The small Irish-Jewish community has produced few internationally-known figures, although at least one became a successful film director. Dublin-born Norman Cohen (1936-1983) who died aged 47 in California, was the director of a series of soft-porn B-Movies such as Confessions of a Window Cleaner (1974) which nonetheless helped to define the zeitgeist of the Swinging Sixties in Britain. Perhaps another acclaimed cineaste is on the horizon….
Within a few hundred meters of where I live in Paris there stands the Irish College in Paris (Centre Culturel Irlandais ) founded in 1578. This is situated – where else – in the Rue des Irlandais, a street which itself does not appear to have changed much since the 16th Century - an admirable setting for a scene from Les Miserables. Irish Government–funded, from time to time they put on cultural events with an Irish slant, open to the public. Recently I noted that they were showing an Irish film, and since it was both free and a short walk – I couldn’t resist. And the Director no less would be present in person – and he had a name which I recognized – none other than Lenny Abrahamson, scion of two well-known Dublin families: Lenny’s grandfathers were respectively a respected professor of medicine, and the well-loved proprietor of one of Dublin’s last Kosher butchers.
The film “Adam & Paul” described a day in the life of two drug addicts in North Dublin. Paul was played by a wonderful young actor, Tom Murphy, already a winner of the Theatre’s greatest laurel, a Tony Award, who died tragically in his mid-thirties last October (2007). The screen writer was Mark O’Halloran who played Adam. The dialogue was bleakly realistic – I suppose – the first three words (or so) of the script being “F***! I’m f***ing f***ed” showing at least that this expletive is capable of great dramatic flexibility. Nevertheless, as Abrahamson explained in his post-screening talk, the authenticity was vouched for by several denizens of the North Dublin suburbs, who gave the film – which inevitably has a tragic ending – their thumbs-up. This first full-length film of Abrahamson’s has won several awards, and successfully runs the gamut from despairing misery to high comedy. My favourite scene has the pair failing to get a foreign gentleman to move along a public bench, whereupon they accuse him of being a “f***ing Romanian”. Outraged, he ripostes that he is a “f***ing Bulgarian”. In fact, this great comic actor is indeed a Romanian, and in real life the Romanian Minister of Culture, no less.
Thus encouraged by this sample of the Abrahamson oeuvre, I was moved to spend hard cash on his next effort, “Garage”, which was given full distribution in Paris. I was not disappointed. The same bleakness, the slowness of action, the hopelessness, … Well, it’s not exactly a laugh a minute. But this story of a somewhat inadequate but ultimately good man whose whole world is a two-pump petrol shack in the Irish countryside does indeed capture a mood which is not easily forgotten.
And that is the sign of a potentially great director.
Thursday, 21 February 2008
Saturday, 16 February 2008
Earthquakes
Last Monday (11th February 2008) a light earthquake (Richter 4.0) shook Israel and Lebanon. This brought back memories of the great earthquake which hit Istanbul in 1999 (Richter 7.4). This is my account of the episode in the Times’ Higher Educational Supplement of 3rd September 1999.
________________________________
DON'S DIARY
Istanbul, 16-22 August 1999
Monday 16 August
Istanbul airport is unbelievably crowded and chaotic, and feels hot even after our flight from Tel Aviv where it was well over 30 degrees. I'd just spent a week trying to rejuvenate an old collaboration at the Haifa Technion, and was now about to attend a theoretical physics conference at Bogazici (Bosphorus) University in Istanbul. The great thing - I assure the Accompanying Person (Paulette - daughter Annabel had arrived earlier)- is that there will be the usual cohort of graduate students to meet us and bring us to our hotel. No such luck. Crestfallen, we eventually find a taxi to take us to the Grand Hotel Tarabya. Just too late to attend the welcome reception but, relaxing on a balcony overlooking the Golden Horn,who cares? A good night's sleep, and I'll be fit to start work first thing in the morning.
Tuesday 17 August
Am awakened to what I take to be the sound of a mechanical excavator outside the window. Rather strange for 3.00 in the morning. Even stranger as we are on the 5th floor. And why is the bed moving backwards and forwards? Slowly realise that this must be my first earthquake - go to the balcony to see what is going on. Paulette is also awake by this time so we dress (no sense of urgency here) and descend by the stairs - our one concession to the possibility that the elevators may not be safe. Little knots of colleagues in varying states of undress are gathered at a safe distance from the building; although the staff did not evacuate the building they are not letting anyone back in. We try to find out what is going on from locals sitting in their cars listening to the radio. Everyone thinks that this may have been a fair-sized earthquake - people are crying - epicentre seems to have been at Izmit - about 90 kilometres away. We spend the rest of the night outside, although the hotel does supply drinks and sandwiches. Much discussion as to whether the conference will continue or not, but in the event we all set off from the hotel at 8.30 next morning for the University, only slightly later than planned.
We are by now all aware that this may have been a fairly major earthquake, and in my opening remarks, as a member of the international advisory committee, I pay tribute to the fact that the local organisers managed to start with a delay of only 15 minutes - and this was due to their having to reorganise the transport from the hotel. The first speaker of the session that I was chairing - a rather distinguished senior mathematician from Poland - confessed that as he had the habit of preparing his talk during the previous night, and was unable to do so this time, he would have to repeat an old talk which was not the one programmed. I subsequently discovered that indeed he had gone to the lavatory at 3.00 am and on lowering his posterior to the seat was dismayed to find the seat rising up to meet it. I also gave my presentation on this first day - the lack of sleep seems to have added to the adrenaline flow.
Wednesday 18 August
The scale of the disaster is now becoming apparent, and it is clear that there have been some victims but the number is unknown. We hold a minute's silence. The sessions continue much as usual, but there is a feeling of quiet apprehension in the air.
Thursday 19 August
I assume that I have fully recovered from the events of the previous days, and on seeing the coach waiting to take us to the conference run through the hotel plate glass door, which was unfortunately closed at the time. Spend the next 3 hours on the bed clutching an ice-pack to a large protuberance on my forehead.
Afternoon, the conference boat trip on the Bosphorus, and a chance to talk to colleagues. Am amazed at how irrational physicists can be when they imagine their personal safety is at stake. The Japanese delegates are much in demand for their expertise. Apparently with this type of earthquake the aftershock can be of comparable magnitude - the original tremor was announced to be 6.8 but then re-evaluated at 7.4 on the Richter Scale. And an aftershock was expected that night. Most of the delegates spend the night outside again -apart from those at our hotel, whose staff did not consider it worthwhile - and there was indeed a 5.4 tremor.
Friday 20th August
On advice, try to reconfirm our return tickets. Turkish Airlines inform me that there is a problem - and that they have sold our seats and that all flights out of Istanbul are full. After some frantic phone calls back and forth from England - I get confirmed seats. But it seemed a near thing.
Saturday 21st August
Colleagues quietly exchange disaster stories at breakfast. Have you heard that there is typhus and cholera leaking into the water supplies? Is it safe to shower in the water or should we use mineral water for that too? The scenario is becoming ever more reminiscent of 'Death in Venice'.
In my closing speech of thanks to the organizers, I look forward to further meetings in the series in Russia, France, North America - but get the impression that the overwhelming feeling is one of relief that soon we will be back in the safety of our earthquake-free environments.
Sunday 22 August
On the drive to the airport through Istanbul we see no overt signs of damage, but the route is lined with tents and other makeshift living quarters in which people found it was safer to sleep. In retrospect, we were very lucky, having escaped almost intact - apart from a large bruise on my forehead which will undoubtedly make me a local hero at the Open University.
________________________________
DON'S DIARY
Istanbul, 16-22 August 1999
Monday 16 August
Istanbul airport is unbelievably crowded and chaotic, and feels hot even after our flight from Tel Aviv where it was well over 30 degrees. I'd just spent a week trying to rejuvenate an old collaboration at the Haifa Technion, and was now about to attend a theoretical physics conference at Bogazici (Bosphorus) University in Istanbul. The great thing - I assure the Accompanying Person (Paulette - daughter Annabel had arrived earlier)- is that there will be the usual cohort of graduate students to meet us and bring us to our hotel. No such luck. Crestfallen, we eventually find a taxi to take us to the Grand Hotel Tarabya. Just too late to attend the welcome reception but, relaxing on a balcony overlooking the Golden Horn,who cares? A good night's sleep, and I'll be fit to start work first thing in the morning.
Tuesday 17 August
Am awakened to what I take to be the sound of a mechanical excavator outside the window. Rather strange for 3.00 in the morning. Even stranger as we are on the 5th floor. And why is the bed moving backwards and forwards? Slowly realise that this must be my first earthquake - go to the balcony to see what is going on. Paulette is also awake by this time so we dress (no sense of urgency here) and descend by the stairs - our one concession to the possibility that the elevators may not be safe. Little knots of colleagues in varying states of undress are gathered at a safe distance from the building; although the staff did not evacuate the building they are not letting anyone back in. We try to find out what is going on from locals sitting in their cars listening to the radio. Everyone thinks that this may have been a fair-sized earthquake - people are crying - epicentre seems to have been at Izmit - about 90 kilometres away. We spend the rest of the night outside, although the hotel does supply drinks and sandwiches. Much discussion as to whether the conference will continue or not, but in the event we all set off from the hotel at 8.30 next morning for the University, only slightly later than planned.
We are by now all aware that this may have been a fairly major earthquake, and in my opening remarks, as a member of the international advisory committee, I pay tribute to the fact that the local organisers managed to start with a delay of only 15 minutes - and this was due to their having to reorganise the transport from the hotel. The first speaker of the session that I was chairing - a rather distinguished senior mathematician from Poland - confessed that as he had the habit of preparing his talk during the previous night, and was unable to do so this time, he would have to repeat an old talk which was not the one programmed. I subsequently discovered that indeed he had gone to the lavatory at 3.00 am and on lowering his posterior to the seat was dismayed to find the seat rising up to meet it. I also gave my presentation on this first day - the lack of sleep seems to have added to the adrenaline flow.
Wednesday 18 August
The scale of the disaster is now becoming apparent, and it is clear that there have been some victims but the number is unknown. We hold a minute's silence. The sessions continue much as usual, but there is a feeling of quiet apprehension in the air.
Thursday 19 August
I assume that I have fully recovered from the events of the previous days, and on seeing the coach waiting to take us to the conference run through the hotel plate glass door, which was unfortunately closed at the time. Spend the next 3 hours on the bed clutching an ice-pack to a large protuberance on my forehead.
Afternoon, the conference boat trip on the Bosphorus, and a chance to talk to colleagues. Am amazed at how irrational physicists can be when they imagine their personal safety is at stake. The Japanese delegates are much in demand for their expertise. Apparently with this type of earthquake the aftershock can be of comparable magnitude - the original tremor was announced to be 6.8 but then re-evaluated at 7.4 on the Richter Scale. And an aftershock was expected that night. Most of the delegates spend the night outside again -apart from those at our hotel, whose staff did not consider it worthwhile - and there was indeed a 5.4 tremor.
Friday 20th August
On advice, try to reconfirm our return tickets. Turkish Airlines inform me that there is a problem - and that they have sold our seats and that all flights out of Istanbul are full. After some frantic phone calls back and forth from England - I get confirmed seats. But it seemed a near thing.
Saturday 21st August
Colleagues quietly exchange disaster stories at breakfast. Have you heard that there is typhus and cholera leaking into the water supplies? Is it safe to shower in the water or should we use mineral water for that too? The scenario is becoming ever more reminiscent of 'Death in Venice'.
In my closing speech of thanks to the organizers, I look forward to further meetings in the series in Russia, France, North America - but get the impression that the overwhelming feeling is one of relief that soon we will be back in the safety of our earthquake-free environments.
Sunday 22 August
On the drive to the airport through Istanbul we see no overt signs of damage, but the route is lined with tents and other makeshift living quarters in which people found it was safer to sleep. In retrospect, we were very lucky, having escaped almost intact - apart from a large bruise on my forehead which will undoubtedly make me a local hero at the Open University.
Tuesday, 12 February 2008
Irish Films I
What is it about Ireland that makes the Irish so artistic? Is it the misty climate, the soft perpetual drizzle, the sulking hills, the green expanses leading to – there you see, I'm doing it now. But the number of “English” poets and dramatists who are really Irish is staggering. And this phenomenon continues into the modern age through the media of film and television, with Irish films and actors continuing to attract international acclaim. As I write,the Irish-Jewish actor Daniel Day-Lewis has just received a BAFTA, and looks set to win yet another Oscar (to add to that of 1993) in the forthcoming Academy Award ceremonies.
The 1997 Irish film I Went Down is arguably Ireland's most successful movie (I quote: A charming and talkatively witty picture, I Went Down has already become Ireland's biggest grossing domestic movie of all time ). This film holds an especial place in my affections, since I may modestly claim to have played a “starring” role in it. The story involves Irish gangsters driving from Dublin to Cork to capture a rival, and bring him back to the Boss in Dublin. Where did I come in? Well, they tie the hostage up in a hotel bedroom and leave him there for the evening, leading to the following hilarious scene (again I quote from the review)
“Other moments, such as a tied up hostage accidentally dropping the remote control -- thus forever leaving the TV on a droll algebra lesson program -- .“
I suppose you have guessed that it is yours truly who is presenting the TV algebra lesson! Of course, I was totally unaware – until the film was broadcast on BBC2 – that they had used my Open University broadcast that way, and was torn between annoyance and amusement. The latter prevailed.
This was my small contribution to Irish cinematographic history.
Monday, 11 February 2008
On Poetry
The late theoretical physicist Eugene Wigner remarked on the “unreasonable effectiveness of mathematics” in the natural sciences. By this he was drawing attention to the mysterious fact that mathematics seems to be the natural language of the sciences. Often when I am trying to solve a problem in physics, I have the uncanny feeling that the mathematics, somehow, knows more about the problem and its solution than I do. It is the mathematics that guides me, not the contrary. It is possible to imagine a great scientist without deep knowledge of mathematics – it is said that Michael Faraday was one such. But to capture the essence of science – one needs mathematics.
Mathematics seems to bear the same relation to the natural sciences as poetry bears to literature. Poetry similarly has the potential to capture the essence of a mood, often in as concise a way as mathematics. The extreme limit of conciseness is perhaps exemplified by the Japanese haiku , (17 syllables) but the less formalized sonnet form is a close runner. When I was a very young man I was moved to attempt versions of the latter form on occasion. Here is one example from 1960 - a typical youthful look ahead.
Ode to Youth (1960)
I've seen less years than most; the sighs, the hopes,
The groundless fears are with me still,
Fresh longings and ambitions,
Not "Might have been" but "will".
I've seen more years than some, and walked
In gardens strange, shed tears and felt the touch of one who loved.
The years I long for most of all to see
Are those ahead, the future yet to be.
The only connection with the traditional English sonnet form is the termination on a rhyming couplet. Even a great poet like Wordsworth uses, in what might otherwise have been his great ballad The Thorn , a hilariously inappropriate couplet (concerning a pond in which a baby may or may not have drowned):
I've measured it from side to side:
'Tis three feet long, and two feet wide.
This brings to mind the witticism of Oscar Wilde concerning the death of Little Nell in Dickens' The Old Curiosity Shop
“One must have a heart of stone to read the death of little Nell without laughing.”
The following poem encapsulates my wonder at the grandeur of Science, foreseeing a lifetime spent in its conquest, but terminating with the sort of inappropriate Wordsworthian line which would have amused Wilde.
On visiting the Palais de la Decouverte, Paris 1960
Outside 'tis Nature's world. A breeze
Blows light. The sun shines down on men
Who walk with purpose. Captive trees
Ranged dutifully along the street
Lead to the building, large, ashen,
Hewn from reinforced concrete.
Inside, in spite of gloom, the light
Of knowledge flashes all around.
Glass cases full of facts, held tight,
Extracted from the grasp of dark
By those who would not yield, abound.
What wealth of Science, human force spent, filed, now lies inert
Beneath the dome of the Palais de la Decouverte?
Perhaps it is just as well I stuck to Mathematics!
Sunday, 10 February 2008
French Letter 2
Speaking the Language
Just as one has difficulty in imagining how a blind man perceives colours, I have no conception of how my carefully articulated French sounds to French ears. This does not prevent me, however, from finding the average Frenchman’s attempts at English excruciatingly hilarious. What is even funnier, is the French idea of what English usage must be – this consists in adding ‘ing’ to every possible noun. Thus we have Le Parking, Le Pressing, Le Shopping, etc. I presume that a Frenchman imagines an English conversation to run as follows.
“Where have you left the car, dear.?”
“Oh, I left it in the local Parking”.
And the English are just as bad. I recall that a now-deceased semi-literate politician thought that he was being most urbane by agreeing that he had been “economical with the actualité” meaning, I suppose he thought, economical with the truth. Except that “les actualités” means “the News” in French – and so a correct translation would not have got him into such hot water. This is reminiscent of what we used to call “faux amis” – false friends – in school: the same word in both languages having subtly – and sometimes not so subtly – different meanings. I remember an interview on UK television with a famous French film director – possibly Renoir –and of course the question came up,” Who is your favourite British or American actor? “ Ah, bien sur, zat Jimmy Stewart; he is the fantastique comedian.” Somewhat nonplussed, the interviewer persisted – “Well, yes, but I would not describe him that way?
Outraged, the Famous Director cried” But of course, he is the Grand Comedian!”
Well, in English I suppose we would refer to, say, Ronnie Barker, as a ‘grand comedian’, meaning a very funny comic; but in French this just means a great actor.
So when you buy your ticket for the “Comédie Francaise”, do not expect to fall off your seat with laughter.
Following the Rules
The French have a written constitution; the English do not. This marks an important difference between the ways both nations view their lives and governance. In England we more or less know what we are expected to do, without having a book of rules thrust at us; while the Frenchman expects a strict codification to govern everything he does. Thus, the Englishman is bemused by the list of priorities for reserved seating in the metro; in descending order, – ‘War wounded, blind civilians, pregnant women’- depending on just how pregnant, this last leading to many unrepeatable jokes. The first French phrase every Englishman must learn is “Vous n’avez pas le droit”. “You do not have the right.” This sentence, innocuous in English, will give any overbearing French functionary pause for thought, as he desperately mentally consults the codes governing the particular path of conduct he is about to embark on. As an impoverished student in Paris in the Sixties, when France was fighting the Algerian uprising, and terrorism was rampant in the streets, I decided one morning to fill a suitcase with my dirty laundry and go to the cleaners. On the way, I passed the American Library, and on a whim went in to consult a book. The sight of a scruffy young man carrying a suitcase into a US building was enough to throw everyone into a panic. A burly French guard approached me and demanded to open my suitcase. Disturbed about airing my dirty linen in public, I used the magic phrase: “Vous n’avez pas le droit!”. After a hurried consultation, I was allowed to proceed unhindered.
The ‘Trottoirs’
While pavements in England are for pedestrians, and in the US for cars, in France they are for both. And certainly they are a bonus for motorcyclists on their ‘motos’, who will leave the highway at any sign of a slow-down, to continue on the footpath, unheedful of any danger to those pedestrians foolhardy enough to assume that they are the sole proprietors of the ‘trottoir’. But the king of the ‘trottoir’ is the dog. The French have no scruples about allowing their canine companions to use the trottoir as a vast linear lavatory. No shamefaced scurrying to the side of the road here; our French poodle will proudly fulfill his ‘devoirs’ in the middle of the footpath as and when the moment arrives. Thus, as one walks along this great city, the beauty of Paris must give way to the more urgent task of carefully scrutinizing the pavement lest one returns home with an unwelcome reminder of ones sightseeing perambulation.
The French and BSE
Nothing illustrates better the difference between the British and the French than their attitude to the BSE crisis. Of course, both peoples are united in not believing a word that passes their respective government’s lips, but the French government’s approach was rather more subtle. In the UK, our masters started off by assuring everyone that all meat was perfectly safe, even force-feeding their protesting daughters with hamburgers on television to ram home the point. Naturally this induced an immediate panic on the part of the British, with nobody wanting to go near a piece of meat, and a resultant crisis in the livestock industry. Having learnt their lesson, the government adopted the cunning stance of actually banning beef on the bone; at which point, of course, everyone went on a meat-eating rampage, with flamboyant beef-on-bone parties hosted by various royals. The beef industry was saved.
At the start of their BSE crisis, the French government, on the other hand, announced that not only was all meat absolutely lethal, but this applied to salmon and poultry too. Thus reassured, the Frenchman continued to consume his biftek and frites as before with a clear conscience, and nobody was the worse off.
A new form of transport..
The eccentric multimillionaire inventor Dean Kamen is reported to be about to reveal a revolutionary new form of individual transport, which is reckoned to be the greatest innovation since Clive Sinclair’s C5 of the eighties.
Well, I reckon I am ahead of him there. In Paris I have discovered a form of transport which is non-polluting, does not depend on the vagaries of the bus or the metro, is not affected by leaves on the rails, and utterly disregards traffic congestion. Furthermore, it is instantly available, and there are no parking problems at the end of the journey, and it is only slightly weather-sensitive. The cost is minimal; shoes have to be repaired or purchased at regular intervals. I refer of course to the oldest means of transport of all, walking.
Paris is a city whose beauty can only be appreciated on foot. The Seine and its bridges, Notre Dame and its gargoyles, the street markets, the parks. The list is endless, and all within walking distance, unlike London, whose periphérique – the M25 – has a circumference which is itself half the distance between London and Paris.
Paris is a city which, like Manhattan, it is still possible to traverse on foot from North to South, or from East to West. Walking, the most reliable form of transport. I’m thinking of taking out a patent.
The French and Health
It is said that a Frenchman travels with two suitcases, one for his clothes and the second for his medicines. Factually the national spend on prescription drugs is very high in France; it remains to be proved that the Frenchman is healthier for it, although he is, to a man, a card-carrying hypochondriac.
The French Health Service regularly invites every French adult to attend a full check-up. As I never turn down anything free, I went along. It turned out to be dramatically exhaustive; ECG, chest x-ray, Blood Pressure, vision, hearing, teeth, a thorough top-to-toe oscultation. And that was only the first day. A further visit is devoted to tests necessitating a period of preparation before various bodily fluids are extracted. Before I turned up, I filled in a questionnaire in which I gave myself 8/10 for fitness - well, I thought 9/10 would sound like boasting. By the end of the first day (teeth bad, eyes bad, ears bad,.....) I felt that 3/10 would have been an over-optimistic appraisal.
The French Medical system has turned me from a happy ignoramus into an unhappy if wiser man. But still no healthier.
Just as one has difficulty in imagining how a blind man perceives colours, I have no conception of how my carefully articulated French sounds to French ears. This does not prevent me, however, from finding the average Frenchman’s attempts at English excruciatingly hilarious. What is even funnier, is the French idea of what English usage must be – this consists in adding ‘ing’ to every possible noun. Thus we have Le Parking, Le Pressing, Le Shopping, etc. I presume that a Frenchman imagines an English conversation to run as follows.
“Where have you left the car, dear.?”
“Oh, I left it in the local Parking”.
And the English are just as bad. I recall that a now-deceased semi-literate politician thought that he was being most urbane by agreeing that he had been “economical with the actualité” meaning, I suppose he thought, economical with the truth. Except that “les actualités” means “the News” in French – and so a correct translation would not have got him into such hot water. This is reminiscent of what we used to call “faux amis” – false friends – in school: the same word in both languages having subtly – and sometimes not so subtly – different meanings. I remember an interview on UK television with a famous French film director – possibly Renoir –and of course the question came up,” Who is your favourite British or American actor? “ Ah, bien sur, zat Jimmy Stewart; he is the fantastique comedian.” Somewhat nonplussed, the interviewer persisted – “Well, yes, but I would not describe him that way?
Outraged, the Famous Director cried” But of course, he is the Grand Comedian!”
Well, in English I suppose we would refer to, say, Ronnie Barker, as a ‘grand comedian’, meaning a very funny comic; but in French this just means a great actor.
So when you buy your ticket for the “Comédie Francaise”, do not expect to fall off your seat with laughter.
Following the Rules
The French have a written constitution; the English do not. This marks an important difference between the ways both nations view their lives and governance. In England we more or less know what we are expected to do, without having a book of rules thrust at us; while the Frenchman expects a strict codification to govern everything he does. Thus, the Englishman is bemused by the list of priorities for reserved seating in the metro; in descending order, – ‘War wounded, blind civilians, pregnant women’- depending on just how pregnant, this last leading to many unrepeatable jokes. The first French phrase every Englishman must learn is “Vous n’avez pas le droit”. “You do not have the right.” This sentence, innocuous in English, will give any overbearing French functionary pause for thought, as he desperately mentally consults the codes governing the particular path of conduct he is about to embark on. As an impoverished student in Paris in the Sixties, when France was fighting the Algerian uprising, and terrorism was rampant in the streets, I decided one morning to fill a suitcase with my dirty laundry and go to the cleaners. On the way, I passed the American Library, and on a whim went in to consult a book. The sight of a scruffy young man carrying a suitcase into a US building was enough to throw everyone into a panic. A burly French guard approached me and demanded to open my suitcase. Disturbed about airing my dirty linen in public, I used the magic phrase: “Vous n’avez pas le droit!”. After a hurried consultation, I was allowed to proceed unhindered.
The ‘Trottoirs’
While pavements in England are for pedestrians, and in the US for cars, in France they are for both. And certainly they are a bonus for motorcyclists on their ‘motos’, who will leave the highway at any sign of a slow-down, to continue on the footpath, unheedful of any danger to those pedestrians foolhardy enough to assume that they are the sole proprietors of the ‘trottoir’. But the king of the ‘trottoir’ is the dog. The French have no scruples about allowing their canine companions to use the trottoir as a vast linear lavatory. No shamefaced scurrying to the side of the road here; our French poodle will proudly fulfill his ‘devoirs’ in the middle of the footpath as and when the moment arrives. Thus, as one walks along this great city, the beauty of Paris must give way to the more urgent task of carefully scrutinizing the pavement lest one returns home with an unwelcome reminder of ones sightseeing perambulation.
The French and BSE
Nothing illustrates better the difference between the British and the French than their attitude to the BSE crisis. Of course, both peoples are united in not believing a word that passes their respective government’s lips, but the French government’s approach was rather more subtle. In the UK, our masters started off by assuring everyone that all meat was perfectly safe, even force-feeding their protesting daughters with hamburgers on television to ram home the point. Naturally this induced an immediate panic on the part of the British, with nobody wanting to go near a piece of meat, and a resultant crisis in the livestock industry. Having learnt their lesson, the government adopted the cunning stance of actually banning beef on the bone; at which point, of course, everyone went on a meat-eating rampage, with flamboyant beef-on-bone parties hosted by various royals. The beef industry was saved.
At the start of their BSE crisis, the French government, on the other hand, announced that not only was all meat absolutely lethal, but this applied to salmon and poultry too. Thus reassured, the Frenchman continued to consume his biftek and frites as before with a clear conscience, and nobody was the worse off.
A new form of transport..
The eccentric multimillionaire inventor Dean Kamen is reported to be about to reveal a revolutionary new form of individual transport, which is reckoned to be the greatest innovation since Clive Sinclair’s C5 of the eighties.
Well, I reckon I am ahead of him there. In Paris I have discovered a form of transport which is non-polluting, does not depend on the vagaries of the bus or the metro, is not affected by leaves on the rails, and utterly disregards traffic congestion. Furthermore, it is instantly available, and there are no parking problems at the end of the journey, and it is only slightly weather-sensitive. The cost is minimal; shoes have to be repaired or purchased at regular intervals. I refer of course to the oldest means of transport of all, walking.
Paris is a city whose beauty can only be appreciated on foot. The Seine and its bridges, Notre Dame and its gargoyles, the street markets, the parks. The list is endless, and all within walking distance, unlike London, whose periphérique – the M25 – has a circumference which is itself half the distance between London and Paris.
Paris is a city which, like Manhattan, it is still possible to traverse on foot from North to South, or from East to West. Walking, the most reliable form of transport. I’m thinking of taking out a patent.
The French and Health
It is said that a Frenchman travels with two suitcases, one for his clothes and the second for his medicines. Factually the national spend on prescription drugs is very high in France; it remains to be proved that the Frenchman is healthier for it, although he is, to a man, a card-carrying hypochondriac.
The French Health Service regularly invites every French adult to attend a full check-up. As I never turn down anything free, I went along. It turned out to be dramatically exhaustive; ECG, chest x-ray, Blood Pressure, vision, hearing, teeth, a thorough top-to-toe oscultation. And that was only the first day. A further visit is devoted to tests necessitating a period of preparation before various bodily fluids are extracted. Before I turned up, I filled in a questionnaire in which I gave myself 8/10 for fitness - well, I thought 9/10 would sound like boasting. By the end of the first day (teeth bad, eyes bad, ears bad,.....) I felt that 3/10 would have been an over-optimistic appraisal.
The French Medical system has turned me from a happy ignoramus into an unhappy if wiser man. But still no healthier.
French Letter 1
Prologue
I wrote these thoughts while spending an academic year Sabbatical in Paris in 2000, substantiating the view that academics have a jammy life. However, the strains of living away from the warm embraces of Watford are not to be underestimated, and I penned this as a grim warning to my fellow countrymen who might be tempted to follow me.
News
What one misses most of all is the News. The French are a trivial people, caring only about the sort of things we British should best avoid, mainly pleasure. Thus while the newspapers in the UK have circulations in the millions, here the papers are read only by a handful of intellectuals, presumably too poor to afford TV sets. And while France is traversing a crisis, the Euro is falling disasterously[1], French beef can not under any circumstances be eaten [2], the main items of news last week were
(1)The appearance of the latest Harry Potter book (pronounced ‘Arree Pottaire’)
(2)The latest Disney Dinosaur film, and
(3)The forthcoming elections in Israel. (Well, that is news everywhere).
The French are convinced, possibly not without reason, that changes of government, natural disasters, wars, nothing can possibly change the French way of life. The baguette must still be purchased twice a day to ensure freshness, wine must be chosen with as much care as one's next mistress, and traffic lights are a suggestion, nothing more.
Ramadan
France is of course one of the two great European Muslim countries, the other being England, and the advent of Ramadan affects one’s daily life noticeably. For example, it is the best time to invite one’s Muslim friends out to Lunch, as they are obliged to refrain from eating, drinking and sexual intercourse; at least, during the hours of daylight. Undoubtedly they make good any shortfalls as soon as the sun sets. Nevertheless, it is pleasant to be able to eat in the University Restaurant without having to form a queue, or to offer the delivery boy a drink in lieu of a tip, without risking that the offer be taken up.
Restaurants
You may have learnt at school that restaurants are establishments where the French go to eat. Nothing could be further from the truth. One goes to a fashionable restaurant to be seen, to a secluded one to seduce, to the local bistrot to play cards with ones friends, but – above all – the French go to restaurants in Paris to smoke [3]. As soon as they are shown to their table, the diners place their packets of Gauloises and briquets firmly on the table, light up before the first course, puff feverishly between courses, and if the food is not up to scratch – but how can they tell? – during courses. However, for the non-smoker all is not lost. Restaurants are obliged by law to set aside a non-smoking area for those eccentric diners who do not appreciate the real purpose of the French restaurant, There they can sulk, subject to the disdain of their more hardy fellow-diners, and encircled by the fumes they exhale.
The Law
It is said that you can divide countries into categories according to how the law is applied: in a liberal democracy everything is permitted unless it is explicitly forbidden. In a totalitarian regime, everything is forbidden, even if it is permitted. In France, everything is permitted, even if it is forbidden. Beware of traversing a pedestrian crossing when the Little Man is green; the macho French driver will take this as a direct challenge, with grim consequences for the less fleet of foot. The attitude is best summed up by the small Parisian schoolboy of surely no more than nine, satchel on back, who asked me why I had walked to the back of the bus to get off, when I was riding in the front. I told him “Because it is forbidden to descend by the front door”. He shrugged his shoulders. “ Pouf, it is forbidden. But everybody does it." This approach smoothes the daily life of your average Parisian Motorist to a point the law-abiding English can only dream of. Missed your turning? No problem, go back up this one-way street – backwards, if it happens to be arrowed the wrong way. Parking difficult? Not while there is space on the pavement. No metro ticket? Just a small hop over the turnstile, nobody minds.
Watford will take some getting used to when, or rather, if I return.
Paris, 1 December 2000.
NOTES
[1] The Euro has appreciated in spades since 2000!
[2] This was the Mad Cow Crisis of 2000.
[3] Who would have dreamed in those days that the French would ban smoking in January 2008?
I wrote these thoughts while spending an academic year Sabbatical in Paris in 2000, substantiating the view that academics have a jammy life. However, the strains of living away from the warm embraces of Watford are not to be underestimated, and I penned this as a grim warning to my fellow countrymen who might be tempted to follow me.
News
What one misses most of all is the News. The French are a trivial people, caring only about the sort of things we British should best avoid, mainly pleasure. Thus while the newspapers in the UK have circulations in the millions, here the papers are read only by a handful of intellectuals, presumably too poor to afford TV sets. And while France is traversing a crisis, the Euro is falling disasterously[1], French beef can not under any circumstances be eaten [2], the main items of news last week were
(1)The appearance of the latest Harry Potter book (pronounced ‘Arree Pottaire’)
(2)The latest Disney Dinosaur film, and
(3)The forthcoming elections in Israel. (Well, that is news everywhere).
The French are convinced, possibly not without reason, that changes of government, natural disasters, wars, nothing can possibly change the French way of life. The baguette must still be purchased twice a day to ensure freshness, wine must be chosen with as much care as one's next mistress, and traffic lights are a suggestion, nothing more.
Ramadan
France is of course one of the two great European Muslim countries, the other being England, and the advent of Ramadan affects one’s daily life noticeably. For example, it is the best time to invite one’s Muslim friends out to Lunch, as they are obliged to refrain from eating, drinking and sexual intercourse; at least, during the hours of daylight. Undoubtedly they make good any shortfalls as soon as the sun sets. Nevertheless, it is pleasant to be able to eat in the University Restaurant without having to form a queue, or to offer the delivery boy a drink in lieu of a tip, without risking that the offer be taken up.
Restaurants
You may have learnt at school that restaurants are establishments where the French go to eat. Nothing could be further from the truth. One goes to a fashionable restaurant to be seen, to a secluded one to seduce, to the local bistrot to play cards with ones friends, but – above all – the French go to restaurants in Paris to smoke [3]. As soon as they are shown to their table, the diners place their packets of Gauloises and briquets firmly on the table, light up before the first course, puff feverishly between courses, and if the food is not up to scratch – but how can they tell? – during courses. However, for the non-smoker all is not lost. Restaurants are obliged by law to set aside a non-smoking area for those eccentric diners who do not appreciate the real purpose of the French restaurant, There they can sulk, subject to the disdain of their more hardy fellow-diners, and encircled by the fumes they exhale.
The Law
It is said that you can divide countries into categories according to how the law is applied: in a liberal democracy everything is permitted unless it is explicitly forbidden. In a totalitarian regime, everything is forbidden, even if it is permitted. In France, everything is permitted, even if it is forbidden. Beware of traversing a pedestrian crossing when the Little Man is green; the macho French driver will take this as a direct challenge, with grim consequences for the less fleet of foot. The attitude is best summed up by the small Parisian schoolboy of surely no more than nine, satchel on back, who asked me why I had walked to the back of the bus to get off, when I was riding in the front. I told him “Because it is forbidden to descend by the front door”. He shrugged his shoulders. “ Pouf, it is forbidden. But everybody does it." This approach smoothes the daily life of your average Parisian Motorist to a point the law-abiding English can only dream of. Missed your turning? No problem, go back up this one-way street – backwards, if it happens to be arrowed the wrong way. Parking difficult? Not while there is space on the pavement. No metro ticket? Just a small hop over the turnstile, nobody minds.
Watford will take some getting used to when, or rather, if I return.
Paris, 1 December 2000.
NOTES
[1] The Euro has appreciated in spades since 2000!
[2] This was the Mad Cow Crisis of 2000.
[3] Who would have dreamed in those days that the French would ban smoking in January 2008?
Jewish Life in France
As a British Jew who spends a lot of time in France, I have been very surprised to see old canards in the form of emails recirculating, mostly emanating from the United States, concerning the sorry lot of Jews residing in France. Apart from Israel, I have never felt any country more congenial to live in as a Jew than France. Of course, much of this is subjective, and it is undoubtedly true that France is also home to the largest Muslim population of Europe [1], many of whose youngsters feel discriminated against and who adopt hostile attitudes towards their Christian and Jewish fellow-citizens. It should also be noted that France boasts the largest Jewish population in Western Europe [1] .
But what country other than France would have elected as President someone who, even before the election, loudly proclaimed his Jewish roots? (Three major contenders for nomination as their party’s presidential candidate in the last election – Nicolas Sarkozy, Dominique Strauss-Kahn and Laurent Fabius – were Jewish or half-Jewish.) Certainly this could not happen in the United States; there never has been, and I believe never will be in our lifetime, a Jewish President of the United States, nor indeed a Jewish Prime Minister of England (Disraeli was a Christian by conversion). On the other hand, the Prime Ministers and Presidents of France can count several Jews among their ranks (one of whom, Leon Blum, was elected Prime Minister THREE times) [2] not counting those only of Jewish origin like the present President Sarkozy. And let us not forget the only Jewish Cardinal, Lustiger, born Jewish and died Jewish[3].
In fact, Napoleon was the first leader in Europe to grant liberty, equality and fraternity to all religions. including the Jews, declaring France to be the "homeland of the Jews". To their credit, the French have admitted and faced up to their atrocious behaviour - like that of nearly all of Europe - during the Second World War. Numerous expositions in the various arrondisements in Paris regularly retell the stories of the deportation of French Jews. Since the time of Napoleon, apart from this terrible Vichy period, the Jewish status and institutions in France have been strongly supported by the otherwise strongly secular French Government.
Thus it was no great surprise to see the 900th anniversary of Rashi celebrated by a standard French postage stamp. I do not recall any such celebrated Jewish scholar on a US stamp. The French media adopt a far more balanced attitude towards Israel than does, for example, the US-based CNN. And when I want to see an Israeli film, I merely walk to my nearest cinema; the French are great cinema-goers, and Israeli films are very popular here.
There is not nearly as much indigenous anti-Semitism in France as there is in the United States. Hate groups, such as the US-based National Socialist Movement (and many others - see http://judaism.about.com/od/americanjewry/a/am_nazis.htm
for a listing) would receive short shrift in France. Even Le Pen's Front National is a very mild relation of the British National Front, xenophobic but with a pro-Israel platform. For some time hate-preaching Imams have been summarily deported from France, an action taken only recently, long overdue, by the UK government.
The French equivalents of Jimmy Carter, and Walt and Mearsheimer, are thankfully few and far between. Jewish philosophers such as Bernard-Henri Levy and Alain Finkielkraut are omni-present pundits on French TV , while the Paris-based Jewish radio station Radio J is considered an authoritative source for the general media (other French cities also have their own Jewish radio stations – I do not know of any in the UK). A venerable weekly Jewish slot on mainstream television (Channel 2 TV) features such items as talmudic discussions from Adin Steinsaltz and other luminaries (a series undreamt of in the UK).
Paris abounds with Kosher restaurants; London with a slightly smaller Jewish population[4] has proportionately very many fewer. Synagogues are plentiful – look at the metro map for the Stars of David.
All in all, France may not be Israel, but it's the next best thing, and the cuisine is better.
__________________________________________NOTES
[1] Muslim population estimated at 6-8 million; Jewish population 750,000.
[2] Alexandre Millerand (president 1920–4), Léon Blum (Prime Minister 1936-7, 1938, 1946-7),Pierre Mendès-France (Prime Minister, 1954-5), Laurent Fabius (Prime Minister, 1984-6)
[3] He requested that Kaddish be recited at his funeral.
[4] London estimated to have approx. 200,000 Jews, Paris 300,000
Saturday, 9 February 2008
The Tianjin Synagogue
There are only two countries in which I feel no anti-Semitism, Israel and…China. One might argue in the latter case that there are no Jews in China - but then that lack has never inhibited anti-Semites. In fact, there has been a small indigenous Jewish presence since at least the 12th Century in Kaifeng - an ancient capital. No one is quite sure of the origin of that community, and anyway it is quite extinct since the 18th Century - with only the odd unsubstantiated report of local Chinese traders counting strangely in Hebrew, since 'their ancestors did so'.
The modern Jewish presence in China dates from the mid-nineteenth Century, with the migration of Baghdadi Jews to Shanghai (1843-1920). This was followed by Russian Jews fleeing pogroms, notably to Harbin - my cousin married a girl from that city - as well as Shanghai, and Tianjin (1920-1937). Finally, there was the great migration of Jews seeking refuge from the Nazis (1938-1952), mainly to Shanghai. At one point there were more than 30,000 Jews living in Shanghai, which fell under Japanese occupation during the Second World War. The Japanese detained foreign Jews in a ghetto, but stopped short of obeying instructions from their Nazi allies to murder them. The Japanese behaved most cruelly, but impartially, to all their captives independent of race (except the Chinese), and lacked the European cultural attitudes necessary to perform genocide on Jews.
Since the founding of the People's Republic of China in 1949, the Jewish presence has declined, with emigration to Israel, the United States and Australia. In fact, although I had visited Tianjin several times, I was unaware that there had been a Jewish presence there, until I had a phone call last year from my friend Joe, a physics professor from New York. "Allan, I hear that you're going to a meeting in Tianjin. They're going to raze the Tianjin synagogue to make way for a Metro station, and I want you to get some pictures of it if it's still there- maybe arrange for a plaque or something."
So on our free afternoon, I arranged for a small party to set off to find the synagogue. This was facilitated by the local students, who made up the party by accosting the conference participants, demanding if they were Jewish (no inhibitions there). (In fact, one Chinese delegate from Singapore stared at me dubiously, à la hoary joke: "You Jewish? You don't look Jewish." It transpired that he was only familiar with Singapore's Sephardi Jews who looked more like my wife.)
But at least we will have a permanent pictorial record of Tianjin's synagogue.
[Material on China's Jewish presence 1834-1952 from Shanghai Jewish Center www.chinajewish.org. Japanese occupation story from Dr Helen Au Yang. Photo taken Tianjin, 26 August 2005 by AIS.]
Israeli Films 1
I spend a lot of time in Paris, and as there are an immense number of cinemas within easy walking distance of where I live, in the Fifth Arrondisement, I get to see all the Israeli films. Unlike in the UK, Israeli movies are shown in main-stream cinemas, not art houses. Unfortunately, most such films are produced by leftists such as Eytan Fox or Amos Gitai, which means they are usually anti-Israeli or pro-homosexual or – most frequently – both.
Fox's “Walk on Water” is a good flick – thriller but more subtle than the usual Bond-type, and only a minimal amount of the obligatory homosexuality. His latest “The Bubble” takes the gay theme to the shockingly explicit limit, but is a good description of the Mid-East conflict (yes, you guessed it, the lovers are a Palestinian chap and an Israeli soldier). If even kissing on screen offends you – the best fairly recent film is “Ushpizim” - a term which refers to the mystic guests during Succoth. Produced by an all-ultra-Orthodox cast, it can be viewed on several layers – most superficially as a film about a childless couple living in Mea Shearim visited by the husband's ex-jail mates. At a deeper level it explores the philosophy of the 18th century Hassidic Rabbi Nachman of Breslau. (You must have seen the Israeli stickers everywhere – Na Nach Nachman – apparently he stuttered.) Probably the best Israeli film I have seen in recent times – and it's in easy Hebrew (I don't know if there is a subtitled version.)
“The Band's Visit” (Bikur Ha-Tizmoret, 2007) tells the story of an Egyptian Police Band who find themselves by error in a small town in Israel. The characters are well drawn – and that is the strength of the film. Of course, since it is an Israeli film, the Egyptians are portrayed as handsome, sensitive, intelligent, while the Israelis are shallow, immoral and terrifically ugly. But as a clash – or rather, a misunderstanding – of cultures it is a film worth seeing. So get the DVD.
Fox's “Walk on Water” is a good flick – thriller but more subtle than the usual Bond-type, and only a minimal amount of the obligatory homosexuality. His latest “The Bubble” takes the gay theme to the shockingly explicit limit, but is a good description of the Mid-East conflict (yes, you guessed it, the lovers are a Palestinian chap and an Israeli soldier). If even kissing on screen offends you – the best fairly recent film is “Ushpizim” - a term which refers to the mystic guests during Succoth. Produced by an all-ultra-Orthodox cast, it can be viewed on several layers – most superficially as a film about a childless couple living in Mea Shearim visited by the husband's ex-jail mates. At a deeper level it explores the philosophy of the 18th century Hassidic Rabbi Nachman of Breslau. (You must have seen the Israeli stickers everywhere – Na Nach Nachman – apparently he stuttered.) Probably the best Israeli film I have seen in recent times – and it's in easy Hebrew (I don't know if there is a subtitled version.)
“The Band's Visit” (Bikur Ha-Tizmoret, 2007) tells the story of an Egyptian Police Band who find themselves by error in a small town in Israel. The characters are well drawn – and that is the strength of the film. Of course, since it is an Israeli film, the Egyptians are portrayed as handsome, sensitive, intelligent, while the Israelis are shallow, immoral and terrifically ugly. But as a clash – or rather, a misunderstanding – of cultures it is a film worth seeing. So get the DVD.
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