DIARY
JOAN BAKEWELL
This week I have make-up for my BBC programme in Manchester done by a woman from Granada. BBC North has wound up its make-up unit, presumably to avoid the burden of pensions, holidays with pay, maternity leave etc. So my regular make-up person has, sadly, been made redundant. However Manchester's studios are now busy, so pressure of demand has brought in Granada personnel. This is at one with what is happening in television generally. Everyone is in each other's pock- et. Granada makes programmes for the BBC; the BBC hopes, I understand, to be making programmes for Channel 5, and already has a share in UK Gold. What's more, the BBC, which once offered train- ing in all of television's crafts, is now putting that training on the market. I understand, the BBC make-up course, once free to its employees, now costs thousands of pounds: only those who can afford it need apply. They, in their turn, will be looking for work across the broad swathe of television companies. There is no longer any sense of loyalty. We all work in televi- sion, but it hardly seems to matter for whom.
The BBC is also reducing some of its specialist programme commitments. The latest, signalled in Broadcast, is the winding up of the department making programmes for under-five-year-olds. Memories of Playschool, Jackanoty, Noggin the Nog and Captain Pugwash are for my children what Winnie the Pooh was for me. I am sorry to see the tradition die. I suppose it has no future in the noisy marketing of products for satellite and foreign sales. Too English, no doubt. How soon, then, I wonder, before financial and scheduling imperatives close in on the BBC's Religious Depart- ment?
Rail crashes get prominent headlines, but the daily round of British Rail merits little attention. Yet its petty inconveniences are now a regular part of travelling by train. The cost of vouchers for late arrivals is said to be running into millions of pounds. That's a lot of late trains. Mine — the 4.30 from Manchester to London — is merely the latest. Heading for a friend's birthday party last week, I am particularly sensitive to any hint of delay. We move south of Manchester, reaching Stockport on time. Not difficult — it is only ten minutes away. But once beyond Crewe, and there is that gentle pressure of brakes that prompts the first exchange of looks and raised eyebrows among the passengers. Slowly we inch for- ward, then stop. At this, the exasperated rustle of newspaper; heavy sighs: the English are showing their impatience. Then the announcement: 'Faulty engine, slow progress to Stafford, wait for repairs. So sorry, so sorry.' At this, true irritation breaks out. One or two head aggressively towards the buffet to vent their spleen on a steaming mug of coffee too hot to handle. The rest of us bring out our weaponry of mobile phones, snap up their aerials and start eating the mouthpieces. A murmura- tion of cancelled meetings sweeps through the carriage. We reach Stafford only to be told a new engine is on its way from Crewe, with us in 40 minutes. 'Oh, look here. . . . ' We are now seriously cross, almost driven to speaking to each other in our bitterness. But etiquette prevails. A transfer to the Preston-London train is offered. Like an army warned of an enemy breakthrough, we move as one, each seizing his pack and making haste without panic. Some are back on their mobiles hopeful of retrieving the shreds of the day. It's no good. The Preston train stops all the way. I miss the birthday party.
Three dollops of placenta on a billiard table.' Thus, in his new novel, does Barry Humphries describe a Francis Bacon trip- tych, a cruder version of Ruskin's famous libel of Whistler. Art that is highly idiosyn- cratic and proving its power by becoming ever more popular invites the abuse of wits and the austere disapproval of certain com- mentators. And so it is with Cezanne. The exhibition of his work at the Tate Gallery continues its overwhelming success: daily attendances around 5,000; hours extended; queues round the block. Friends of the Tate, loyal fans who've paid to enjoy the benefits of their own private views, find `Good. Now we can sack Grumpy and Sleepy. these occasions virtually as crowded. Last week a new notion, the Cezanne dinner private view plus gourmet meal — could have sold out many times over. And there's more. Pret a Manger sandwich bars all over London are selling a `Cezannewich'. Department stores have Provencal win- dows. There are T-shirts and tea towels, silk scarves and playing-cards, even a spe- cial wine: Cuvee Cezanne at the Tate. This is too much for some. Not for me: I love it all. But I have my own problems. On Thursday evening I made my second visit. This time I wanted to concentrate on the late portraits, which I admire, and tackle again the paintings of bathers, to which I don't respond. All around people are hom- ing in on what they enjoy most. `Oh, there's my favourite' — I hear someone whisper, indicating the 'Lac d'Annecy' to a friend 'I'm not going to look yet. I'm saving it.' Around the two vast paintings of bathers regarded as the climax of the show, crowds are in tense and thoughtful communion. For many, these paintings are outstanding icons of 20th-century art. I, too, looked hard and thought long, but then tiptoed quietly away and returned to have one last look at the portraits.
`T hou art beautiful, 0 my love, as Tirzah, Comely as Jerusalem.' The phrase from the 'Song of Songs' occurs to me as we descend in dawn light towards Tel Aviv. A huge, grey United States Air Force plane squats on the tarmac, like a beached whale. Jerusalem is not as comely as it was some ten years ago: fewer goats and shepherds, a McDonald's on the hillside. But because new buildings must use only Jerusalem stone, there is at least a golden homogene- ity to it all. We are in Jerusalem to seek out its old tensions, now at rest beneath the soil. Well, not quite at rest. Archaeology is coming up with more and more finds from the 1st century AD, and I have arrived to ask what relevance they may have to bibli- cal accounts of Jesus's resurrection. Ortho- dox Jewry hates the excavations and the desecration of tombs and ancient bones. Some archaeologists have had death threats. Over the years, textual and histori- cal research has tried to pin down the truth about Christianity. Now we are promised new fragments of text that will, it is claimed, shed further light. Will it strength- en or destroy faith, I wonder? Was there a bodily resurrection or not? And can it be proved either way? The attention of schol- ars to detail and dating and the commen- taries of theologians are all fascinating but only a secular age would be so preoccu- pied with proof. Religions exist and are about faith. For Christians, speculation about bones just isn't relevant.
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