Screen Crush - Rowdy, Heathcliff and Robert

 

I recently watched the 1940 film, ‘The Grapes of Wrath’ on TV. It’s dark, disturbing and honest of the time, but falls short of John Steinbeck’s excellent book in typical Hollywood style of failing to follow stories to the end. Anyway, what struck me this time – I’ve seen it before – is how good-looking Henry Fonda was. I wouldn’t call him a screen crush, not for me, but he had perfect jaw alignment which gave him a fabulous smile. This gene was inherited by his son, Peter and daughter Jane. All have been screen idols for many fans.

For me, having a screen crush started when I was about five years old. I could stay up on a Friday evening to watch ‘Rawhide’ and fall in love with Rowdy Yates aka Clint Eastwood. It was good to see all the episodes again when the TV channel TCM did a complete run on them. I hadn’t remembered any of the stories but they did take me back in my mind to our cosy sitting-room over the pub, coal fire and a tiny black and white TV screen. This was family time, c.1959/60, priceless. Clint Eastwood has continued to be one of my favourites, but not my one and only.

My head was turned by another. His name was Heathcliff. Again, we had Hollywood spoiling a good book by telling only half a tale, as I discovered in later years when I read, re-read and studied Wuthering Heights, but I was only eleven when I was first smitten. We were in the living-room of the quiet house we had for a while when my mum wasn’t well enough to help run the pub. We still had a tiny black and white TV. I might have missed the very beginning of the film, but I was soon drawn in and as the character Heathcliff emerged, I was star struck. My mum told me the actor was Laurence Olivier. I’ve seen all of his films over and over. Max de Winter in ‘Rebecca’ was another Heathcliff moment. I owe him everything I’ve been able to get to grips with by Shakespeare. His life and his work have been of great interest to me. Returning to ‘Wuthering Heights’, I have seen many TV productions but for me, Laurence Olivier is the definitive Heathcliff.

If you know me, you’ll understand that I couldn’t miss out a certain person who has entertained me on the small screen in recent years. I refer to him as my mid-life crush, my toy-boy fantasy in an innocent way. Robert Peston. I can nearly hear the ‘who, what, why?’ Well, I don’t know why. I can’t explain it. He’s a journalist and writer, currently the political editor for ITV and has his own politics show for ITV on Wednesday nights. It’s been a slow burn over a few years. I used to find him irritating in his TV journalist delivery. One day, driving through Ayrshire, I was listening to him in conversation on the Jeremy Vine radio show. Robert’s wife had died. He was talking about how they met, married, her illness, his feelings, then, he’d had a burglary at their home and jewellery, including his late wife’s wedding ring had been taken. I was upset by everything he’d gone through and began to see him as less irritating and more of a person I’d like to hug and reassure. More recently, he’s been fortunate in
finding love again and I wish him every happiness.

My haiku,

Friday night Rawhide
With my heart throb, Rowdy Yates,
When I was five – ish.
Clint Eastwood, so cool,
And he’s still a handsome man
In his mature years.

Then there was Heathcliff
Who swept me clean off my feet,
Rugged Yorkshire Moors.
I didn’t look back,
Yes, Laurence Olivier,
Screen love of my life.

Wednesday nights I am
Beguiled by Robert Peston,
Late night politics.
I’m not listening,
Not properly, anyway.
Just fascinated.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Love Letter

Writers and poets have written letters for centuries; declarations of their love scribed on parchment, sealed inside an envelope and sent. But in a world that is progressively dependent on technology, is the tradition of letter writing – or more specifically the expression of love – under threat? Perhaps the more complicated aspects of life blind us, distort that which is simple. With our lack of sight we lose our way, and forget how to listen to the faint murmurs of heart.

For in a world that is reliant on the material (things of monetary worth), and which favours the concrete over the abstract, the concept of ‘love’ has become a cliché. As modern poets, we fear being clichéd, thus perhaps a part of us fears the subject of love... It would seem far easier to write of pain and sorrow – of a breakup, of the darkness in our minds – than to write about the joy.

I, myself, have only written a fraction of poems that could assert to have ‘love’ as their theme. And they are self-conscious, clumsy stanzas – worried of straying into a clichéd landscape: saying too much (flouting Grice’s Maxim of Quantity), only being able to speak in hyperbole (flouting Grice’s Maxim of Quality) and resulting in a poem of obscurity (flouting Grice’s Maxim of Manner). Therefore, I tend to find myself avoiding the subject of love – or tripping ‘head over heels’, if I dare to venture too near...

However, this week’s theme (‘Priceless Words’) made me think of love – and the letters that allow it to be preserved for years to come. Perhaps spending a week in Devon with my Nan has made me sentimental – but as she retold stories about her and my Grandpa’s holiday in the Lake District, it was impossible not to be moved. They were stories I’d never heard before, stories that only my Nan could tell and for me, at least, they are priceless.

I could conclude this blog post with one of Keats’ letters to Fanny Brawne, or Lord Byron’s declarations to Countess Teresa Guiccioli – in fact there is a multitude of love letters to quote from – but I’ve chosen instead to share a letter that my Grandpa wrote to my Nan while they were courting. My Nan, at the time, looked after the children of a doctor and his wife. She went with them on holiday for two weeks to the Durley Hall Hotel, Bournemouth – and my Grandpa wrote to her daily.

(15.07.1949) Friday 9.PM.

Hello my Sweetheart.

Thank you again for another letter, if the postman missed me one morning I would run him all round Coventry.

You ask me what I have been doing, well, I’ll let you into a secret, I am being miserable all the time. Don’t think I am blaming you, darling, because just think how nice it will be when you come back. I think it will have been worth it, don’t you?

Look darling, don’t bother to buy any presents because no one expects any, also don’t bother about Robert because it is his birthday in August, so it will be as well to wait for that. We can buy him something then. You know I don’t want you to buy me anything, as long as you love me that is all I shall ever want, darling.

Well, my sweetheart, we have got the first week over so the next one shouldn’t be too bad. I’m looking forward to a week tomorrow darling, are you!

Don’t worry about the camera, sweetheart. I’m sure it is alright, it has never let anyone down yet. I’ve booked up for Skegness on the Friday, I hope that will be alright for you. I wanted to book for the Monday, but as usual I was too late.

Have you decided what you are going to wear to come home in? Also, what you are doing about your case?

I think I shall go to the Forum tomorrow night, but I don’t suppose I shall enjoy it as I won’t be able to put my arm around you and feel your head on my shoulder. By the way, what do you mean about saving you a lot of kisses, you know I haven’t anyone else to give them to and what’s more I don’t want to give them to anyone else. You had better buy yourself at least six sticks of lipstick because you will need that many for Saturday alone.

But no joking sweetheart, I do love you more than I can tell and next Saturday is the only day I have been looking forward to since you went away. Will you marry me darling?

Well sweetheart, that is all for now so night, night and God Bless you, darling

all my love

George

P.S. Hurry Home.

Even after death words have the power to survive – to speak a voice that we thought we’d never have the opportunity to hear – and for that reason, words can be some of the most priceless (and precious) things in our lives

Thank you for reading,

Lar

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Worthy.

I’ve spent most of the last week in Devon. I’ve spent time there pondering many things, exploring much of England’s glorious countryside and, in a moment of money saving madness, joined the National Trust.

Strangely, I feel it was quite cheap- the initial outlay- at a most reasonable £23.50 for the year (being a young person and all). If I park my car in the Lake District, I have pretty much made my money back- I consider this a win.

Some of Britain’s best loved countryside is protected ‘by my membership fees’, along with the residencies of many great writers. Hill Top (Beatrix Potter), Coleridge’s Cottage, Wordsworth’s house and Lewis Carroll’s birthplace are all places I plan to visit this year, for free, but I’d say that all of these places are only really of interest to me for the ‘celebrity value’. I love wandering around and just looking for clues as to what might have inspired them, what the thought process could have been.

As many of you know, since graduating I have continued working at the newsagents (a family business). I like it, if only for the reason that it constantly challenges my perceptions of people. After my time off, I’m looking forward to going in today. The kids are back at school so no doubt, by lunchtime, someone will have challenged me on something English related- being ‘shit and pointless’ or whatnot. This annoys the hell out of me- I always bite.

The thing is, I don’t know how many youngsters are reading today. I gather they are reading magic fiction but poetry, I really don’t know. I gave a paper lad the full rundown on approaching a poem the other day. I knew the poem he was doing and without doing his coursework for him, he should do all right from that. The trouble I find with them all is the constant resistance, even the sixth formers. Constantly the point comes up that it doesn’t matter anymore, it is time bound, irrelevant and this too, is a major bug bear.

I’ll conclude then, by questioning the actual nature of this issue, the seeing the point- the connection. We have all seen films based on Shakespeare, we have all read modern day fairytales, new takes on themes and so, if the words of the past are ‘irrelevant’, why are we still using them today? The worth of a word is not something you can rate, I would argue it is the meaning that carries the value anyway, and so is it not how we move on from the past- learn?

I’m sitting beside a pile of now redundant TV magazines- free supplements liberated from returned Sunday papers. These magazines are redundant just days after I got them so have quickly become worthless words. The pile of poetry, the bookshelf straight facing me or those words passed on in childhood- they’ll be with me again tomorrow- I’d call those kinds of things ‘Priceless’.

Thanks for reading,

S.

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