A Spectator's Notebook
My Wednesday evenings for some time ahead are made; for the BBC, in its collective wisdom, has decided to re-run ORTF's Les Rois Maud its ('The Accursed Kings'), which tells of high Politics in France in the fourteenth century, after the death of Philip the Fair, and the curse of the executed Master of the Knights Templar on succeeding generations of French monarchs. When it was first screened — very late at night — on BBC 2, the series met with an inadequate response, both from the public and from critics.
During that first run I lunched with Huw Wheldon, and excitedly complimented him on the brilliance of the series — adding that, much though I had enjoyed BBC's own long run of historical drama, I still thought Les Rois the best thing of its kind I had seen on television. Even that judgement is unfair to something which, in intellectual, dramatic and technical areas, is a remarkable achievement by any standards. Huw seemed pleased that I had liked it, but depressed by the general reaction to it. It says much for the courage of those oft-maligned BBC executives that they have chosen to Show the series again. It seems a great pity if the Britsh public cannot be persuaded to drink in Les Rois Maudits as thoroughly as so many foreign viewers did Henry VIII, Meanwhile, I urge anybody who reads this paragraph to set aside at least one Wednesday evening (from 9 P.m.) and attend to two particular excellences in the story. The first is the use of colour on. making contrasts between characters. I have 'seen nothing so fine on British television, and I suggest you look at the way Robert of Artois's red costume makes the centre of every set piece confrontation in which he appears. The second recommenbation is more subtle. When somebody like myself, with no gift for foreign languages, finds himself recounting the big scenes in sub-titled films in English—as though there had been no sub-titles in the first place — then he knows that the drama has really transcended differences of language. Thus Les Rois affected me: see if it does the same for you.
Puritan essence
I have been chuckling with delight ever since Professor Burch set the cat among the pigeons of the anti-smoking fanatics, by announcing that, after a long and painstaking survey, he could see no organic evidence for the much.
prated supposed connection between smoking and lung cancer. Of course the fanatics of ASH (Action on Smoking and Health), and others of the more or less lunatic, would-be logical fringe, have denounced Burch for doing exactly what the little boy in the Hans Christian Andersen story did — announce that the emperor had no clothes. In recent years a huge anti-cancer empire has been built up, and its foundation, like that of an inverted pyramid, has all along rested on an unproved supposition — that there is a provable connection between smoking and lung cancer.
Of course, one may argue on health grounds against smoking — as one can argue on similar grounds against so many pleasures, like drink, sex, horse riding, eating, and more than a whole issue of this paper could barely encompass. The point is that, after all these years, and an unbelievably massive expenditure of money, those who have bullied our politicians and legislators into curtailing the advertising activities of those pleasure-givers, the cigarette manufacturers, have still been -unable to establish an experimentally proven relationship between the weed and the disease, unless one takes far more seriously than they deserve the results of the work of those pseudo-scientists most of whose time is spent torturing inoffensive animals. But the interest has undoubtedly been created; and it would be shattering — would it not? — if the whole basis of the thesis was destroyed, and all those investigative scientists had to look for a real job. It all reminds one of H. L. Mencken's dictum that the essence of Puritanism is that someone somewhere may be having fun; and that they must be stopped. Preferably, in the case of the anti-smoking experimentalists, if one can earn a salary while doing it.
Spoilsports
There was a natural and justified sense of outrage at the action of vandals in destroying the Test wicket at Headingley just because — or so it appears from confessions publicly made — one of their number had been convicted of a vicious crime some time before. The crucial issue, of course, was the destruction of the pitch before the quality of the English renaissance presided over by Tony Greig could be tested. But there were two other matters of note arising out of the whole wretched affair, one sinister, one contemptible. The sinister matter was the immense satisfaction of the self-declared perpetrators of this vicious act with the results of their action in terms of publicity. Yet George Davis, convicted of a violent crime, is now awaiting his appeal, when his lawyers will have a chance to introduce new evidence, if any, regarding errors in the handling of his initial conviction. So, one cannot argue that the Headingley vandals are people who, whatever their faults, are desperate having exhausted all the due processes of law, irrespective of any other consideration. What is sad is the spineless attitude in which the press reported the action of the vandals. They appeared even to consider that there might be some justification for destroying a Test wicket. However, almost as disturbing was the ,wretched reaction of the Australian captain to the event. Seeing the chance of hanging on to the Ashes the dreadful Chappell refused to see the game out on the perfectly adequate. adjoining wicket prepared for the `Roses' match. To this pass has cricket come that cricketers cannot rise to a supreme challenge of sportsmanship because they are scared of losing an almost meaningless trophy. I am perturbed that Greig said he would have done the same thing in Chappell's place; and I hope he was merely being polite.
Drunken drivers
It is clearly high time that ,British Rail introduced a regular obligatory breathalyser test on all drivers before they take over trains, and snap checks at intervals thereafter. I am not thinking of the Moorgate disaster in which the body of the driver contained a blood level of eighty milligrams of alcohol per 100 millilitres of blood some days after death because, although I had always assumed that blood alcohol decreased steadily post mortem, we are assured that strange and little understood conditions obtained at Moorgate whereby the reverse took place.
More worrying was the Margate to London train, which jumped off the rails at three times the permitted speed, killing the driver and five passengers and injuring 120 others, all railwaymen and families, on an annual outing. On this occasion there was no doubt but that the 28 milligrams per cent of alcohol in the body was the direct result of the accident and it was so stated at the inquiry. Nor was there any doubt but that the driver who took 300 passengers from Bournemouth to London was drunk; he was found to have 292 milligrams at Kennington Police Station some time later, and what the level must have been at Bournemouth, boggles the mind. It would be disgraceful if we were forced to conclude that membership of a powerful union placed men above the restrictions and restraints that apply to us all in motor cars.
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