More transliteration

 

LK 3

In the third of a growing series of vividly-written crime stories set among the tribulations of contemporary Greece,

  • Leo Kanaris, Dangerous days (2019),

private investigator George Zafiris continues to tread a murky path through corruption and nepotism amidst a dysfunctional society in crisis. Like Raymond Chandler’s Hollywood (but, pace Alan Partridge, not so like Norwich), Greece makes a fine backdrop to explore moral quandaries.

I’ve cited Kanaris’s vignette on Mount Athos in Blood and gold. For more on communicating in Greek, see Bunnios.

One vignette in Dangerous days reminds me of quaint Chinese transliterations like Andeli Poliwen (André Previn), Kelaimeng Feilang (“Clermont-Ferrand”, all the more reminiscent of a pseudo-Sanskrit Daoist mantra when preceded by Aofoni, “Auvergne”), or tuzibulashi (toothbrush, or “rabbits don’t shit”). As George walks through central Athens pondering the intricacies of the cases confronting him, he takes in the Greek versions of film-stars’ names appearing on cinema billboards:

Tzonny Ntep, Tzoud Lo, Kira Naïtely, Kim Mpazintzer.

Of course, English orthography is on a sticky wicket here: there’s no more reason to be perplexed by “Naïtely” than by “Knightley”, or a host of other English words like “Cholmondeley”“hiccough” or indeed “one”. Cf. Monty Python:

“Ah, no. My name is spelt  ‘Luxury Yacht’ but it’s pronounced Throatwobbler Mangrove.”

Partridgisms

AP

I’ve already sung the praises of Steve Coogan’s alter ego Alan Partridge in this post. Here are a couple more gems.

In a meeting with the BBC head of programming, Alan pitches several fatuous ideas (“Monkey Tennis”?). Or “Swallow”, a detective series set in Norwich:

Think about it—no one had heard of Oxford before Inspector Morse.

And tucking into breakfast with RTE executives he insouciantly breaks right through the barriers of taste (cf. Jesus jokes):

Alan (suavely): So, how many people were killed in the Irish famine?

Aidan: Erm. Two million, and another two million had to leave the country.

Alan: Right… If it was just the potatoes that were affected, at the end of the day, you will pay the price if you’re a fussy eater. If they could afford to emigrate, then they could afford to eat in a modest restaurant.

A presumptuous guardian of language

RM

The Twittersphere has been having great fun with The Minister for the 18th Century‘s recent directive on language, presumably inscribed with quill on parchment—the latest stage in his patronizing mission to bestow his patrician values upon the plebs, or should I say hoi polloi.

Now, we all have our little linguistic peeves (here’s one of mine). It’s not that people don’t believe in stylistic guidelines; more that we don’t want them delivered by pompous fogeys. This is the best critique I’ve read so far; and here‘s a more general demolition of language pedants.

@NewsDumpUK asks

Should bellend be hyphenated or not?

One among many of his fatuous rules—no comma after “and”—is perplexing. Since no-one appears to do this anyway, commentators have surmised that he was trying to ban the Oxford comma, which occurs before the “and”. To the wonderful examples here showing its necessity, we can now add:

JRM

Moreover,

JRM

Or indeed

JRM 2

On a sartorial note, @SirRoyES commented:

JRM

and @Scarlett_Pebble observed that

Jacob Rees-Mogg looks like two underaged people wearing one suit to try and sneak into a wine bar.

Plenty more to explore on Twitter, via #JacobReesMoggGuide.

The Haunted Pencil’s popular touch has already been encapsulated in his classic description of Teresa May’s Brexit plan as

 the greatest vassalage since King John paid homage to Phillip II at Le Goulet in 1200.

All business should henceforth be conducted in Latin. I’m like, WTF?

Of course, it may merely be the Tree-Frog’s Cunning Plan to divert us from the iniquity of his sinister wider agenda—tellingly exposed here by Rachel Parris.

 

 

 

 

Tommy Cooper

TC

Like almost everything else (see e.g. note here), I hardly appreciated the genius of Tommy Cooper at the time. I didn’t quite get the crap magic, all the props… I guess for many of my generation, long before the Alternative scene, standups were rather eclipsed by Monty Python, even when they were subverting the light entertainment format.

I went to Blackpool on holiday and knocked at the first boarding house that I came to. A women stuck her head out of an upstairs window and said
“What do you want?”
“I’d like to stay here.”
“OK. Stay there.”

I might link that one to the true touring story of the wake-up call.

I went to the doctor. He said “You’ve got a very serious illness.”
I said “I want a second opinion.”
He said “All right, you’re ugly as well.”

I love this one, though (or perhaps because) it may require a certain,um, historically-aware insider’s cultural knowledge:

A policeman stopped me the other night. He taps on the window of the car and says:
“Would you blow into this bag please Sir.”
I said: “What for, Officer?”
He says: “My chips are too hot.”

This is often attributed to him:

I went to buy some camouflage trousers the other day, but I couldn’t find any.

but it may be a version of his

“Didn’t see you at camouflage training yesterday, Private.”
“Thankyou, Sir.”

which indeed is the response at the Chinese restaurant to “Waiter, this chicken is rubbery.”

And then there’s

So I went to the dentist.
He said “Say Aaah.”
I said “Why?”
He said “My dog’s died.'”

which reminds me of one that I heard Lee Mack do (cf. here, and here):

“What’s wrong?”
“My dog just died.”
“Aww, I’m sorry—never mind, I’ll get you another one.”
“Don’t be ridiculous—what am I going to do with two dead dogs?”

Jokes like these depend largely on delivery, on persona. No-one is so deadpan as Steven Wright—not so much standup, more internal monologue. Academic lecturers could learn a thing or two from these guys. And for Ken Dodd, regional ethnography, and Xi Jinping, see here.

The art of blurb writing

Cover 18 (back)

Some obligatory phrases from book blurbs, curiously absent from most tomes on Daoist ethnography:

cuts a picaresque swathe

madcap adventures

with hilarious consequences!!!

embarking upon a voyage of discovery

emotional rollercoaster

searing exposé

unflinching

feisty

filigree

vast, sprawling epic

Happily, such clichés have been Laid Bare (oops, there’s another one) in several articles, such as this. And Molvania is jam-packed (packed like jam) with ’em. Not forgetting the ultimate homage to the language of the travelogue, Away from it all.

For further dubious marketing, see here; and for a series on cliché, start here.

Italian cinema: a golden age

 

Giulietta Masina—left, La strada; right, Notti di Cabiria.

To follow folk musicking in Italy, I’m reminded again of formative film experiences from my misspent youth.

Like fiction, feature films can often suggest perspectives that more forensic academic treatments fail to evoke (cf. the GDR and China). In the post-war period, as Europe—including the east—struggled to recover, in Italy a vast migration took place from the poor south to the industrial north. Meanwhile China was in the grip of collectivization and famine.

A dominant theme of early neo-realist films was deprivation. The moving Ladri di biciclette (Vittorio De Sica, 1948) is a reminder how effective it can be to cast amateur actors:

Gelsomina
I recalled La strada (Federico Fellini, 1954) when the Li family Daoists performed at a circus in Paris during their 2017 French tour. While Nino Rota’s score is effective, Petrushka, with its trumpet solo and drum interludes, might have made a suitable soundtrack too.

A tribute to Giulietta Masina is in order. Her persona has been likened to Charlie Chaplin, and her role in La strada as an innocent itinerant street performer is most beguiling—despite the stereotype of the “gamine” “elfin waif” (quite different from that of Audrey Hepburn). And her role as Fellini’s “muse” is another trope unpacked by feminists:

The image of the Muse as loved object who inspires the male artist, whilst she herself remains silent, is deeply engrained in contemporary culture, despite the best efforts of feminist critics to expose the implications of such imagery: man creates, woman inspires; man is the maker, woman the vehicle of male fantasy, an object created by the male imagination, incapable of any kind of agency herself. In short, this image of the Muse denies woman’s active participation in artistic creation and silences female creativity. [1]

Masina is also wonderful in Notti di Cabiria (1957)—despite again being exploited by callous men. Here’s the moving final scene:

The making of Fellini’s La dolce vita (1960) is the subject of a 2017 book. The stellar cast includes not only Marcello Mastroianni and Anita Ekberg, but early roles for Nico and the divine Anouk Aimée, always captivating (cf. here). As England progressed from adversity to the drabness of the 1950s, the image of Rome rapidly became fashionable. Whereas Fellini doubtless meant La dolce vita as a critique of the vacuity of the glamorous lifestyle, “over the years, the inverted commas and irony have dropped away”, leaving only “Vespas! Bikinis! Grappa!”.

DV

Anouk Aimée with Federico Fellini and Marcello Mastroianni.

Long before I began to experience Italy at first hand, films like these made a deep impression, which keeps growing.

 

[1] Penny Murray, “Reclaiming the Muse”, in Vanda Zajko and Miriam Leonard, Laughing with Medusa: classical myth and feminist thought (2008).

.

 

At issue

Pooh

New Chinese facial recognition software not all it’s cracked up to be. For other challenges for the equipment, see here.

After sneezing alone in a room, does anyone else quietly say “A-tissue“, by way of pedantic clarification for a non-existent audience? Hmm, OK then—probably just me…

It now also serves as a homage to Winnie the Pooh, hapless bête-brune of the current CCP (bless). From “Eeyore loses a tail”:

“The thing to do is as follows. First, Issue a Reward. Then—”
“Just a moment,” said Pooh, holding up his paw. “What do we do to this—what were you saying? You sneezed just as you were going to tell me.”
“I didn’t sneeze.”
“Yes, you did, Owl.”
[…]
“What I said was. ‘First Issue a Reward’.”
“You’re doing it again!” said Pooh, sadly.

With all due respect to A.A. Milne (“the true voice of England in the 1930s”, as Alan Bennett notes), the exchange would work better if Owl had said “The question at issue…” But hey.

In Polish Winnie the Pooh is Kubus Puchatek, in Norwegian Ole Brumm—names to conjure with. In Italian he is Uini Puh, though I like the 1936 version Ninni Puf; Piglet is Pimpi, and Eeyore Ih-Oh (for more, see here).

Winnie the Pooh was one of the first to be subjected to the “Tao of…” franchise (and one thinks—doesn’t one—of the 4th-century Baopuzi 抱朴子 Master Who Embraces Simplicity). And for incurable classicists, there’s Winnie Ille Pu:

“Res exsequenda id est: praemium promittimus.”
“Paulisper subsiste,” dixit Pu ungulam sublevans. “Quid faciamus? Quid dixisti? Loquendo enim sternuisti.”
“Minime sternui.”
“Bubo, sternuisti!”
“Habe me, Pu, excusatum, minime sternui. Nequimus inscüs nobis sternuere.”
“Optime audivi: prr–prr!”
“Dixi: praemium promittimus.”
“Iterum sternuisti!”

On a musical note, for a classic recording, click here.

I have a Chinese friend whose online handle is Aqu—although for sneezing in various languages, see here.

Some other pleasantly fatuous comments that I can still never resist:

  • when someone trips up, I just have to say “Enjoy your trip?”
  • on putting down my suitcase, “I rest my case”
  • and for my obligatory comment every time I pass the roadworks sign, see here.