Cliffhanger

I write as someone who knows about the effects of cliffhangers on a person’s life. I was an Archer’s addict. How many Sunday mornings were ruined by the need to listen to the omnibus edition to find out what was happening in Ambridge. I thought of this immediately when I came to start writing this article. Then I wondered why I would think of the term cliffhanger. Where did the word come from? I think I’ve found out where the term first appeared in print but I’ll leave it until the end of the piece....

Surprisingly, the use of the technique has been around for many years. They were used as literary devices in several works of the Middle Ages. The Arabic literary work One Thousand and One Nights involves Scheherazade narrating a series of stories to King Shahryār for 1,001 nights, with each night ending on a cliffhanger in order to save herself from execution. Some medieval Chinese ballads like the Liu chih-yuan chu-kung-tiao ended each chapter on a cliffhanger to keep the audience in suspense.

Cliffhangers became prominent with the serial publication of narrative fiction, pioneered by Charles Dickens. Printed episodically in magazines, Dickens's cliffhangers triggered desperation in his readers. Writing in the New Yorker, Emily Nussbaum captured the anticipation of those waiting for the next instalment of Dickens' The Old Curiosity Shop; in 1841, Dickens fans rioted on the dock of New York Harbour, as they waited for a British ship carrying the next instalment, screaming, "Is little Nell dead?"

On Dickens’ cliffhangers - first seen with The Pickwick Papers in 1836—Leslie Howsam in The Cambridge Companion to the History of the Book (2015) writes, "It inspired a narrative that Dickens would explore and develop throughout his career. The instalments would typically culminate at a point in the plot that created reader anticipation and thus reader demand, generating a plot and sub-plot motif that would come to typify the novel structure."

With each new instalment widely anticipated with its cliffhanger ending, Dickens’ audience was enormous (his instalment format was also much more affordable and accessible to the masses, with the audience more evenly distributed across income levels than previous). The popularity of Dickens's serial publications saw the cliffhanger become a staple part of the sensation serials by the 1860s.

Thomas Hardy's A Pair of Blue Eyes (which was published in Tinsley's Magazine between September 1872 and July 1873) used the term when Henry Knight, one of the protagonists, is left hanging off a cliff.

Moving forward to the start of the film industry during the 1910s, Fort Lee, New Jersey was a centre of production, the cliffs facing New York and the Hudson River were frequently used as locations. For instance films such as The Perils of Pauline were made which would often end suddenly leaving actress Pearl White's Pauline character literally hanging from a cliff. But The Perils of Pauline would have been called a “serial” or “chapter play,” not a cliffhanger.

And here is the big reveal:

The word seems to have been first printed in the January 1931 edition of Variety according to the Oxford English Dictionary. But the Variety article certainly implies that the term cliffhanger was well known at the time. So, I suppose the question is at what point does a word become, well, a word?  I’ll have another look and if you read again next month who knows...

Another attempt at a haiku:

cliff walk past
fields of autumn gold
a gun fires

Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

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Winter Ghosts

It may be the fault of that famously flimsy veil between the worlds of the living and the dead which is reputed to exist over Hallowe'en. From that point on, as temperatures drop and the brittle winter sunlight crumbles to ruins by mid-afternoon, so the ghosts gather in increasing numbers--if only in the stories we read and the films we watch.

Tales of spectral visitors have long been associated with the wintertime. "Scary ghost stories" even get a mention in Andy Williams' classic Christmas hit (linked here) It's The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year, which, unless you're a latecomer to the blog and reading this in July, you may have heard a time or several recently.

When we think of winter ghost stories, we may think first of 'A Christmas Carol', that tale of the haunting of a rejected and rejecting man, which first appeared in 1843. Or perhaps of the stories of M.R. James, which followed almost ninety years thereafter and which the author read at Christmastime to his students at Cambridge.

However, winter ghosts have made their presence felt long before and long since, from the three sons of the (linked) Wife of Usher's Well, who paid their mother a visit around Martinmas (11th November), to the residents of 'The Shining's' snowbound Overlook Hotel.

What is it about a season in which we huddle together for warmth, indulge in the comforts of rich food and remind ourselves of the importance of peace and good will that draws the ghosts out from the shadowy corners of our homes and our minds?

Banquo's Ghost

The brighter the lights and the warmer the hearth, the darker and colder those shadowy corners seem. One way to consider a ghost is as a manifestation of something that has been rejected, neglected or ignored for too long and is now compelled or determined to be acknowledged by the world. That something could be a person--perhaps, as in many classic ghost stories, a departed person whose wishes have been over-ridden by their living relatives. Or the ghost might be nothing more or less than a truth that is being ignored. It might even represent a living person who is in some way unwelcome or outcast, the proverbial (linked) ghost at the feast. In that sense, unhappy Mr Scrooge had already much in common with his chain-rattling visitor; despite his nephew's well-meant invitation, no-one truly relished the prospect of the miser's company at their Christmas table.

Merry Christmas, Alison Raouf

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Red Letter Day - Celebrating 150 Years in Blackpool

This is a very exciting year for The Imperial Hotel, Blackpool: on Thursday 22nd June, the most iconic seafront building will turn back the clock to celebrate its 150th Birthday with a grand ball and a banquet, lovingly recreated from the menu that was served at the prestigious opening in 1867.

 

It was the new idea of bathing in the sea that first brought visitors to the Fylde Coast towards the end of the eighteenth century, beginning with a private road to bring in stage coaches from Manchester and Halifax, resulting in a few small hotels being built. Soon the coastline boasted a bowling green and in 1837 an assembly room. In 1867 Peter Hesketh-Fleetwood paid for the railway line to extend from Preston to Fleetwood bringing tourists and opening travel routes to The Lakes and Scotland via steamboat passage. Once the railway line extended over Shap to the north, the demise of Fleetwood resulted in his bankruptcy but the railway brought prosperity further down the coast.  Blackpool became a boomtown. 

 

For one week each year, mill owners closed their factories for maintenance and repair of machinery. The weeks were staggered through the summer months and the workers prescribed leisure time became known as the 'wakes weeks'. The seaside was a desirable place to spend a holiday and Blackpool willingly expanded to meet the demand of a steady stream of visitors. 

 

The North Pier was completed in 1863, drawing elite visitors to the Claremont Park Estate in North Shore. The focal point of the estate was a temperance hotel called The Imperial. Built to a French Renaissance design by Clegg & Knowles of Manchester, the hotel aimed to attract the aristocracy, gentry and the clergy. 

 

 

The Golden Mile expanded towards the South Shore and with a change in policy on alcohol soon saw The Imperial Hotel become the venue for major municipal events. The Winter Garden's opened in 1878 and the Lord Mayor of London brought mayors from all over Britain to stay at the hotel. There was also a gala dinner at The Imperial to celebrate the laying of the foundations of Blackpool Tower in 1891. Soon The Imperial expanded to a 'Hydro', boasting a Turkish, Russian and sea water bath in the basement. There was a ballroom with a glass ceiling, a grill room, a palm court and a grill room. 

 

In 1912, Princess Louise, sister of King George V, visited Blackpool to open 'Princess Parade' and 10,000 light bulbs were illuminated in celebration.  Mary, Princess Royal stayed at The Imperial when she came to switch on the now famous illuminations, staying in room 311. Both Princess Margaret and Princess Anne have stayed in the same room, renamed The Balmoral Suite.

During World War I, the hotel was  commandeered as the Atlantic Military Hospital for shell-shocked officers and during World War II it served as The Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food, only returning to its owners in 1951. 
 

All through the 1950s and 60s Blackpool was the most popular British seaside resort, with nine theatres showing twice a day. Many popular stars of the day stayed at the hotel including Petula Clark, Charlie Drake, Bruce Forsyth, Tommy Steele and 'Our Gracie.' Hollywood stars also stayed at the hotel including the original blonde bombshell, Jayne Mansfield, swashbuckling Errol Flynn and Fred Astaire. A photograph of The Beatles, taken in 1964 still has pride of place in The Derby Room where John, Paul and Ringo sprawled on one of the sofas before going on stage at The Winter Gardens to introduce the film 'Hard Day's Night'. 
 

As Blackpool's show business status grew, the resort also became a top political conference venue. Winston Churchill was the first serving Prime minister to use the Imperial as a conference HQ and an mirror etched with his name was the first to grace the walls of the No10 Bar. Other serving PM's followed; MacMillan, Wilson, Callaghan, Thatcher, Major and Blair.

After all this history, you may wonder at my connection to The Imperial. When I was born in 1958 my father, Freddie Robinson was Head Cocktail Bartender at the hotel.  He invented a cocktail for Lady Dorothy MacMillan called the 'Blue Primrose'. Three years ago, my mother responded to an appeal by Alison Gilmore, the General Manager of the hotel for people with memories of celebrities who stayed there. Mum produced my father's photographs, Christmas brochure collections, newspaper cuttings and his much prized autograph book. Dad's photograph is now proudly displayed on the wall in the No10 Bar and the current bartenders frequently shake a 'Blue Primrose' for visitors.

Alison had big plans: She was turning The Derby Room into a tribute to many of more than 500 celebrities, royal, politicians and pop-stars who have stayed at the hotel. The bookcase is filled with their biographies. We decided to collude on a series of poetry pamphlets with other members of Lancashire Dead Good Poets. The list that Alison sent us to select from was very impressive. Charles Dickens himself was an early visitor.  I chose to write about Jayne Mansfield because my father told a particular story about her visit;

Jayne Mansfield Slept Here

 
Platinum blonde and buxom,
the beaming Broadway babe,
bomb-shelled into Hollywood  
aboard “The Wayward Bus”.
Typecast by the studios,
in a string of dumbed-down roles,
Jayne was exploited willingly,
despite her intellect, her violin, her arts degree.
“Promises, Promises”
was an overnight sensation
naked on the screen,
she was a total revelation
leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination,
and she became a Playboy centre- fold
wearing only staples and a smile.

When she came to Blackpool

she lit the Golden Mile.
At the Imperial she made a splash,
bouncing down the stairs
in a flash of brash bikini,
turning heads and steaming glasses
of the afternoon tea set,
jaws all dropping at the thought
of Mrs Mansfield getting wet -
swimming in the hotel pool,
and when she left her Royal suite,
bartenders rolled between her sheets,
so they could boast, or so it’s said,
they’d been in the lady’s bed!

Jayne died at thirty-five

on the road to New Orleans,
two children by her side,
her beloved Chihuahuas
tucked in for the ride.
Black and white stills 
scream in a Technicolor dream,
brutally exposing her final scene.
So the legend mangled
into urban myth,
but we can reveal that
both alive or dead, 

Hollywood star, Jayne Mansfield

always kept her head.

Thanks for reading.  Adele

 Tickets for the Imperial Hotel's 150th Birthday Ball are available by contacting crichardson@imperialhotelblackpool.co.uk or by phone - 01253 754612. All proceeds to local charities.
 

 

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Did you know? Charles Dickens.

While researching Charles Dickens, I had an epiphany.  Not necessarily of the most positive nature.  I realised that I am a closet rail enthusiast.  Not the anorak wearing Train Spotter variety, but seemingly I can write about train crashes. While composing the poem for this weeks theme, it morphed and became about an event which Charles Dickens was involved in, and which ultimately formed his personality for the last years of his life, namely the Staplehurst Rail Crash.

This is how my poem has ended up thus far:


Author or Angel?

"The Pickwick Papers" marked the start
of Dickens incredible career,
With the serialisation of this tome,
1836 was the year.
Within a short while he had become
a Literary Celebrity,
famed for his humour and keen observation
of people and society.
Using these skills he managed to include
the essence of acqaintances,
into the characters of his books
bringing form to the story and sentences.
As the years rolled by, to critical acclaim,
this Wordsmith wrote more and more,
loved by the Rich, loved by the Poor,
little did he know what his life had in store.
A champion for the disadvantaged,
the impoverished, the slave,
He stood up and spread the news,
used his position til he reached the grave.
In the year of our Lord, 1865,
he travelled upon the "Tidal Train",
in the scandalous company of his Mistress,
and her Mother, a journey that was in vain.
Heading from Folkestone up to London
the Express hurtled down the track,
but just east of Staplehurst tragedy struck,
It was a journey from which many would never come back.
The replacement of timbers along the line
as it crossed over the low viaduct progressed,
but Human error, wrong calculations,
left inadequate stoppage, the line buckled under the stress.
With the momentum the Loco, its tender,
A van and a carriage made it across,
but the next seven coaches fell from the track
into a swampy field covered in peat moss.
Luckily unscathed, his companions and he,
removed themselves from their dangling coach
and went from person to person,
comforting the injured and dying without reproach.
Calm and collected, completely composed
he relieved the victims with a nip of Brandy,
some died in his arms, some had wounds very great,
Impressing on his mind, he later suffered with PTSD.
He returned to his carriage to retrieve
the manuscript called "Our Mutual Friend",
But the experience struck him dumb for two whole weeks,
Trauma haunting his dreams til the very end.
So badly affected he struggled to write,
instead conducting a Reading Tour,
but in 1870, he suffered a stroke and died
5 years to the day of the rail crash so harshly endured.



Its a work in progress and needs tweaking, but you see what I mean. Oh dear me!  ;-)

Thanks for reading.

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Doing my research on Dickens

I went to the library,

To find some information

‘Bout this bloke called Dickens,

And the time of impoveration 

So I sat down in the archives

With an old newspaper to read

It was full of all these stories

That were very sad indeed

Children, they were starving 

Coz their parents had money

Diseases spread through the population

Like the rising waters of a Tsunami

Rich folk just got richer

While the poor were paid so bad

Counting their money without thought for the safety

Of the common old working class lad

Politicians did not care

For the plight of the common set

Blaming them for the place they were in

It was their fault they were so heavily in debt

There was an extremely palatable social divide

Between the withs and those without

The right environment for criminal gangs

A government with corruption throughout 

I was shock at the state of poor people’s lives

At the time when Charles was writing away

I was stunned to my core when I looked at the date

And realised the paper was only purchased today.

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Palliser's Theory

by Ian Marchant


My friend Charles Palliser, a fine literary novelist who has sold books on a commercial scale (notably his masterful ‘Quincunx’) once told me his theory about a sliding scale of writers, with fame at one end, and riches at the other.

‘Think of the most famous writers in the world, those that everyone has heard of; Joyce, Beckett, Yeats etc. Never earned a penny in their lifetimes, not really. Contrast them with the writers you’ve never heard of who sell millions. The trick is to be about halfway in-between.’

I was reminded of the force of Palliser’s Theory last weekend when James Patterson was the subject of the Q&A feature in the Guardian Weekend mag. Who he? He the world’s best selling novelist. I’ve never read a word, but I doubt very much that he’s a great writer. In fact, I bet you that I’m a ‘better’ writer than him.

On what evidence do I base this bold claim? Because I have ‘literary’pretentions, by which I mean I’m attempting to justify every word I write. This ‘and’ is here, that semi-colon is there for a reason. It doesn’t, it can’t, always work. Perfectionism is the enemy of art, and although poets might come closer, a prose writer is pretty much always going to miss the target. But a ‘literary’ writer is at least having a go at getting it right. Patterson, I strongly suspect, isn’t even trying because he doesn’t have enough time, but I don’t think that matters, because his stuff has narrative vim. He is spinning yarns, very profitably, and bloody good luck to him. Trust me, if I could knock out a unit shifting thriller, I’d start today.

For the giants of literature, there never was a split between literary and commercial. Truly great writers like Austen or Dickens or Orwell sweated to get their manuscripts ‘right’; and then sold high numbers because they were also wonderful story-tellers. This artificial distinction grew as a consequence of high Modernism. Virginia Woolf hated the idea of writing for money, just as much as she hated the idea of universal education. She and her circle objected to a literate hoi polloi, because that meant that the ‘white slugs’ (as Mrs Woolf called the working class) might feel that they could understand minds as refined as those of the Bloomsburies, which was not on. Universal education was levelling, and for Mrs Woolf, that was an unbearable thought. Her especial ire was reserved for Arnold Bennett, because he sold so many books that he could afford a steam yacht. She saw what she did as ‘art’, as ‘literature’, and that was something that could only be achieved by the very best quality people.

‘Literature’ is a genre, a sub-set of writing, and admission to the genre is controlled by a small self-selected coterie of critics. The study of English Literature in universities is roughly coterminous with the rise of Modernism. Only critics and academics hold the keys to the doors of ‘literature’. Despite my fretting about getting my books ‘right’, I doubt that I’ll be admitted to the canon, because working class people still aren’t really expected to write. My concerns are not theirs; my voice is common, vulgar, no matter how much I might work on my texts so that I can bear them to be read. Patterson and Brown, however much people might like reading their books in the bath, on holiday, at the end of a long day, could never get through the gates of literature in a billion years. Only time can decide if a writer is truly great, but I suspect that those who make it will be loved by the critics, and sell shed loads of books too. Getting that particular double is just as hard now as it has ever been.


Literature by Ian Marchant:
Something of the Night
The Longest Crawl
Parallel Lines: Or, Journeys on the Railway of Dreams

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