I would probably plump for The Cat Concerto; you’ll likely know the one, where Tom attempts to play a piano recital in front of a concert audience while Jerry, apparently a resident of the piano, at first tries to sleep through the performance but in the end decides to play merry hell with Tom, as is his wont.

It is not only a beautiful piece of animation – winning the 1946 Oscar for Best Short Subject: Cartoon – but I think the music featured in the cartoon is fantastic, and so I wanted to find out what it is. Wikipedia was its usual helpful self, informing me that the piece of music in question is Hungarian Rhapsody #2 by Franz Liszt; but it also told me something more. Under the heading “Controversy” Wikipedia reveals the intriguing story that in the same year The Cat Concerto was produced, Warner Bros released a Bugs Bunny short, Rhapsody Rabbit, that – wait for it – features the central protagonist trying to play Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody #2 in front of a concert audience while a mouse inside the piano causes all sorts of mayhem. Both cartoons were nominated for an Oscar in the same category, and understandably there were claims of plagiarism; but who copied whom, or whether it was all just a bizarre coincidence (the same piece of music having also been used in numerous other cartoons) has never been resolved. Instinctively I would assume that if anyone copied anyone it would be Warner Bros that copied MGM, what with a mouse already being an established part of the latter’s star double act, but Peter Gimpel, son of the pianist who played on the Bugs Bunny cartoon, offers a plausible alternative in this fascinating article.

It is unlikely that we will ever know the truth for sure, and due to current terrestrial broadcasting policy we will probably never get the chance to watch either cartoon on telly; but thanks again to the wonder of YouTube there are a number of copies of the cartoons held on their servers, and I present them to you today, as a sort of 29th of February gift. If this blog is still here in four years time I may do something similar then, if I think on, and if you’re good. Which cartoon is the better? Well for me it is a clear win for Tom & Jerry, but I am probably a bit biased, so why not take a look and decide for yourself?

The Cat Concerto

https://youtube.com/watch?v=kdpiUDOdxSA

Rhapsody Rabbit

https://youtube.com/watch?v=AVq_gxl3Cdc

Terror Twilight

I was awoken with a jolt in the wee small hours; not by the earthquake, but by my wife whispering, “There’s been an earthquake!” Somehow I managed to sleep through a magnitude 5.2 seismic shock (albeit one that’s power must have dissipated markedly by the time it reached us, considering our distance from the epicentre) but not through my beloved’s gentle prodding. What that tells you about my survival instinct I don’t know; interesting that a geological incident won’t shift me (suggesting that I care not for my personal safety) but when my wife merely turns to me (and I perhaps imagine an alternative motive for her action requiring me to fulfil some primal duty to perpetuate the species) I’m up like a shot, so to speak.

At the time of course we had no idea how localised the quake was, and so once downstairs with the kids a (depressingly) few hours later I checked the internet to see if there had been word. My home page showed a link to an article in The Guardian, and so I had a quick read.

Large areas of England from London to Manchester suffered tremors just before 1am last night as an earthquake measuring 4.7 on the Richter scale rumbled through the country for several seconds.

There were reports of power cuts in some cities and of buildings shaking – in Hull students ran into the street for fear of falling masonry – but no reports of injuries.

According to the US Geological Survey, the earthquake struck at 12.56am at a depth of 10km (6.2 miles) with an epicentre 205 km (127 miles) north of London and 30 miles south of Kingston upon Hull.

“What-what-what-what-what”, as Dannan O’Mallard would doubtless say. Do we really need to know that the epicentre was 127 miles north of London? Should it be the first geographical reference point we are presented with concerning an incident in Lincolnshire? Is it so impossible to describe anything without relating it in some way to the capital? Good – and indeed – grief. I can see why Reuters or the foreign press might mention London in passing, dealing as they are with an international readership, but does a British paper need to do the same? Perhaps, for a metropolitan audience, the sad answer is “yes, it does.”

Sorry, then, if I come across as a chippy northerner, because I really don’t mean to. Perhaps it is because I am a chippy northerner – it’s as good a reason as any – or perhaps it is a temporary effect caused by me currently reading Stuart Maconie’s rather splendid Pies And Prejudice. I don’t know the answer just yet; ask me again in a week.

Rah Rah For Randall

Last year I was going to write a post prompted by this Daily Telegraph article from Jeff Randall, the ex-Business Editor of the BBC, where he criticised his former employer for the profusion of useless timeservers at the corporation. Well he should know, I was going to say; how ironic that during his period at the BBC I found him to be such an utter waste of space. I could only imagine what talented journalists such as Evan Davis, Stephanie Flanders and Paul Mason must have thought working alongside someone so woeful. But with so much wrong in this world, and having already written one post slagging the man off, I decided a second was hardly required and so I binned it.

I’m still sure that decision was correct, but recently I have read a good number of posts and comments around the place that, when legitimately criticising the BBC’s business coverage, have spoken wistfully of the Jeff Randall era. Such instances are rare but still they haunt me (I’m easily spooked) and they are a disturbing development. For example take Guido (via Gracchii) who, in one of those posts that suggests he really should just stick to the gossip, criticises Newsnight and Stephanie Flanders because of what appears to be a simple transposing error when reporting the markets; he then finishes his post by pointedly noting that “Jeff Randall is on Sky…“, as is his style.

Well I read that as an invitation, so this week I decided to check out Jeff at his new televisual home, Jeff Randall Live on Sky News. Much water has gone under the bridge since I last clapped eyes on the fellow, and I wondered if perhaps I had been a bit harsh in my appraisal of his talents, that maybe Guido’s implication is right and that he and others have seen something I have not, and that Jeff is a far better journalist that I have hitherto given him credit for.

But oh dear no, it is all still there; Jeff still has the air of someone slightly puzzled, who is trying really hard but is not at all sure quite where he is. When he talks it seems less like he is speaking his brains than he is conducting someone else’s thoughts. Okay, but that’s just presentation, and while it doesn’t breed confidence or suggest Jeff has a mastery of his subject he may still know his stuff, even if he gives every impression that he doesn’t.

But there is more to it than that. In his BBC days Jeff’s role was to answer questions put to him by the presenter, whereupon he would typically appear clueless and flounder around for a bit, unquestioningly trotting out some received wisdom lacking in any supporting evidence, or drawing lazy and false conclusions; I particularly remember him trying to illustrate Leeds United’s financial problems by comparing its turnover against Manchester United’s, which is idiotic. Fortunately Jeff is now spared all that indignity, being both the presenter and interviewer for his own programme, and presumably fed his lines by autocue and earpiece; but still all is not well. He is a very poor interrogator for one thing, his technique apparantly being to lob the obvious and most contentious question first – the one the interviewee will be well rehearsed for – and to then fail to follow it up, plodding on to the next question regardless and making little attempt to react to and engage with whatever the other party has actually said. The result is that he allows the interviewee to speechify, to in effect be allowed to get away with delivering a PR monologue without any fear of being picked up on any of the specifics. In all it doesn’t feel like he is conducting an interview, he may as well be running through a questionnaire.

So yesterday we had David Greene of the law firm representing around 6000 of Northern Rock’s shareholders who reasoned that the government could recompense each shareholder to the value of £4 per share of their worthless stock, a statement that went entirely unchallenged by Jeff. His “interview” with Mike Turner of BAe Systems was even worse, allowing Turner to respond to the obligatory question about the company’s contentious links with Saudi Arabia by sighing, shrugging his shoulders and wondering aloud about what a cruel and unfair world we live in where people can’t just leave his great British company alone, as if concern about the Serious Fraud Office investigation into the Al Yamamah deal and the political interference that brought it to a halt was just an example of the tall poppy syndrome, sour grapes and a sadly regretable lack of patriotism. It was all pretty pathetic.

Now I have nothing against Jeff personally, he is only doing his best bless him, but had I read some of these recent criticisms of the BBC’s business coverage during his tenure I may have entirely agreed, but cited Jeff as a perfect example; so how can you explain his fine reputation among the same folk? Clearly I’ve not watched every report or read every article Jeff has ever produced, and it is possible, though barely plausible, that I have been uniquely unfortunate in my exposure to the bloke; this could merely be a difference of opinion between Jeff’s cheerleaders and myself and there’s no accounting for taste. Maybe it is all down to his supporters taking a dim view of Jeff’s replacement, Robert Peston, who is himself no great shakes; it may be a straightforward case of absence making the heart grow fonder. But just perhaps, could it be the very fact that Jeff has spent much of his post-BBC career regularly criticising the corporation he used to work for that has so endeared him to some? Not for me to say, but whatever the reason the solution is simple; should anyone praise Jeff’s journalistic abilities I will just point them in the direction of his Sky News show and leave it at that. Nothing more will be required, and I never need write about him again.

Kosovo Rocks!

PRISTINA AND BELGRADE [Reuters] – As word spread of the momentous event that had occurred, the streets of Serbia and its would-be independent province of Kosovo thronged with people, many anxious to speak of their reaction to the news. While opinions diverged greatly, numerous Serbs and ethnic-Albanians collared any foreign journalist they could find, desperate for others to know how they felt about the historic decision.

In Belgrade, Nebojsa Pejovic, a 43-year-old Serbian accountant spoke for many when he said, “After what seems like an age of dither and delay we have ended up with this dreadful, catastrophic decision. This really is the worst of all possible outcomes. We now have the situation where the government will be making decisions on whether or not to foreclose on people’s loans in a falling housing market, and the taxpayer will bear the full risk of lending 100 billion pounds of mortgages in an uncertain housing market. This is the day when Labour’s reputation for economic competence died.”

Meanwhile in Pristina the view was more upbeat. “It has been a long, long road”, beamed a jubilant Beqir Ademi, a 21-year-old ethnic-Albanian student, “but belatedly the government has made the right decision. The first priority must be to work out the seriousness of the problems at the bank with an independent audit of its loan book. This must be conducted under the auspices of the Bank of England, not the FSA. Then the bank must stop irresponsible lending at more than the value of property, and aggressive deposit-taking. Finally, there will be difficult times ahead, especially for the employees, as the bank is downsized. However, there is now real hope for the long-term future of the bank when it is eventually sold in more satisfactory conditions.”

Fellow Kosovo Albanian Besmir Peci, a 38-year-old council worker, was typically delighted at the news but did have concerns for the future. “Nationalisation is better than the bank going to a consortium such as Virgin, which would make huge profits on the back of taxpayers, but the people I am really sorry for are all the bank’s original savers and all those who looked at their shares as some kind of nest egg, when they will be worth nothing now. But hopefully Northern Rock will now cease to be of quite such general interest and can move forward into a more stable and calmer environment than that which we’ve had for the last few weeks or months. I hope it’s nationalisation with a purpose and what we will need to see over a fairly short period of time is a plan of how to run the bank for the time being and also a plan for its future.”

While fireworks greeted the news in Pristina the mood was more downbeat in Belgrade, but there were few of the ugly scenes many had feared and predicted. In one isolated incident a stone-throwing mob of a few hundred, angry at what they saw as the weak regulatory regime that had allowed the original bank run to take place in September, set about attacking the nearest office of the FSA, but mistakenly targeted the embassy of the USA instead. The error was probably down to some confusion over the Cyrillic alphabet or something, I reckon.

RELATED STORIES:
Northern Rock to be nationalised.
Kosovo declares independence.

Silence Kid

Prior to Sunday’s derby match there were a number of people who were certain that the minute’s silence in memory of the Munich air disaster would pass off uninterrupted. Whether this belief was out of genuine optimism or just wishful thinking I cannot say, but what I can say is that they were right and I was wrong. I was always of the pessimistic “it takes one idiot” school of thought; or rather it takes one to shout “Munich”, a second to respond with “show some fucking respect”, and a third to continue the snowball from there. I didn’t fancy the look of the law of averages on this one, and so while I could appreciate why United believed so strongly that a minute’s silence was the most appropriate way to mark the tragedy I was just as certain they simply weren’t going to get it, and that some sort of compromise should have been worked out; but I was wonderfully mistaken, and the silence was indeed a suitable and fitting memorial.

In the event such was my concern that I even absented myself from the country during the match, but I still watched it unfold on the TV while sat in the Blue Bell Inn, Conwy, in the shadows of the castle (and literally in the shadows, thanks to the gloriously unseasonal blazing sunshine) as my wife and I shushed the children and I waited nervously for the first numbskull to pipe up and break the silence; but it never happened and after the minute was up I heaved a sigh of relief.

So to the match, and I followed it as best I could while eating my own lunch and trying to cajole two children into eating theirs. I was one of the few to cheer when Vassell and Benjani scored, but I have no idea how the pub reacted to Carrick’s consolation goal. I left at half-time to explore the castle, strangely confident that our defence would be able to withstand United for a further 45 minutes, and so it proved. As the minutes ticked by and my mobile failed to buzz with a goal flash I began bounding around the turrets and ramparts until word came of the final whistle. What a perfect day.

We shouldn’t get carried away though; there will have been some in the crowd at Old Trafford who will have sung Munich songs before, and no doubt will do again. I can take a certain pride in the behaviour of the City fans on the day, but if a few had let the majority down that wouldn’t have been a reason to tar all Blues with the same brush, and so let’s not go overboard with praise either. For whatever reason, be it because of the threats from the club, the desire to show themselves in a good light, or because they wanted to commemorate the passing of Frank Swift, the morons kept their heads down. None of these incentives should have been required, all that was needed under the circumstances was for people to act like decent human being; but not everybody is, and anything that helped contribute to the silence being so successfully observed I am very grateful for.

Of course it is never enough for some; my erstwhile colleague Danny Pugsley pointed me in the direction of the Red Issue forum, which along with this report and no doubt the 6-0-6 message-board shows some Reds remarking that while “they” may have managed to shut up for sixty seconds, “they” have otherwise been singing about Munich for fifty years. “They”, as far as many of the commentators on the forum are concerned, are all City fans, variously known as knobheads, scum, fuckers, vermin, cunts, twats and so on. A curious bunch those forum members are to be sure, to act so indignantly and to assume the moral high ground, to accuse others of being bitter; certainly they seem wholly unsuited for the role. But whatever they may say and whatever they may call themselves they have nothing in common with the many reasonable United fans I know; the forum lot are merely nincompoops, representative only of that cretinous minority of football supporters that all clubs attract to some degree, and just the sort of fans who would happily join in with the Munich chants were it not for the fact that they consider themselves to be Reds.