Accepting that everybody’s taste is different
and it would be a dull world were this not so, Pam the Painter asked me to try the second episode of The Cuckoo (C5). She and I have taste that diverges widely and suddenly crosshatches perfectly. In this case, I lasted five minutes. “Wow” she emailed. “Five whole minutes ??? You really tried …” So I explained that I only have to see those moody camera angles and hear the menacing soundtrack to think “No thank you” and switch off. And I don’t care about any of the characters, fortunately a yardstick with which she can empathise.
There is a bad version of don’t care when you tank through the world over everybody’s toes, physical and other, and a good don’t care when you refuse to rush, take the next bus, dump the lilac tshirt your mother gave you (never liked it), read and watch only what appeals to you. When somebody tells me they feel they must try and get to grips with whatever book it is, I am likely to say “don’t”. There are few exceptions. And the world is full of books you might like better.
So frankly tv, film and print picky, last night I came a cropper. I watched a Norwegian detective thingummy, seduced by the speed of editing and the opaque storylines into watching both episodes. Past my bedtime. Nodded off. Can’t remember anything about it. Shaming.
And I have tried. Hence the title.
Isolde (NHN) is always reading but I have noticed that though her eyes move from left to right and she turns pages, she rarely remembers what she has read or in the case of something more interesting, has much to say. I am certain she doesn’t look up those unknown words and terms I rush off to source. A bad sleeper, she reads – anything. Stuff.
Yes I know
Drifts past her eyes. Rarely important or interesting or gripping.
Reading is the great pleasure of my life. Has been forever and Julia Donaldson’s poem
I Opened a Book explains it beautifully. Latterly it’s how I overcome the perfectly terrible terrestrial television programming – go to the two or three charities that cherish books and buy something that hold my attention and makes me think. And I shall never get over Oxfam finding me a book from my early teenage years, without much to go on. And I was so glad to reread it, strengths/shortfall and all.
Whether it’s content, style or characterisation ie people – endlessly interested in people – something has to speak to me. But if it’s gurbling in front of my eyes, it won’t be for long – because it is a waste of time. And life’s too short.
I have read tripe to see how it works but it has no charm for me. A woman I know buys everything that is listed by the Booker committee. Too clever by half . I follow my nose. I can get it wrong – but I can get it right ! Like the last film about Mary Queen of Scots, a character who always repelled me.
But it was such a good film and director and scriptwriter had both read My Heart is My Own which led me to John Guy, who can weave his painstaking and unexpected research into a darned good story, closer to the truth than the conventions of accepted history ever permit us to go.
I never thought I would watch wildlife programmes with the sound turned down but I do- because of that cheap music which Noel Coward described as potent, which brings me out in hives. Though I find bits of wildlife on different programmes are often thrilling if bloody – truly, nature red in tooth and claw – with short sequences of leopard, my favourite and views of an Africa, old and still.
I’ll spare you the list of what I don’t like or can’t watch or won’t read. Yours will be different from mine. I don’t hold it against Toby (NHN) whose life is informed by social media. We just agree to differ. And on balance, I like the wallpaper still – not that there is any in my home. The walls are white, ready for projection of any kind.
NHN – not his/her name.
Annalog 