Albert J. Clack's Blog
March 7, 2018
Interview I gave to blogger Fiona McVie today about being an author
Let’s get you introduced to everyone, shall we? Tell us your name. What is your age?
My name is Albert Clack and I’m 71.
Fiona: Where are you from?
I was born and grew up in Brighton, on the south coast of England. I now live in Letchworth Garden City, 40 miles north of London. In between, I’ve lived in lots of places, including Slovakia, France, Argentina, Yugoslavia, Cuba and Dubai.
Fiona: A little about yourself (ie, your education, family life, etc.).
I had a joyful childhood. I grew up on a council estate where there were lots of other post-war baby-boom kids. It was an age when few people had cars, so we could play outside safely, although some of the things we got up to on building sites would make today’s parents’ hair stand on end. In summer, little gangs of us trooped off unsupervised for the day to the beach or the Sussex Downs, and there was no suggestion that a paedophile might be waiting to lure us away. There were no mobile phones to keep tabs on us, and no gigantic cars to ferry us around in, insulated from the world. We had far fewer material possessions than kids today, my parents didn’t buy a TV set until I was ten, and of course there were no computers to bury our heads in. So we learned to read at a young age, played board games in each other’s houses on rainy days, and as we approached our teens we joined youth clubs and learned to play things like snooker and ping-pong. I went everywhere on foot, by bike, or on the bus, as my Dad didn’t get a car until I was about 17. I went to Varndean Grammar School in Brighton, then gained a BA in French & Russian at Bradford University, and an MA in International Relations at Sussex University. I’m now married to a wonderful lady called Fazilet Hadi, who is a senior executive in a big charity. I have a son called Duncan from my first marriage, and a grandson called Heath.
Fiona: Tell us your latest news.
As an author, I’m currently writing ‘Murder of a Professor’, the third in the series of my Inspector Warren Mysteries. As an actor, I’ve just been recording additional audio for my role as a ‘shock-jock’ phone-in host in ‘Radio London’, a film noir about the War on Terror, which has been entered for this year’s Cannes Film Festival. As a poker player, I’m the same old rubbish.
Fiona: When and why did you begin writing?
I won a certificate in a national essay competition while at primary school, aged about 10, but I forget the subject. For my GCE English exam, aged 15, I scored top grade for writing a short story set in a small town in the Scottish Highlands, which I’d visited in the army cadets. During my 38 years as an international journalist I started several novels, and given that I rubbed shoulders with communist and fascist politicians, diplomats and spies while living in Buenos Aires, Belgrade and Havana, it’s no surprise that those attempts were in the Cold War intrigue genre. The trouble was, I was always so busy reporting on the real thing for the world’s media that I never finished any of the books.
Fiona: When did you first consider yourself a writer?
If by ‘writer’ you mean anyone who earns their living by writing, then from the moment Reuters News Agency hired me as a graduate trainee journalist in 1969; but if you mean someone who writes books, not until the first Inspector Warren Mystery appeared in 2015.
Fiona: What inspired you to write your first book?
After retiring from journalism in 2006, I launched into a ‘third life’ career as an actor. In 2013 I played Polonius in Hamlet in London, then went on tour around England in The Pickwick Papers. Meanwhile I had become an avid reader of crime novels. And so it came about that, while I was sitting in a dressing-room in the Haymarket Theatre, Basingstoke, the idea came to me: why not write my own crime novel, using my knowledge of the theatrical world? I thought of poor old Polonius, whom Hamlet mistakenly kills with a sword through a curtain, then drags his body out on to the stage. What if the actor playing Polonius had really been murdered behind the curtain, and the actor playing Hamlet found himself dragging a real corpse into full view of 600 people in the audience? And that was how ‘Murder at the Theatre Royal’ was born.
Fiona: How did you come up with the title?
I toyed with titles based on quotes from Hamlet, but decided that would look as if I was trying to look clever. I wanted to write a series, so I went for the obvious choice: titles starting with the word ‘Murder’. The second one, already published, is ‘Murder of a British Patriot’, in which the victim is the leader of a far-right political party who is shot dead while campaigning during the 2016 Brexit referendum. Was the killer a Muslim terrorist? Was it a political assassination? Or was the motive non-political? Is it connected with the drugs gang warfare going on at the same time? And what could possibly connect the victim with the 1984 miners’ strike?
Fiona: Do you have a specific writing style? Is there anything about your style or genre that you find particularly challenging?
My writing is driven by plot and dialogue. I want to entertain readers by getting them so involved with ‘whodunit’ that they forget to turn off the bedside lamp. I write in scenes rather than chapters, and drive the story along by jumping between the main plot and sub-plots. I’m economical with descriptions of people and places, giving just enough to allow the reader’s imagination to fill in the rest. I like to build perceptions of characters through what they say and do. My cops are real people with personal lives, but this aspect is also dealt with economically. Years ago, one of my favourite TV cop drama series became transformed virtually into a soap opera, with more about police love affairs than about crime. I won’t go down that road.
Fiona: How much of the book is realistic and are experiences based on someone you know, or events in your own life?
Given that my plots and sub-plots are mostly about murder, violence, robbery, drug-dealing and general skulduggery, you may be pleased to learn that not a lot is based on my own experience. However, a friend who was part of a cocaine gang for ten years helped me with information about gang warfare for ‘Murder of a British Patriot’. Scenes from the 1984 miners’ strike in Yorkshire are based accurately on what I was told in interviews with some of the Fleet Street printers who stood with the miners on their picket lines, one of whom was my next-door neighbour in London. The boarding kennels where a key scene takes place in ‘Murder at the Theatre Royal’ is based on one owned by one of my poker-playing friends.
Fiona: To craft your works, do you have to travel? Before or during the process?
It’s the other way around. My books are set in north London, and I incorporate places I’ve been to, such as when I’ve been traipsing around as an actor looking for rehearsal rooms or filming locations in obscure places. When I’ve got time, I sometimes go off-piste in some of the poorer parts to soak up atmosphere on housing estates and in industrial areas. I’ve lived in various parts of London – Kilburn, Wimbledon, East Ham and Catford – so our great capital city is hardly unknown territory. Inspector Warren’s wife is from Argentina, where I lived for a total of four years, so I’m tempted to come up with a future story that involves him in going there to investigate; as an excuse for me to go back for a month or so. Needless to say, if I ever do that, it’ll be during their summer, which is our winter!
Fiona: Who designed the covers?
A friend called Samia Nichols, who is a theatrical designer. I especially love the way she concealed the motorcyclist’s face with an Arab scarf for ‘Murder of a British Patriot.’
Fiona: Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp?
Definitely not. My sole purpose is to entertain. Some of my characters express political opinions, but they differ widely. Take, for example, the two main cops: Detective Inspector Warren grew up in a rather posh Oxford academic family, holds liberal views, and opposes Brexit. His sidekick, Detective Sergeant Philippa Myers, comes from a self-made, working-class family in east London, holds conservative views, and supports Brexit. DC Georgina Stanbridge is a vociferous feminist, and it comes out at briefing meetings when she objects to sexist remarks. But those are the opposing views of my characters, not mine. There is no authorial ‘message’.
Fiona: Are there any new authors that have grasped your interest? Who is your favorite writer, and what is it about their work that really strikes you?
I’ll just mention a few books that I’ve particularly enjoyed in recent years: A Week in December by Sebastian Faulks, Ordinary Thunderstorms by William Boyd, Headlong by Michael Frayn, Absolute Friends by John le Carré, and in Spanish, El Verdugo de Dios by Toti Martínez de Lezea. Favourite author: Graham Greene, because of his universal empathy, broad horizons, and willingness to share his existential angst.
Fiona: Outside of family members, name one entity that supported your commitment to become a published author.
My dear friend and former Reuters colleague Chris Peterson, who read my drafts and gave me excellent advice on what to change, what to cut out, and what was missing. Sadly, Chris, who survived the hazards of reporting the Vietnam War, finally succumbed last year to the Big C. An awful lot of people miss him.
Fiona: Do you see writing as a career?
Look, I’m 71 already. I see lasting until next week’s poker game as a career. Seriously: not a career, as such, but I won’t pretend that I wouldn’t be overjoyed if I ever achieved a best-seller.
Fiona: If you had to do it all over again, would you change anything in your latest book?
I would not use the word ‘Patriot’ in the title. I can tell from online feedback that some people assume from that word that the book is too political, and either in favour of their personal worldview or against it. Yes, the extremist politics of several characters play a pivotal role in the story, and Inspector Warren tries to understand what makes such people tick. While I was writing it, I did a lot of research into the motivations of extremists of both right and left in order that Warren’s interrogations should be realistic.
Fiona: Did you learn anything during the writing of your recent book?
Yes. What a patient woman my wife is. Seriously, though, every line of research, especially when it involves meeting up with people who inhabit worlds of which I know little or nothing, is a valuable and enjoyable learning experience. For the book I am writing now, ‘Murder of a Professor’, I am exploring the impact of so-called political correctness on university campuses, as well as academic corruption, and the risks that an anthropologist runs in Africa. I have read up on the Nigerian Civil War and the Rwandan Genocide, and interviewed a university anthropology lecturer, the son of the late Biafran Ambassador to the UK, and an ambulance paramedic on exactly what happens when a patient is rushed to hospital with an acute kidney stone
Fiona: If your book was made into a film, who would you like to play the lead?
Someone who’s never played a leading role in a TV drama before, but who has all the talent and imagination to bring Inspector Warren to life; so that it wouldn’t be one of the same faces being recycled yet again. One thing I’ve learned as an actor is: trust the casting director.
Fiona: Any advice for other writers?
Make sure you’ve got plenty of biscuits and tea-bags in the house before you sit down.
Fiona: Anything specific you want to tell your readers?
Not really. I just want to entertain them with a good yarn.
Fiona: What book are you reading now?
The Last Train to Scarborough by Andrew Martin; which I picked up at random from a second-hand book stall.
Fiona: Do you remember the first book you read?
Probably one of the Famous Five or Secret Seven books by Enid Blyton.
Fiona: What makes you laugh/cry?
Laugh: The Royle Family, for the way it extracts good-natured humour from the everyday banality of life, without losing sight of pathos.
Cry: The moment in The Railway Children when the steam clears, the father appears on the platform, and Roberta cries out, “Daddy, my Daddy!” It cuts to the heart of recovering a lost parent.
Fiona: Is there one person, past or present, you would love to meet? Why?
Not one, but a small group: the anonymous Russian soldiers who liberated my father from captivity in Germany in 1945. Why? Simply to hug them, thank them, and crack a bottle of vodka. (Dad’s true PoW story, which I edited and published, is called ‘My Underground War’).
Fiona: Do you have any hobbies?
I play in pub poker leagues, go to lots of plays with my wife, and we both enjoy travel and country walks. I fight an annual losing battle against brambles and weeds in our garden.
Fiona: What TV shows/films do you enjoy watching?
On TV, predictably, crime dramas. I’ve been loving the latest series of Endeavour. At the cinema I like to support British films when possible, but they mainly get far too little distribution. Something needs to be done about that. Recent American films we’ve liked: Three Billboards Outside Ebbings, Missouri; The Post; Manchester by the Sea; Fences; La La Land.
Fiona: Favorite foods, colors, music?
Food: exotic hot dishes from countries like Morocco, Lebanon and Vietnam.
Colours: being married to a blind person, I’m just thankful that I can see them all.
Music: classical, 1960s pop, R&B, jazz – but definitely not rap.
Fiona: Imagine a future where you no longer write. What would you do?
Carry on acting, and maybe set up an R&B band with other elderly rockers; at which point my wife would probably have me certified as insane.
Fiona: What do you want written on your head stone?
Thank you, God. It’s been fun. Can I do it all again, please?
My name is Albert Clack and I’m 71.
Fiona: Where are you from?
I was born and grew up in Brighton, on the south coast of England. I now live in Letchworth Garden City, 40 miles north of London. In between, I’ve lived in lots of places, including Slovakia, France, Argentina, Yugoslavia, Cuba and Dubai.
Fiona: A little about yourself (ie, your education, family life, etc.).
I had a joyful childhood. I grew up on a council estate where there were lots of other post-war baby-boom kids. It was an age when few people had cars, so we could play outside safely, although some of the things we got up to on building sites would make today’s parents’ hair stand on end. In summer, little gangs of us trooped off unsupervised for the day to the beach or the Sussex Downs, and there was no suggestion that a paedophile might be waiting to lure us away. There were no mobile phones to keep tabs on us, and no gigantic cars to ferry us around in, insulated from the world. We had far fewer material possessions than kids today, my parents didn’t buy a TV set until I was ten, and of course there were no computers to bury our heads in. So we learned to read at a young age, played board games in each other’s houses on rainy days, and as we approached our teens we joined youth clubs and learned to play things like snooker and ping-pong. I went everywhere on foot, by bike, or on the bus, as my Dad didn’t get a car until I was about 17. I went to Varndean Grammar School in Brighton, then gained a BA in French & Russian at Bradford University, and an MA in International Relations at Sussex University. I’m now married to a wonderful lady called Fazilet Hadi, who is a senior executive in a big charity. I have a son called Duncan from my first marriage, and a grandson called Heath.
Fiona: Tell us your latest news.
As an author, I’m currently writing ‘Murder of a Professor’, the third in the series of my Inspector Warren Mysteries. As an actor, I’ve just been recording additional audio for my role as a ‘shock-jock’ phone-in host in ‘Radio London’, a film noir about the War on Terror, which has been entered for this year’s Cannes Film Festival. As a poker player, I’m the same old rubbish.
Fiona: When and why did you begin writing?
I won a certificate in a national essay competition while at primary school, aged about 10, but I forget the subject. For my GCE English exam, aged 15, I scored top grade for writing a short story set in a small town in the Scottish Highlands, which I’d visited in the army cadets. During my 38 years as an international journalist I started several novels, and given that I rubbed shoulders with communist and fascist politicians, diplomats and spies while living in Buenos Aires, Belgrade and Havana, it’s no surprise that those attempts were in the Cold War intrigue genre. The trouble was, I was always so busy reporting on the real thing for the world’s media that I never finished any of the books.
Fiona: When did you first consider yourself a writer?
If by ‘writer’ you mean anyone who earns their living by writing, then from the moment Reuters News Agency hired me as a graduate trainee journalist in 1969; but if you mean someone who writes books, not until the first Inspector Warren Mystery appeared in 2015.
Fiona: What inspired you to write your first book?
After retiring from journalism in 2006, I launched into a ‘third life’ career as an actor. In 2013 I played Polonius in Hamlet in London, then went on tour around England in The Pickwick Papers. Meanwhile I had become an avid reader of crime novels. And so it came about that, while I was sitting in a dressing-room in the Haymarket Theatre, Basingstoke, the idea came to me: why not write my own crime novel, using my knowledge of the theatrical world? I thought of poor old Polonius, whom Hamlet mistakenly kills with a sword through a curtain, then drags his body out on to the stage. What if the actor playing Polonius had really been murdered behind the curtain, and the actor playing Hamlet found himself dragging a real corpse into full view of 600 people in the audience? And that was how ‘Murder at the Theatre Royal’ was born.
Fiona: How did you come up with the title?
I toyed with titles based on quotes from Hamlet, but decided that would look as if I was trying to look clever. I wanted to write a series, so I went for the obvious choice: titles starting with the word ‘Murder’. The second one, already published, is ‘Murder of a British Patriot’, in which the victim is the leader of a far-right political party who is shot dead while campaigning during the 2016 Brexit referendum. Was the killer a Muslim terrorist? Was it a political assassination? Or was the motive non-political? Is it connected with the drugs gang warfare going on at the same time? And what could possibly connect the victim with the 1984 miners’ strike?
Fiona: Do you have a specific writing style? Is there anything about your style or genre that you find particularly challenging?
My writing is driven by plot and dialogue. I want to entertain readers by getting them so involved with ‘whodunit’ that they forget to turn off the bedside lamp. I write in scenes rather than chapters, and drive the story along by jumping between the main plot and sub-plots. I’m economical with descriptions of people and places, giving just enough to allow the reader’s imagination to fill in the rest. I like to build perceptions of characters through what they say and do. My cops are real people with personal lives, but this aspect is also dealt with economically. Years ago, one of my favourite TV cop drama series became transformed virtually into a soap opera, with more about police love affairs than about crime. I won’t go down that road.
Fiona: How much of the book is realistic and are experiences based on someone you know, or events in your own life?
Given that my plots and sub-plots are mostly about murder, violence, robbery, drug-dealing and general skulduggery, you may be pleased to learn that not a lot is based on my own experience. However, a friend who was part of a cocaine gang for ten years helped me with information about gang warfare for ‘Murder of a British Patriot’. Scenes from the 1984 miners’ strike in Yorkshire are based accurately on what I was told in interviews with some of the Fleet Street printers who stood with the miners on their picket lines, one of whom was my next-door neighbour in London. The boarding kennels where a key scene takes place in ‘Murder at the Theatre Royal’ is based on one owned by one of my poker-playing friends.
Fiona: To craft your works, do you have to travel? Before or during the process?
It’s the other way around. My books are set in north London, and I incorporate places I’ve been to, such as when I’ve been traipsing around as an actor looking for rehearsal rooms or filming locations in obscure places. When I’ve got time, I sometimes go off-piste in some of the poorer parts to soak up atmosphere on housing estates and in industrial areas. I’ve lived in various parts of London – Kilburn, Wimbledon, East Ham and Catford – so our great capital city is hardly unknown territory. Inspector Warren’s wife is from Argentina, where I lived for a total of four years, so I’m tempted to come up with a future story that involves him in going there to investigate; as an excuse for me to go back for a month or so. Needless to say, if I ever do that, it’ll be during their summer, which is our winter!
Fiona: Who designed the covers?
A friend called Samia Nichols, who is a theatrical designer. I especially love the way she concealed the motorcyclist’s face with an Arab scarf for ‘Murder of a British Patriot.’
Fiona: Is there a message in your novel that you want readers to grasp?
Definitely not. My sole purpose is to entertain. Some of my characters express political opinions, but they differ widely. Take, for example, the two main cops: Detective Inspector Warren grew up in a rather posh Oxford academic family, holds liberal views, and opposes Brexit. His sidekick, Detective Sergeant Philippa Myers, comes from a self-made, working-class family in east London, holds conservative views, and supports Brexit. DC Georgina Stanbridge is a vociferous feminist, and it comes out at briefing meetings when she objects to sexist remarks. But those are the opposing views of my characters, not mine. There is no authorial ‘message’.
Fiona: Are there any new authors that have grasped your interest? Who is your favorite writer, and what is it about their work that really strikes you?
I’ll just mention a few books that I’ve particularly enjoyed in recent years: A Week in December by Sebastian Faulks, Ordinary Thunderstorms by William Boyd, Headlong by Michael Frayn, Absolute Friends by John le Carré, and in Spanish, El Verdugo de Dios by Toti Martínez de Lezea. Favourite author: Graham Greene, because of his universal empathy, broad horizons, and willingness to share his existential angst.
Fiona: Outside of family members, name one entity that supported your commitment to become a published author.
My dear friend and former Reuters colleague Chris Peterson, who read my drafts and gave me excellent advice on what to change, what to cut out, and what was missing. Sadly, Chris, who survived the hazards of reporting the Vietnam War, finally succumbed last year to the Big C. An awful lot of people miss him.
Fiona: Do you see writing as a career?
Look, I’m 71 already. I see lasting until next week’s poker game as a career. Seriously: not a career, as such, but I won’t pretend that I wouldn’t be overjoyed if I ever achieved a best-seller.
Fiona: If you had to do it all over again, would you change anything in your latest book?
I would not use the word ‘Patriot’ in the title. I can tell from online feedback that some people assume from that word that the book is too political, and either in favour of their personal worldview or against it. Yes, the extremist politics of several characters play a pivotal role in the story, and Inspector Warren tries to understand what makes such people tick. While I was writing it, I did a lot of research into the motivations of extremists of both right and left in order that Warren’s interrogations should be realistic.
Fiona: Did you learn anything during the writing of your recent book?
Yes. What a patient woman my wife is. Seriously, though, every line of research, especially when it involves meeting up with people who inhabit worlds of which I know little or nothing, is a valuable and enjoyable learning experience. For the book I am writing now, ‘Murder of a Professor’, I am exploring the impact of so-called political correctness on university campuses, as well as academic corruption, and the risks that an anthropologist runs in Africa. I have read up on the Nigerian Civil War and the Rwandan Genocide, and interviewed a university anthropology lecturer, the son of the late Biafran Ambassador to the UK, and an ambulance paramedic on exactly what happens when a patient is rushed to hospital with an acute kidney stone
Fiona: If your book was made into a film, who would you like to play the lead?
Someone who’s never played a leading role in a TV drama before, but who has all the talent and imagination to bring Inspector Warren to life; so that it wouldn’t be one of the same faces being recycled yet again. One thing I’ve learned as an actor is: trust the casting director.
Fiona: Any advice for other writers?
Make sure you’ve got plenty of biscuits and tea-bags in the house before you sit down.
Fiona: Anything specific you want to tell your readers?
Not really. I just want to entertain them with a good yarn.
Fiona: What book are you reading now?
The Last Train to Scarborough by Andrew Martin; which I picked up at random from a second-hand book stall.
Fiona: Do you remember the first book you read?
Probably one of the Famous Five or Secret Seven books by Enid Blyton.
Fiona: What makes you laugh/cry?
Laugh: The Royle Family, for the way it extracts good-natured humour from the everyday banality of life, without losing sight of pathos.
Cry: The moment in The Railway Children when the steam clears, the father appears on the platform, and Roberta cries out, “Daddy, my Daddy!” It cuts to the heart of recovering a lost parent.
Fiona: Is there one person, past or present, you would love to meet? Why?
Not one, but a small group: the anonymous Russian soldiers who liberated my father from captivity in Germany in 1945. Why? Simply to hug them, thank them, and crack a bottle of vodka. (Dad’s true PoW story, which I edited and published, is called ‘My Underground War’).
Fiona: Do you have any hobbies?
I play in pub poker leagues, go to lots of plays with my wife, and we both enjoy travel and country walks. I fight an annual losing battle against brambles and weeds in our garden.
Fiona: What TV shows/films do you enjoy watching?
On TV, predictably, crime dramas. I’ve been loving the latest series of Endeavour. At the cinema I like to support British films when possible, but they mainly get far too little distribution. Something needs to be done about that. Recent American films we’ve liked: Three Billboards Outside Ebbings, Missouri; The Post; Manchester by the Sea; Fences; La La Land.
Fiona: Favorite foods, colors, music?
Food: exotic hot dishes from countries like Morocco, Lebanon and Vietnam.
Colours: being married to a blind person, I’m just thankful that I can see them all.
Music: classical, 1960s pop, R&B, jazz – but definitely not rap.
Fiona: Imagine a future where you no longer write. What would you do?
Carry on acting, and maybe set up an R&B band with other elderly rockers; at which point my wife would probably have me certified as insane.
Fiona: What do you want written on your head stone?
Thank you, God. It’s been fun. Can I do it all again, please?
January 28, 2018
Tears, laughter, anger, redemption and poetry – Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri
At various moments I fought back tears, laughed out loud, wanted to punch a character, wanted to comfort a character, needed to repress my rage.
And it’s this last emotion which ‘Three Billboards Outside Ebbings, Missouri’ is really about, although it takes a very long time for any of the screwed-up small-town individuals to understand what they are doing to each other and themselves.
What makes the script by Martin McDonagh (In Bruges) so strong is the characterisation. People we see initially as bad guys turn out to be the opposite, or eventually achieve redemption; hero characters have feet of clay, a million miles from the unsullied Hollywood stereotype.
If that sounds a bit Shakespearian, it’s because that’s the impression I was left with; suspecting that the author must be very well acquainted with the Bard’s dark plays.
There are incidents of comic absurdity, extreme violence and even poetry (especially when the protagonist talks to a deer about her raped, burned and murdered teenage daughter), which don’t quite seem real. They’re not meant to. This is drama, not documentary; which is also like Shakespeare.
McDonagh’s edgy yet empathetic writing provides the cast with some extraordinary opportunities for truthful and convincing scenes of dialogue and soliloquy, and these are powerfully executed.
It might seem pretentious to imagine the town of Ebbings as a near-psychopathic metaphor for an entire country which has lost its way behind a red mist of hatred. However, there is a reference to Iraq near the end which suggests that might not be an entirely erroneous interpretation.
And it’s this last emotion which ‘Three Billboards Outside Ebbings, Missouri’ is really about, although it takes a very long time for any of the screwed-up small-town individuals to understand what they are doing to each other and themselves.
What makes the script by Martin McDonagh (In Bruges) so strong is the characterisation. People we see initially as bad guys turn out to be the opposite, or eventually achieve redemption; hero characters have feet of clay, a million miles from the unsullied Hollywood stereotype.
If that sounds a bit Shakespearian, it’s because that’s the impression I was left with; suspecting that the author must be very well acquainted with the Bard’s dark plays.
There are incidents of comic absurdity, extreme violence and even poetry (especially when the protagonist talks to a deer about her raped, burned and murdered teenage daughter), which don’t quite seem real. They’re not meant to. This is drama, not documentary; which is also like Shakespeare.
McDonagh’s edgy yet empathetic writing provides the cast with some extraordinary opportunities for truthful and convincing scenes of dialogue and soliloquy, and these are powerfully executed.
It might seem pretentious to imagine the town of Ebbings as a near-psychopathic metaphor for an entire country which has lost its way behind a red mist of hatred. However, there is a reference to Iraq near the end which suggests that might not be an entirely erroneous interpretation.
‘All the Money in the World’ – a cracking good suspense yarn and a dark study in miserliness
I went to see ‘All the Money in the World’, feeling a bit doubtful at first.
In the event, it turned out to be a cracking good suspense yarn, full of interesting characters amid a tortuous plot based on real events which I am ancient enough to remember.
Christopher Plummer’s depiction of the ultra-miserly J. Paul Getty is masterful, demonstrating how an actor of his calibre can step into the breach at short notice and build an in-depth, truthful character.
The editing-out of Kevin Spacey was thus consigned to irrelevance. It’s a long film, but doesn’t feel too long.
Oh, and by the way, about Getty’s billionaire fortune being packaged as a charity so as to avoid paying any tax back in 1973 …. plus ça change, quoi?
In the event, it turned out to be a cracking good suspense yarn, full of interesting characters amid a tortuous plot based on real events which I am ancient enough to remember.
Christopher Plummer’s depiction of the ultra-miserly J. Paul Getty is masterful, demonstrating how an actor of his calibre can step into the breach at short notice and build an in-depth, truthful character.
The editing-out of Kevin Spacey was thus consigned to irrelevance. It’s a long film, but doesn’t feel too long.
Oh, and by the way, about Getty’s billionaire fortune being packaged as a charity so as to avoid paying any tax back in 1973 …. plus ça change, quoi?
January 3, 2018
Really engrossing read with good characters and a driving plot
New 5-star Review of 'Murder of a British Patriot' on Amazon
31 December 2017
Albert Clack has found a voice with this engaging and engrossing story. His characters ring true throughout and he creates fascinating but entirely realistic situations in episodic fashion which spur on the narrative.
The device of running the story in two time periods can be tricky if not handled well, but it is. It's also a history lesson for anyone not around in the 1980s and unfamiliar with the febrile political atmosphere of the time.
His Inspector Warren is a viable DI with a liberal background and sympathies but perfectly happy to use the authority of his rank and position to get what he wants. As a result suspects are kept in custody despite having viable alibis simply because he wants to make them sweat in the hope of breaking them. This is a man not flawed by drink or emotional incontinence, but by struggling to keep his liberal and authoritarian natures out of conflict with each other.
The development of the plot rattles along and rarely falls into the trap of telling instead of showing - an example: a reactionary detective sergeant is described as being at that rank for nine years, nothing more is said about her but we know from her subsequent actions that further advancement won't happen..
This was a great read and one I found unable to put down easily and when I did I hastened to pick it up again.
31 December 2017
Albert Clack has found a voice with this engaging and engrossing story. His characters ring true throughout and he creates fascinating but entirely realistic situations in episodic fashion which spur on the narrative.
The device of running the story in two time periods can be tricky if not handled well, but it is. It's also a history lesson for anyone not around in the 1980s and unfamiliar with the febrile political atmosphere of the time.
His Inspector Warren is a viable DI with a liberal background and sympathies but perfectly happy to use the authority of his rank and position to get what he wants. As a result suspects are kept in custody despite having viable alibis simply because he wants to make them sweat in the hope of breaking them. This is a man not flawed by drink or emotional incontinence, but by struggling to keep his liberal and authoritarian natures out of conflict with each other.
The development of the plot rattles along and rarely falls into the trap of telling instead of showing - an example: a reactionary detective sergeant is described as being at that rank for nine years, nothing more is said about her but we know from her subsequent actions that further advancement won't happen..
This was a great read and one I found unable to put down easily and when I did I hastened to pick it up again.
August 9, 2017
A debased culture of smartphone-staring and talentless ‘reality’ is killing touring theatre
I was very sorry to learn last week that another excellent touring theatre company, the Brighton-based Talking Scarlet, had succumbed to insolvency.
In recent years, I have attended every Talking Scarlet play I could catch in Stevenage or Eastbourne; but despite the fact that the quality was always excellent, I usually found myself sitting in a very small audience.
I’m afraid that if the great British public doesn’t turn up to live theatre, other than populist West End musicals, soon there won’t be any live theatre, apart from those blockbusters at one end of the spectrum, and tiny fringe productions above pubs, for which the actors seldom if ever get paid, at the other end.
For the time being, great institutions such as the National Theatre and the Royal Shakespeare Company continue thanks to state subsidies, but in the current political climate of destroying anything which doesn’t make a profit, one wonders for how much longer even they will be allowed to survive. In any case, touring companies tend to perform plays which fill the important and accessible space one or two steps below the lofty intellectualism of the subsidised theatre.
The national preference now seems to be for staring at videos on smartphones, joining crowds of 10,000+ to watch stand-up comedians in gigantic arenas, and so-called reality TV shows in which talentless ‘celebrities’ set the trend for gross misbehaviour. Oh, and of course, elite sport which acts as a vehicle for crude tribalism and nationalism.
Another aspect of the audiences I find myself among, besides their low numbers, is that they are old. Where are the young theatre-goers in the provinces? They scarcely seem to exist. Apparently our schools, under pressure to focus on subjects which will ‘get you a job’, are failing to provide much in the way of cultural guidance in terms of how to spend wisely some of the money which that job, if you get it, will earn for you.
Where touring plays are concerned, we are deeply into a ‘use it or lose it’ situation; and it looks as if we’re going to lose it, because public taste has decayed almost to the level of ancient Roman circuses and mediaeval bear-baiting.
In recent years, I have attended every Talking Scarlet play I could catch in Stevenage or Eastbourne; but despite the fact that the quality was always excellent, I usually found myself sitting in a very small audience.
I’m afraid that if the great British public doesn’t turn up to live theatre, other than populist West End musicals, soon there won’t be any live theatre, apart from those blockbusters at one end of the spectrum, and tiny fringe productions above pubs, for which the actors seldom if ever get paid, at the other end.
For the time being, great institutions such as the National Theatre and the Royal Shakespeare Company continue thanks to state subsidies, but in the current political climate of destroying anything which doesn’t make a profit, one wonders for how much longer even they will be allowed to survive. In any case, touring companies tend to perform plays which fill the important and accessible space one or two steps below the lofty intellectualism of the subsidised theatre.
The national preference now seems to be for staring at videos on smartphones, joining crowds of 10,000+ to watch stand-up comedians in gigantic arenas, and so-called reality TV shows in which talentless ‘celebrities’ set the trend for gross misbehaviour. Oh, and of course, elite sport which acts as a vehicle for crude tribalism and nationalism.
Another aspect of the audiences I find myself among, besides their low numbers, is that they are old. Where are the young theatre-goers in the provinces? They scarcely seem to exist. Apparently our schools, under pressure to focus on subjects which will ‘get you a job’, are failing to provide much in the way of cultural guidance in terms of how to spend wisely some of the money which that job, if you get it, will earn for you.
Where touring plays are concerned, we are deeply into a ‘use it or lose it’ situation; and it looks as if we’re going to lose it, because public taste has decayed almost to the level of ancient Roman circuses and mediaeval bear-baiting.
Listening to a radio play this week, I found myself back in a summer school in Moscow in August 1968
I’ve just been listening to a play on Radio 4 about some British teenagers at a Soviet summer beach camp in August 1968, when the Warsaw Pact invaded Czechoslovakia. Boy, did that bring back some powerful memories.
I had spent half of my university year abroad in Czechoslovakia from September 1967 to January 1968. After the next term in France, I attended a summer school for Russian language in Moscow for three weeks, arriving home in Brighton on the fateful evening of August 20th.
The next morning my father woke me up with a cup of tea and the words: “The Russians have invaded Czechoslovakia.” All I could think of at first was what might be happening to my erstwhile student friends. In that moment, and following the TV, radio and newspaper coverage during the following days and weeks, my naive youthful idealism was stripped away forever.
The play, ‘May There Always Be Sunshine’, by Alan Pollock, resonated in so many ways at the level of temporary friendships and relationships. I wish I had kept a diary. There are so many details I cannot remember of what it was like being a 20/21-year-old English student ‘behind the iron curtain’ at the time when Dubcek was trying to liberalise Czechoslovakia.
I cannot pretend to have understood what was going on at the top. My only real contact with the ‘Prague Spring’ was when I travelled alone from the small town of Presov in eastern Slovakia, where our group of 10 British students was staying, to the Slovakian capital, Bratislava, to visit a Slovak pen-friend whom I had acquired before this student exchange had been mooted. She took me into Bratislava University, which was plastered with pro-Western posters and seething with anti-Soviet agitation.
The realisation of having been kept (or having kept myself) in the dark, and later seeing on TV the tanks rolling across a country I had come to like, undoubtedly contributed to my determination to become an international journalist after graduating. In future I would ask the hard questions, whatever the political colour of the government. In the end that got me into serious trouble in Cuba, and I was expelled by the Castro regime – but that’s another story.
I had spent half of my university year abroad in Czechoslovakia from September 1967 to January 1968. After the next term in France, I attended a summer school for Russian language in Moscow for three weeks, arriving home in Brighton on the fateful evening of August 20th.
The next morning my father woke me up with a cup of tea and the words: “The Russians have invaded Czechoslovakia.” All I could think of at first was what might be happening to my erstwhile student friends. In that moment, and following the TV, radio and newspaper coverage during the following days and weeks, my naive youthful idealism was stripped away forever.
The play, ‘May There Always Be Sunshine’, by Alan Pollock, resonated in so many ways at the level of temporary friendships and relationships. I wish I had kept a diary. There are so many details I cannot remember of what it was like being a 20/21-year-old English student ‘behind the iron curtain’ at the time when Dubcek was trying to liberalise Czechoslovakia.
I cannot pretend to have understood what was going on at the top. My only real contact with the ‘Prague Spring’ was when I travelled alone from the small town of Presov in eastern Slovakia, where our group of 10 British students was staying, to the Slovakian capital, Bratislava, to visit a Slovak pen-friend whom I had acquired before this student exchange had been mooted. She took me into Bratislava University, which was plastered with pro-Western posters and seething with anti-Soviet agitation.
The realisation of having been kept (or having kept myself) in the dark, and later seeing on TV the tanks rolling across a country I had come to like, undoubtedly contributed to my determination to become an international journalist after graduating. In future I would ask the hard questions, whatever the political colour of the government. In the end that got me into serious trouble in Cuba, and I was expelled by the Castro regime – but that’s another story.
December 14, 2016
Now Available - Murder of a British Patriot
I have just published my second crime novel, 'Murder of a British Patriot - An Inspector Warren Mystery', again featuring DI Keith Warren, DS Philippa Myers & DC Marion Everitt. Here's a brief description:
While out campaigning for Britain to leave the European Union in the June 2016 referendum, George Marshall, the Leader of the British Patriotic Party, is shot dead.
Suspects include a Muslim student, a far-right political rival, a left-wing activist, and three mysterious older people with a festering grudge arising from the 1984 miners’ strike.
Murder of a British Patriot
Meanwhile, police are facing a threat of gang warfare on the streets as two east European brothers try to muscle in on the territory of north London’s top cocaine baron.
As past police corruption and sexual blackmail are gradually exposed amid a climate of present-day racism and islamophobia, three violent narratives collide in a shocking climax.
While out campaigning for Britain to leave the European Union in the June 2016 referendum, George Marshall, the Leader of the British Patriotic Party, is shot dead.
Suspects include a Muslim student, a far-right political rival, a left-wing activist, and three mysterious older people with a festering grudge arising from the 1984 miners’ strike.
Murder of a British Patriot
Meanwhile, police are facing a threat of gang warfare on the streets as two east European brothers try to muscle in on the territory of north London’s top cocaine baron.
As past police corruption and sexual blackmail are gradually exposed amid a climate of present-day racism and islamophobia, three violent narratives collide in a shocking climax.
May 4, 2016
‘The New Electric Ballroom’ – A haunting play, sometimes poetic, sometimes shockingly banal
I recently went to see ‘The New Electric Ballroom’, a play by Enda Walsh.
It’s about three sisters in a small Irish port, doomed to relive and pass on their emotional and sexual regrets forever.
Some very dense and challenging text, beautifully performed, sometimes left my brain racing unsuccessfully to keep up with the cocktail of longing, pain and unrealisable dreams.
The production was billed as a comedy, but frankly it is far from being a feelgood play, despite some irresistible laughs here and there.
It is, however, a tale which reminds one of how lucky one is not to have lived out the decades we are allowed on this planet in such stultifyingly confined surroundings as these, imposed by what was, at the time of the sisters’ youthful memories, a strictly Roman Catholic and over-moralising society.
Empathetic and convincing performances by Vivien Kerr, Barbara Gardiner, Samantha Powell and James Moore drew us inexorably into the sisters’ memories and pain, the visiting fishmonger’s male vulnerability, and ultimately into the futility of dreaming that their circle of frustration could be broken.
Charles Compton’s sensitive, economical direction gave the actors the space they needed to develop and express difficult characters, framed in a set with just enough furniture and props to locate us in time and place, without cluttering our minds with unnecessary detail.
It can hardly go unnoticed that this is another play about ‘Three Sisters’ – but whereas Chekhov’s lasses look forward in vain to returning to Moscow, these sadder, older maids can only gaze backwards at what might have been.
This morning I sensed that I might find myself thinking back through this haunting, sometimes poetic, sometimes shockingly and deliberately banal story, for some time to come.
It’s about three sisters in a small Irish port, doomed to relive and pass on their emotional and sexual regrets forever.
Some very dense and challenging text, beautifully performed, sometimes left my brain racing unsuccessfully to keep up with the cocktail of longing, pain and unrealisable dreams.
The production was billed as a comedy, but frankly it is far from being a feelgood play, despite some irresistible laughs here and there.
It is, however, a tale which reminds one of how lucky one is not to have lived out the decades we are allowed on this planet in such stultifyingly confined surroundings as these, imposed by what was, at the time of the sisters’ youthful memories, a strictly Roman Catholic and over-moralising society.
Empathetic and convincing performances by Vivien Kerr, Barbara Gardiner, Samantha Powell and James Moore drew us inexorably into the sisters’ memories and pain, the visiting fishmonger’s male vulnerability, and ultimately into the futility of dreaming that their circle of frustration could be broken.
Charles Compton’s sensitive, economical direction gave the actors the space they needed to develop and express difficult characters, framed in a set with just enough furniture and props to locate us in time and place, without cluttering our minds with unnecessary detail.
It can hardly go unnoticed that this is another play about ‘Three Sisters’ – but whereas Chekhov’s lasses look forward in vain to returning to Moscow, these sadder, older maids can only gaze backwards at what might have been.
This morning I sensed that I might find myself thinking back through this haunting, sometimes poetic, sometimes shockingly and deliberately banal story, for some time to come.
July 14, 2015
Our Idyll with a Seal on a Californian Shore
Isn’t it strange how, when you go on a sightseeing holiday abroad, the big attractions that you’ve placed at the top of your ‘must-see’ list sometimes turn out to be disappointing, whilst small, unexpected places can prove to be delightful?
Thus it was when my wife and I took a three week trip around California (we are from England).
Of course, some of the star billings did live up to expectations; but it’s those moments of surprising serendipity that one remembers with most pleasure.
It was the wrong time of year for the big national parks. When I phoned a ranger station from England to ask what kind of clothes to bring, a friendly chap told me with a chuckle that the trees and bears were under 20 feet of snow – come back in summer.
So it was mainly a coastal trip for us. Also, having been forewarned by fellow-Brits that if you try to take in the full length of that very long state in three weeks, you’re going to spend much of your time staring at the car in front, we had to choose a section. We opted for San Francisco to Los Angeles.
San Francisco struck me as a city I could feel okay living in, if only it had the warmer climate of Los Angeles; whereas the City of Angels would be all right if only it were as laid-back, tolerant and environmentally aware as the City on the Bay.
But it was a little place about half-way between those two metropoles that left us with a hauntingly lasting impression.
It’s called Cambria, and it’s the nearest place to stay overnight if you’re visiting Hearst Castle – a bizarre excrescence of excessive wealth. And it was in little Cambria that a crowning moment of our trip occurred.
After wandering through some quiet residential streets, we found ourselves scrambling down a steep, narrow pathway on to a shoreline of rocks and crashing waves; and there we sat on a rock, just watching and listening.
And sat. And sat. And sat; becoming aware during our idyll that we had been joined a short distance away by a seal that had heaved his or her self on to the beach to bask.
That was the moment when I felt I was truly in California. It was as if a fantasy notion of the state that I had been carrying around in the back of my mind had become reality.
Ever since, whenever somebody back here in good old England starts talking about California, the first image that pops into my head isn’t one of Hollywood (lawks! how tacky that place was!) or of an impossibly steep San Francisco street (they always remind me of Barbara Streisand in ‘What’s Up Doc?), or even, God forbid, of Disneyland (dammit, I’ve already used the word ‘tacky’).
Nope, it’s that rocky shore in Cambria where I shared precious moments of breezy, cloudy-bright Pacific Ocean tranquillity with my lovely wife Fazilet. And with an elephant seal who, at least for that afternoon, also seemed to have got life sorted out.
Thus it was when my wife and I took a three week trip around California (we are from England).
Of course, some of the star billings did live up to expectations; but it’s those moments of surprising serendipity that one remembers with most pleasure.
It was the wrong time of year for the big national parks. When I phoned a ranger station from England to ask what kind of clothes to bring, a friendly chap told me with a chuckle that the trees and bears were under 20 feet of snow – come back in summer.
So it was mainly a coastal trip for us. Also, having been forewarned by fellow-Brits that if you try to take in the full length of that very long state in three weeks, you’re going to spend much of your time staring at the car in front, we had to choose a section. We opted for San Francisco to Los Angeles.
San Francisco struck me as a city I could feel okay living in, if only it had the warmer climate of Los Angeles; whereas the City of Angels would be all right if only it were as laid-back, tolerant and environmentally aware as the City on the Bay.
But it was a little place about half-way between those two metropoles that left us with a hauntingly lasting impression.
It’s called Cambria, and it’s the nearest place to stay overnight if you’re visiting Hearst Castle – a bizarre excrescence of excessive wealth. And it was in little Cambria that a crowning moment of our trip occurred.
After wandering through some quiet residential streets, we found ourselves scrambling down a steep, narrow pathway on to a shoreline of rocks and crashing waves; and there we sat on a rock, just watching and listening.
And sat. And sat. And sat; becoming aware during our idyll that we had been joined a short distance away by a seal that had heaved his or her self on to the beach to bask.
That was the moment when I felt I was truly in California. It was as if a fantasy notion of the state that I had been carrying around in the back of my mind had become reality.
Ever since, whenever somebody back here in good old England starts talking about California, the first image that pops into my head isn’t one of Hollywood (lawks! how tacky that place was!) or of an impossibly steep San Francisco street (they always remind me of Barbara Streisand in ‘What’s Up Doc?), or even, God forbid, of Disneyland (dammit, I’ve already used the word ‘tacky’).
Nope, it’s that rocky shore in Cambria where I shared precious moments of breezy, cloudy-bright Pacific Ocean tranquillity with my lovely wife Fazilet. And with an elephant seal who, at least for that afternoon, also seemed to have got life sorted out.
I loved 'The Imitation Game'. The movie enlivens the true story of breaking the Nazi Enigma code
I was blown away by all the brilliant performances in 'The Imitation Game' - the film about British WWII British codebreaker Alan Turing and his team's success in building a computer to crack Nazi Germany's 'Enigma' coding machine.
I already knew much of the story, but Benedict Cumberbatch, Keira Knightley, Rory Kinnear and the rest brought the characters to life extraordinarily convincingly.
The screenplay, although it obviously employed some dramatic devices on the personal levels to liven up what is essentially a mathematical and political tale, managed to produce the cinematic equivalent of a page-turner.
The newsfilm images of WWII, which were sometimes cut in to remind us of the horrors that the code-breakers were racing against time to eliminate, were using sparingly enough not to shatter our belief in the human yarn.
There were just enough flashbacks to Turing's schooldays to provide important context; and the scenes of his arrest for homosexuality in 1951, and the appallingly bigoted and primitive punishment imposed on this war hero by the court, leading to his suicide in 1954, cannot have left many dry eyes in the house. Mine certainly were not.
Oh, and by the way; what a relief that the producers resisted inserting any spurious American character to help sell the film in the USA; a device which spoils so many British films and TV dramas these days.
After all, Churchill kept the USA completely in the dark about this, his most vital secret; a sensible precaution from which Britain's leaders today would do well to learn.
I already knew much of the story, but Benedict Cumberbatch, Keira Knightley, Rory Kinnear and the rest brought the characters to life extraordinarily convincingly.
The screenplay, although it obviously employed some dramatic devices on the personal levels to liven up what is essentially a mathematical and political tale, managed to produce the cinematic equivalent of a page-turner.
The newsfilm images of WWII, which were sometimes cut in to remind us of the horrors that the code-breakers were racing against time to eliminate, were using sparingly enough not to shatter our belief in the human yarn.
There were just enough flashbacks to Turing's schooldays to provide important context; and the scenes of his arrest for homosexuality in 1951, and the appallingly bigoted and primitive punishment imposed on this war hero by the court, leading to his suicide in 1954, cannot have left many dry eyes in the house. Mine certainly were not.
Oh, and by the way; what a relief that the producers resisted inserting any spurious American character to help sell the film in the USA; a device which spoils so many British films and TV dramas these days.
After all, Churchill kept the USA completely in the dark about this, his most vital secret; a sensible precaution from which Britain's leaders today would do well to learn.
