Winter Melancholy and National Identity
I’m currently* suffering from winter melancholy, a biochemicophsyical manifestation of ennui that I can’t do anything to shake. As such, I have given up taking arms against my sea of troubles and am instead indulging them. Last night, for instance, we watched three episodes of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy with as many glasses of red wine. I was comforted yet again by the sheer brilliance of the acting by the ensemble cast, so theatrical yet convincing, delivering waspish phrases in perfect, clipped English.
What I have noticed as I watched it for the third time was le Carre’s genius for naming characters: Roddy Martindale, Ricki Tarr(!), young Peter Guillam, George Smiley, Toby Esterhase, Fawn, Mendel, Lacon, Karla, Control, Percy Alleline, Jim Prideaux, brilliant Bill Haydon, the list goes on. Even the most minor characters come equipped with an appropriate name.
Whilst it doesn’t have the Dickensian social canvas of The Wire, it endures repeated viewings so much better. Alec Guinness’s circumspect glances speak volumes and with each viewing you come to understand a little more the amount of thought going on behind those thick glasses.
Another pleasure that I am currently wallowing in is Clive James’ wry podcast Point of View. James has become an Alastair Cooke kind of institution, so it is only right that he is given a weekly slot to talk about whatever occurs to him. This week he was talking about national identity in connection with Baz Luhrman’s Australia. As far as James is concerned, Australia doesn’t need to have another foundation myth: it already has Paul Hogan throwing a shrimp on a barbecue.
What Tinker Tailor shows is that your sense of national identity is formed by comparing your country to other countries you encounter. John le Carre’s cold war spies perform dangerous and immoral acts because they know that it is worth it, for England’s sake. England for them represents decency, democracy, and dedication. The Russians, by contrast, are shadowy and mendacious. Indeed, the plot turns on the fact that the mole, the traitor in MI6, despises America and the fact that Britain is so in thrall (politically and culturally) to its vulgarity: better communist totalitarianism with all its intelligence and austerity than fat American stupidity.
* This was written last Wednesday, I’m much better now.