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Friday 29th October 2004

Fucking hell! I've actually won something

Look!

68 - posted at 17:33:34
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Friday 22nd October 2004

An Evening with Sir Roger Moore

Last Sunday I was absent-mindedly flicking through the pages of the Barbican's cinema program for October - I don't live far from the concrete fortress, and have a made a resolution to make more use of it. I was slightly disappointed that I had missed 'Travels in Greeneland', a season of films based on novels or screenplays by Graham Greene, and turned over the page to find out what seasons were currently running. A Roger Moore season.

My excited fingers fumbled over the keys, but I eventually managed to phone the box office. Unsurprisingly, all tickets for 'An Evening with Roger Moore', in which a film was to be shown followed by an interview with the man himself, were sold out. I despondently booked a couple of tickets for a showing of The Spy Who Loved Me and consoled myself with the thought that there was no way I could have acted earlier to get tickets. When they were freely available, I was probably still cooped up in North Korea, where I imagine they haven't even heard of Lord Rogerson of Mooreshire - although my guide there was aware of the North Korea element in Die Another Day, despite not having seen the film.

I didn't give up. Over the next few days I pestered the box office for returns, and e-mailed the marketing department at work to see if they could get any tickets. Eventually, Leo and I decided to simply head down to Cinema 1 on Thursday evening and hope that there would be some no-shows. But then, yesterday afternoon my phone rang. It was the woman from marketing. She'd come up with the goods - plus they were press tickets, so I didn't even have to pay.

The evening started with a showing of The Man Who Haunted Himself, a psychological thriller from 1970. Roger Moore plays an uptight City gent, who is involved in a car accident, and briefly dies on the operating table before being resuscitated. Once he's up and about again strange things start to happen - he is reminded of events and conversations he's sure he hasn't experienced, he is charged with business deals and negotiations he doesn't recall and a beautiful photographer swears blind that he is having an affair with her - sadly for Roger he can't even remember any details of this. Either he's going mad or there's a doppelganger on the loose. It's an engaging film, shot through with some fascinating footage of London in the early '70s. Roger and a debonair moustache turn in an impressive performance, which should silence those detractors who say he can't act.

A recent article contains his rather touching account of that performance:

When asked about the film nowadays, I always reflect that it was one of the few times I was allowed to act. It's a terrible admission from someone who has made a living from walking in front of cameras. Though, in my defence, I'd previously been cast in roles that required a relatively straightforward approach, either as a romantic lead, heroic lead - or just holding a spear, as I did in my first movie. I'd never been dramatically stretched, as they say.

The credits rolled, the lights came up and Roger entered the auditorium. He walked past my seat, down the stairs and on to the stage where he chatted to his biographer, Gareth Owen, for an hour or so, before the audience were invited to ask questions. Sadly I wasn't given the opportunity to ask any of the array of questions I had for him (What was it like working with the Richards Burton and Harris? Are you still interested in animation and cartooning? What do you think of John Sessions's depiction of you in Stella Street And, (after reciting some specific lines from Octopussy) what do you think of my impression of you?) I also couldn't thank him for escorting me around the Forbidden City last month. Some of the questions that were asked were well presented and interesting. Others, including one asked by the obligatory stalker (not me), were a complete waste of time and were along the lines of 'You once turned on the illuminations in Morecambe in 1974, do you remember a small boy who looked at you a bit funny?' Morons.

So he chatted amiably for another hour or so, about his work for UNICEF, Bond, his on-stage collapse and told and re-told countless anecdotes about his mostly dead actor friends. He came across as a warm and genial man, genuinely self-deprecating and surprisingly down-to-earth. For a 77 year old he has plenty of energy and enthusiasm and took every question, moronic or otherwise, with good humour and charm. It was an excellent evening and I was very lucky to get tickets. All being well I'm off to see him read Kipling at the British Library next week as well.

67 - posted at 12:49:34
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Thursday 30th September 2004

I'm still in Beijing, and it still surprises, infuriates and delights in equal measures. An oddly moving moment last night - Claire and I headed to the Houhai Lake area to find some food, and having satisfied our hunger we slowly made our way back to the hotel. On the way, flanked by the lake on one side, and a busy road thick with trundling electric buses on the other, we found dozens of couples in each other's arms, dancing. A rudimentary speaker system played slow and more upbeat Chinese songs, while the couples delicately twirled or gently stepped back and forth to the music.

Over the weekend we headed north out of the city on a train. Fortunately we had bought our tickets a couple of days previously - the station at first seems impenetrable for a foreigner. There is a special ticket desk for non-Chinese - it just takes a while to learn of its existence a track down. We were headed for Chengde, a medium sized town, four hours away by rail. The journey there was pleasant - the train smoothly took us past more rural scenes, as well as dusty mountains and small towns. For some reason I was harassed for much of the journey by a couple of small Chinese children - their courage grew from simply staring to, nearing the end of the journey, open physical abuse.

Chengde is home to a huge park and palace complex - similar to the Summer Palace in Beijing, it served as a holiday home for the Qing dynasty emperors. The literal name of the park, as translated, is 'Resort for Escaping the Heat', and it took us a day or so in all to explore. As well as heading into the hills in the west of the park, where we shared our walk with various creatures including deer and chipmunk, we went rowing on the large willow lined lake. There are also plenty of temples in Chengde to keep the tourist amused, and we visited a couple, including one called Putuozongcheng Miao, a Lamaist temple, the outside of which is designed to look almost identical to the Potala Palace in Lhasa.

But Chengde also offered a rich variety in the food we ate - or tried to eat. We almost managed to order successfully in a restaurant and a tea-house with no English menus. But on both occasions we miscalculated slightly. In the restaurant, an order for a pork dish turned out to be a large plate of wobbling dark orange pig fat, while in the tea house, on ordering chicken on a stick, we were presented with some things on a stick that looked as though they had been designed by H.R. Giger. They were, I think, silkworm pupae. They tasted OK. We also enjoyed a Mongolian hotpot in Chengde - since the diner chucks his own ingredients into the bubbling soup stock, we were on safer grounds with this.

Back in Beijing, yesterday we stocked up on souvenirs such as kites and a lot of various types of tea. And today, we headed up to a section of the Great Wall of China. We walked 10km along the crumbling structure, from Jinshanling to Simatai. It was exciting to finally get to the wall, and see it snaking over the hills into the distance. The walk wasn't too demanding, although there are some tough uphill stretches and parts where the path has disintegrated to the extent that finding an easy way is challenging. But the real difficulty was presented by the weather. The rain poured down for most of the three hours we were walking, and the wind rushed through us at the highest parts of the wall. At one point mist closed in, and all we could see was the track in front of us, as cloud bubbled up on either side of the wall - it seemed for a second like a pathway to a mythical kingdom. Unfortunately the reality behind such fantastical thoughts was hard to ignore, and arriving at Simatai thoroughly soaking, we had to buy a whole change of clothes from eager stall holders - for our own health and to preserve the upholstery of the car that took us on the long journey back to Beijing.

The day after tomorrow I'm off to a country which prohibits cameras with excessive zooms and mobile phones. Sadly, internet access is definitely out of the question, I should imagine.

66 - posted at 12:34:21
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Friday 24th September 2004

The colour that best defines Beijing is grey. The roads, the buildings, the sky - all are grey, a colour which mutes the bright temples and red lanterns that swing above streets and doorways. But despite the impression this might give, the city is captivating and dazzling, the streets full of constant diversions and for a foreigner, almost everything can give rise to endless speculation.

What first struck me was the traffic. Gridlock characterised much of the journey from the airport, which eventually ended in a narrow hutong close to the centre of Beijing, the location of the charismatic hotel - where I managed to meet up with Claire. That evening we struck out towards the flashy shopping area of Wangfujing, where, to continue the traffic theme, we discovered that many of the main roads through Beijing's centre take both courage and minutes to cross - they seem as wide as motorways.

Over the next couple of days we orientated ourselves - the obvious starting point was Tian'anmen Square, vast and liberally peppered with tourists and monuments, this place does, in a way, feel like the centre of China. Given my new-found hobby of viewing long-dead Communist leaders, Mao Zedong's mausoleum beckoned, a grand structure parked in the middle of the square. Visitors are allowed to see Mao in tightly regimented groups. Claire and I had to fall into ranks in such a small group, and then solemnly march towards the mausoleum. Many of the Chinese in front of us chaotically broke ranks on spotting a flower stall, running towards it and waving money at the vendor to buy tributes to Mao. But soon we were inside the mausoleum, passing by a statue of the erstwhile leader benignly relaxing on an arm chair. And then there he was, much thinner than I expected, lying under a hammer and sickle. To be honest, he looked like a waxwork - and there are rumours to this effect. Supposedly the real Mao was so distorted during the botched embalming process that a wax model had to be used instead.

We continued our acquaintance with the Tian'anmen Square area the following day, passing under the giant portrait of Mao to enter the Forbidden City. The place was packed with tourists - notably giant flag-following tour parties, each member identifiable from badges or colour-coded baseball caps. Like us, they wandered the collection of lavish pavilions, alleyways and gardens, enclosed by the high red walls of peeling paint. Perhaps like me they tried to imagine the palace as it was - populated by high officials, eunuchs and concubines. It wasn't an easy picture to conjure, despite remembered scenes from The Last Emperor. But the majesty and history emanating from the Forbidden City is awe-inspiring. Plus I had an excellent guide in the audio-tour. Sir Roger Moore provides English speaking tourists with a friendly and easy-going route through the main buildings.

Often, when directing me to the point when I should next turn on the guide he would say:

'Take a few minutes to discover the area, and I'll meet you over at marker number 5, just by the large incense burner'.

On finishing the tour, he hoped I had enjoyed it adding:

'Personally, I have enjoyed it immensely'. Which was good to know.

As well as the major sights, we have also enjoyed some of Beijing's many parks and lakes - a pleasant refuge from the bustling streets, they are also perfect for people watching. Tai Chi enthusiasts practice along side rehearsing opera singers. In the early evening, bats fill the sky flitting over pagodas and the still surfaces of the lakes. And as usual, people stare at us - surprising perhaps for such a cosmopolitan city.

Yesterday we took a hutong tour, riding a rickshaw through the ancient lanes of the low grey houses - Beijing used to be full of these little alleys, but now most have been demolished, the few hundred remaining cluster around the centre of the city. The tour was fascinating. As well as visiting the home of a hutong dwelling family and enjoying a tea ceremony, we visited a kindergarten. Claire was suspicious that the place was a 'show kindergarten' - and she may have been right. It was certainly well equipped, with CCTV cameras and a ball pool. We arrived during morning exercises when all the 'little emperors' were out in the playground, running in circles and generally being endearing. Some were shy, some pointed at me and laughed (not unusual among children here I have discovered) others came to talk to us through an interpreter. I asked some of them what they wanted to do. One loud little girl wanted to go to university and make money for her family. A boy wanted to be a policeman, another girl wanted to work at McDonald's.

'McDonald's is dustbin food' said a boy to the girl. She shouted back, as did he, and the conversation disintegrated into an uninterpreted, typical toddler brawl. I suddenly became a little overwhelmed with the innocence of the children. It was a great place to visit.

After a quick stop at the hotel to shave off my beard, we headed to Yonghe Gong, a Tibetan temple. The over-ornate pagodas and brash decor is more how I expected the comparatively restrained Forbidden City to be. The centrepiece of Yonghe Gong is a huge 180 metre standing Buddha carved out of sandalwood. I imagined him coming to life and rampaging through the city, like the marshmallow man in Ghostbusters.

There is too much going on in Beijing to write about in much detail - every aspect deserves a comment and every comment begs questions which can't be answered - so much is incomprehensible. As well as the above we have drank lots of tea, seen the ornate Temple of Heaven, picked our way through the hectic shopping of Dazhalan and gorged on fatty Peking Duck.

65 - posted at 12:27:46
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Sunday 19th September 2004

I arrived back in Thailand this afternoon, for a one night stop-over. Despite my short time here, I wanted to be sure that my stay wasn't solely defined by the bland walls of a hotel. I wondered what a young man on his own could possibly do with a spare evening in Bangkok. Despite the suggestions of the pimps prowling Sukhumvit Road, I decided to seek out some Thai kick boxing.

I recognised Ratchadamnoen Stadium as the same place Tom, Al and I had visited in 1997. The fighting seemed more violent than I remembered, a flurry of flying feet, lunging gloved fists, brightly coloured shorts and falling bodies, played out to a jangling beat performed by musicians in the stands and pulsing out of the p.a. system. At the start of each bout the boxers appeared in the ring, decked out in cloaks, simple head-dresses and tassels. They prostrated themselves at the four corners before the bell rang and the action began. The boxers kicked, kneed and punched each other, the smacking of flesh audible from my ring-side seat. The Thai crowd exploded in excitement and incomprehensible hand gestures, which I took to be signals to lay bets. At the end of a round, the coaches animatedly bellowed at their breathless fighters, who tried to listen in between being liberally covered in water. After each fight the umpire collected scores from the judges and proclaimed a winner - the boxers then retired to the back of the stadium, where keen punters had their photos taken with them. It was a fun way to spend the evening, although a peanut toting midget in a bowler hat was nowhere to be seen. It goes without saying that I can't appreciate the niceties of the sport - I don't even know the rules. Nonetheless, if anyone knows where I can't get a DVD of Ong-Bak with English subtitles I'd be much obliged.

As for Phnom Penh, I spent my last couple of days seeing sights with less of the dark impact than those of Thursday. Highlights on Friday included the National Museum, which contains some exquisite Angkor-period art, and watching an elephant pick its way across the busy riverfront road. That evening I decided to pay a visit to the infamous Happy Herb's pizza, where I ate a tasty 'happy' pizza. I slept very well that night, and was still feeling the effects of the pizza the next morning. I sat brooding at breakfast...why was that man staring at me? Does he know something I don't? What was I getting worried about again?

I had recovered enough by lunchtime to enjoy a frog based meal by the river, after which I headed for Wat Phnom, a faded wat on a small hill, the slopes of which are populated by scampering monkeys. This is also the case with the grounds of the Royal Palace, residence of the professional survivor, King Norodom Sihanouk. I watched as a monkey took command of a drinks stall, chasing away the tourists and the owner of the stall, who shouted in dismay as the monkey began to eat her abandoned paper-work and topple over crates of bottles, in the process of trying to break into one. Marauding primates aside, the Royal Palace is a celebration of opulence characterised by diamonds and ornate sweeping roofs, the centrepiece being the Silver Pagoda, the floor of which is covered with thousands of silver tiles.

Exiting the palace I ran into Nik, a tuk-tuk driver. I asked him to take me somewhere slightly off the beaten track. The tuk-tuk chugged over the Japanese bridge into a dusty suburb of the city. We stopped at what looked like a regular run-down roadside drinks outlet and my heart sank with the familiar fear that I had been victim of a scam. I wondered if Nik had simply taken me to a random restaurant where he would get commission from the owners for my custom. But, I was led through the shack to the back, where decking extended on stilts into a large lake. In hammocked alcoves along the deck Cambodians sat around drinking and eating. We sat on hammocks at the end of the decking and chatted over an Angkor beer (me) and a coconut (Nik). As we talked, the sun set in a haze of pink clouds behind the palm trees on the other side of the water.

64 - posted at 15:33:53
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